Smashes, Thrashes & Tactless Bits

What’s the best way to reveal that you’re a flaming fruitcake in your dad’s eyes?

Whip out your chop stick skills in front of him in a Chinese restaurant in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Dad says.

You use chopsticks now?

He might as well say.

Get plenty of practice pinching Ming’s dick when you lived in Hermosa Beach.

Mom never understood why you introduced her to your gay Chinese friend.

She just thought, our son is eclectic dear.

But I thought.

I should’ve have known by the way he ran down the basketball court on his tippy toes.

Looking like he was sporting high heels instead of high tops.

If LaVar Ball was your sub coach dad in high school, he’d yell, “Were trying to sell Baller Wear son, not Jimmy Choos.”

But that’s what I get for raising my 1st born in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County.

Of course, he’s soft, the only thing that gets blown around those parts is leaves.

New joke to get me kicked off Twitter again:

My kids recognize actors’ names now, which is a relief, because analogies are easier to make.

We’re watching a Nicholas Cage movie that reenacts the Lincoln assassination.

I drop knowledge.

So, John Wilkes Booth was a famous actor, a real national treasure of his day.

It would be like Leonardo Dicaprio assassinating Joe Biden.

Assuming, Hair Plugs Sniffer forced Greta Thunberg to rub up against his leg hairs in black face for Buckwheat Appreciation night at the next White House Correspondents dinner.

I just bought Crash by the Dave Matthews Band on Vinyl. Because the chorus Crash into me is what played when my wife lost her virginity too, before I dented in her good. And that’s before we had 3 kids in almost rapid succession because I never mastered the art of the pump fake. So, sue me for wanting to pretend my wife had a super tight snatch again. 2 seconds later, I say. “The lube isn’t working babe. Can you just suck the hate speech out of my super soaker. Pretend NPR ordered you to leak it. This way, you’ll get to taste my yum, yum sauce down your virgin esophagus as I tear apart your tonsils instead. Which is better than having to ice your snatch down with Ben Jerry’s Rocky Road To Peace, which is a bloody mess bound to happen like Madonna playing kick the can with her camel toe clit in a minefield throughout the occupied territory during Ramadhan.

Smashes, thrashes, and tactless bits, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth