The Reference Check Girl

Once upon a time there was a high energy, constantly red in the face, yet easily excitable IT agency recruiter in his early twenties from Long Island, Patrick Dublin, who worked for a small staffing agency above Madison Square Garden called Unicorn Staffers. Unicorn Staffers specialized in recruiting and placing Unicorn UX Designers, who also did the nitty gritty, back and front-end coding, who made billion-dollar apps and various new age tech startups come to life, blessed with visionary founders brilliant enough to avoid sexual harassment charges at work, by creating in-office innovations such as designing a panic free, jerk off safe space bathroom. So, security never had to escort you from the building, legs first from the bathroom stall, only to knock your head against the mildew lined walls one more time, before hearing the Security Guard croon in his best Tom Petty voice, “You don’t come around here no more.”  

Since the era of #METO began, Unicorn Staffing would have to conduct more rigorous background checks with ex-girlfriends for Unicorn star studs they represented, who couldn’t control their urges to whip it out during a Zoom Call, despite the Head of Application Development from South Wales, Australia trying to manage an unwanted sexual harassment claims at work in a post virtual meeting COVID controlled universe gone cagy nuts, by addressing his team of developers and designers with, “Welcome all. Now if everyone is going to feel safe during this Zoom meeting, let’s raise all our hands high, where I can see them. Please, don’t be such a knee jerk reactionary cunt about it, you Jefferey Toobin wannabes at the New Yorker, thanks.”  Sexual harassment was a dirty secret infesting the tech startup world today, even among, the biggest tech company in the world Google, despite most of the employees being too busy banging out to code, to actually hit on girls at work while sporting their yenta noise cancelation headphones in the 1st place. Plus, your typical software command script at Google or elsewhere, wasn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”

Now, Patrick, the IT Recruiter is conducting a background check with a 25-year-old, chesty Digital Marketing Manager Lisa, based on her LinkedIn Profile picture, who used to date his star candidate awaiting a verbal offer of 145K for a new permanent Creative Technologist Director position with a cannabis lifestyle startup Budranker.com, from Oakland, CA, looking to expand its online digital magazine division here in NYC, targeted toward working, functional pothead millennial mousketeers. Patrick, takes a deep breath, loosens his tie a tad and gets ready to call,  Lisa, the Digital Marketing Manager for Hip Hops, a new multi-level old-school hip hop gastropub club in the East Village about the extent of her past relationship with his star candidate, which he’s very proud of connecting with, after LinkedIn banned him from the site for sending too many failed connection requests, before enrolling in a Spam A Lot Less Sales Seminar, offered by a former power ballad songwriter for hire turned Life Career Coach, Michael Rocker. Patrick calls and says, “Hi Lisa, this is Patrick Dublin. I’m an IT Recruiter for Unicorn Staffers, calling you about Max Diesel, whose being considered for a top Creative Technologist Director position for a cannabis startup, Budranker.com. Can I ask you a couple of quick questions about your relationship with Max in the past?”

Lisa says, “Yeah, we only hooked up once after meeting at the Windows Expo in downtown LA. it was right around the time Microsoft and had bought LinkedIn. I was working as a bartender hostess at the event, before I met the CEO of Sierra Nevada at same event, before becoming their Digital Marketing Manager after I started riffing while making some drinks, insisting, Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA blows all other IPA’s out of the water. Then, I crafted their sentimental laced campaign for the 30-year anniversary of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, calling it the pale ale that get’s stale. I conceptualized the guerilla marketing campaign for printing a bunch of bar napkins with love poems on them in honor of 1st loves, my personal favorite being, “I fell in love with you from the start. You’re my favorite valentine etched on my heart. You made love spill out of me like overflowing treasure. The idea of pounding you again, gives me non-stop pleasure. You were my 1st love, when I didn’t know what that meant. All I knew is that were heaven sent. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, You Never Got Over US Did You. So, Max starts flirting with me after I snagged the business card for the CEO of Sierra Nevada and says, “This is my impersonation of merger talk between Dr. Dre and Eminem after Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn, “Hey slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, “Worrdddddddddd. Linked in lamer than ever yoh.” Personally, Max had me at Hey Slim, because he dropped his voice low enough to pull off a semi-decent Dr. impersonation. Hey, did you know Hitler’s birthday is on 420? Puffing the bong to more Tuff Gong never felt so wrong. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” So, to answer your question, I hooked up with Max on the dance floor sky bar in West Hollywood later that night on the dance floor, but then, Frans Drescher from the Nanny, caught his interest and I never heard from him again. He left me a busines card and said, we should stay in touch through LinkedIn, which I’ve never got over completely, especially knowing how I got interested in hooking up with Max only after he dumped on LinkedIn in the 1st place.”

Patrick finally interrupts Lisa, trying to be diplomatic as possible, afraid of blowing his potential 9 grand commission rip in the making and says, “Well, Max thought enough you to list you as reference for ex-girlfriends to a conduct a background check to assess his sexual harassment factor risk at Budranker.com. Did Max ever touch you on the dance floor too aggressively at the Sky Bar?

Lisa says, “Hell no. I’m the one who shoved his hand up my skirt. I told him my panties were packed in my purse and we could go skinny dipping at this house in the hills, my friend was housesitting for, next to Roman Polanski’s old house, who’s a serially underrated rapist compared to Cosby in my book. I still don’t understand how they pulled the Roseanne show off the air yet have no problem showing adds for Ambien between replays of the Cosby show on syndication on Nick at Night.”

Patrick says, “You’re really funny. What are you doing wasting your time doing Digital Content Marketing for a living?” Lisa says, “I’m too sexy for stand-up Patrick. Sara Silverman and Chelsea Handler 20 years ago were never in my league of looks. Also, I don’t see myself posting endless naked pics of myself like Chelsea Handler with another book in hand to showcase my social justice warrior reading cred to downplay the world from my tit’s sagging popularity in the process either.” Patrick says, “So, if Budranker.com called you tomorrow to ask you if Max was a sexual assault liability in the making, what would your response be exactly? Lisa says, “That all depends on you Patrick. Do you like old school hip hop like most old school wigger Irish dudes from Long Island?” Patrick says, “How do you know I’m from Long Island.” Lisa says, “I already looked you up on LinkedIn. You’re cute. Why don’t we wrap this interview up at Hip Hops later tonight? I crafted the playlist, playing only old school rap myself. It’s flush with songs by Biggie, Nas, even Snoop. Who cares if Snoops brain hovers a notch below Porn Hood Hell?”  My exact measurements are 36d, my pic on the LinkedIn doesn’t give my balling beauties justice.” Patrick thinks to himself, “I better learn how to code because that safe space room to get my whack on can’t come soon enough.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does Mormonism

“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

Toni Morrison

Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of 3 was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height already.  He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him, yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be?  Do It All Dad had gorgeous looking jump shot yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league knowing, his ball handle was weak and could only dunk out with a mini basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process.  One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student, still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie in the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters, there, who mostly came from the boogie down Bronx, versus his more snuggle soft secure upbringing along the Tudor housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked over Hebrew National Dog from, assuming your uncontrollable putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again or you just dropped spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed puffed at increasingly rapid rate. One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad then known as simply Josh was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages Phonebook and launched high with zero hesitation for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority as the lost 20 year old college senior, without a passion to latch a career on to yet, miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating on the top communications schools in the country, that being Ithaca College, which he’d call Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later, thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So, I scored 10 points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor. It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge then, consisting mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint, knowing whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away scared from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla. “Then, after Julio’s raise the roof, in your face, I’m the man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking out himself, saying, “Your turn Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it player.”

Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension knowing his less than lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his Varsity playing basketball days, when he used to run on this tippy toes instead of high tops, looking like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model instead. If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach, he’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did, he’d joke about his in act when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the great. He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck up Jenny from the block. 2 minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-hoo Bottle, doesn’t spin itself bitch.”

Now, Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline who gives an encouraging fist pump raising, signaling, you can do this champ. Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he started running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff, which stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim. It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing fear prevented him from flying high again. Julio approaches Josh, as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, I’m such a worthless putz, deflated state and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly B.”

Now at 45, what was holding Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels?  Assuming ownership of his original birth name Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua, knowing Michael was considered partially God like in the sense he packed enough fire power to kick Lucifer’s ass out of Heaven wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.

Do It All Dad loved his IPA’s, yet after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut, which most would say was done in extreme poor taste, he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPA’s had to offer his rapidly depleting, voided world, without his 3 beamish, wonder kids in his life anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay at home comedian years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match after the next.  Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior. One quote, which always weighted heavily on guilty plagued conscious was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison, stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that’s way you down.” Now, Josh was divorced from what descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly. On a less psychic mumbo, jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini beer belly, which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking out glory, where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good. The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.  

Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife, like at 2 drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC for starters. After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or 2, to enjoy the post kill rush among a sea of new touch feely female fans? Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild. If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle, by giving up his precious espresso pods, IPA’s and focus on shedding the extra 20 pounds holding him back from flying with rock powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks at amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame Induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself, he was a capable of being better a man after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet he at a Seattle coffee shop.
But what would Josh do for money to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute? Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again, to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again. No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which made him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years. Josh was blessed with a booming, motor mouth to, who was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his 2nd oldest in swimming and his 3rd into volleyball, all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each, so how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child supports up?  Because getting another 50 K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at 45 wasn’t going to get the job done either.

Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blond mom in tight ripped jeans, normally, who was caught staring at his swelled package, the 1st time he gave her the greenlight to give him his spikey haired, lean mean, machine makeover, an idea emerged. Josh says to the chesty, sweat drenched, chesty, perfect feet manicured, Julie in bed,  “I can’t make a living a working comedian or as an author yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time suck in my life, which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore in life, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin, if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow, so I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Pelton riding instructor because they all bore me to freaking death. I don’t care how tan ripped solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leaderboard every time without completely coughing out a lung either. Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison in addition to becoming a star provider for my family after all, which is what I pray to God for every morning anyway. The most popular Peloton Instructors make 300 K a year. No wonder why their smiling so fucking much because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning. Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor to look stylish and be cheeky, bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Pelton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home to. Plus, I wrote the entire script for Vhl Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kick ass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time. Plus, I know enough about hard rock to know Foreigner kicks way more ass than fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could, my chest. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”

Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?” Josh says, “Mormon Moms, they’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US, even more than Beverly Hills. I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.” Julia says, “Look Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks, which I’m not complaining about one iota either, but let’s be honest, I’m your divorce rebound lay, nothing more, nothing less. Although sometimes, a divorce rebound lay, can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”

Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA for the back cover pic. I think I finally found a way to do it on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion national park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla, thank you very much. Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, can be sold as self-help, mid-life crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down, that being beer and a nagging ex-wife, who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer, which is bullshit all the way. This would prove her wrong and I could become the star provider for my family after all. Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything, for this part like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?” Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink free edibles for claiming PTSD after learning my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my 3 kids behind my back. The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello wresting wife night. Plus, I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism, because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it. I could thrown in a line how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into Heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor, who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to blocks the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the 1st place. Ban ICE, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destructions years, my chest.” Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big time, Peloton Instructor, maybe, I’ll fly to visit you.” Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay career revitalizing muse of sorts with steamy, inhalatory glee and says “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers from Yonkers, NY. Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition. So how about I pump up your box one more time for the road instead.” Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and says, “I’ll take that has a hard yes.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth  

Mr. San Diego

Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break?  Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead?  If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.

Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.

Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup  with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.

The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer.  For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.

Michael Kornbluth

Perverted Science

“Does Hollywood’s push to sexualize kids with Instagram friendly labels such as Trans Centric or Gender Fluid Fickle, feel very organic or dare I say, “child appropriate”, says Joe, a 17-year-old Independent identifying debate stud for Richard Pryor High, a new charter school in Peoria, Illinois. Unfortunately for his alpha dog debate team peers, including his best bud, Paul, he was just getting warmed up, adding, “The problem with parents enabling pubescent teen mutilation makeovers, in their politicized dash to let their children slash their protracted age of innocence in half, is that it never factors in irretractable buyer’s remorse, once little Joey blooms under his Fruit of the Looms, realizing, he can’t get his grind on with a gal on the dancefloor if he wanted to, without feeling a missing link to old school rap in the process. Plus, whatever happened to kids being asexual from 1 through 11 at least? Also, for all the scientific worship these days in place of you know who, where is all the hard evidence of Chaz Bono being a beacon of mental calm  since his far later in life transformation into Just One Of The Guys? You know, the same Chaz Bono who doesn’t eat wings at the bar, wishing he was at The MGM Grand in Vegas instead, to hear Cher belt out If I Can Turn Back Time to relieve his severe case of blue balls paralysis already.

Paul finally cuts off his dear debating bud and goes in for the retaliatory attack and says, “Is this a debate team trial run or Joe’s personalized open mike to test out more groan generating trans material for the Montreal Comedy Festival? I get it, Little Boy Blue in the 4th grade at 9 years old isn’t expected to declare his major in Gender Studies at Oberlin College just yet. So why should we expect him to make a life changing decision such as sexual realignment surgery any sooner than when he turns 19? 19 is the new 15 because that’s when most kids are losing their virginity these days anyway, especially since swiping for dick picks became the death of small talk on both sides of the glory hole cubby divide. I don’t think the government should be allowed to intervene on their parent’s behalf though, if they start feeding their 9-year-old effeminate son enough testosterone blockers to turn him into Mayor Pete’s dumpier, side up half. I bet it was Mayor Pete’s idea to parade his hubby around triple masked in a Winnie The Poo coat, as if catching the China made virus from a stiff breeze is a bigger concern for him than barebacking in the shower at the local health club on KY jelly street without flip flops on for gay pride swinger week. Wait a minute, now I’m doing Trans schtick to. Look, how can I be transphobic if I’d rather suck off Bruce Jenner with no makeup on and suck up every last demon drop, than go to the Lego Store with my nephews again, after the coast was clear, with all our masks secure on, feeling like Michael Jackson on holiday in Bahrain, before Magic made HIV disappear? I’m actually turned on immensely  by she males myself, knowing they typically possess tighter bods than most girls willing to date me. You also know, they know have no problem swallowing because they have no other use for my love juice. Also, most girls today have blown up looking snatches by 16, so I’m not complaining about a tighter hole to not get her pregnant in either. I’d even go the movies again, assuming they ever reopen to see a trans remake of Weird Science, except this time they’d create their dream Shemale vision come true all over their shattered visions of rock-solid heterosexuality ever again. Still, I’m a talking about a made up movie, Perverted Science, where the doll who comes to life is played by a real life, grown Trans woman, who made an informed, evolved decision because he she wanted to come in closer contact with her feminine side, and realized along the way how she made a better-looking chick. And if you got it, flaunt it baby. I tried putting a pink wig on once and make up after my girlfriend got a strap on for us to play with one night and never in a million years, did I think I’d look like such an ugly, homely looking bitch. Granted, when I played basketball in junior high, I used to run on my tippy toes, looking like I was running in high heels instead of high tops. But this still doesn’t mean, I was a gentle high stepper of any kind. If LaVar Ball was my substitute coach dad, he’d still bark on the sidelines, yelling, “Were trying to sell Ballerwear son, not Jimmy Choo’s. I think Paul and I should start selling Trans jokes to Dave Chappelle because he can afford to not give a shit, we can’t. Who wants to have that debate next? White comics can’t get away this material tóday ever. Even Aerosmith is getting grief these days for their song Dude Looks Like A Lady, which is ridiculous because in the song Steven Tyler takes more than a peak, proclaiming with surging, mounting, lust, “Oh, what a funky lady. And I like it, like it, like it yeah.” So did Richard Pryor, he said it was the best piece of pussy he ever had, so get over it already. Hate speech, not. Maybe, I won’t give up on wining a debating scholarship if Chris Rock finances a new college serving as a safe space for politically incorrect material, God forbid.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Beyond Hermosa Skies

My old school summer wind Summer Lam rivaled the beauty of any soul piercing sunset draped over those pinkish, orange, scattered skies of Hermosa Beach. Still, my go-to-in-house date night dish, angel hair in a white clam sauce, because I could never afford to dine out for dates, adorned with slivers of neon Greek gold sweet peppers on top, offered plenty of twinkly, ultra-aroused interest to.  Those Greek gold sweet peppers known as Pepperoncini’s, are sold at all Italian Delis, and can be enjoyed at your local Greek restaurant with some olive oil bathed cubes of feta by your little Greek landlord, on top of a tringle, torn off piece of warm pita bread, assuming he’s in a more festive, less dour dumpy mood than usual.  

I got the idea of using angel hair from a weathered, grandma age, Italian executive assistant who worked for my company’s owner Terry Thor, an IT staffing legend, who founded the IT staffing firm, The Thor Group, headquartered in Manhattan Beach next to defense contractor behemoths such as Raytheon, who I placed an IT security analyst with, after insisting my friend JT give me the org chart to exploit for all its billable, employment extending worth. Actually, became buds with Shakes, the IT security analyst I placed at Raytheon, who I let crash on my couch before the interview he flew in from back east for, who possessed dreams of penning dialogue for Tinseltown to.  Come to think of it, there was an IT network security engineer, who I went bar hopping with in nearby El Segundo one night, resulting in me coming in contact with the always majestic, effortlessly beautiful, always pitch perfect, laugh-tastic Summer Lam.  If I didn’t get fired from Thor for failing to do more placements with Raytheon and for being caught on the job looking for new jobs such as selling helicopters for a living, I could’ve befriended another IT candidate who knew a TV Writer agent at CAA. No agent ảt CAA in Beverly Hills or one based in his rental Woodland Hills studio stucco apartment, would’ve singed me based on my ok Friends spec alone, despite me reimagining the Nike swoosh as Gene Simmons tongue, which impressed Summer enough for her to pitch, “Let’s move to Santa Barbara so I can day trade and you give up IT recruiting and write novels instead.” Boy, did I fuck that one up.  

Before meeting Summer, I became a master at making my angel hair clam delight for my various date nights at home, using my secret killer addition ingredient of Pepperoncini’s, available in pre-cut slivers at my local Italian Deli in Hermosa for 2 bucks a pop, who also sold bits of prosciutto ends for 2 bucks a top. “What a country”, I’d croon during those Hermosa loving nights, with unmatched, heaven on earth blasting glee.

I’d also relish taking my 5-minute pre-date trips along the always misty, majestic pacific off the pier to a local fish shack in nearby Redondo Beach for the clams, which I could actually afford for 10 bucks a pound compared to having to sell a highly punctured liver already from the even closer shishy bitch supermarket chain Bristol Farms located in Manhattan Beach instead. I can still picture the smoothed over lines on those clam shells, begging to be steamed open, so I could pour the sweaty, underbelly residue of the succulent sweet clams into the angel hair soon after, responsible for imbibing it’s one a kind, fishy delight flavor.

But now 3 kids later, I’m a Stay-At-Home Koshterian Comedian, so how can I replicate some summer loving love, having a blast with my wife and 3 kids on a damp, February night instead? Easy, I substituted my killer Pepperoncini’s add on ingredient with my tweaked, heavily workshopped twice roasted, mini me cubes of peeled Italian eggplant instead, which I sauté in bomb cold press Italian olive oil first, sprinkled with bits of fresh rosemary and peeled off pieces of garlic before shoving into the oven at 350 for 20 more minutes to add a deepened, roasted, smokier, more elastic, slivery slurpy, eggplant puss flavor, minus the funky fish overtones of course but you get the gist.

Next, you add more specs of leftover rosemary to your buttered, olive oil base to fry up bits of shallots and peeled over slivers of shaved garlic before bam, plop some pre-made Emeril’s vodka sauce on top for only 4 bucks a pop at your local Stop and Shop and you’re made in the shade.  Before eventually dropping the angel hair nestles of perfection into the pinkish, bubbly, fresh scented rosemary specked sauce along with the svelte shards of twice cooked eggplant to extrapolate the most banging, inhalable, pristine sweet flavor imaginable, capable of unearthing multiple lip moistening ums, again and again.

You know you’ve succeeded in recreating some summer loving angel hair love, when your wife goes back for second slurping’s on her own, without any repeated push in that direction either. You also know your date night in your twenties at your old school Hermosa Beach pad is going too domesticated good, when your cute blond date from down south says in the most innocuous way possible, “This is really good. Can I take some home with me? I shrugged off her innocent inquiry, kept the leftovers for myself and sent her home soon after. She didn’t taste that good. She was no Summer Lam alright. Nor could she ever replicate memories of lounging on the beach with my dear Summer Lam, getting carried away to heaven and back, beyond those Hermosa skies.

Michael Kornbluth

Beyond Hermosa Skies

My old school summer wind Summer Lam rivaled the beauty of any soul piercing sunset draped over those pinkish, orange, scattered skies of Hermosa Beach. Still, my go-to-in-house date night dish, angel hair in a white clam sauce, because I could never afford to dine out for dates, adorned with slivers of neon Greek gold sweet peppers on top, offered plenty of twinkly, ultra-aroused interest to.  Those Greek gold sweet peppers known as Pepperoncini’s, are sold at all Italian Delis, and can be enjoyed at your local Greek restaurant with some olive oil bathed cubes of feta by your little Greek landlord, on top of a tringle, torn off piece of warm pita bread, assuming he’s in a more festive, less dour dumpy mood than usual.  

I got the idea of using angel hair from a weathered, grandma age, Italian executive assistant who worked for my company’s owner Terry Thor, an IT staffing legend, who founded the IT staffing firm, The Thor Group, headquartered in Manhattan Beach next to defense contractor behemoths such as Raytheon, who I placed an IT security analyst with, after insisting my friend JT give me the org chart to exploit for all its billable, employment extending worth. Actually, became buds with Shakes, the IT security analyst I placed at Raytheon, who I let crash on my couch before the interview he flew in from back east for, who possessed dreams of penning dialogue for Tinseltown to.  Come to think of it, there was an IT network security engineer, who I went bar hopping with in nearby El Segundo one night, resulting in me coming in contact with the always majestic, effortlessly beautiful, always pitch perfect, laugh-tastic Summer Lam.  If I didn’t get fired from Thor for failing to do more placements with Raytheon and for being caught on the job looking for new jobs such as selling helicopters for a living, I could’ve befriended another IT candidate who knew a TV Writer agent at CAA. No agent at CAA in Beverly Hills or one based in his rental stucco apartment in Woodland Hills for that matter would’ve singed me based on my ok Friends spec alone, despite me reimagining the Nike swoosh as Gene Simmons tongue, which impressed Summer enough for her to pitch, “Let’s move to Santa Barbara so I can day trade and you give up IT recruiting and write novels instead.” Boy, did I fuck that one up.  

Before meeting Summer, I became a master at making my angel hair clam delight for my various date nights at home, using my secret killer addition ingredient of Pepperoncini’s, available in pre-cut slivers at my local Italian Deli in Hermosa for 2 bucks a pop, who also sold bits of prosciutto ends for 2 bucks a top. “What a country”, I’d croon during those Hermosa loving nights, with unmatched, heaven on earth blasting glee.

I’d also relish taking my 5-minute pre-date trips along the always misty, majestic pacific off the pier to a local fish shack in nearby Redondo Beach for the clams, which I could actually afford for 10 bucks a pound compared to having to sell a highly punctured liver already from the even closer shishy bitch supermarket chain Bristol Farms located in Manhattan Beach instead. I can still picture the smoothed over lines on those clam shells, begging to be steamed open, so I could pour the sweaty, underbelly residue of the succulent sweet clams into the angel hair soon after, responsible for imbibing it’s one a kind, fishy delight flavor.

But now 3 kids later, I’m a Stay-At-Home Koshterian Comedian, so how can I replicate some summer loving love, having a blast with my wife and 3 kids on a damp, February night instead? Easy, I substituted my killer Pepperoncini’s add on ingredient with my tweaked, heavily workshopped twice roasted, mini me cubes of peeled Italian eggplant instead, which I sauté in bomb cold press Italian olive oil first, sprinkled with bits of fresh rosemary and peeled off pieces of garlic before shoving into the oven at 350 for 20 more minutes to add a deepened, roasted, smokier, more elastic, slivery slurpy, eggplant puss flavor, minus the funky fish overtones of course but you get the gist.

Next, you add more specs of leftover rosemary to your buttered, olive oil base to fry up bits of shallots and peeled over slivers of shaved garlic before bam, plop some pre-made Emeril’s vodka sauce on top for only 4 bucks a pop at your local Stop and Shop and you’re made in the shade.  Before eventually dropping the angel hair nestles of perfection into the pinkish, bubbly, fresh scented rosemary specked sauce along with the svelte shards of twice cooked eggplant to extrapolate the most banging, inhalable, pristine sweet flavor imaginable, capable of unearthing multiple lip moistening ums, again and again.

You know you’ve succeeded in recreating some summer loving angel hair love, when your wife goes back for second slurping’s on her own, without any repeated push in that direction either. You also know your date night in your twenties at your old school Hermosa Beach pad is going too domesticated good, when your cute blond date from down south says in the most innocuous way possible, “This is really good. Can I take some home with me? I shrugged off her innocent inquiry, kept the leftovers for myself and sent her home soon after. She didn’t taste that good. She was no Summer Lam alright. Nor could she ever replicate memories of lounging on the beach with my dear Summer Lam, getting carried away to heaven and back, beyond those Hermosa skies.

Michael Kornbluth

The Maiden Bartender

You met one Iron Maiden fan, you met them all right? Iron Maiden fans wear out those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets, even into their late thirties to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge such diehard fanatic fans are incapable of generating on their own.  Granted, Bruce Dickenson the more exalted, replacement lead singer star of Iron Maiden, otherwise known as the human air raid siren, boasts a supernatural voice, which pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal heaven. Still, it’s impossible to not grow tired of his rapid fire, Spinal Tap conjuring caricature of what an English heavy metal howler should like in Samuel Johnson’s speed metal phonics dictionary under Game Of Thrones horse charging music. At least, that’s’ what the Cruise Comedian, Michael Rocker thought, as he entered a colonial constructed, seaside, shipbuilding town of Mystic, CT, where Julia Roberts shot the movie Mystic Pizza, and entertained the grips on the set by fisting her mouth in between takes to ensure they made it her look the most flattering in the face of such frigid, east coast winter light.  

Now, Michael Rocker, a tall, athletic looking, preppy casual comic orders a drink and says, “Hey, what local IPA’s do you recommend? The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline statuesque dirty blond, sporting an Iron Maiden tattoo on her defined, yet not overtly chiseled deltoid replies, “I don’t know, that all depends, on how much hardcore bitter bite you can take. I mean, are you interested in merely quenching your thirst with a session filler beer? Or would you prefer  to get your hardcore freak on for Karaoke night with something boozier and more funktastic like a Fat Orange Cat’s Trippel IPA, stud.” The Cruise Comic says, “I’ll take the Trippel IPA, hot stuff,” as he tries hard not to lick his lips, wanting to inhale her on the spot.

Sitting next to the Cruise Comic at the bar, is a hunched, tired, lanky, dirty blond, long-haired guy in his late thirties, sporting bad acne spots, from a poor diet full of too much beef Jerky and cheap vodka tonics, reeking of stale, Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody appeal after the 1st drag whatsoever.  The Cruise Comic get’s the impression, the Newport cigarette guy who’s sporting a black Iron Maiden shirt under his faded, torn jean jacket, is here solo as usual, so he decides to sample some new jokes on him in preparation for his upcoming cruise tour heading to Jamaica for spring break the following morning. Cruise Comic makes eye contact with the Iron Maiden fan and says, “Nice Maiden shirt. You must know the wrestler and Fozzy front man Chris Jericho then? Maiden dude replies, “Duh, who doesn’t? Immediately, the Cruise Comic becomes engulfed with extreme annoyance, regretting his attempt to bond with this local in his attempt to play it cool with the hot bad ass bartender and snaps back with, “Be honest, don’t you think Iron Maiden is a poor man’s Judas Priest, with far less sing along, radio friendly hits, being forced to rely on catchy, merchandising gimmickry to radiate a cooler, far less Dungeons and Dragons nerdy veneer instead? And who is the Eddie mascot on Iron Maiden shirts supposed to be anyway? He looks like a cyborg mummy and a virile Crypt Keeper in his prime had a baby?  Run For The Hills is a good running song, for Daniel Day Lewis to crank up when he trained for his role in the Last of the Mohicans.”

The bartender can’t help but chuckle, doing her best to not let Cruise Comedian know it. Still, she decides to interject, knowing fighting words were just thrown down in this normally peaceful waterfront town and says, “Hey, Eddie, don’t listen to him. He’s not sophisticated enough to understand the intricacies and sweeping historical, majestic sweep that went to Power Slave and the other 40 records of English speed metal mastery at it’s finest. Next vodka and tonic is on me babe, don’t sweat it.” Cruise Comedian is turned on by the bartender’s friendly infused fiery cheer, especially knowing this was her way of pleasing a local and flirting with him big time and says, “She’s right Eddie, that’s your name Eddie just like the Iron Maiden mascot, wow. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just putting Iron Maiden down to feel better about myself. That’s what hack cruise comics do.  I think Poison, Motely Crew and Cinderella rock out just as hard and boast infinitely catchier, kick as metal pop anthems, which ooze forceful, heartfelt personality versus sounding like systematic howling knights on horseback but what do I know Eddie. Didn’t mean to offend your hardcore fanatical Maiden sensibilities bud.”  Eddy’s face become ensnarled in acne scar shades of red as he clenches his callous hardened, burn laden hands and says, “Dude, I’m a dishwasher on a cruise ship, I don’t need to take this shit.” The Cruise Comedian says, “I’m a lowly Cruise Comedian hack comedian, so it’s a wash mate. Looking forward to docking in Jamaica though. This is my impression of Ziggy Marley being interviewed by High Times Magazine for their annual 4/20 issue.  “Ziggy, your dad had 11 kids, but I thought ganja drained your life blaster dry. Ziggy replies, “Fake news man.” Cruise comic finally scores a tension diffusing laugh. Eddie says, “That was a good one. Perhaps, I take my obsession with Iron Maiden a tad too seriously at times. Thing is, you get pretty cagy as a cruise ship dishwasher, all alone with Iron Maiden tunes of wanton destruction stuck in your head.” Cruise Comic says, “No problem dude, I was being a big dick prior, sometimes my riffing veers into full fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer to. Do you smoke your mind with the crystal specked bud? Eddie the dishwasher says, “Yeah, I mean, what loner burnout Maiden head in high school didn’t. You never outgrow the soothing lift the green gives a loner burnout at heart.  Cruise comic says, “Did you know 4/20 was Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” Eddie the Dishwasher says, “Oh, so you’re Jewish. That’s why you’re so annoying and pushy with your material. Well, nobody’s perfect except Beth the bartender.”

Beth the bartender commands the stage and clenches the mike to belt out Run for the Hills on the Karaoke stage with incredible, hardcore edge feeling to make a jaded, English metal resisting, cruise comic willing to give British speed metal another shot. All that was missing was a hardcore female touch and some added funktastic feeling with some sexy metal sass to match.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Maiden Bartender

You met one Iron Maiden fan, you met them all right? Iron Maiden fans wear out those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets, even into their late thirties to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge such diehard fanatic fans are incapable of generating on their own.  Granted, Bruce Dickenson the more exalted, replacement lead singer star of Iron Maiden, otherwise known as the human air raid siren, boasts a supernatural voice, which pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal heaven. Still, it’s impossible to not grow tired of his rapid fire, Spinal Tap conjuring caricature of what an English heavy metal howler should like in Samuel Johnson’s speed metal phonics dictionary under Game Of Thrones horse charging music. At least, that’s’ what the Cruise Comedian, Michael Rocker thought, as he entered a colonial constructed, seaside, shipbuilding town of Mystic, CT, where Julia Roberts shot the movie Mystic Pizza, and entertained the grips on the set by fisting her mouth in between takes to ensure they made it her look the most flattering in the face of such frigid, east coast winter light.  

Now, Michael Rocker, a tall, athletic looking, preppy casual comic orders a drink and says, “Hey, what local IPA’s do you recommend? The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline statuesque dirty blond, sporting an Iron Maiden tattoo on her defined, yet not overtly chiseled deltoid replies, “I don’t know, that all depends, on how much hardcore bitter bite you can take. I mean, are you interested in merely quenching your thirst with a session filler beer? Or would you prefer  to get your hardcore freak on for Karaoke night with something boozier and more funktastic like a Fat Orange Cat’s Trippel IPA, stud.” The Cruise Comic says, “I’ll take the Trippel IPA, hot stuff,” as he tries hard not to lick his lips, wanting to inhale her on the spot.

Sitting next to the Cruise Comic at the bar, is a hunched, tired, lanky, dirty blond, long-haired guy in his late thirties, sporting bad acne spots, from a poor diet full of too much beef Jerky and cheap vodka tonics, reeking of stale, Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody appeal after the 1st drag whatsoever.  The Cruise Comic get’s the impression, the Newport cigarette guy who’s sporting a black Iron Maiden shirt under his faded, torn jean jacket, is here solo as usual, so he decides to sample some new jokes on him in preparation for his upcoming cruise tour heading to Jamaica for spring break the following morning. Cruise Comic makes eye contact with the Iron Maiden fan and says, “Nice Maiden shirt. You must know the wrestler and Fozzy front man Chris Jericho then? Maiden dude replies, “Duh, who doesn’t? Immediately, the Cruise Comic becomes engulfed with extreme annoyance, regretting his attempt to bond with this local in his attempt to play it cool with the hot bad ass bartender and snaps back with, “Be honest, don’t you think Iron Maiden is a poor man’s Judas Priest, with far less sing along, radio friendly hits, being forced to rely on catchy, merchandising gimmickry to radiate a cooler, far less Dungeons and Dragons nerdy veneer instead? And who is the Eddie mascot on Iron Maiden shirts supposed to be anyway? He looks like a cyborg mummy and a virile Crypt Keeper in his prime had a baby?  Run For The Hills is a good running song, for Daniel Day Lewis to crank up when he trained for his role in the Last of the Mohicans.”

The bartender can’t help but chuckle, doing her best to not let Cruise Comedian know it. Still, she decides to interject, knowing fighting words were just thrown down in this normally peaceful waterfront town and says, “Hey, Eddie, don’t listen to him. He’s not sophisticated enough to understand the intricacies and sweeping historical, majestic sweep that went to Power Slave and the other 40 records of English speed metal mastery at it’s finest. Next vodka and tonic is on me babe, don’t sweat it.” Cruise Comedian is turned on by the bartender’s friendly infused fiery cheer, especially knowing this was her way of pleasing a local and flirting with him big time and says, “She’s right Eddie, that’s your name Eddie just like the Iron Maiden mascot, wow. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just putting Iron Maiden down to feel better about myself. That’s what hack cruise comics do.  I think Poison, Motely Crew and Cinderella rock out just as hard and boast infinitely catchier, kick as metal pop anthems, which ooze forceful, heartfelt personality versus sounding like systematic howling knights on horseback but what do I know Eddie. Didn’t mean to offend your hardcore fanatical Maiden sensibilities bud.”  Eddy’s face become ensnarled in acne scar shades of red as he clenches his callous hardened, burn laden hands and says, “Dude, I’m a dishwasher on a cruise ship, I don’t need to take this shit.” The Cruise Comedian says, “I’m a lowly Cruise Comedian hack comedian, so it’s a wash mate. Looking forward to docking in Jamaica though. This is my impression of Ziggy Marley being interviewed by High Times Magazine for their annual 4/20 issue.  “Ziggy, your dad had 11 kids, but I thought ganja drained your life blaster dry. Ziggy replies, “Fake news man.” Cruise comic finally scores a tension diffusing laugh. Eddie says, “That was a good one. Perhaps, I take my obsession with Iron Maiden a tad too seriously at times. Thing is, you get pretty cagy as a cruise ship dishwasher, all alone with Iron Maiden tunes of wanton destruction stuck in your head.” Cruise Comic says, “No problem dude, I was being a big dick prior, sometimes my riffing veers into full fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer to. Do you smoke your mind with the crystal specked bud? Eddie the dishwasher says, “Yeah, I mean, what loner burnout Maiden head in high school didn’t. You never outgrow the soothing lift the green gives a loner burnout at heart.  Cruise comic says, “Did you know 4/20 was Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” Eddie the Dishwasher says, “Oh, so you’re Jewish. That’s why you’re so annoying and pushy with your material. Well, nobody’s perfect except Beth the bartender.”

Beth the bartender commands the stage and clenches the mike to belt out Run for the Hills on the Karaoke stage with incredible, hardcore edge feeling to make a jaded, English metal resisting, cruise comic willing to give British speed metal another shot. All that was missing was a hardcore female touch and some added funktastic feeling with some sexy metal sass to match.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time there was a famous Jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more than Duke Ellington. Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra strength heroin one night, home alone, in his Queens apartment, in far Rockaway Beach, which would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience for a change and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his Jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window to.


Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes again, to make sure what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision on mind melding H, a so called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini tablet device of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell out the window into the frigid, February snow with absolute relished glee, to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing out his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before. Now, Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling and asks God in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my Jazz piano masterpiece? The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  And how dare this so called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks, I ever spent”, after his carefree son flings my Jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic, Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “Melancholy magic.”  

Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine, but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well guess what, you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me motherfucker. Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American Jazz songbook. So instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mother, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway like Cole Porter or those those fancy, schmancy Gershwin brothers for a change? At least, they dress nice and the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you got some brains cells left to use more wisely.”

Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door this time and bemoans, “Fight or flight Junky, what will your destiny be? I get it, you’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep, singing, “The Man I Love, whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  So, you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard, whoopty freaking do. I’m positive, you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter or get some sin on sin loving, behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room to.  Innovate or die a broke, boring Junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his Piano with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer on the spot. His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens alone and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone and says, “Jazz Rock is the new groove now Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you, when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative Jazz, or elevator music, on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in. Regardless, your sound, helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. Sorry about cutting out your work on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit Junky.”

Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing my new lease on life Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank, but boy could you play. And I am fucking Jazz. And Miles knows best, even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell, can see that.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth