The Wishing Well Architect

Art Show USA was no ordinary Wishing Well Architect. He designed a Wishing Well for Bill Gate’s daughter after buying her a horse farm in North Salem, NY only to clog it on purpose with Planned Parenthood brochures in honor of his former CEO dad for making such a splash as a baby part reseller on the open market. Otherwise known by pro-life activist groups as the Million Dollar Fetus Flicker Man.  

Art Show USA was a perfectionist artist. His Do It All Dad Michael Kornbluth, now a famous comedian author with a standup residency at MGM Grand in Las Vegas, would always encourage his son’s inborn artistic flair yet all his gorgeous, pitch perfect son would hear afterwards in semi-kidding fashion, “So you think I suck because.”

Every student teacher evaluation for Art Show USA was a pure joy to receive for his Do It All Dad because he got an extreme kick out of some teachers like his 1st grade one Mrs. Rudolph, who would bemoan in a begrudgingly, huffy manner, “We all know Arthur is a great artist”, only to rub in the harsh fact that teachers teach and birth less talented offspring for a reason.  

Do It All Dad always pounded into his eldest son’s cranium, “Art sells baby”, which always stayed with Art Show because he was haunted by early memories of his mom threatening to divorce his Dad if he wrote one more book and didn’t get a job at Trader Joe’s in Danbury, CT. So, his Dad doubled down on himself and wrote not one but 2 more books, without advertising the fact to his wife until he scored a Lit Agent in Israel with his book The Koshertarian Comedian and the rest is star studded history.  

Art Show made his 1st million from a lucrative birdhouse making business called, “Bird Baller Cribs” from only taking one woodworking class prior. He sold them at various Farmer’s Markets throughout Brooklyn, Manhattan, Woodstock and in Kingston, NY while his mother sold flowers with Art Show’s big sister from their new estate farm in North Salem, calling her Flower Truck, “Green Thumb Girl.”  Do It All Dad’s favorite birdhouse creation was his Kiss themed one that rocked a giant shaped bed similar to the one lead singer and main songwriter Paul Stanley lies on amidst an endless sprawl of busty, blond beauties in his Kiss lair in Beverly Hills, I’m assuming. Although the best part of this birdhouse creation was the giant Gene Simmons tongue extension bird feeding line, containing a sprinkling of some homemade CBD oil marinated granola, as more high-flying Blue Jays and Cardinals, licked it up, oh, oh, oh.  

Art Show USA cares plenty about Wishing Wells because ever since he could remember, he’d wish for his Do It All Dad’s books to succeed because, “Art sells baby.” The new and improved wish after his Daddy finally scored a lit agent, started his standup residency in Vegas and got into SAG for a film to co-star in with Russell Brand and Vince Vaughn called Too Tall Comedians, was for his dad to finally part with his precious time release Adderall, despite his claims of writing like a Jewish angel on the stuff. Reality is, Do It All Dad was an incredibly fast talking New Yorker to begin with, even on high grade weed. So he didn’t require any speedy thought enhancement, ever.

On Do It All Dad’s 45th birthday in Woodstock, NY he took a mini hike in the wood with his son Art Show USA only to bump into a wishing well along the way. Do It All Dad gave his son a customary quarter to make a wish with, although this time he wished his Dad would become convinced he’d become a bigtime author comedian success on or off the stuff period. Plus, he knew his Daddy off Adderall would focus less on how annoying mom can be with her phone during Adam Sandler Appreciation Night at home again and again.  Daddy was better off writing all day, performing at night and taking some weed edibles or a celebratory puff from his cherished green in addition to an IPA or 2, after another highly rewarding day at the office for making the most of his God given gift of comedic song.  

Art Show USA’s latest and greatest Wishing Well creation was made in Central Park near the Great Lawn, in the big city, the place of his birth like Do It Dad before him, which they both derived tremendous localtarian pride from, knowing the Island of Manhattan is what dreams of doer topper success are made of. The Wishing Well was named Do It All Dad Dumper, a tad longwinded name, even for Do It All Dad’s tastes. Still, the symbolic heft of this name wasn’t lost on the New York adoring public, especially after the Today Show did an unveiling of Do It All Dad Dumper, where a line of Do It All Dad’s followed Do It All Dad’s lead and dumped whatever pill, powder, drink or strain of dumb, dumb weed they felt was preventing them from flying high off their kid’s glorious presence alone.

Do It All Dad beamed with endless nachas, pride in Yiddish, derived from the reflective successful glow emanating from offspring, who stems from your Do It All Dad tree trunk. Do It All Dad picks up his son with excitable boy glee and gives him a 360 airplane spin for old times sake, despite Art Show being 6 foot 5 now and 20 years old. Art Show USA shrieks for untapped joy like he was 7 again. Do It All Dad continues to spin and says, “Teenager in love is all grownz up and he’s all grownz up. Are you too special to be real? Are you too special to be real?” Art Show USA shrieks with more love blasting joy and says with pitch perfect comedic timing, “Are you saying I suck because? Do It All Dad laughs longtime, wishing even his worst enemies got to experience Do It All Dad bliss like this.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Pitchwoman Of The Year

Aliens are capable of formulating and defending their own critical race theory to. Although a bunch of Think Tank Alien Eggheads from Planet Scrambled Over Easy declared the American Dream dead and it’s entire race plain stupid for thinking otherwise, on both sides of the political divide during it’s annual Brunch Expo address at their annual Northern Lights retreat on Planet Verde, known for its enormous Avocados trees, tricked out converted farmhouse party palaces, enveloped by Hop Farms galore and beautifully manicured baseball diamonds and fields of highly stimulating, brain tickling weed. Even Think Tank Alien Eggheads need to cool off their hyperactive brains with some baseball, buds and brews from time to time.

The Think Tank Alien Eggheads observed how unhinged and excessively biased the US media and Big Tech had become since the New Yorker from Queens exposed them for the feckless, misleading, self-serving, fear mongering, deliberately divisive, commie sell out bastards they’d become.  Close Encounters Of The 3rd Kind”, was voted the number one ranked Sci Fi film for 44 years in a row and counting, according to Egghead Alien Film Review Magazine, which still boasts an incredible print ad sales revenue, because on Planet Scrambled Easy, print is king and considered the most prestigious medium, attracting the universe’s most talented writers knowing they’re willing to pay up to 3 US Dollars per word. Plus, there’s no TV shows made on Planet Scrambled Over Easy except a hugely popular father son alien cooking show, called, Better Than Boobie. On this show, we learn the alien baby is a result of a mixed marriage between an alien and a busty, full lipped, tan Sicilian blooded Italian Barbera Bustiasti, originally hailing from Rochester, NY. On the show, our Stay-At-Home Alien Dad Host, Fried Brains Bourdain, a self-anointed in-house gourmand for the entire Planet Scrambled Over Easy, will ask his part human part alien baby, Chef Samuels what he thinks of his latest and greatest LEO scramble supreme, including, smoked salmon lox, scrambled eggs and sweet, not too bitter caramelized red onions. Normally, Chef Samuels will take a taste and pronounce the dish creation a double fister instead of a yuck yucker. But if baby Chef Samuels is totally enthralled with the dish, he’ll ask his cherished Dada Fried Brains Bourdain, to make the dish for him every day before he whizzes around the rings of Planet Scrambled Over Easy faster than Flash, in a high calorie burning blaze of glory.  

So, the reason Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy was smitten with the movie Close Encounters Of The Third Kind stemmed from the aliens portrayed in it, being musical savant mutes of sorts like Holly Hunter in The Piano. The problem on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, is how their recent open borders policy resulted in a gazillion different languages spoken at once on any given Farmer’s Market enough to make C3po’s language transmitter chip to melt down from an intergalactic mere auditory sensory processing overload. So, the clamor in the streets had reached a fevered pitch, with no universal language in place, capable of instilling a more melodic cadence. And none of the star magazine writers on Planet Scrambled Over Easy were capable of banging out musical showtunes such as West Side Think Tank Alien Stories, because Broadway tunesmith legend Stephen Sondheim declined the invitation to procreate with the alien civilization because he was gayer about the prospect of lunging at Othello backstage in tights, whenever asked to do his best Kevin Spacy impersonation by his cast and crew at Sardis for wrap up show celebrations after hours. Stephen Sondheim gave the anal probe a shot after the Alien Think Tank Leader Gershwin Goo, convinced him they were doing it the name of stool DNA sampling science, in their long, hard, in depth exploration of pinpointing the exact genetic makeup roots responsible for sprouting such mature musical genius out the womb. At 6 Mozart was touring Europe, entertaining French nobles with the nimble quickness of a French Prostitute, who got 2 customers to spew with joy in 1 minute flat each, so she could squeeze in her favorite customer, famed American Jewish writer Henry Miller in one more before closing hours for the road.  

So not only was the roaring decibel of noise on the streets of Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, consisting of every guttural, gross Alien language imaginable, that collectively heard together sounded like the antithesis of French pillow talk in Eric Rohmer films such as Busted Burgundy Girls and Paris Dicks Are Burning. Thereby, making their home planet a highly grating, excessively annoying place to be, but there was also not a singe lone, beautifying voice to even sing their new planet anthem, in an attempt to promote, celebrate and unify the country behind a star beautiful voice in their own native tongue, Hebrew. What, you think the Pyramids and the 1st great temple were built by the Israelites alone? I’ve known Jews who are allergic to Home Depot, who suffer from immediate panic attacks upon entry.

On retreat, The Think Tank Aliens, sucking down endless IPA’s and puffing non-stop high grade green over a killer double header of baseball surrounding the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, a young, rising star egghead about to pitch his famous speedball splinter known to make most fellow Aliens whiff more than Charlie Sheen at an AVN after hours party these days, an idea emerged, “Hey, fellas, instead of blowing up the Planet Earth for our annual 4 of the July Celebration to celebrate our freedom banning the Internet in 2000, because we knew Y2K would serve as a slow acting bomb to blow up earth’s any last remaining capacity for critically thinking, mass produced independent thought ever again, we convince Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth to become our permanent-in-house Planetary Anthem singer. Granted, we have incredible leverage knowing if she refuses, will go head and blow-up Earth for the best fireworks show, we’ve ever seen. Bulldozing a casino is child’s play compared to Planet blasting. Plus, I think the universe is ready for a new earth to emerge again, assuming God’s in the mood o give the human race another shot at redemption or not.”

The Think Tank Aliens of Scrambled Over Easy Planet actually thought of Singing Rose Kornbluth immediately, the moment they coined the idea of establishing a Planetary Anthem in Hebrew, from eavesdropping from space whenever she’d recite the Shabbat prayers over the candles, Challah and wine. To them, Singing Rose Kornbluth was blessed with the most angelic laced, beautifying, spiritually rich, jade free voice of all time, which sounded ten times more soul tantalizing pretty sung in Hebrew, which she’d do in Synagogue, shining through most, whenever the Torah was taken out of the arc for the infamous Shema prayer, “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.” Think Tank Aliens from Scrambled Over Easy Planet are able to eavesdrop into different galaxy systems due to their alien race, being crossbred with Alien Hybrid Elephants reared by Alexander The Great. Alexander The Great would use those elephants to eavesdrop on his enemies or on Cleopatra next time she plotted to roofie him, tie him up and jam some precious gemstone beads up his ass for shits and giggles to see if they came out looser since the last gender neutral interkingdom orgy at her Luxor party palace.

Now, Singing Rose Kornbluth is at home in her bedroom within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, 50 minutes north of Manhattan, brushing the mane on her new American Girl horse doll Lavender Love, singing her own made-up tune “Lavender Love has beautiful hair, my brother Arthur better not threaten to turn him into fake news dog chow, if baby Samuel double dares.” Then, the Palomino American Girl Doll horse Lavender Love comes to life and speaks to her from the baseball diamond on the Field Of Dreams Funhouse and says, “Singing Rose Kornbluth, don’t be alarmed. For starters, my voice can’t be any freakier than when you confuse your American Girl Doll Horse for an actual little person on occasion.” Singing Rose Kornbluth say, “Keep talking.”  Think Tank Alien says, “We think your singing voice, especially in Hebrew is the most beautiful, God loving, effortlessly sweet signing voice, we’ve ever heard, without any deep vibrato rumblings which ruin Adele and Demi Lovato’s chances as potential picks for us if you really need to know.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “And who is we exactly.” Think Tank Alien says, “Were Think Tank Aliens from Planet Scrambled Over Easy. Our natural tongue is Hebrew, and we just came up with our 1st ever Planetary Anthem and it needs work, because our alien civilization isn’t musically inclined whatsoever.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Do all aliens talk through American Girl Horses? I know Aliens were real. Think Tank Alien says, “Singing Rose, we love your voice. God made your supernatural voice for a reason. Still, will be left with no choice but to blow up your planet, if you don’t let us use your gift of creation and singing love songs which touch the inner most sanctum part of the Divine.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “I’ll only help you out if you agree to take over control of our Internet, unleash virus worms to corrode all the software code for Twitter, Facebook and Google and fill in that gaping voice of Internet bandwidth with my father’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast every Friday for another Meandering Shabbat Shalom Special. My daddy is hilarious. He said, Beyonce sat out the national anthem because Demi Lovato sounds like white priveledge version of Alabama Shakes.” Think Tank Alien laughs long time and replies, “We don’t have the Internet on our planet.” Matilda says, “I’ll be your new best friend. And you’ll get one sleepover invite a year, deal? Think Taken Alien says, “Deal.”

1 year later, Singing Rose Kornbluth graced the cover of Time Magazine. On the top, the headline read, Pitchwoman Of The Year, who saved her country’s planet from being wiped off the Solar System for selling the Think Tank Aliens on making her Do It All Dad the most popular, downloadable, highly quotable Podcaster in the universe. So, he could afford the opportunity to shine like the brightest, rising comedy star in the galaxy and drive his family back from the hospital in his new Comedy Gold Porsche SUV with a new baby sister addition in the back, Lavender Love Kornbluth to make his Do It All Dad year mission complete. Now Singing Rose Kornbluth could sing duets with her new baby sister Lavender Love Kornbluth for a double dose of beautiful wonderfulness on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, so she’d never have to feel homesick again.

Michael Kornbluth

Not Kosher Baby

Ratting out hairdressers, DJ’s, and underground standup comedy club organizers in Manhattan to the cops or Department Of Health in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild isn’t Kosher. My 4-year-old son whipping out his schmekel in the kitchen before I suck down my 1st Nespresso shot in the morning is, “Not Kosher baby.” At the same time, the same son busting my balls as I bonded with mommy over watching an old episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations in Burgundy later this morning after our 2 other ones got on the bus is Kosher, especially when he delivers hilarious lines such as, “Daddy your head has a moron inside”, or when he referenced the oyster dish Tony was eating on his show with a bunch of French chefs from Burgundy when he says, “Not Kosher Daddy”. In other words, don’t even think about it because nobody likes a fake news Koshertarian Comedian.

Reality is, all my favorite food memories before my Koshetarian Comedian book journey began didn’t involve Kosher food at all, sorry mom. Do I have pleasant memories of eating mom’s brisket for Passover? Sure, but those memories with family don’t compare with eating a grass-fed rib eye with an old dear high school bud at Smith and Wollensky’s in Manhattan, after almost not getting out of LA alive. The fact my Larry Sanders loving, lifetime basketball bud Jesse paid for everything on his FX expense account helped my enjoyment factor tremendously to. Growing up, if we went out for a Kosher meal as a family, we’d go to Epstein’s on the derelict, shabby downer section of Central Ave close to White Plains, NY, which failed to give me sustained stiffage ever. How can you compare the climax free experience of more obligatory, rubbery blubbery nosh size bites of Kosher certified Pastrami at Epstein’s, on borderline depressed, flavorless rye to more howl rich, late night drunken gorge feasts at the local Mont Greek dinner on Central Ave with your entire high school crew there in attendance, for your standard order of not one but 2 bacon and egg and cheese on bagels, which required zero nudging to inhale whole?  

Was the always crackling crispy, always well-seasoned, clean tasting rotisserie chicken at the zero frills Kosher butcher on Yonkers side of Central Avenue a respectable, borderline enjoyable Sunday afternoon nosh treat? Yes, but it didn’t compare to more late-night drunken revelry with my meathead friends at local legend bar tavern haunt the Candlelight Inn, for more delectable beef gyros, American Cheese laden, grilled stringy onion topped, hot sauce drabbed cheesesteaks, fries in cheese and gravy, on top of those steaming, extra meat piles of hot wings whose fame extended all the way to hill free suburbs of yenta country in Long Island.

Did my dad manage to fire up tolerable edible Hebrew National dogs on the grill, devoid of blistering burnt marks as a whole during the summer for the 2 days I was home before they shipped me off to sleepaway camp for 3 months a summer for a decade straight, so I could feel smug superior about being the second worst athlete there compared to the sheik’s son from Great Neck but not really? Yes, but memories of my Dad’s Kosher grilled dogs on semi-stale buns suffering from severe shrinkage problems off the barbeque will never match the warm-hearted memories of grabbing those scrumptious, airy light, always bomb fresh, Cheese Dogs at the Left Bank in the town of Lake Forest, Illinois with my college freshman roommate Kowal as a couple of pot smoking, long haired hippies in the making.  

My fondest dining memories growing up with my mom, dad and younger brother was at red and white checkered tableclothed draped Italian joint off the Grand Concourse where Italian cooking love is made. We’d load up on New Zealand style mussels, the size of fucking canoes, garlic crispy, breaded backed clams and the most slurp worthy linguini in white clam sauce ever concocted. Before I’d go in for the kill and manage to eat at least 75 percent of my pounded think veal scallopini stuffed with prosciutto in a white wine mushroom, cream sauce, mama Mia, what a country. My high school buds were in awe of the place, especially my friend Ari, who was a 50 percent Heeb like myself, who literally looks and sounds like Harvey Keitel with a far, better proportioned head.  

When I reflect on the good old days with my Pinko crew of buds of yesteryear, I become smile rich inside, when I think of our dear Korean American friend Clark, who would whip up us batches of fried rice with Kimchee before it became a thing, at his parent’s apartment after we all collectively lost our shit from watching Dazed and Confused at Phil’s apartment next door prior over some sprayed weed form the Bronx that tasted like Windex.  

How can I forget my end of summer goodbye date at the fanciest restaurant in Chatham, Cape Cod with my dear fabled Katie King? Until then, I had no idea 3o bucks could score you one whole, lumpalcious crab cake to share.  I’ll always cherish these Kosher free memories with old school brothers in arms and past summer loves before social media or even smart phones existed, when face to face quality hangout time with our favorite people in the universe couldn’t be beat. Back when everybody wasn’t consumed with the propulsive compulsion to document every parcel pixel of their fucking social lives. Checking beer scores for more obscenely overpriced 4 packs of hazy, New England brews on Beer Advocate was the farthest thing from my mind in 94. The predominant governing thought on my mind in 94 was what time my friends were going to pick me up for more bar crawling adventures along North Avenue in New Rochelle or throughout the never asked for ID bars such as Kelly’s Corner in the Upper East Side instead because they were all far better drunk drivers than me. Hazy IPAs weren’t a thing a yet either, nor was there a Beer Advocate website, let alone a barely functional Internet back then, equipped with an AOL modem, which took longer to load than Sammy Hagger after running of out of gunk from banging endless groupies after shows after the release of 5150 but you get the gist.

I don’t care that these bonding memories with decades old friends were alcohol fueled or not. We were hanging out more for each other’s company and accessibility to available, less annoying girls from our senior class, more so than obsessing over social bragging props about where we partied the following day. Although a good sign of a night out in the city, is not recalling the name of every place you danced to rum shaker either. The thrill of drinking all night till daylight started to break with your high school brothers in arms, when birds got up, chirping sweet, soul music throughout, our leafy suburban wonderland, helped our mutual enjoyment factor long time to.

Hitting up Papaya King on our way back from the city was far from Kosher baby yet at the time, blaring 36 chambers by the Wu Tang on the FDR Drive home back to Westchester with a sports playing, fun loving, tight crew of buds was all we needed to get through the night with ravishing over the top glee. Oh Lord, I love upholding your Kosher law to make you happy and feel like a less all over the place Jew. But boy or boy, those were magical, bonding cementing days to.

Michael Kornbluth

Freaking Yummy Omelet Time

“The way you make an omelet reveals your character.”

Anthony Bourdain

Best Omelet I ever had was a Western Omelet flush with hunks of ham and juicy, green bell peppers, caramelized with smoky, steamy love, in some damp, dark, borderline dumpy hipster haunt brunch spot in Portsmouth, New Hampshire as Some Girls by the Rolling Stones blared at full blast, which made me feel twice as cool at the time through sheer osmosis because A) I recognized the highly unknown, borderline most confident, conversational banging album the Stones produced after Exile on Main Street and Sticky Fingers and B) I ordered right for once, because I read a book about a famous sports journalist Jimmy Cannon who claims the Western Omelet was the best breakfast you can order. So, respecting an elder sportswriter options paid a huge dividend for me, especially after learning how Frank Sinatra used to have his people overnight his articles from the NY Post to his bungalow on the Columbia lot back in the day. Being less indecisive than Jared Kushner at the Four Seasons salad brunch station was a good day for me.

One of the benefits of eating Kosher 3 kids later is being more comfortable in my inkless skin, thanks to getting paid to write about the Hair Metal Gods I grew up loving and still do on America’s Hard 100 on VH1 Classic, hosted by WWE great Chris Jericho, who did extreme, hardcore, high flying, significantly more bloody real wrestling in Japan and Mexico. I got my lip busted, requiring stiches for playing a tad too physical in the post once, whoopty freaking due. So, having some paid artistic cred under my belt finally, lessens my desire to impress inked out hipster chefs with my determined desire to relish every new age, reimagined, porky loving manifestation creation in addition to whatever workshopped Mixologist cocktail creation concoction they birthed and molded into elite Yelper jerking off status. Because now, my focus isn’t worshipping false idols such as the porky obsessed chef or herb infused fixated Mixologist. Instead, I derive deeper, more long lasting joy by sticking with my Koshertarian Diet because that’s what God commanded my chosen people to do, which is the least I can do please the most high, for granting me the funny Jew bone and not one, but 3 of the most luminous, joy spewing, thoughtful, sweet, hilarious kids ever recorded. When your 4-year-old son in the bubble says with carefree, sarcastic minded glee, “Daddy, I haven’t washed my vagina yet”, you can get back to me on how hilarious your kids are in comparison.

I got married 10 minutes outside of Woodstock in a place called Opus 40 at a awe inspiring, wow worthy, labor of love sculpture garden in Saugerties, NY. You didn’t need any acid or mushrooms to be at one with the Catskills mountains, looming large all around you. But we had our rehearsal brunch a local haunt in Woodstock at Oriel 9 on Tinker St, the main drag up there, mainly because they served the best freaking yummy omelet I ever had after the Western one in New Hampshire, consisting of sautéed Hen of the Woods Mushroom and salty peppy Spanish sheep cheese, Manchego, which blew me away. Pork was the farthest thing from my mind at the time. How can you dwell on Italian cured hams like bomb svelte prosciutto, hog tied, encased, extra snappy boar sausage or the always reliable succulent delicious, never too fatty, greasy, or regrettably crumbly, Applewood Smoked Bacon, when those meaty, scrumptious, never chewy, better tasting than outdoor Hawaiian weed, Hen Of The Woods Mushrooms, literally plucked from the restaurant garden in Woodstock, NY out back, gave renewed, special verve yumtastic meaning to the term locally sourced man?

So today, I decided to replicate some freaking yummy omelet magic for my 3 kids this Sunday morning, because Lou Reed would during his more domesticated years, after tiring of waiting for his man in Harlem to score him more than H to keep his raging hormones at bay for a bit. But Hen of The Woods don’t freaking grow on trees, nor am I scientific, manly capable or gay enough in my eyes to get into harvesting and gardening my own Hen Of The Woods Mushrooms in our garden either. So, in honor of Under The Table And Dreaming by the Dave Matthews Band, my go to drive home music from Ithaca college back home for more borderline blackout blurred Winter breaks, I made the best of what was around.  I used a huge mound of cut up Baby Bella Mushrooms from Stop and Shop at a fraction of the price compared to Hen Of The Woods and fried them up in butter, olive oil, generous heaping’s of Kosher salt, black pepper, peeled off bits of garlic and some upstate NY sourced, good old local H20 tap water to add a caramelized finish. Before adding pre-shredded extra sharp Cabot cheddar within my butter-soaked shallot laced, 4-egg omelet and my 3 kids, including myself were made in the freaking shade.

I distributed 4 forks and we all ate from the same plate because of my recent cooking storm with no working dishwasher causing an unmitigated, clean up disaster on par with BP spill despite there being no seagulls draped in black face in sight.  Freaking Yummy Omelet time was in the house. Whizzy yummy dances with increased fervor throughout the kitchen and living room back and forth followed. My 7-year-old son Art Show USA even gave me an unprecedented hug of love from behind after a taste of mushroom omelet magic at home with his favorite people in the universe to express the depths of his love for the freaking fun filled love wafting through the air.  

George Bernard Shaw said, “Cooking is the sincerest form of love.” Being on the receiving end of reciprocity love from your own flesh and blood feels ten times freaking better.  If “The way you make an omelet reveals your character” like late great Anthony Bourdain claimed, then my kids during this blessed, rich filled Sunday morning, made me feel a tad more menschy aspirational appreciated than the rest.

Michael Kornbluth

Lay More Cheese On Me

Nachos should be fuck up stoner proof. Then again, so was Seth Rogan’s acting career, holla, thank you very much. Seth Rogan defending Minnesota rep Baby Face Omar’s Anti-Semitism on Twitter is adorable though. He says, “Give me one spec of evidence that proves House Of Representatives Rep Illhan Omar hates Jewish New Yorkers, besides comparing 9/11 to Amy Winehouse’s death as “something happened”, to a beehive sporting, horn hiding, parasitical Jewess, who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.”

If I’m totally honest, most nachos at bars suck, besides this one batch I had at Top Golf in Vegas before I saw Aerosmith live with an old school bud from LA, when hearing Steven Tyler belt out Chip Away At The Stone live was a top priority of the summer versus our eventual Burning Mask Party back east instead. But at the time, I was too stoned off legal Vegas weed to recall the specifics on why this batch of nachos was so much more amazing than the rest. Chances are, the nachos weren’t saggy gross like cottage cheese conjuring thighs on wives who have to gross you out further by declaring they’re on Weight Watchers, counting calories now, because if you’re a true feminist, it isn’t fair for just overweight dads on most CBS sitcoms to stop giving a shit about how they look naked in bed after marrying their lifetime partners in love for the time being.

Shitty nachos have weird, unasked for additions like sliced canned black olives, flavorless cheese or heat stripped Jalapenos, which is equivalent to a no touch lap dance policy and twice as deflating.  If your homemade nachos aren’t inviting a non-stop barrage of rock steady blissed out bites then you probably dialed back the cheese factor like Jon Bon Jovi trading in his luscious locks for the grizzled, shortened, gender neutral Roger Waters grey plop on top look. But there’s no reason to tone down the cheese, when making Nachos because you’re not trying to reinvent yourself as the more mature, career stable Axl Rose in the process. I’ve made my kids various homemade batches of nachos yet my after-school nosh batch I made yesterday, rocked them all, because I wasn’t afraid to go overboard with the heart warming, good kind of cheese like eighties Journey, Chicago, REO Speedwagon had a baby.  Specifically, I used an entire zipper packet of Trader Joe’s Mexican combo cheese, showcasing Monterey, Queso, Pepper Jack and Mozzarella, which is all your primo batch of nachos need. Other cheeses to melt on your bomb after school nachos such as cheddar don’t work nearly as good because they exude a less compatible musky heft like the Italian six string gunslinger Richie Sambora refusing to shave his chest hair for once in the presence of baby-faced Jon during the Wanted Dead Alive scrapped music video outtakes.

You can’t just splatter a bunch of pre-shredded cheese on top of a pile of pre-made Tortilla chips and think you’re made in the shade like after Slippery When Wet went triple platinum before Kip Winger contemplated asking for his groupie’s ID backstage again.  Bon Jovi followed up Slippery When Wet with the equally masterful, superior in parts, double album New Jersey by doubling down on their nah, nah, nah, nah, cheesy magic on such rocking, dramatic leering songs such as Born To Be My Baby and I’ll Be There For You. At the same time, Bon Jovi rounded out their wall of cheesy sound with subtler, more varied, tingly flavor on songs such as Living In Sin. So, you shouldn’t shy away from injecting a deeper injection of personalized pop to your homemade nachos either by taking the time to caramelize drained, washed black beans, sweet cut up yellow onions, blasts of lime on top while adding olive oil fried up leaves of baby spinach before going for the all-out assault of shredded cheese before broiling the cheesy, veggie laced, greased up tortilla chips in the oven at high 400 for ten minutes max in a blaze of glory.  Also, add a plop of whole milk yogurt for a dipping sauce in the middle of your nacho tray, which is significantly less cheesy than using your standard always too sour, sour cream.

Digging into the mouthwatering pile of afterschool nachos with my 3 kids. bumping our elbows together in the process, made me feel so brand-new young. Blood on blood nosh attacks on this level of kick ass magnitude give all forms of deeply flavorful, insanely joyous, chant worthy hair metal conjuring cheesiness a good name.

Michael Kornbluth

Twice As Happy Pancakes

Bombing at parenting is your kids not seeking your company when they get older. Parents either make their kids feel good about themselves or not. Parents either offer sincere encouragement or not. Parents either train their kids to be superior, less error prone versions of themselves or don’t give a shit regardless, unless their kids success starts to infringe upon their once rock-solid sense of impactful, joy filled accomplishment in this life.

I wrote an Eastbound and Down spec script ages before my daughter, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was born about the main character Kenny Powers insisting his wife get an abortion because he dreamed of his future daughter becoming the most dominant Lesbian lusting, heat throwing softball bitcher of her time, threatening to overshadow his legacy, when he hasn’t even made this triumphant return to the majors yet. At one point, Kenny Powers states, “Is the desire to outshine your kids a natural one? And his wife April says, “No Kenny, it’s not. Ken Griffey and his son looked like they were having a grand old time playing together, dropping fart bombs in the dugout in the 80’s when they played together in Cincinnati ,before junior played for Seattle as a young Kurt Cobain sang, “Somebody Rape Me”, while living under a bridge, so he could lose his virginity already.”

I haven’t thought of my Eastbound and Down specs script, Cooperstown Or Bust for ages, where Kenny Powers pushes his trusted assistant Stevie to launch a media blitz campaign on his behalf to get the great Kenny Powers voted into Cooperstown already, despite him not starting his return to the majors yet.  I thought this spec, definitely not my 1st, would get me into the esteemed biz launching Warner Brother’s fellowship because hope filled, dream powered action adds fiery, enthralling magic to our days, similar to my desire to kill as our Stay-At-Home Comedian in-house gourmand chef, before becoming a star Benjamin provider for my 3 kids one day. In the meantime, just like when Kenny had to start over again as a high school gym teacher after playing in the majors, I’ve had to suck up my ego and bite my lip after writing for TV twice 8 years ago for Vh1 and Vh1 Classic, many star powered book reviews later, only for my wife to utter, “Trader Joe’s in Danbury in hiring”, or my mom to say, “Become a garbage man. Wearing a mask will block out the smell. Plus, let’s not act like changing your kids shit stained bums is a new development for you at this stage in your life. As a Sanitation Worker, you’ll at least have health benefits. And I could finally tell our friends you have your shit together for a change.”  

What I’ve learned on the stay-at-home Koshetarian Comedian front is how your kids always reward the extra effort you put in to please them. Kids can sense half-ass hearted displays of affection in the form of semi-sporadic visits from Grandparents, Jida, having all year to get a fucking a new slip and slide since 86 for Baba camp and fail miserably every time. Mama choosing to rebrand melatonin gummies as heathy vitamins and insist all her 3 kids take them, the few nights of week, she’s home to play Julie Andrews or the grandpa from Princess Bride, if she wanted to showoff her old school, gender shattering acting chops, allegedly.  When my mom wrapped up her last visit, she tells me in my son’s lower bunk bed at a hard 6:45, “You don’t always have to be a 10 around your kids.” Gotta love motherly advice of this heat-warming magnitude. In other words, stop making Mimi and Papa look like such slackers already. It’s not our fault Facebook made us the laziest grandparent generation of all time.  Stop acting like you’re choosing to make your kids the center of your universe, instead of the reverse. You’re not fooling shit.”

The truth is, I couldn’t half ass fatherhood at this point if I tried. Giving with a jade free joyous heart around my kids when I’m getting stuck in their heads to unearth their inner hilarious light for more all-star chapters to my books is what I do best. I’ve also learned how kids grow closer to you, when you don’t talk down to them like perpetual morons. Because of that, your kids become more expressively confident than you’d ever anticipate. For example, I made it a tradition last year, to get my 3 kids gifts on my birthday, just so my wife can feel more ostracized from our special circle of love than usual. Just kidding, I thought it was a touching idea because every birthday since becoming a dad 10 years ago makes me feel born again, blessed with the divine powered opportunity to relive my age of innocence through my kids with warmer, wiser, deeper, starry filled eyes, as I become immersed in their dreamy, good spewing, reflective light.  

Recently, my son 4-year son Samuel was helping me make Pancakes with my double handle pancake griddle, which is great for deflecting concrete milkshakes if ANTIFA barges into your home protesting your right to make the family meal great again. After Samuel says, “Can I crack the egg.” He adds, “Daddy for your birthday, I want Predator and Han Solo. It’s only 2 gifts. Plus, it will make me twice as happy.” I can’t argue with funny man logic like that or else I’d be a miserable cunt in competition with my kids like the rest. It’s the reason why getting a single espresso versus a double espresso is bound to give me immediate buyer’s remorse, because Do It All Dads shouldn’t be the ones circumcising their happiness, when others female figures in their life, supposed to be on their side, appear hellbent on circumcising their happiness for them, because you don’t respect their glaring lack of intelligence, tact and belief in you making your Do It All Dad year dreams come true.  But I got God on my side and the best home team imaginable to play hard for like Charlie Hustle, to make my own dash for immortality through penning the most hilarious food writing book ever written, that being The Koshetarian Comedian and they couldn’t be more exited for me as I power through my final home field stretch with nothing but dreamy powered thoughts of winning over the spirit of Anthony Bourdain on my mind, where all the great New Yorker literary lions roam. Nothing can stop me now. If I ruffle the ego’s of various cock blocking dream detractors attempting to destroy my confidence in achieving big time literary book success, then they go woke themselves to. This Do It All Dad Train is bound for glory because my kids are well fed with heart-warming memories of making Saturday strawberry pancakes with Dad, which should be enough to satisfy their souls for now, until Daddy scores enough major f you money on the horizon, where talk of taking advantage of the Trader Joe’s employee discount will sound more ridiculous than me following my mother’s advice to become a half ass dad who throws other parents kid’s shit out for a living, triple masked or not.

Michael Kornbluth

Resisting Your Vaccination Hype

How did Meghan Markle try to kill herself again? Harry doesn’t shave. Guns in London only exist in Guy Ritchie films. And jumping off London Bridge wouldn’t cause a splash, because she’s less popular than John Cleese’s takes on cancel culture on the View after Piers Morgan dared to call Meghan Markle a lying royal pain in the ass. Who’s just trying to drum up empathy for being the less talented Beyonce sister, during bi-racial appreciation month.

Cuomo writing a book about leadership is like Hitler writing a book about anger management. Hillary getting paid to give a speech at a Cyber Security Summit. R Kelly getting to babysit the next Kardashian out of the womb or Kevin Durant getting tapped by the NBA to lead an online virtual summit on how to tune out cyberbullying.

In related news, the Mario Cuomo Bridge has structural deficiencies like the Italian Reptilian’s inability to get it up around Blanch from the Golden Girls, unless she squeezes his nipple piercings extra hard 1st.

New reports say Governor Cuomo concealed defects in the Mario Cuomo Bridge after it opened, similar to the CDC destroying footage of Wuhan Scientists feeding Gremlins bats with COVID after midnight.

Why is getting COVID vaccinations such exciting news? New York City is deader than Yiddish. Miracle Mile in Chicago has lost it’s magnetic feeling. Venice Beach looks like Grand Central in the 70’s, sponsored by REI. Meghan Markle is talking about running for President since Michelle Obama passed down her Strapon the way Apollo gave Rocky his trunks after giving him the Eye Of The Tiger. The DOJ has granted ANTIFA diplomatic immunity. Our top military brass get’s triggered by a Fox News host, sporting Vineyard Vines briefs. Big Tech will put you on the FBI’s Most Wanted List for for talking shit about the complicit, lying, drunk with power, insanely arrogant, highly intolerant, reverse racist left, responsible for killing off the veneer of fair elections ever existing again. Our kids will be forced to wear masks at school for the indefinite future like Michael Jackson’s adopted ones on holiday in Bahrain, regardless if they’ve been vaccinated with Magic Johnson’s secret stash or not. So what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives, holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

  • Post
  • Block

No block selected.Open publish panel

  • Document

The Crowd Pleasing Peasant

It’s hard to feel like a peasant at the posh, outdoor Grove mall in West Hollywood when you spot Broadway star Nathan Lane leisurely suck down his drink from Jamba Juice, in a pink jump suit from head to toe, without a worry wrinkle in sight, especially around 2002, before flashy Angeleno’s were being jacked for daring to sport Rolexes on Melrose in broad daylight.

Buying your 1st panini grill at The Grove to make high end grilled cheese sandwiches, using homemade aioli’s from scratch based on the cookbook from LA famed chef and founder of nearby La Brea Bakery, Nancy Silverton, doesn’t make you feel chained to a lifetime of thankless, zero high, serfdom either. Still, when you’re a Stay-At-Home Koshetarian Comedian at 44 years old, whose still not in the Writers Guild of America yet, despite writing for TV twice, you get looked down upon with huffy, disgusted disdain if you ask the cheese monger at Whole Foods if they have Landa Lakes American Cheese or tell your mom how you use onions in most of your meals, which the kids love, only to hear, “Onions are peasant food, you know.”  Based on my mom’s sucks to be an elitist buzz kill reaction, you’d think, “I shamed my mom by reopening my account on Facebook, only to tag all of her friends, with nothing but onion loaf sandwich recipes on Wonder Bread, holla, thank you very much.  At the same time, inheriting money, marrying into it or earning plenty yourself, doesn’t always overcompensate for certain hard to shake hick tendencies such as insisting on drinking chardonnay before it cools, or for proclaiming Meghan Markle is anything less than a race pimping, royal pain in the ass.

Some would argue the American grilled cheese is college freshman peasant food or your standard white trash trailer entre, yet it doesn’t have to be that way. Don’t get me wrong, Landa Lakes, yellow American cheese on Wonder Bread was fine growing up, despite my mother being weak on monitoring burnt toast detail. Still, what I learned in my mid-twenties as a proud panini owner in Sherman Oaks, CA at the time, working as a bartender for a bit at a fancy 4-star French restaurant on La Cienega before I got canned for breaking too many wine glasses on the job as the Mexican bus boys snickered at me, with dumb white boy derision as deserved, is that assuming ownership of making a grilled cheese a notch better than mom’s burnt ass, 3 bite edible ones, will help ensure you no longer feel like a slovenly dirty white boy no more. Foreigner lives, holla, thank you very much.

A great tip I learned from my panini book by big deal chef Nancy Silverton was to rub a peeled off bulb of garlic and rub it sensuously all over both pieces of bread you’re using to make a more substantial, elevated grilled cheese than what you’re reared on in the past, which miraculously imbibes all the garlicy, yummy essence you need. Personally, sourdough is my favorite bread of choice for grilled cheeses yet dare I say, peasant bread will get the job done to. I’ll also kick up the excitement factor by transforming the standard grill cheese into a bomb veggie panini melt of sorts, by adding super fresh local Mozzarella from any Italian grocer or from Whole Foods for that matter while also slathering on a semi-homemade basil aioli, consisting of nothing more than chopping up some fresh basil, mixed with peeled off pieces of garlic, interlaced with a little pinch of salt and pepper mixed in a premade mayo, and your perceived days of peasantry dissipate faster than the sandwich, assuming you also add some fresh, borderline emerald green leaves of spinach and olive oil drenched, diced up, seasoned cherry tomatoes, which is the ultimate cherry bomb popping, topping on top. My kids loved this last batch of grilled cheese so much, there wasn’t a single crumb left between them. Are you getting yummy dances from your grill cheese creations? Are your kids going out of their way to announce at the highest possible decibel, between more scrumptious, shishy bitch bites, “Delicious Daddy, absolutely delicious?” I didn’t think so, you peasant shaming cunts. This Koshetarian Comedian continues to bang out more sheets of comedy gold with no clear payday sight, yet if I keep generating rave reviews like this, I’m bound for an eventual pay hike.

Michael Kornbluth

Funnier Than Laughing Gas

Finally getting my wisdom teeth taken out, which is a relief knowing I can’t blame their excavation on toothbrush neglect caused by premature passing out on the couch from excessive IPA intake, again and again. I’m exaggerating. I actually gave up drinking beer this summer because it was embarrassing spending so much time hung over, recycling, empty reminders of my lush, littered past, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by, holla, thank you very much.

Kids are home from school now after I lose my facial virginity from getting gang banged pricked in my mouth with one Novocain shot after another and my beams of sparkly, good hued light, that being my 3 kids, best home team ever, don’t even recognize their depleted daddy mushed into the couch watching a Bee Gee’s doc at 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, who’s acting more low energy, barely staying alive than Jeb Bush after receiving unsolicited debate stump talking points from Karl Rove on Fox News.  Then, my wife who works as a nurse in the NICU gives me a drug cocktail consisting of Ibuprofen, Tylenol, and Amoxicillin, insisting I don’t need my prescribed pain killers, which she isn’t ecstatic about schlepping back to the Pleasantville pharmacy to pick up, because if this drug cocktail concoction is good enough for a mom who just had c section at her hospital, then, I’m in no position to run my bitchy, flappy, tore up mouth.  Then, I decide to do something about my sad sack, immobile state because I don’t need to see my kids look at me like I’m lounging out on my premature death bed again. So I semi pound a leftover Captain Lawrence Powder Dreams, a hazy, New England Style IPA which put me at immediate ease before I blast Motley Crew’s Too Fast For Love in my room as I resume editing a previous chapter post for upcoming, future bestselling Koshetarian Comedian in no time, like a man possessed to never allow fear mongering imposed by others, influence my self-reliant streak of self-imposed, willed in happiness, without the overreliance and constantly let down disgust stemming from more dashed expectations involving any hopeful expectation of those supposed to help when you need them the most,  to only come up, short, because they really don’t give a shit again, holla, thank you very much.

The laughing gas, mixed with oxygen was nice yet still prompted me to start heckling the Oral Surgeon when I said, “Doc, give me funnier, laughing gas,” because I wasn’t laughing, yet doc was long time, thank you very much. Then, I add, “Hey doc, the fake news laughing gas you’re giving me reminds me of the time I took my daughter to her 1st Grateful Dead parking scene, literally days after her 2nd Birthday up in Bethel Woods, sight of the original Woodstock. I take her for a stroll, feeling such an evolved, liberal cool Dad for a brief fleeting moment, who suddenly questions his alleged, all knowing, wise ways, once I start spotting some dinged up looking hippies sucking down nitrous balloons by the woods like their last working stuck in time, stilted brain cell could barely hang on until feeling nothing but vacant space like lower Manhattan these days, only for my daughter to point at the Nitrous balloons and, ask, “Birthday Daddy?”  And I say, “No Matilda, Burnout Day”, holla, thank you very much.”

Now it’s 5PM and I notice how my wife has no preparation for our Ravioli dinner, which I wasn’t planning on assuming ownership of after getting my wisdom teeth taken out, knowing my mom was in town to “help out” despite her crashing later that night at a hard 7:30 like the fucking Amish kid from Witness, who normally goes to sleep early because either A) He has to wake early to milk a farm full of cows for B) Is burnout on reading the Bible by candlelight again into midnight hour, when his love comes beaming around because it loses its dramatic oomph when you’ve already read it 5000 times before your 8th birthday.  

Still, feeling good about my post, New England IPA buzz on an empty stomach, knowing I’ve removed all fear from my kids prior, by being the high energy dad they love as I keep heckling Alexa to play Slip Of The Lip and Dance, Dance, Dance, by the kings of slithering Sunset Strip metal sleaze Ratt. Although along the way, my surging levels of happiness were flat lined to death when I had to endure annoying lines from my wife such as, “You can’t drink after taking Tylenol, it will wreck your liver.” I say, “If 3 days in Mardi Gras sophomore year in college, in addition to my lushastic, hound dog driven twenties in LA or my poor man’s William Faulkner, bourbon swirling impersonation in my 30’s back in Brooklyn and Queens, didn’t kill off my liver, nothing will babe, holla, thank you very much.”

So, after realizing that the 2 alleged most important adult woman in my life, that being my mother and wife of 10 years, fail to take care of dinner preparation for my 3 kids after getting my wisdom teeth taken out, I assume ownership of the situation and command the room, the way only a seasoned, all star Koshetarian Comedian can. Granted, when you’re not making Ravioli by freaking hand, or even from a pasta making machine, it’s not a drawn out, colossal time suck either. Still, when you take pride in being a yummy dance producer maestro, who’s accustomed to hearing from any of his 3 kids, “More, more”, “This is delicious Daddy” or “You haven’t made a batch this solid in months Daddy ”, you put in the extra effort to make an A Plus marinara sauce from scratch which steals the show, assuming you use your kids like open mikes in the kitchen prior enough to recognize your last 2 batches of bomb Ravioli made from scratch by some old world Italian Grandma, most likely in the same room since the Godfather was released in the boogie down Bronx, were a tad 2 al dente around the edges, to be called a complete resounding success.  

Mario Batali gave me the idea of always using red onions and carrots as a standard solid base every time you make any marinara from scratch, which I did here, having a Chopomatic at my disposal, after breaking the past 2 from being too rough with it, helped me resent my mom’s and wife’s complete lack of interest in any making life fuss free for a change a tad less in the end.  At the same time, I knew mama wouldn’t make this favorite meal for my 3 biggest fans in the universe “with love”, so it was my pleasure to fulfill the glaring Do It All Mom void in the room. After I use the reliable, semi-sturdy Chopomatic to cut some red onion, I grate some shaved carrots before bathing them in a generous pouring of olive oil, flush with peeled off bits of garlic, and chili pepper flakes, for added spicy variety, which adds more titillating lift to our days, before throwing in the chucky yet crushed, San Marzano can of tomato sauce from nearby grocery chain legend, Stew Leonard’s, a reason to live in CT alone or Northern Westchester, really.

I was also hell bent on eye fucking the shit out of the 2 boxes of Ravioli to ensure all those pillowy squares of perfection floated to the top like they were sitting top of the fucking Red Sea, before they were devoured with plenty of mmm, mmm, yumtastic, inhalatory glee, for back-to-back, licked clean servings later. Bonding through noshing with our kids from incorporating them into the creation of better than boobie dishes while using them as open mikes for real time feedback, can make our kids great again, my 3 fuss free kids, 99% of the time, are living proof of it. Thank you sweet Lord, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

In Leo We Trust

Trust is earned from sustained excellence such as Leo’s star powered acting performances in any Tarantino film without fail.   Trust makes the world go around. Trust went out the window after Liver Spots got sworn in as President of the United States without a peep from the Supreme Court the day after Democracy died.  But the Leo Scramble Supreme still reigns supreme and is trustworthy enough to entrust your happiness in him for better days and more hope filled tomorrows, pregnant with superior feel-good possibility. James Brown lives, holla, thank you very much.

Plus, making a LEO, consisting of Lox, Eggs and Onions will always remain an ideal anti-Semitic qualifier gift such as my Great American Jew Novel, knowing this divine blessed delectable breakfast, brunch or dinner worthy delight consists of pricy, cut up, overtly Jewy smoked salmon, caramelized onions and scrambled eggs from local Jewish Farmer legend behemoth, good old Stew Leonard in Connecticut, before the warm, sumptuous, funky fishy ingenious concoction get’s swirled into a bowl with a plop of Cream cheese, which melts easier in a hot bowl of eggs, adding a deeper svelte, thicker tasting dimension of deliciousness, which catapult your burst of feel good joy that much higher, Sly Stone lives, holla, thank you very much.

I hate to get political anymore since thé once boastful construct we the people offered less special value than Prince Harry’s bald spot on the open market or his feel for comedy after dressing up like a Nazi officer for Halloween to get back at mom for looking like an ugly version of E from Entourage, with far less a plus snatch to snag in London town compared to perpetually sunny, twice as smoking hot California girls. Megan Markle doesn’t count, and it’s not because she’s a biracial, royal pain in the ass, holla, thank you very much.

Now, if Prince Harry roasted himself dressed up like a Nazi officer for Halloween, I’d give hardcore Archie some funny man cred, regardless if Ricky Gervais wrote the material for him, who tires of Holocaust films because he’d rather bitch in his latest stand up comedy special about harsh online tweets about his movie career, which never got off the ground, reducing him to be in bed with the Obama’s and Netflix since HBO gave him a nice run while it lasted, now more concerned with unmasking Woody’s go to suck the thumb move, because it, “Calms Dylan down”, despite still showing all of his classic, hilarious films such as Broadway Danny Rose, which technically speaking, came out pre-Soon-Yi. But Louie can’t whip it out in his own dressing room after getting consent from fellow no name lesser female comics in the room without all of his standup comedy specials being taken down in a NY minute from HBO once the full court #meto career work retrospective cancelation began. Have they taken down the Rocky statue in Philly yet because it promotes white supremacy? But back to Ricky Gervais giving Price Harry some primo bashing Nazi material, to at least project the façade of being an ironic detached enjoyer viewer of Jewish humor, such as, “Who would Hitler kill first? A Jewish Albino or a balding ginger with a goatee? And how dumb is the swastika symbol. I don’t care that’s it Hindu, it still looks 2 stick figures doing a sixty-nine on a see saw.”

So back to the Leo Scramble Supreme, my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound Too Woo,.can’t enough of it. He’s 4 by the way. The kid can request for me to play Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi on Vinyl or in the car through Spotify, can ask daddy to reheat the rest of his Leo Scramble Supreme, yet still can’t go to bed without a nappy, without me dropping his saggy, drenched filled nappy down our stairwell the following morning, only to sing, with unmatched, father son bonding glee, “Big plopping”, Warrant Lives, they sang Big Talking, holla, thank you very much.

Again, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo no longer dumps in his pants and goes to the bathroom for a number 2 with big boy precision. At the same time, one night, as I got ready to read the Guinness Book Of World Records, wanting to kill myself soon after from learning how much money Kevin Hart made last, year, which doesn’t make me a hater, just a bemused, short on laughs spectator. I do love his energy, and don’t think he’s a bad actor, whose gotten better over time, whom I believe, should buy the film rights to convert an autobiography of Wilson Picket to snag him 1 Oscar more than Eddie, who doesn’t have the balls to do a stand up comedy special again for some dumb reason such as not wanting to be deemed a divisive comedian who dared to make fun of Michelle Obama’s new parody remake, playing Tina Turner, titled, “What’s Talent Got To Do With It.” And Wilson Picket sang my favorite lyric, “I found a true love, and I can shout about her, yeah, yeah”, a truer call to action that I give a shit about taking, not uttered on LinkedIn, as never been blasted with such soul man reverberating bravado, holla, thank you very much. Anyway, this meandering piece is what you get when I’m off Adderall and my mother is in town blaming the great state of Texas for having to burn fucking furniture while Liver Spots can’t be bothered to visit or have FEMA offer nothing more than air dropped leftover Spam reserves from World War 2 or some impossible to defrost packets of TANG leftover from our moon landing the sixties before we learned JFK told Frank to not invite Sammy Davis Junior to his inauguration, because becoming a Jew, was a double whammy against him, which he should’ve known would put his desirability factor in extreme Jeopardy with Nazi profiteering Joe Kennedy in control of his son’s balls as a whole, regardless of the war hero “Being the brightest star in the universe for a time”, according to his backstabbed friend, old blue eyes, who didn’t sing New York, New York, until his late 60’s during his more pleasantly content plump years.

Yeah, so back to my son Chosen Curls, I’m getting ready for reading time and about to throw some sweats on for the occasion because I don’t give a shit about looking like a Trophy Dad when mama isn’t home at 9 on a Tuesday and my 4-year-old son barks at me, “Spread your cheeks.” I said, “Where the hell did you learn the expression, “Spread your cheeks”? Are you watching old episodes of OZ on the HBO app when I’m banging out more all-star chapter additions to my collection of short stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories or what?”

So, the LEO Scramble Supreme is the bomb and couldn’t be easier to make, even Hunter Biden can handle making it with the hangover from hell, whose hell raising ways, makes my younger brother come off as a serial underachiever. And if a man is judged by the fruit he enables, and if Liver Spots is a real man of unifying integrity, why wouldn’t Mr. Unity tell his son to cut out creaming into his dead brother’s wife after his cremation ensued? The most amount of loving attention to the Leo Scramble Supreme is paid toward the caramelizing of the onions in butter under a low heat, but make sure to add some extra deepening caramelizing agent at the end, which could be simple as a drop of pristine NY tap water or from bottled Smart Water, which adds an extra spring step to your step, making you feel like Jennifer Aniston on the rebound. After you caramelize the onions, mix them into beat up egg batter mix, with chopped up pieces of smoked salmon before dropping them into a semi hot pan, bubbling with butter yumminess itching to be immersed with such delectable, pristine, bright orange, slivers of smoked salmon but don’t be too aggressive with swirling the eggs into mini circulation motions before they get cooked through enough, before reaching the point of rubbery sucky return. The last step is throwing the LEO Scramble Supreme into a bowl with a pre-plopped mound of cream cheese, which makes swirly stick together as one magic possible and like my son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, you’ll be made in the shade, made in the shade.

Michael Kornbluth