Kyle never meant to go viral. At 35, he was barely holding his life together—scraping by in a dead-end job at an auto parts store, single for three years, and generally just existing. He wasn’t unhappy, per se, but he also wasn’t much of anything at all. With just enough spare cash to keep his gym membership, his days consisted of long, tedious shifts on the sales floor and grueling hours on the weight bench. He’d have an occasional date if he were lucky but never managed to seal the deal with a guy. 

One night after too many beers, he recorded a stupid video of himself trying to assemble an IKEA shelf without instructions. He narrated it like an overconfident dad who refused to admit he was lost. 

“Nah, see,” he slurred, “this piece goes here. Okay, maybe not, but—ope, wait, nope, broke it. Okay, that’s fine. We’ll just improvise. Like a man.” 

By the end of the minute-long video, the shelf had collapsed into a heap of clapboard and bolts. Kyle, covered in wood dust and picking a splinter out of his fingertip, shrugged and said, “Dad always screws things up,” before shuffling out of frame. 

He uploaded it as a joke. By morning, he was an internet sensation. 

The video racked up millions of views, and the comments flooded in—people loved him. “Himbo Dad” became a meme overnight. He had never been called a himbo before, but the internet collectively decided that was his brand. 

Then came the DMs. Sponsorship offers, invitations to podcasts, and even a meme coin opportunity flooded his inbox. Buried amongst the spam was a link from an anonymous sender to an online course: “The Influencer Academy: Learn How to Build a Brand That Lasts.” 

Kyle, still reeling from the attention, clicked. 

The first lesson played immediately. A soothing voice spoke over soft music and images of dollar bills falling like confetti. “Welcome, future influencer. Your old self was aimless and uncertain. You got lucky with your first viral video, but influencers must be consistent. They must be recognizable. Let us help you become the best version of yourself.” 

The music swelled, drowning out the narration until it was barely audible. Kyle watched the presentation with jaw agape and drool collecting at the corner of his mouth. A panoply of charts, click rate analysis, and engagement algorithms blurred before his unblinking eyes. 

Kyle didn’t remember finishing the lesson, but when he woke up the following day, he felt… good, even energized. When he checked his phone, he had posted three new videos overnight, each perfectly edited and playing up the dumb dad persona. 

“Damn,” he said, still shaking off the groggy veil of deep sleep. “I’m actually pretty good at this.” 

Encouraged by the success of his follow-up videos, Kyle continued with the lessons. He didn’t remember watching them, but he never missed one. Each time a new link arrived in his DMs, he sat down and zoned out, letting the flickering screen and barely audible voice overwhelm his mind. 

“A good influencer is predictable. A good influencer is lovable. A good influencer doesn’t overthink. Always give the people what they want; once you have, give them more of it.” 

The following day, he salvaged an old polo shirt and a pair of light blue jeans from his closet. Tucking in the polo and cinching the belt tight, he gave himself a double thumbs up in the mirror. 

“Bingo bingo!” he said with a vacant, open-mouthed smile. 

His next series of videos played up the dad persona even more. His captions were littered with irrelevant emoji and way too many exclamation points. He stopped swearing. He started calling his followers “Dad’s Army.” 

At work, his coworkers noticed. 

“Dude, are you going through a midlife crisis or something?” 

Kyle grinned automatically, flashing his now trademark double thumbs up. “Aw, buckeroo, I’m just out here grinding! Gotta keep things light, y’know?” He patted his coworker’s shoulder, his hand lingering oddly. 

By the next week, the manager called him in. “Kyle, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you can’t film TikToks on the sales floor.” 

Kyle chuckled, one hand in his pocket and the other holding up his phone. Speaking more to the camera than to his boss, he said, “Well, buddy, I just think we gotta have some fun at work, right? I mean, who wouldn’t wanna watch a dad struggle to explain the six different kinds of wiper fluid we have in stock?” 

He got fired. 

Kyle wasn’t worried. He had content to make. The lessons looped in his mind, just beneath his ability to comprehend or recall them, feeding him a never-ending slideshow of pre-programmed ideas and catchphrases. The narrator drilled encouragement into his thoughts, constantly pushing him further along. 

“What do you need a boring job for anymore, sport? Influencing is your career now. Keep smiling. Keep posting.” 

And so he did. Without the distractions of a job, Kyle took up content creation full time. His videos became more polished and frequent. He grew savvier with sponsorships and collaborations, allowing him to purchase better equipment and a complete wardrobe for his dad persona. Every morning, he donned his uniform—dad jeans, polo, white sneakers, and a baseball cap—and recorded himself making terrible jokes over breakfast. 

“Morning, troops! Remember, the secret to pancakes is confidence, not accuracy!” 

Millions of likes. Millions of shares. He was becoming exactly what the course wanted him to be. The strangest part? He wasn’t scared. He liked it. He barely remembered the guy he used to be. 

One night, as he was editing a video in which he struggled to explain to Dad’s Army the value of compound interest, a DM popped up. 

@PapaDan_Official: Hey, bud. Love the content. You ever think about taking this to the next level? 

Kyle stared at the message. His heart leaped with excitement. Papa Dan was a major inspiration, the kind of guy whose whole persona was being a commanding, controlling internet dad. He had millions of followers. 

Kyle responded immediately.

OMG! Haha dude that would be awesome!!! 

Dan sent an address.

Come by tomorrow. Let’s talk. 

Kyle went without question. When he arrived, he found a house straight out of a ’90s sitcom—immaculate lawn, wraparound porch, the smell of freshly cut grass, and barbecue smoke thick in the air. 

Dan was waiting. The tall, broad man in cargo shorts and a tucked-in polo grinned wide. Almost automatically, Kyle’s own grin spread to match. 

“Hey, Buster,” Dan said, clapping Kyle on the back. “You’re doing great. But you need guidance. Every good dad does.” 

Kyle felt warm. Safe. 

Dan led him into the family room, where a framed sign over the TV read Dad Life Forever. 

“You’re not just an influencer anymore,” Dan continued. “You’re a part of the family.” 

Kyle blinked. A fragment of training echoed in his head. Family matters. Every dad is another dad’s son. 

Dan gestured to the sofa. “Sit, son.” 

Kyle sat. He felt his old self—whatever was left of it—fade. 

His hands settled on his knees, and his posture straightened, with his smile fixed in place. 

“Thanks, Dad.” 

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