Like Mother Like Son

Me playing the role of trainer Mick for my son Art Show, AKA Feather Foot as Rocky 4 blasts in the garage as he does more sit ups on our ordained Rocky rug.

No pain Art Show, you’re pimping the American Flag bandanna big time. Let the music make your heart soar like a Bald Eagle not stressed about all his peeps being near extinct yet. 2 more, you’re going to be the prettiest bad boy soy boy in class. Every kid is going to want a piece of you, fronting to be real life tough guy, smart asses like Robert Dinero method actors in the making. Drop them on their ass for daring to fuck with you pretty boy face before they become high school loser drop-outs because they won’t want to show their mangled, mope maligned mugs after you’re done smacking their smirks on to the gym locker floor on top of their Iron Maiden Trapper Keepers. 2 more sit ups, make those dumb mooks run for the hills to their mommies for birthing such inferior, mush mouthed seed.

Me overruling my wife again.

Matilda can handle number sentences at school on a sprained ankle. It’s not like she’s ducking a fight using brass knuckles in a female remake of 3 Clock High because she’s so kettle bell dense strong, unlike the wobbles in the hyped female conjuring version of Super Bad. Because the world of comedy needs more, mild musings from the Female ID of Michael Cera. I’m sure the ska light, sexless sounding Sting promoting Rainforest meditative back beats from the latest and greatest Vampire Weekend in the film will sound more momentous and less existential strained than the Singles soundtrack no problem.

Michael Jordan torched the Jazz for 37 with the Flu in the NBA Finals with a 105-degree fever, making Karl Malone his bottom bleeding gimp. Begging to be infected with MJ’s killer attack, over the top Alpha Dog gene, versus his absence of an automatic clutch gear, no amount of fancy stick rigs or 100-pound curl raises can conceal.

Defending my Jewishness over this past Christmas.

Bloated, model of a blah brained, bearded wannabe hipster minus artistic talent blurts out “My sister is more Jewish than you are.” I reply. Have you even graduated college yet, 8 years later? You’re like Van Wilder minus the rich dad. Also, last time I checked you we’re too fat to pass the physical for the Police Academy. But I’m sure your heart was really into, Serpico. Also, I had a Bar Mitzvah and sang my Haftarah portion in Hebrew. Last time I checked, you air guitared your Ukrainian harp Bandura at Church because you’re a lazy, good for nothing blob of hobbit mole allergic to nuts and all forms of ball exertion. Who had to have your parents threaten to not pay 5 grand for your wedding if the ban of their 3 grand children who they never see was lifted. But Jesus loves the totality of you. But hey your religion allows your mom to be forgiven for being a colossal cunt and yell at my kids for jumping on the spare mattress in your old shit sty room at the foot of our old couch because it isn’t the designated, cramped play area. The room downstairs next to the kitchen, with your air guitar Bandura on the couch, as a mere decorative ornament like when you were last spotted in shame with it in Church back in the day is.

Your sister is more Jewish than me? Then, why hasn’t your dad ever used some of his SAP consultant money to pay for her nose job then? That’s right, he’s still sporting the same Tommy Bahamas from the eighties. When Trump was rebuilding Wollman Rink in Central Park for free and giving the profits to Aids men victim groups whereas your father was giggling to Monty Python sketches after work. Which did wonders for his imagination, knowing what a dead weight conversationalist you’ve become, like mother like son. Also, my kids love Futurama, but think your Bender tattoo is ridiculously stupid. A fake tattoo would’ve been a fun for a bit, right kids? If you got a fake Bender tattoo kids, worst case scenario then, you can’t be buried in a fake Jewish cemetery.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

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