Endlessly Right

English muffins reminding me of the time alcohol prevented my son from dying a premature death.

“So, Arthur, one time, I went to Fire Island with an old work bud, who wasn’t a complete Long Island hack like the rest, when I used to sell online ads for CitySearch in Manhattan. Our primary target audience was gay men searching for who gave the best facial. I had just met mommy, yet we weren’t in a committed monogamous relationship. Son interrupts my flow. “What’s monogamous daddy?” I say, “Decoupling in reverse.”

“I was semi-seeing this Filipino girl at the time who co-owned a restaurant in the city. She showcased way too much upper gum for my taste. But she was the 1st one I ever did phone sex with because of her instigating encouragement. Son says, “What’s phone sex? I say, “Kama Sutra talk without getting naked, so there’s no harm in it really, assuming you have her consent to give her endless dick over the phone that is. Still, she pushed me to write a Family guy spec during one of my brooding moods, after asking point blank, “What’s going to make you happy?” And I said, “Writing a Family Guy Spec, so I wouldn’t feel like such an ineffectual jerkoff outside of what sporadic laughs I was getting throughout the open mike stage outside of a semi-reliable opener at the time, which was, “So far, my claim to fame was an appearance on the show Blind Date. All I got out of it was a free meal and herpes.” Son says, “What’s herpes?” I say, “Worse than long COVID, next question. And just when you think you’re in the clear, it keeps breaking out from within.”

“Yeah, so back to Fire Island. I made Avocado toast on a toasted English muffin with melted Munster and turkey bacon and all the yenta breaths went hog wild over it. All of a sudden, I felt Jerry Seinfeld minus the career, which reminds he just sold one his vintage Porsches for charity. I just hope that half the proceeds went to Larry’s kids.”

“So, for my 1st time on Fire Island, I was feeling semi-cocky, already had some living under my belt after living in LA for a bit. I didn’t miss driving in LA. But I did miss road head. Son says, “What’s roadhead? I said, “Primo pole position all the way.” Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.”

One time I did that joke at the Comedy Cellar and addressed a banger pretty NYU girl sitting close to the stage with, “Did you just call shot gun?” And the crowd screamed touchdown. Yeah, so I wasn’t married to any one fun hole just yet, my days of being a slut-in-straight jacket hadn’t happened because I didn’t get mommy pregnant by mistake.” Son says, “How did you get her pregnant by mistake? I say, “By being a stoner who forget to ask if she were on the pill. Or from being too much of a chicken shit in a post feminism world to inquire about whether the pill still made her “nauseous” or not, which is code for, run for the hills if you don’t love the bitch.”

“So, I hit on this beautifully, sexy gal on Fire Island who was sunbathing all by herself. She was a better stacked, prettier faced Phoebe Cates with longer luscious hair than the sexless, dike cut she sported in Gremlins 2. All the yenta breaths surrounding us, got their panties in a bunch over the new big headed Heeb in town hitting on a far sexier Barbara Stanwyck without breaking a sweat because girls this sexy are normally dating some alpha man jock who lettered at 3 varsity sports, which I didn’t, who most likely didn’t run down the basketball court, looking like he was sporting high heels instead of high tops. At the time, I didn’t know that she broke up with her boyfriend. Chances are, he banged her hotter friend because guys are scumbags like that, always interested in doing the next best thing. So, I bump into her on the dance floor at some random bar later that evening. We grind on the dance floor as I flexed my magic mike love stand behind her love buns to Moby from what I recall. I’m also on incredibly strong E and have been drinking for 5 hours straight, which is a blackout combo waiting to happen.” Son says, “What’s a blackout?” I said, “Your southern hick DNA sabotaging your chances of getting laid again.”

“Eventually, she says, “Want to take a walk by the beach. I follow her lead. Shit, I would’ve followed her into a glory hole at a Chicago bathhouse during Arafat Appreciation Month. Son says, “What’s a glory hole.” I say, “Russian Roulette with your dick.”

“So, we sit on the sand together but now I’m light-headed. So, I recline back on the sand to look up at the stars. And I feel a bump. She says, “Did you just pass out?” I can’t believe we came that close to fucking.” And that’s how my crazy hick DNA prevented your premature death. Crazy Hick DNA lives. But endlessly wrong produced endlessly right in you kid.”

Endlessly wrong produces endlessly right, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

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