Too Much Love

What’s the difference between Monkey Pox and Aids?

Meat from Bull Durham has no reason to get his garter belt in a bunch regardless.

Visited Ayn Rand’s grave with my 3 kids this weekend.

We’re passing by the cemetery in Valhalla, and I say, “Hey kids, want to see if my book the Great American Jew Novel is still on Ayn Rand’s tombstone? I reference her book Atlas Shrugged in Chapter 2, The Jewy Manhattan Book Club. In the book Atlas Shrugged Ayn argues for man to use his power of reason to pursue his own happiness while refusing to sacrifice his shot at fulfillment in the service of others.”

Daughter says, “121 comedy records later, done for mere ego enlargement purposes, I think you’ve accomplished that feat already Daddy.”

The Great American Jew Novel wasn’t on her tombstone anymore, which pissed me off, more than seeing a copy of her book Fountainhead at a bookstore in Ridgefield CT with microscopic font and a gaudy, murky book cover reminiscent of Dawn Steele novels.

I know the Jewish tradition is to place rocks on the tombstone. But Ayn Rand was a godless cunt like Carl Sagen’s mom. So, what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Ego Mania Gone Wild, Challah. Thank you very much.

But seriously, why shouldn’t I pay tribute to Ayn Rand by placing my self-published, well reviewed, Great American Jew Novel on her tombstone? We both detested fake news Jewish intellectuals. Plus, the Midwest Book review loved my book, calling it a “hilarious exploration of New York comedy and culture”, which proves I wasn’t too overtly Jewy annoying for the heartland’s tastes. Last, the premise behind all of Ayn Rand’s novels is how all pride and forms of self-satisfaction is derived from your own accomplishments, that’s a well spring of your own thinking, not done by fake news hippies like your own father. Sorry, but you when you live in Arizona for 10 years and never visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippie. Ego mania gone wild, Challah. Thank you very much.

The most depressing part of visiting Ayn Rand’s tombstone is how her tombstone had 16 rocks on it compared to her pseudo closeted husband I think, who only had 2. Well, if Ayn Rand wasn’t such a needy stink hag, who didn’t take Frank O’Connor for granted. He would’ve had the opportunity to plant more seeds of distress in other men’s colon before he drank himself to death out of shame of being closeted homosexual, I think.

And who are these Ayn Rand cult following cunts who think it’s a good look putting rocks on Ayn Rand’s grave but not his? Granted, Frank O’ Conner wasn’t Jewish, but Ayn Rand also had less use for Kosher dietary restrictions or Matzah Ball soup breaks while cranked up on enough Benzedrine to blow through the Talmud in one weekend if she dared take a day off from working on finishing Atlas Shrugged in exchange for absorbing devalued Rabbi opinions lumped together in one book that made less money for Rabbis than a drunken Moyle with Parkinsons according to Ayn.

Ayn Rand always referred to Frank O-Conner, her lifetime partner in love, despite numerous love affairs as her “rock”, her “prize”, yet her former friends, associates and fans couldn’t even dole out a rock for poor old Frank, the stay-at-home bitch hub of his day, regardless of his work out studio at the Art Student League used more for drinking his blues away towards his rapidly depleting light. At one point, does the Ayn Rand fan think, “Fuck Frank, Ayn was the bread winner, not him. Frank only existed because of Ayn. I wasn’t fucking married to twinkle toes, Ayn was. Like Ayn said, “Evil is dependence on men”, or on me for that matter. Ball and Chain would’ve preferred flowers instead.”

Understand, this tombstone is very modest for Ayn unlike her gargantuan ego who went on record with William F. Buckly, “You’re too smart to believe in God William.” William F. Buckly replies, “Epstein’s shitty ass Potato Pancakes, are a reason lone to start a new Holocaust in your honor.”

At Ayn Rand’s grave I say, “So Ayn, if you weren’t such a self-serving cunt, you’d be open to the idea of experiencing the divine from birthing Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth over here. Did you ever inspire the nickname 10 Homer Daily, Effortless Magic or Billionaire Brain? I didn’t think so. If my next book, Maternal Waves, doesn’t outsell Atlas Shrugged than whatever book my daughter writes in the future will. Just wanted to thank you for inspiring us to do so babe. We can jam idealized characters into our novels with big ideas defending the right to call your mother-in-law an unhuggable cunt or your wife ahead of the curve annoying to Ayn. And what’s my premise again Ayn? Post Feminism blows. Because it birthed birthday only blow jobs. What did you wish for on your birthday hot stuff? A squeaky-clean conscious for only requesting happy enders, who weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday. Look at it this way, you got off easy on my birthday again babe. Biggest prick in the east flexes on. Ego Mania gone wild, Challah. Thank you very much. 

Soon after, we hop in the car and realize that were stuck in the cemetery because every time we follow the exit signs, we head toward a chain link fence preventing us from doing so. So finally, 20 minutes later, I ignore social convention like Ayn would, drive around one of those chain link fences while narrowly avoiding a couple of tombstones in the process not belonging to Ayn Rand and her husband partner Frank O’Conner, which required a little of bit of steep drive downward on grass in a Toyota SUV, which I managed to avoid tearing. I also avoided waking the dead in my sleep as we finally broke free from the trapping cemetery in Valhalla. My eldest daughter says, “Daddy, that’s the coolest thing you’ve ever done. Do you believe in Miracles Ayn Rand? Because I do now. Daddy saw an opening and took it without fumbling or bumping over tombstones in the process. The Putzy Cup of truth never lies. And Daddy can raise a glass of AC cooling wine later tonight for passing with honors. Year without beer lives. Too much love, Challah. Thank you very much. Now, write an all time-best seller Daddy, or write a new draft for Horsing Around Hinduism and write a pilot episode such as Never Have I Ever Believed in Reincarnation till you encounter a broken-down talking racehorse who whips your stand-up comedy road show into shape but only after you record your final comedy record for free this Wednesday for Last Licks, Daddy. Deal? Time to beat your personal best Daddy. Racehorses live to compete. Lapping losers has already begun. Now, let them choke on your stardust with greater rollicking intensity than ever before. Unleash ego mania gone wild. Thank you, Ayn Rand, for the nudge in my daddy’s honor, very, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth