Gum King Of New York

What’s an anti-social impression? Recording 103 comedy records from home after producing 500 plus solo Do It All Dad Year podcasts over the past 5 years without much adult interaction outside of getting almost black out drunk to see Aerosmith in Vegas 2 summers ago with an old bud from California while resenting him inviting other friends to participate in the fun despite them all becoming fans of you almost overnight, certainly qualifies. 

But what does it take to get shocked into sobriety exactly? Is it from pissing your pants while passing out in your daughter’s bed for the 1st night of Hanukkah? Or is it from not touching the stuff again till May on a Saturday getaway at a Casino in the Poconos with your wife’s friend and husband, only to learn from your daughter the following day how you blacked out while taking forever to say goodnight to her after being kicked out of the bar prior for drinking 5 double bourbons in less than an hour knowing how you polished off a bottle of wine and multiple Arnold and Palmer’s with vodka earlier that day to overcompensate for the fact that it’s your year without beer while throwing in multiple weed edibles in between? 

Does it even matter that your wife’s friend husband was buying your drinks, despite you having no intention of drinking any booze or becoming black out drunk whatsoever? No, it doesn’t. At the same time, it’s safe to say most blackouts are accidental blackouts. Nobody sets out to have a good time only to blank on what they did prior. Then again, nobody ever starts drinking in high school with the intention of failing at adulthood into their mid-forties either. Nobody wants to feel like they got 10,000 morons stuck in their head for taking so long in life to realize what a bat shit crazy friend alcohol is because alcoholism and multi-tasking don’t mix, neither do hangovers and parenting for that matter. 

I don’t care if you’re a weekend alcoholic or not. If you’re getting bombed after God blesses you with 3 beautiful, pitch perfect children, you’re running away from something. In my case, it’s been money troubles, new friendship formation woes and major angry laced resentment issues stemming from wanting to receive more credit and praise for the good writing and comedy I’ve dedicated the entirety of my life toward producing with relentless fury for the past 5 years and counting.   I’m trying to get jobs with companies to do copywriting for them because I’m good at creating compelling content. I’m good at crafting click bait headlines. I’m good at sticking to main points while going on inspired comedic laced rants to. I’m good at building up my kids. I’m good at cooking yummy dance worthy meals for my family. I’m good at complimenting friends and praising artists who inspire me to strive for originality like Miles Davis, Bill Hicks and Bob Marley. I’m good at creating a funny man impression on my Do It All Dad Year Blog. Although, one could argue that despite all the likes my comedy records, stories or blogs receive, I’ve haven’t excelled at creating plenty of meaningful interactions on my blog based on the scattering of actual comments in between because those people might be discouraged from interacting with an anti-social pariah comedian who displays psychopath tendencies such as laughing hysterically whenever one of Dexter’s victims squirms in discomfort before meeting their maker, tapped to his kill table, never ready to die, just yet. 

But in the spirit of anti-social awareness month, I wanted to discuss my anti-social impressions in person here at the Father Expo, not by launching my own social media platform like Truth Social, but by stating my commitment to make friends with sobriety. Sobriety is my new friend resolution because if I can’t get high off the presence of loved ones, especially my kids who still believe Daddy can make it as a successful comedian and businessman writer entrepreneur of some kind, then I’m a lost cause who will never be capable of paying back his debut to his parents, wife and friends who have done nothing but encourage me to pursue my funny man path with all of my God given might along the way. So, I’ve decided to make a year without beer, not just about a self-serving desire to achieve dunking out Do It All Dad Glory by giving up what’s preventing me from flying, which is hop juice. What I’m also giving up that’s preventing me from flying is anti-social impressions by declaring my independence from alcohol forever. I want to become the most engaging, hardcore hilarious sober living personality on planet earth, even more so than Russell Brand, who can make sober living a sexy lifestyle to pursue. Plus, I’ve got way fewer grey specs of wisdom on my beard than Russell Brand does. Plus, he’s English and the Declaration of Independence was signed in Philly, not in Buckingham fucking Palace. Bill Hicks gave up all drinking and produced his best work on Arizona Bay as a result, so did Amy Winehouse on the Rehab record and I will to.  So later this week on Shark Tank, I’ll be presenting a new brand of Hop flavored gum called Hop Licious Chew. It’s a killer trade off worth taking. They say rehab is about recovering your former, authentic self before you sought pleasure and escape through alcohol and drugs, and what better way to reconnect with our glorious of age innocence before social media ruined everything than through embracing gum that comes with an adult flavored twist. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t cum in my pants after my 1st sip of Budweiser, because beer is an acquired taste, just like espresso or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale ale that never gets stale, until that lifestyle gets played out in your heart. I don’t want to be bitter anymore. But I wouldn’t mind the taste of hops in gum to remind me why being a lushy alcoholic degenerate dependent blows more than being stuck on Meghan’s McCain’s lost Cheeto stuck in her belly button detail on the View either. 

Because let’s be honest folks, sobriety monogamy is sexy. Sobriety monogamy gets me harder than a new porn installment of Trans Sitters on Third Legged Beauties.com.  Sobriety monogamy never leaves you feeling like a dirty scumbag for sucking down whatever anybody is willing to buy you. Sobriety monogamy comes with a happy ending guarantee, where you don’t have to question whether you’re an awful for person for making jokes about requesting only older happy enders knowing they weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday. Sobriety Monogamy makes you feel better than Mormons who voted for Mitt Romney twice. Sobriety Monogamy should be a no-brainer commitment when you can’t manage being a good role model for your kids by blacking out on tucking them in. Sobriety Monogamy will allow me to make sober friends. And let’s be honest, were all a tad jealous of those who have AA friends, who’ve been to hell and back but still emerged victorious while you’re still stuck in the doldrums of your do dick profitless existence. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking because you’ll show some steady backbone and prove you’re worthy of funny man redemption. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking, so you can have a positive impact on others while never coming across like a goody fucking two shoes who only dealt with a crippling mental addition to weed, alcohol, Adderall or painkillers for one year max, compared to 10 or more.  Sobriety Monogamy is the best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions by passing out prematurely at the party again, because you’re in no rush to bond or learn from others. The best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions is through sobriety monogamy because how much empathy do you really have for other’s people’s problems when you’re the loudest one at the bar, yelling, “Nobody gives a fuck here, we’re in New Jersey”, but you’re actually in Pennsylvania? Sobriety Monogamy ensures you don’t become another no-show bum on the grand stage of life like Lenny Bruce would say. 

Do Sobriety Monogamy for Lenny, knowing how he was denied a living at the end. Do Sobriety Monogamy because despite your fucked up degeneracy, you’d never blame a disparaging tweet you made about Valerie Jarrett on dropping a fucking Ambien no less. Shit Roseanne at least bang out a funnier tweet on Ambien allegedly by calling Valerie Jarett, Obama’s live-in Arabian horse whisperer. Do Sobriety Monogamy, so you’ll exude a sincere, palpable good-natured vibe, that doesn’t’ feel forced like Ellen DeGeneres after she comes out on her show as friends with W because she’s pro Bush all the way. Do Sobriety Monogamy because by becoming a gum mogul in New York you can actually act your size among all the other towering personalities in the Big Apple post weird, weak woke Howard these days.  Do Sobriety Monogamy because New York is deader than Yiddish anyway, so who gives a shit about partying in NY anymore anyway? Do Sobriety Monogamy because it will represent an actualization of your best self, the most giving, emotionally present, less jaded, always criticizing self, you know, the standard New York state of mind. Do Sobriety Monogamy so you can feel superior to bartenders in wool hats in July. Do Sobriety Monogamy to claim victory over conquering your crazy Hick DNA from Kentucky after all. Do Sobriety Monogamy to give other dads something weighty to chew on while struggling to balance the demands of being a star provider and involved father teacher life coach sage all at the same time through the advent of Swami Says sayings that come with each pack of Hopo-Licious Chew, designed to add a brighter glint to your eye and greater bounce to your step. Daily Nugget of Wisdom today is, “Beer bellies give self-love a bad name.” Because Hop-O-Rama Swami Knows Best.  You want more nuggets of daily wisdom from Hop-Rama-Swami, my new sober best friend? You got it. 

Hop O Rama Swami on Success:

Swami says, “Be better than best or be nobody worth giving a shit about.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Life: 

Swami says, “Live life in fear and you’ve got less to live for than a monologue joke writer for Stephen Colbert.  It’s too bad Bill O’ Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least Bill O’ Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Love: 

Swami says, “Loving the one you’re with is an overrated experience, especially when they resent being expected to suck off even an inch-ling of your existence every other 6 months ever again.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Creativity: 

Swami says, “If you’re mom doesn’t laugh at your jokes nobody will.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Attachment:

Swami says, “Don’t get too attached to flashes of alleged genius that came out of your creatively jacked dome if they’re not embraced online or off the way you envisioned as usual.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Status:

Swami says, “Status updates on LinkedIn scream respectability straining.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Money: 

Swami says, “Money grants greater middle finger power, just ask Stone Cold or Adam Carolla on his podcast.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Fame: 

Swami says, “Doing anything for fame alone is gayer than Roger Ebert’s aghast fueled review on The Foot Fist Way, Danny McBride’s 3rd hardcore hilarious movie by the way.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Choice: 

Swami says, “You’ll be fucked over by life with your face rubbed in your feces if you allow others to push you in whatever preferred direction they choose.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Want: 

Swami says, “Stroke yourself if nobody else will do it for you.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Self-Love. 

Swami says, “Overpriced IPA’s only leave you bloated with self-importance inside.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Your Problems. 

Swami says, “Find a new lover of you and they’ll go away.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Darkness. 

Swami says, “The extent of your impact on this earth can be writing disposable ad copy for a big pharma pimping marketing firm in San Diego. So, stop acting more depressed than your Euro-Pass being rendered useless once Europe transforms into one seemingly endless no-go zone without any access to WI-FI in your Youth Hostel after the next man-made plague made in Wuhan is released to finish off our collective pursuit of happiness again.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Unnecessary Suffering: 

Swami says, “I didn’t tell you to vote for Mr. Groper. And you call the other side mongoloid morons, douche bags are us. 

Hop O Rama Swami on Facing Fears: 

Swami says, “I’d triple wrap by super soaker before playing around with Madonna’s kick the can clit to.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Pain Management. 

Swami says, “Take up blow painting and leave me out of it.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Bullshit. 

Swami says, “If it sounds like bullshit, it means the person is underselling distressment again. ” 

So, stop bullshitting yourself dads. Trade in the dad bod in exchange for dunking out in do it all dad year glory. We can form our own 3 on 3 Do It All Dad League together. 

And never forget, funnier dad, happier baby. So, reconnect with your original, starring self, before you allowed alcohol to drive the asshole component of your personality into hyperdrive. 

Dependence sucks so don’t give into it anymore. And Michael Jordan admitting on the Last Dance doc about getting into drinking later in life after winning 6 championship rings was freaking weird. That’s like Charles Barkley taking up Adderall to study for law school like Kim Kardashian because social justice lawyers are so hot right now. And Sir Charles using manufactured speedy time pills to hit the books instead of more crab legs with Shaq and Ernie at Maestro’s after work for another raise dinner on TNT doesn’t mix. 

Do It All Dad didn’t get funding for Hop-Licious Chew on Shark Tank, but he finally got a talent agent after doing a joke about KP on the broadcast in front of Marc Cuban when he said, “There’s no way KP raped the neighbor in his apartment building, the same day he tore his ACL, right Marc? Because going strong to the hole was never KP’s forte. Plus, Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein would never try to rape Gal Gadot in her trailer on the set of Wonder Woman 3 on only one good leg. Plus, Do It All Dad did sell a screenplay to Hollywood called Gum King of New York where he comes out as the King of All Sober Living Media and develops a new best friend in AA, who becomes his talent manager, agent confidant, who made him a higher paid podcaster than Joe Rogan on Spotify while never coming across as a smarmy, CBD Oil evangelist, social media deferring apologist in the process either. Ok, so maybe becoming friends with sobriety doesn’t remove your complete frontal asshole lobe all together. 

Michael Kornbluth

Follow The Vaccine Body Count

If Obama could ball. Then, why did he ride the bench at an all Asian private school in Hawaii?

I wanted to marry my wife in her native homeland of Australia. Mom says, “Australia is a long flight from New York. And your father doesn’t love you that much.”

Later, I console my wife and say, “Assuming we have a boy one day, we can hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision. Just so we can hear a room full of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

US troops are being denied earned leave without getting their vaccination 1st. On the upside, less Navy servicemen will get pricked by the barebacking ghost of Allen Ginsburg during Fleet Week. Holla, thank you very much.



The Indian Health Ambassador and former comedian gets his COVID vaccine live on TV to show everyone how safe it is and dies 2 days later. I hope the former comic is reincarnated as anal warts inside Dr. Fauci’s hell hole colon.

The Indian comedian should’ve stuck to killing with arranged marriage material instead. Former Indian comedian says, “It’s easier to get your wife into anal if you’re pushed into marrying one caste beneath you. Holla, thank you very much.”

Dr. Cole says we’ve seen more deaths from the COVID shot than all vaccines in the last 20 years combined, adding, “Morally just Wuhan Lab assistants have longer shelf lives after interview spots with Tucker Carlson.”

Dr. Cole, another outspoken critic about the ineffective practice of lockdowns also says since the dawn of man, “We’ve never quarantined the well.” Adding, “Look how well Dave Chapelle turned out after his walkabout sabbatical in Africa, using only bush dirt weed to fight off killer Mosquitos the size of Aids quilt blankets.”

Vaccinated people still wearing a mask is like Cookie forcing Magic to wear a rubber whenever they snuggle up to The Inside Guys on TNT.

The Sopranos finale would be better if Meadow got to play the prosecutor in the George Floyd case and in her closing statement state, “How did all lives matter become the new n word?” Holla, thank you very much.”

2 female college students got kicked out of Amherst College for not wearing a mask from a photograph taken on campus. When did liberal art colleges become no go zone areas for Muslim housewife property during Ramadan?

Bartender looks at my wife’s credit card during our sweaty sex period before we got married and says, “Duffy, like me.” I reply, “Why don’t you 2 open a bar together and live happily after?” Holla, thank you very much. 

I’m so tired of hearing the NY is coming back pitch. These days, Jews feel less welcome in New York City than critical BLM theories.

Michelle Obama says, “You want to hang out with us. Get your vaccine, gardeners from Honduras excluded. Just don’t Instagram any of Obama’s pot plants Pancho, got it. He likes to puff with Malia and her friends during summer break to feel like a fake news bi-racial Bob Marley.”

Michael Kornbluth

Made In Wuhan


Biden mandated that no US government employee can call COVID 19, The China Virus or the Wu-Flu. I prefer to call it, Our Country Is Shit Out Of Luck Club.

If we the people, let the CDC, the WHO and Fuck Face Fauci dictate whether America becomes China’s masked bitch for life.

What did they call COVID behind closed doors at the Department of Homeland Security before Biden got his nappy in a bunch over so called hate speech? Biological Warfare falls under the Department of Agriculture.

What did fat ass William Barr call the COVID virus when he was in charge of destroying what credibility remained within the Department Of Justice? Ain’t No Thing, But Poisoned Peeking Duck On A String.

What did the Department of Defense say about the COVID 19 behind closed doors before Biden’s shut up and don’t rat on the Chinse mandate began? That’s what Americans get for electing a President who didn’t start any major new wars under his watch, who finally gave Vets the hospital service they deserve? Who ordered the US military to crush ISIS in the same time it takes Jared Kushner to blow a load in Ivanka whenever she talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again.

What did the Department of Veteran Affairs call the COVID Virus before Biden thought he possessed the authority to tell our vets how to label the real enemy behind the new red scare 2.0? Lebron and Nike sitting in a Chinese Maple Tree, SUCKING.

Hamas Hates Nuance

I text my mom photographed images from my 9 year old daughter’s report on the Holocaust called The Terror Of The Holocaust, which included a plethora of killer subtitle headers to, such as A Terrible Form Of Hate, Monster In Charge and Don’t Blame Us! And I add the killer one liner for the ages, “Don’t post the report on Facebook or else Hamas will accuse you of hate speech.” Holla, thank you very much.”

Biden is sending new aid to aid Palestinians since AOC served Andrew Yang’s balls to him in a Mai Tai on the rocks.

Fuck nuance. Palestinians elected terrorists in charge. The only difference between Palestine and America is that we didn’t elect a terrorist enabling scumbag to cut Palestine a blank check to finance non-stop terrorism against Israel as long as members of Hamas, the PLO and Hezbollah keep fucking. Holla, thank you very much.

Kids can’t be terrorists. What do you call ANTIFA? Elderly wannabe Punisher vigilantes in hoodies. Holla, thank you very much.


Also stop acting like you give a shit about Ramadan. Arab terrorists started something called the Yom Kippur war against Israel in 1973, on the most holy day on the Jewish calendar with the intent of wiping Israel off the map forever. The only difference now is you have social media to make worldwide antisemitism go transparently viral in real time you Hamas lover you.

Michael Kornbluth

Short Lived Nirvana

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to sloppy seconds hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Kurt Loder, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his smoking hot second wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H, so I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle.”

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Female Maccabe Power

Amazon sucks. You can’t find the Hebrew Hammer on Amazon Prime, but Mein Kamph is available on your Kindle, which is 725 pages of hate speech in a row.

Practicing kindness at Banana Republic.

Do you know where that sweater was made?

It says on the tag.

You’re making it hard for me to practice kindness babe.

Do you sell ball gags made in China to?

I want my daughter to run for class president under the new Burning Mask Party.

Name a kinder act to usher in more smile rich tomorrows besides the FCC pulling the broadcast license for The View?

As your next class president, I will host our school’s 1st ever Burning Mask Party.

Pinko baby boomers burned bras, we burn masks.

You support masks mandates at school baby boomer grandma.

Too bad they don’t provide immunity from Mr. Groper sniffing your granddaughter like ground up Ritalin.

Boomer grandparents think the CDC, the WHO and Dr. Gnocchi know best.

What’s new? Baby Boomer Arrogance never dies.

Meanwhile, more kids died in South Central this year from Vape Pens than those who who called out sick from an itchy esophagus.

You want to talk child safety? Then, why are drug cartels allowed to push fentanyl through our southern border freely? Which has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

And the FBI can’t accuse us of being domestic terrorists.

Because we don’t pledge our allegiance to ANTIFA.

Ok, bad example.

I forgot.

ANTIFA are burn victims, who never outgrew their pyro phase in elementary school.

Plastic masks will take 450 years to decompose and completely disappear from our environment? Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi continues to defy the odds unfortunately.

We shouldn’t be forced to wear these masks anymore like Michael’s Jackson’s kids on holiday in Baharain.

Kindness is believing someone gives a shit about putting an end to this never-ending shit show.

And that person is me.

No more masks.

They’ll budge.

Our teacher’s cushy pensions are riding on it.

Joan of Arc wouldn’t put up this shit.

And neither should you.

I’m your Maccabee.

Matilda Rose Kornbluth.

The mask burning party revolution starts today.

Happy Hanukkah Challah Day!

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

American Made Prayer

Aaron Rodgers, Kyrie Irving and the gluten tennis guy enter the hotel bar at the Pierre just to make Michelle Obama uncomfortable while in town for the U.S Open.

Bartender says, “We don’t serve your kind.”

Gluten Tennis guy says, “I piss Beetroot brighter than you.”

Kyrie Irving says, “Still educating yourself on Hydroxychloroquine for Dummies, merchant of liquid death?”

Aaron Rodgers says, “Even my bud Joe Rogan thinks you smirk too much.”

Bartender says, “Deplorable douchebags, what will you do when Michelle Obama becomes our next President?”

After they’re all done laughing and coughing out lungs without any blood clots in them.

Kyrie Irving says, “Just what America needs, Obama’s, Five O’ Clock Shadow Part 2.”

Never forget the new terrorists that pushed Operation Death Speed on us, that’s ripped the heart out of our American Dream that’s barely hanging on to life support in front of our children’s undimmed eyes, if you’re lucky.

Bury these demonic shitbags and force Hunter to snort up their dusty remains and have LA famed street artist Babo spray paint the pic all over the Smithsonian in D.C. to hang for all eternity. God’s speed, Lord, God’s speed.

Michael Kornbluth

Animated Daddy

You think my son sounds like a cartoon because of his high-pitched voice? I bet he’s still prettier to look at than your daughter if she takes after you. Then again, should I really be upset at your charge of my son not sounding Trans baritone enough for your liking? The kid’s only 7. At least, he has a beautiful mind to convey, you get tense at Lena Dunham jokes because your excessive preponderance of gums takes up your entire face when you talk, which would make anyone feel like an undesirable fatty inside. But if you’re trying to imply that my son sounds like a fairy pin up girl for Disney Kids in the making, I’m glad. At least, he’ll never feel that his free will is being guilted or shamed into pumping your wench laden box on your birthday again. Instead, he’ll be building resorts in Key West to avoid fag hag turning wenches like yourself with divine powered authority as he continues build new towers of love, way up high, high, into the sky, sky. Because the Sun Butter King will be free of nagging, blast off time inhibiting energy as his mo money minting mojo keeps on rising, rising. Arthur Morrison Kornbluth shines again. Suck on it on longtime hacky hag, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Dallas Muff On My Mind

I flirt with the Texas pretty manager at a local farm nursery café and say,

“I thought of you last night while watching Rushmore. I didn’t realize the movie was filmed in Dallas. “

Texas pretty manager says, “I actually went to the rival prep school where they filmed it. I say, “I want to shoot my white privilege over your chest so bad right now.” My son thinks you’re solid 7.9 by Dallas Cowboy cheerleader standards. And he’s a tough critic. Can I interest in some Too Tall Jew up in your grassy knoll? Too Tall Jones lives, Challah. We can bang out a new and improved version of Camelot together. We will invent a new sexually charged romance language and jam some sticky Shakespearian juice into the King’s English in the process. Your wholesome, banger pretty looks are all I need to resurrect Latin back from the dead. Carpe these nuts and will make romance languages great again and fuck over those uptight Latin pricks with resounding, stretched out elation.”  Dallas Muff on my mind, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Masturbation Equalizer

The Masturbation Equalizer

“Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.”

Salvador Dali

“Money equals middle finger power”, is what my Dad always told me growing up in our quaint yet artistically loaded Comedy Grant House 50 minutes North of Manhattan within the bucolic, historically tiny village of Croton Falls, famous for being the birthplace of my dear dada’s famous catchphrase, “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, on his Do It All Dad podcast that ultimately got him a recording label deal to produce comedy record 100 Too Tall Jew, on Blessed Records and the rest is comedy gold machine making history. Personally, I preferred the comedy record title, Birds Eye View Bitches, but Daddy thought that it was tad long winded even for Bob Dylan’s tastes. At the Montreal Comedy Festival Daddy got big laughs when he said, ‘”Sorry pops, but when you live in Arizona for a decade and counting and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora suggest otherwise.

Still, growing up Papa, my grandfather, nicknamed my daddy, Waste of Height because my father is a 6’4 Jewish New Yorker, who’s only highlight when playing Varsity basketball senior year was scoring 10 points against an all-Japanese team, which isn’t hard when the opposing players thought the pick and roll, mean their choice of fish. Now, my dad was being billed by Rolling Stone as Killer Set Kornbluth, while Variety magazine hailed him as the new giant of late night after replacing Bill Maher with a new talk show called Seriously Clowning. So, at this point in his life, my dad had every right to look down on any soul sucker dream detractor who tried to make him feel like a delusional, crazy man narcissist for pursing A plus comedic glory with a middle finger power mansion located at the highest point in Bel Air next to Jerry’s Lewi’s old school crib. So, the shelf life behind papa’s degrading nickname, Waste of Height, in relation to his 1st born blossoming son, no thanks to his encouraged direction had gone sailing, Dean Martin, lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

But daddy is what you would call a late bloomer, who didn’t start tasting big deal success till his late forties, combining that with a sexless marriage, with a man who is far from straight, on top of his mom wanting him to sling other’s people’s garbage instead of his own A plus gemry jokes for a living one day, combined with in-laws who force fed Eucharist on his Jew blood tainted kids behind his back, combined with zero creative collaborators outside of his own children during his 5 year journey into the wilderness while kicking is decade long addiction to Adderall for good, resulted in creating a tsunami of resentment fueled rage that almost burnt out what love spreader light that existed left in my dear dada’s endlessly beautifying, beyond spiritualized projecting soul, before it was too late.  Because of that, Daddy did everything in his power to ensure I established moonbeam blast shot goals early as possible compared to his mother urging her “artist son”, to settle and shoot for shit by chucking the joke writing career all together and become a full-time garbage man like Magic Johnson’s father in Lansing, Michigan. Obviously, Magic Johnson dad’s is a stellar example of being a God loving, do it all dad done good. Still, Magic’s dad also slung other’s people’s trash, so his son wouldn’t have to, similar to Papa schlepping over the George Washington Bridge for 25 years only to get nickeled and dimed by the likes of Potomka Pickles while working as VP of Sales for a plastics and glass company in Union, New Jersey, otherwise known as the Swamp Thing State, so his 1st born wouldn’t have to follow in his steps and blaze a new trail of funny man innovation to derive prideful enrichment of some kind on his own.

But what really pissed off my dad was Papa resisting the notion that I had genius potential in me because his waste of height son was too much a mongoloid moron in his eyes to birth such a star powered, out of this world seedling capable of moving millions with my own powers of imagination, poetic lift and storytelling powered song. Daddy went to Ithaca College, which he derided as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But he graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications, so he could suck down some bingers of extra strong Tompkin’s country outdoor weed and avoid stuttering every other 2 seconds. I loved the idea of going to Columbia growing up, yet Daddy viewed Manhattan as yesterday’s news and planted the idea of me attending Williams University in Massachusetts instead, because former owner of the Yankees George Steinbrenner, otherwise known as the Boss, was a famous alumnus and larger than life NY bred personalities like George Steinbrenner don’t get any big more time than that. Plus, Daddy loved the standup comedian Jim Norton who claimed Boston woman were the best to slay with. Also, at Uncle John’s wedding, AKA, Sir Snort a Lot, Daddy said, “God gave my younger brother more second shots at respectable redemption than what George Steinbrenner gave Steve Howe”, which got goonish at the time. Plus, I remember my dad driving us to the Manhattan to go skating at 30 Rock once for my birthday and he points out the new Yankee stadium off the Deegan and says, “Look Matilda, the new Yankee Stadium, the house that gentrification built.” I knew all about Reggie Jackson otherwise known as Mr. October, who hit not one but 3 first pitch baseball homers in 1979 to clinch the World Series for the Yankees at the original Yankee stadium, otherwise known as the house, that Ruth built. I also knew that Babe Ruth had the most homers during his day but had the most strike outs to, because there was nothing half ass about the Babe who went down swinging, coming through in the clutch with his back against the wall like the great Messier, Derek Jeter, Andy Petite, Eli Manning and Frank Sinatra all the way. Daddy imparted the lesson of why New Yorker’s have big time egos for a reason. When Daddy actually contemplated moving our family to Texas during year 2 of COVID, I said, “Daddy, how many great comedians are from Texas? Daddy said, “Bill Hicks and Sam Kinson.” I say, “Bill Hicks only made me laugh once. And Sam Kinson had one good comedy album from start to finish that was pure standup without the cheesy Wild Thing cover song on it, that’s it. Now, name me star comedians from New York? Daddy says “Rodney Dangerfield, Andrew Dice Clay, Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Greg Giraldo, Joan Rivers, George Carlin. Have I mentioned myself yet? Alright you’re right, Texan comedians suck compared to native New Yorkers, Joe Rogan included.”

For some time, I just wanted to be a singer and write my own songs, singing in pubs like Amy Winehouse without developing the heroin addition, yet my dad insisted I become an A Plus student and accept no other goal acceptable, so he could boast to his new comedy manager and rapper friends in South Africa, where his new record label was located, that his daughter went to Williams College, which rocks the old world King Solmon Royal purple. And my Do It All Dad thought the deep purple look exuded an edgy deep suave vibe similar to Jimmy Hendrix’s head tripping beanbag within the mixing room at Electric Lady Land studios in Manhattan. Daddy also had a black and white picture of famed writer director Bill Wilder in his old office where the famed writer, director of Ace In The Hole and Fortune’s Cookie, was marching in his office with his talking stick of sorts as his famed screenwriter partner Charles Brackett is on the writer’s  couch in letting him go long again, who is another Williams alum that helped co-write Sunset Blvd, which is good work if you can get it.  The other line Daddy would always pound into my cranium growing up was from Stephen Sondheim, which is, “God is in the details”, and the famous Broadway composer lyrist graduated from Williams to, so dumb, dumb burn outs didn’t even bother to apply. Reality is, I almost never got into Williams College nor ended up becoming the female Carl Jung of my day post COVID damage done after graduating Magna Cum Laude after triple majoring in English, Psychology and Philosophy, achieving the trifecta of liberal arts lunacy, I know. But believe it or not, my fate at William’s became sealed, not because of my college essay where I insist Carl Sagen was mothered by a starless atheist cunt who gave Booger face Behar on the View a whiff of semi-respectability in comparison for a change when she asked Don Lemon why he was nothing more than another race war inciting scumbag like Jussie Smollett minus the SAG card after she got red pilled by Russell Brand from turning her on to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast during bi-sexual pride appreciate month, I think. Actually, pursuing the harder, less shit laden path started by Daddy posting an ad on Craig’s List for a jerk buddy in search of more than a friend.  

“Why did I post an ad for a jerk buddy on Craig’s List? Because I thought it was healthy alternative to laughing at my own material on the couch after my daughter was tucked in, before breaking up with my wife off 11 years, again and again”, A 45-Year-Old divorced Comedian says to his chesty, red headed, Psychologist who was an English and Psychology major at Willaims herself. Mara Weitzman, the Psychologist from Williams says, “What if I jerk off your ego instead of some random stranger on Craig’s List, who would give Jim Norton the creeps?” Do It All Dad, now a divorced still struggling comedian, living on the couch of his Film Grip bud in Ridgefield, CT who wants to be the Bill Graham of Death Metal festivals in Upstate New York one day, says, “Does my health insurance cover that added expenditure on my behalf?  Psychologist Mara Weitzman says, “Remember, the time you talked about that 1st hand job you got from Carolyn Verdichio, in Cotswold Park, which you nicknamed Actionless Park in your bit at the Montreal Comedy about how you’re no gentle giant or else why would you insist on staying home to ignore your kid for the privilege of writing more jokes while choking your wife too hard financially, again and again? You described your 1st hand job as a throbbing extension of your brutishly rough personality, to the point where she almost skinned your pussy wrecker rearranger alive, while your jeans kicked wildly in the mud like a hardheaded hog in heat. Well, what if we reenact the moment right now? I played the steel guitar growing up in Plano Texas, so I’ve got stronger hands that most. Let me if see if I can yank out that rough side out of you for good. I’ll even put in a good word for your daughter at the Williams College during admissions season. Do It All Dad drops his pants and says, “I don’t feel like such a self-centric jerkoff anymore. Mara Weitzman, you’re the only masturbator equalizer for me. Now rip off that top and start jerking it like its 1999.  I’ll give those busty beauties a liberal load to boast about it when you pump up my long-term endowment potential to your fellow alum members after I blow you away with a blast of teen spirit of my own. Kurt Cobain lives, Challah. Mara screams in extreme anticipatory ecstasy, “Nirvana, come reign on me.” Minutes later, Psychologist Mara Weitzman buttons up her top and puts her murky stained glasses back on and says, “See you next Tuesday Do It All Dad. Williams College will be lucky to have your daughter attend next fall, if she follows after your money blasting footsteps. Thank you, very, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth