Kat Timpf stood in front of her Manhattan apartment’s mirror, adjusting a bright pink wig that screamed “I’m here to make a statement.” It was three months post her double mastectomy, and she was still getting used to her new reality—new mom, new scars, new perspective. Her son, Leo, barely three months old, gurgled in his crib, oblivious to the chaos his arrival had sparked. Kat’s breast cancer diagnosis, discovered just 15 hours before Leo’s birth, had turned her life into a whirlwind. But today, she wasn’t just a survivor or a mom; she was a warrior with a mission. She was organizing a breast cancer fundraiser, and Leo, her tiny hero, was her “Co-Chair” Dagi—a title she’d jokingly given him after he drooled on her event planning notes.
The idea for the fundraiser had come during one of Kat’s late-night nursing sessions, when exhaustion and dark humor were her only companions. “If I can survive a Stage 0 cancer scare and childbirth in the same day, I can probably convince people to donate a few bucks,” she’d muttered to her husband, Cameron Friscia, who’d nodded sleepily. Kat wanted the event to be bold, funny, and unapologetic—like her. She’d called it “Titty-Free and Fabulous,” inspired by the cake her The Five co-host Jessica Tarlov had sent her post-surgery. The fundraiser would raise money for early detection programs at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, where Kat had been treated. And Leo, the baby who “might have saved her life” by prompting early detection during pregnancy, was the honorary star.
Planning the event was no small feat. Kat, still on maternity leave from Gutfeld!, juggled diaper changes, doctor’s appointments, and Zoom calls with her Fox News colleagues, who’d rallied behind her. Greg Gutfeld offered to emcee, promising “only slightly inappropriate jokes.” Dagen McDowell, who’d sent Kat a heartfelt “I love you” on Instagram, volunteered to handle logistics. Even Jim Norton, the comedian, signed up to perform a stand-up set, warning, “Kat, I’m not holding back on the mastectomy puns.” Kat laughed, loving the chaos. But the real challenge was keeping Leo, her “Co-Chair” Dagi, happy. The nickname “Dagi” came from his habit of grabbing her planner and smearing it with baby food, as if he were signing off on her decisions.
The event was set for a sunny Saturday in Central Park, with a stage, food trucks, and a “Pink Power” dress code. Kat had insisted on fun—think glitter, feather boas, and a dunk tank where donors could pay to dunk Fox News personalities. She’d also designed T-shirts with the slogan “Check Your Boobs, Save Your Life,” featuring a cartoon of Leo in a tiny Superman cape. “If my kid’s gonna be Co-Chair, he’s gotta have swagger,” she told Cameron, who was busy printing flyers while Leo napped on his chest.
As the day approached, Kat’s nerves kicked in. What if nobody showed up? What if her jokes bombed? She confided in Cameron one night, her voice shaky. “I’m not just doing this for me. It’s for Leo, for other moms, for anyone who gets that call and feels like their world’s collapsing.” Cameron squeezed her hand. “Kat, you’re the funniest, toughest person I know. And Leo’s got your back.” She laughed, wiping her eyes. “Yeah, my Co-Chair’s got drool and a mean grip. We’re unstoppable.”
The morning of the fundraiser, Central Park buzzed with energy. Pink balloons bobbed in the breeze, and a crowd of hundreds—Fox fans, cancer survivors, and curious New Yorkers—gathered around the stage. Kat, in her pink wig and a “Titty-Free and Fabulous” T-shirt, stepped up to the mic, holding Leo in a baby carrier. His tiny hand clutched a pink ribbon pinned to her shirt, and the crowd cheered. “Welcome to the first annual Titty-Free and Fabulous Fundraiser!” Kat announced, her voice cracking with emotion. “I’m Kat Timpf, this is my Co-Chair, Leo ‘Dagi’ Friscia, and we’re here to kick cancer’s butt!”
The audience roared, and Kat’s nerves melted away. She shared her story, keeping it raw and real. “Fifteen hours before I met this little dude, I found out I had breast cancer. Stage 0, caught early, thank God. But let me tell you, going from ‘When’s this baby coming?’ to ‘How do I get this tumor out?’ was not my idea of a chill day.” The crowd laughed, and Kat grinned. “Leo might’ve saved my life, so I figured he deserved a title. ‘Co-Chair’ sounds fancy, but mostly he just poops and approves my bad ideas.” She held up Leo, who babbled, stealing the show.
Greg Gutfeld took the stage next, true to his word with mildly inappropriate jokes. “Kat’s so tough, she gave birth and fought cancer in the same day. I’m pretty sure she’s secretly Wonder Woman.” Dagen McDowell followed, sharing her own story of supporting a friend through breast cancer, her Southern drawl thick with emotion. “Kat’s not just a colleague; she’s family. And this family’s gonna make sure no one fights alone.” The crowd applauded, and Kat, backstage, wiped away a tear.
The highlight was the dunk tank, where Gutfeld, Norton, and even Cameron took turns getting soaked. Kat, holding Leo, tossed a ball and missed spectacularly. “See, this is why Leo’s the brains of the operation!” she quipped. A group of survivors then shared their stories, their voices strong and hopeful. One woman, a mother of two, hugged Kat afterward, whispering, “Your humor got me through my chemo. Thank you.” Kat, usually quick with a joke, could only nod, overwhelmed.
Jim Norton’s stand-up set was a riot, with just enough edge to keep Kat cackling. “Kat’s calling Leo ‘Co-Chair,’ but let’s be real—he’s running the show. Kid’s got her attitude already!” The crowd loved it, and donations poured in. By mid-afternoon, the fundraiser had raised over $100,000, with online contributions still climbing. Kat, exhausted but elated, took the stage again, Leo asleep in her arms. “You guys are incredible,” she said, her voice raw. “This isn’t just about me or Leo. It’s about making sure every woman gets a fighting chance. Early detection saved me, and it can save others.”
As the sun set, Kat and Cameron sat on a blanket, Leo snoozing between them. The crowd had thinned, but the energy lingered. Kat looked at her husband, her rock through it all. “We did it, Cam. Me and my Co-Chair pulled it off.” Cameron kissed her forehead. “You’re unstoppable, Kat. And Leo’s already a legend.” She laughed, looking at her son’s tiny face. “Yeah, Dagi’s got big shoes to fill. But he’s got time.”
The fundraiser became a turning point for Kat. It wasn’t just about the money—though the funds would help countless women—it was about reclaiming her strength. She’d faced cancer, motherhood, and the fear of the unknown, and come out swinging. Back at home, she framed a photo from the event: her and Leo on stage, pink wig blazing, the crowd a sea of hope. She hung it next to Leo’s ultrasound, a reminder of the day her world changed—and the day she fought back.
Kat returned to Gutfeld! a month later, her humor sharper than ever. She cracked jokes about her “new boobs” and Leo’s “executive decisions” (mostly involving mashed peas). But behind the laughs was a new fire. She’d started a foundation to keep the fundraiser going annually, with Leo as the perpetual “Co-Chair” Dagi. “If my kid’s gonna be famous,” she told Gutfeld on air, “it’s gonna be for saving lives, not just drooling on my scripts.”
Kat Timpf, the comedian who’d once thought motherhood and cancer were punchlines too big to tackle, had found her purpose. And Leo, her tiny Co-Chair, was right there with her, proof that even the smallest heroes could change everything.
