Before my kids take another reluctant bite out of mama’s lentil pie, which was good but still needed some savory, mouthwatering sautéed mushrooms nestled inside with speckled sage to counterbalance the borderline al dente lentils stuck between a rock and a fluffy pastry place, I tell my son Jeremiah, “Before I overrule mama’s law of return to eat one more obligatory nibble bite from her lentil pie, tell me one new thing you learned at school today, which you didn’t know before.” Son says, “My teacher learned I’m a vegetarian.” I said, “Don’t you mean Koshertarian?” Son laughs long time. Can I get a holla? For birthing a new A plus catchphrase, which I can exploit for all its worth in the form of a family reality cooking show based around my famous family if I ever become a famous comedian already, titled Keeping Up With The Koshertarians, holla!
So, what is the Koshertarian Diet exactly? It’s not boiling a lobster in the Kosher infused kitchen I grew up in along the Tudor home lined streets of Edgemont, NY, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, before Kevin Durant chose to play for the Brooklyn Nets over the Knicks to exert more control over his social media narrative and give Lena Dunham a good run for her money as the less overtly confessional voice of their Millennial Mouseketeer generation. My wife’s gentile friend actually bought a lobster to boil in my parent’s kitchen one summer with zero hesitative motion without seeking approval from my parents. I can’t demonize my wife’s dear friend completely for doing so, knowing my parents weren’t even half ass Kosher anymore, compared to when our entire family use to eat pork dumplings outside of the house, if we weren’t scarfing down more delectable, heaven sent bites of veal stuffed with prosciutto coated in a white wine mushroom sauce before my younger brother and I moved out of the house for good.
But once famed supermarket chain Stew Leonard’s moved to town in nearby Yonkers, NY, my parents scrapped their in-house kosher obeying diet only because the tastier, lumper servings of shrimp cocktail at Costco prices were impossible to resist. Still, the image of my wife’s friend barging into my parent’s kitchen with crusade possessed fervor with a lobster in hand doesn’t make my blood boil as much anymore because of parents ho hum embrace of me becoming a full time Koshertarian this past year, which has made me more at one with God than ever before while my 3 kids have derived a vicarious sense of pride from embracing my new soul man infused spiritual path along the way. Still, I don’t think my wife’s friend would whole heartedly embrace me barging into her parents kitchen on Good Friday to sell them on trying my Do It All Dad Hero creation from my new book The Great American Jew Novel, which is the 1st ever Kosher cheesesteak, using a plant based cheese wiz either. Especially, if I ate the Kosher cheesesteak in front of them and continued to push with divine powered zeal, “You have try one bite. “It’s holy shit, good.”
I know my wife wants me to not put restrictions on my happiness at times like when she urges me over an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives as I salivate over the Indian spiced Lamb Burger draped in a Paneer cheese and Jalapeno infused mango chutney, to forget eating Kosher, when she says, “ Just eat cruelty free, hormone absent, local meat. Kosher dietary laws are more dated than Yiddish, yada, yada, yada.” Because God forbid, I don’t half ass my Kosher diet like my parents did. Instead, I want to lead by example and stick with my full time Kosher diet because for once in my life, I feel like a less over the place Jew. Plus, by sticking with my Kosher diet come rain or shine, it eliminates my second guessing of ordering at restaurants because I now only have so many options to choose from. So now, whenever I’m out eating, I no longer feel more indecisive than Jared Kushner at the salad bar at the Bellagio.
On a holier, deeper level, I love my commitment to uphold my Kosher diet to repay God’s continued heaven on earth granting favor, for blessing me with the 3 sweetest, funniest kids in the universe, who make me howl with unrivaled laughter like no other. For example, my 3-year old son Samuel, AKA, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, developed a new routine which kills me, so he performs it for me all time now, where he walks away from me for a couple of feet, only for him to stop in his tracks and say “Wrong way.” But everything about my kids growing up Koshertarian, feels like the right way to me. Mama is a pescatarian, so she can have all the buttered Lobster Rolls she wants, which are overrated, and way overpriced compared to more funk filled, personality loaded clam rolls in my book anyway.
Moving forward, I’ll continue to experiment and perfect my kosher chicken breast stir fry in a scallion, ginger based sauce and generate more yummy dances galore from my Mexican lasagna made with corn tortillas and homemade salsa to inspire my kids to follow my lead and assume more wholehearted ownership of their diet as they get older. So one day, if they decide to have kids, because I finally made it, resulting in mama and daddy not fighting as much anymore, our eventual grandchildren, wow that’s heavy, can grow up Koshertarian to.
So, for all those jowl jingly bearded hobbit hipsters in Bushwick, who identify as being non-religious Jews. Who are struggling to be fruitful and multiply because they’re being forced to pull out prematurely from excessive meat sweats. My message is clear. Come on man! And give the Koshertarian diet a chance.
Selling my 3 kids on Conservative Hebrew School today is a hard sell because they’ve grown up in the era of cloud-powered, commercial-free TV shows, where a drag on their time is the Internet going out again, prompting my kids to bemoan in collective unison, “Gevalt”, as if they just realized their egg and cheese order from the deli was served on a drab regular roll versus the expected, not supposed to specified for, standard Kaiser Roll instead. Once, my 5-year old son grew frustrated with our voice-powered assistant Cortona, not recognizing the Johnny Cash song he requested, “I’ve Been Everywhere”, to be exact, prompting him to yell with surging palpable, huffy disgust, “Cortona, you’re useless. Throw yourself out the window already.”
In order to draw attention away from all the various screen distractions which exist today, Conservative Hebrew Schools in America need a disruptive restructuring of their teaching style, which doesn’t sound so old world, Charlie Rose dronish. If they stand a shot at making the study of Torah, a wondrous, awe-inspiring, less obligatory, steady slog of mote memorization for sheer studying stake. I propose the use of comedy, to achieve this purpose of making Hebrew School greater than any Simpsons on-demand episode on Hulu could ever offer.
Famous humorist Victor Borge said, “Laughter is the shortest distance between two people.” So I recommend Hebrew School teachers at Conservative Synagogues to start using comedy as an engagement tool to turn their students on to learning about all of our big deal biblical Jewish figures through using Internet speak like leading a classroom discussion on the best Jewish Prophets on Ranker for starters. This past Saturday for my own version of Hebrew School, I got my son excited to learn more about his Hebrew name Jeremiah, by emphasizing the fact how Jeremiah is considered one of the major prophets in the Bible, which perked his interested immediately by just emphasizing the word, major. Especially, after pointing out how the Bible has minor prophets to, which are closer to supporting characters like Rob Schneider who serves the useful purpose of making Adam Sandler look like a major leading star in comparison, despite his perfected schlump star look.
I couldn’t even tell you the name of one of my Hebrew School Teachers at our Reformed Synagogue growing up, which is a shame like not learning in US History in the 8th grade how IBM developed technology that made it easier for the Nazi’s to identify European Jewry. Right now, IBM’s Watson Supercomputer is thinking, “No shit Sherlock.”
The only thing memorable about my reformed Hebrew School experience growing up was my friends from our school district in Edgemont, NY district feeling a tad tougher than the suburban softer Scarsdale kids in our class, because they’d throw endless streams of candy Nerds at Danny Farber from Scarsdale while never fearing any form of hardcore retaliation in return. The other way to make time pass by in Hebrew School was my friend Ari and I upstaging one another by writing new obscure Heavy Metal band names on our denim three ring year binders of yesteryear such as Danzig, Man O War and Overkill.
I’ve always been committed to raising my kids Jewish to ensure my cousins didn’t get exterminated in the Holocaust for nothing. I want my kids to live out dreams they never could as proud and loud, unapologetic Jews all the way. I refuse to be another slacker assimilator and allow the spirit of Judaism to die out in my family on my watch, in my quest to become more mensch like than the rest.
So, I’m assuming ownership of my kid’s conservative Hebrew school education this year during the year of Corona by relearning Hebrew while teaching my kids the holy language of kings for the 1st time in the process. I plan on making the teaching of Hebrew to my kids interesting and more stimulating than my Reformed Hebrew School past by tapping into my funny Jew bone and putting my imaginative powers to work by crafting short stories about made-up historical characters based on all the Hebrew letters such as Gimmel Be The Good. Gimmel Be Good being the nice Jewish boy who invented the dreidel gambling game to distract the Romans from their forbidden Torah studies during the hardcore Hellenization of Israel at the time.
When my 3 pitch-perfect, angelic, blemish-free children repeat the prayers in Hebrew for Shabbat after me, it brings tingles of unbridled joy down my spine. Because in this special glowed, light-filled moment, we become at one with the divine, which makes our sweet Jewish home, truly shine.
Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review. Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.
Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahani flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for hummus but only after I stared making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese Pieces Butter Cup, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.
If you never tried hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought hummus or homemade hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.
Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing. So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day. At the very least, your kids will love you more putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Plus, your kids won’t become instantly tubby and resent your existence for it later. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.
The Chicken Cutlet from the Edgemont Deli on Central Avenue next to Danny’s Cycle in southern Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan was always the best. My old school dear friend Ari, now a Kidney doctor who part owns his own practice in CT, a graduate of Washington University, no dummy, would agree with me, we became fixated on hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet sandwich ever since. I remember inhaling down this chicken cutlet thinking, I was in the presence of greatness, just based on the crispy enough, herbed spice breading on it alone. Back then, I didn’t know the difference between sage or rosemary. I wasn’t aware of how cilantro was used as an herb in salsa. Shit, an underclassman fooled me into buying oregano for weed senior year in high school, so I wasn’t obsessing over the herb installation componentry embedded in my bomb chicken cutlet from the Edgemont Deli at the time, that wasn’t Calista Flockhart skinny but more Jo plump like from Facts of Life, which gave you something more excitable to chomp into again and again. The perfectly shredded lettuce, semi-thin, actual fleshy red tomato on top, nestled between the banging Kaiser roll, which was never drowning for dear life in an amorphous plop of mayo goo didn’t hurt the chicken cutlet sandwich’s overall appeal one bit either. Ah, those were the days, pre-Yelp, where you actually had to rely on your own intuition and New York bred sense of adventure to try and consume it all, like a less hyper articulate, perpetually suave, mini Anthony Bourdain in the making, minus the French royal rocker look working in your favor either.
Now, that I’m getting my 3 kids more courageous about trying different Kosher meat creations because they know I’m writing a book about it and unlike others, they still believe me in pounding my dreams of comedic superstardom into freaking reality already, especially when I involve them in the act of pulverizing the homemade Kosher chicken cutlets I made tonight with real deal Hebrew Hammer fury. I told my son Arthur to choke up on the mighty mallet before pounding the chicken cutlets for round 2 with the intention of smooshing those cutlets into barely recognizable form like when Mitch Blood Green came up with the bright idea to start a street fight with Iron Mike in Harlem during his prime time domination years, where he knocked out legendary heavy weights by the time you banged another one out to Taste Of Amber again.
My wife had to Nazify my dream chicken cutlet recreation tonight, using a combination of panko breadcrumbs and homemade ones while also using a mishmash of chopped parsley, sage and rosemary, by insisting on calling it the meal “Schnitzel”, saying, “I haven’t had Schnitzel since Oktoberfest in Germany.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Chances are you had pork schnitzel for starters, which is fine, but don’t lump my dish into your non-eating Kosher past in Germany before the open borders invite to invade and resist assimilation lead to no-go zones, proving too much for Angela Merkel’s hunched shoulders to bear alone. Where is W to give Angela Lansbury’s, more homely, less talented, dour dumpy clone to give an unsolicited back rub, when you need him? Also, I didn’t know what the hell Schnitzel was in high school, I just knew how to order a chicken cutlet at the deli, with shredded lettuce, tomato, mayo, Russian dressing or getting some melted provolone on it if I was feeling particularly eccentric for lunch, that day, that’s it. Granted, tonight, I did fry up gargantuan flatted breasts which looked like Pauly from Rocky passed out on Bridget Nielson’s tits. But I wouldn’t call a schnitzel dish using Panko breadcrumbs and Kosher certified chicken as a sterling example of keeping it real Arian like either. Actually, for those food nerd historians at home, schnitzel was actually invented in Austria before famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal helped track down Adolf Eichman’s Nazi footsteps in Buenos Aries pleasuring himself to more Malbec and Nazi trading cards bound for the ashbins of truly deplorable history. Before shiny shoes got hanged in Israel for being Farrakhan’s dreamboat exterminator against you know who Gervais, and it wasn’t your mole infested British commoners working as Bank Tellers for Barclay’s Bank either.
I’m most impressed with my how kids continue to embrace and try any new meat creation I make for them, because they know it’s made with love and kids always love you back twice as much, when you make them like feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Last, your kids can’t help but look up to daddy a little bit in the kitchen knowing he’s doing his best to please God and obey his dietary laws in exchange for blessing him with the greatest home team imaginable, which grows closer every day, yeah, yeah.
I’m about to put my 3-year old son Samuel in the car today on our way to pick up a couple of last minute, improvised inspired ingredients and he says with a wink and brightened smile, “I hate your jokes and your books to.” I laughed long time. The fact my 3-year-old son already understands the full spectrum of silly minded, sarcastic fueled ball busting while also comprehending what work I’ve been pounding away at since he was born is a sign that God really is looking after my back through this miracle wonderkid. Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo really is the pubescent, Total Package, Lex Luger after all.
Slated to appear in the December 2020 issue of the Midwest Review.
The Great American Jew Novel
ASIN : B08H6MC9M8 $20.00 Paper/$9.99 Kindle
The Great American Jew Novel will appeal to readers of Jewish fiction and humor and tells of a precocious nine-year-old who becomes her “Do it All Dad” father’s self-appointed talent agent to solve all his troubles, from a failing marriage to comedy career aspirations.
Bashert can’t fix everything, but what she gets her little hands on surely changes many situations in a hilarious romp through stay-at-home dad Joshua’s evolving life.
Michael Kornbluth produces a survey that is, in itself, a comedic satire of the Jewish personality and lifestyle. Joshua’s uncertain navigation of his world, his ongoing ambitions beyond family, and the many challenges he faces in the course of realizing his dreams fuel a lively observational study in Jewish psychology: “…on a baser level, Joshua became addicted to scoring laughs from rehearsed one liners or inspired riffs in the moment, synthesizing the scattered observations and punchlines of years past, because it made him feel like a less all over the place Jew. Feeling in control was important to Joshua. He’d been the only schmuck with a stutter who graduated from the top communication school at Ithaca College in 99.”
From encounters with a funny female rabbi to political correctness on trial, Kornbluth provides a series of evocative encounters. Readers should be prepared for intensely detailed descriptions that would border on run-on sentences, except for the fact that their underlying attraction lies in their very length and depth: “She was funny, and very personable, coming off like a flatter-chested, higher-IQ Judy Gold. He honestly couldn’t tell if she was a bush muncher or not. Still, he loved how she made the Saturday Synagogue services very upbeat, welcoming and business-casual without stripping the house of worship of the deep-rooted holiness preening through the flawless stained glass windows, without the original Super Jew, Jesus Christ, anywhere in sight. But what bothered Joshua about the Rabbi, was a conversation over some Challah noshes after the service, when he tried to gain a stronger grasp on why Jews got so tense when the mere name of Jesus was brought up in conversation, especially when Joshua would get into his Pescatarian schtick about how if a diet of fish and veggies was good enough for Jesus, the original Super Jew, it was good enough for him.”
Much of the lingo and cultural references make this story much more accessible to the Jewish reader already well familiar with this background than those who are not, or who have not been exposed to Jewish language and psychology in their daily lives.
These notes aside, The Great American Jew Novel excels in a hilarious New York exploration of the world of comedy and Jewish culture. It’s sometimes politically incorrect, racy, and ribald. This absorbing viewpoint of a father’s drive for bigger and better goals and added meaning in his world is highly recommended for Jewish readers who enjoy the cultural lure of satirical social examination.
Once upon a time there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease. He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song Hells Bells. Michael Yeller always believed louder is better until now because he was longer ablet to sing Search and Destroy by Iggy Pop and Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss anymore.
Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders throughout the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding, the steel guitar slaying, Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop CC Deville from Poison. Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah but he already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.
After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA but IT Directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and non-descript, low key bars on random, zero foot traffic streets, unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl once. Eventually, Michael moved back to NY and did digital ad sales for Citysearch and started to try open mike stand up comedy. When working for Citysearch he’d say on stage, “Citysearch is city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.” But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rock star on stage, because if his 1st joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggy back off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any new inspired direction of hilarity he choose.
At the Christmas party for CitySearch Michael sang his best rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting black out drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to Oh What A Feeling.
Knowing Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of Fallen Angel in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job, where his loud man disease could be neutralized, where it wouldn’t become such a career hindering liability and got a job in suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY selling state of the art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system all together. Michael would be selling noise cancelation headphones, “Yenta Silencers”, is what he’d call them specifically before sampling new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know Google fired 25 software engineers for sexual harassment? But software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”
But one day during a demo presentation for AC/DC Back In Black on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell Church bell clang to Hells Bells. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, losing all semblance of voice control now whatsoever?
Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most bad ass metal rock records of all time, which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally. Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse and Van Halen with divine powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard non-stop-all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kick ass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again. In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore but he was still able to sell his love of loud, metal music through his blogs, and also had the kick ass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.
Once upon a time, there was a family man, hop farmer, who gave the best foot massage in Upstate New York like his father before him, name Farmer Todd. He sang for his local church choir sounding like Neil Young and Al Green had a baby, who refused to sell his hops to West Coast Breweries, preferring to make IPA’s from his own locally sourced hops because of upstate New Yorker farmer, pride, represent, represent, represent. Farmer Todd always told his 5 sons, “The way to unlock the gene glow in a gal is to rub her feet like a magical genie lamp, which is the most direct passageway to her heart filled embrace of your slowed down metabolism and all your warts inside and out to.”
Farmer Todd like Ben Franklin believed good people, drank good beer, so he dedicated every day of his life, to making the finest IPA beer because just growing hops to sell them like another one dimensional hop peddler pusher man with nothing else to sell was boring and a not family business he could bequeath to his 5 gorgeous, hardworking, ultra-chiseled sons with as much innovative pride.
Every day before sunset over his hop stud farm, Farmer Todd would give his Yoga instructor wife Crystal a foot massage, which turned her into orgasmic mush every time, opening her up to the prospect of banging out more kids, to keep their hop stud farm open to tap for more non-stop business.
Until one day, 5 days before Halloween The Whino Witch of Croton Falls, ran through Farmer Todd’s Hop fields of green with her orange and pumpkin, foot rot fungus, which infected all the hop vines on his farm, wiping out any chance of their sole cash crop growing again because she got banned from a yoga class, when she used to be a famous winemaker in Ithaca, NY known for making Ice Wines because her feet grossed out the clientele, which his Yoga instructor wife, Crystal enforced. The Wino Witch of Croton Falls never got on her feet again until now.
Because of this widespread, accelerated, hop farm plagued, fungus foot pandemic caused by The Whino Of Witch of Croton Falls, Farmer Todd had no way to keep a roof over his family’s head, which included 5 boys all named after his favorite hops varieties being, Angus, Apollo, Atlas, Bravo and Flyer. So, during his morning run through the back trails of his former hop farm fantasy land, he’d took notice of a the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, flashing her naked, gross, purple, green and orange feet on a tree swing. She says, “Farmer Todd, did you teach your 5 sons to give foot massages with the same orgasmic conjuring technique you use on your bitch yoga instructor wife every day before sunset?” If so, you just need to tell your 5 stud sons to massage my discolored pumpkin size bunions, one for each day of the week during the week of Halloween and I’ll bring your hop farm roaring back to life again, in no time.”
Because of that Farmer Todd told his 5 sons to make the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, welcome in their hands, unless they wanted to starve to death or were willing to sell enough blood to buy an apple tree in the hope of turning that into a batch of hard cider to sell at the local Farmer’s Market, which was tad girly sweet for their collective tastes.
Because of that, each massage the five sons gave the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, helped ignite her glow gene inside, which made her feet return to a beautiful, inviting form again as her transformation from The Whino Witch of Croton Falls to the Fairy Hop Queen of Croton Falls became complete.
Later, Farmer Todd foots the bill for his 5 sons to open up their own hop brewery farms, knowing they’ll be able to keep growing toward profitability as long as they keep the Hop Fairy Queen’s feet happy during the hop farm footsie scare week of Halloween every year, when all of her sordid, past emerges, through a disgusting outgrowth of fungus and warts on her feet as punishment from the Tree Spirits of Lake Oswego for making her canoe sink into the water during one her drunken diatribes against the local Hop Head Indians and how their Buffalo Burgers are too bloody for her taste, in addition to being racist against Native American Indians for refusing to dry and cover her wet feet in Moccasins whenever she hopped out of the Waterfall for a midnight skinny dip, and for playing the ultimate Indian giver on Halloween. Who used to give away blue cheese to little Indians trick or treating to inject their Buffalo burgers with funkier, less gamy heft, only to demand they’d give her mini wheels of blue cheese back if they didn’t tickle her feet with their headdress feathers in return, while lying about being a half-breed, Indian calling herself, “Tickle Foot With Feathers.
The moral of the story is don’t be an Indian giver or you’ll be cursed with ugly feet, which will turn you into a cold, whino witch queen, scaring away any potential suitor from ever trying to soften your bitter, angry, nasty heart again.
Once upon a time, there was a family man, hop farmer, who gave the best foot massage in Upstate New York like his father before him, name Farmer Todd. He sang for his local church choir sounding like Neil Young and Al Green had baby, who refused to sell his hops to West Coast Breweries, preferring to make IPA’s from his own locally sourced hops because of upstate New Yorker farmer, pride, represent, represent, represent. Farmer’s Todd always told his 5 sons, “The way to unlock the gene glow in a gal is to rub her feet like a magical genie lamp, which is the most direct passageway to her heart filled embrace of your slowed down metabolism and all your warts inside and out to.”
Farmer Todd like Ben Franklin believed good people, drank good beer, so he dedicated every day of his life, to making the finest IPA beer because just growing hops to sell them like a pushy hop peddlers with nothing else to sell was boring and a not family business he could bequeath to his 5 gorgeous, hard working, ultra chiseled sons with as much innovative pride. Every day before sunset over his hop stud farm, Farmer Todd, would give his Yoga instructor wife Crystal a foot massage, which turned her into orgasmic mush every time, opening her up to the prospect of banging out more kids, to keep their hop stud farm open to tap for more non-stop business.
Until one day, 5 days before Halloween the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, ran through Farmer Todd’s Hop Fields with her green, orange and pumpkin, foot root, which infected all the hop vines on his farm, wiping out any chance of crop growing again because she got banned from a yoga class, when she used to be a famous winemaker in Ithaca, NY known for making Ice Wines because her feet grossed out the clientele, which is Yoga wife instructor wife, Crystal enforced. The Wino Witch of Croton Falls, never got on her feet again until now.
Because of this Farm rot, fungus pandemic caused by the Whino Of Witch of Croton Falls, Farmer Todd had no way to keep a roof over his family’s head, which included 5 boys all named after hops varieties, including Angus, Apollo, Atlas, Bravo and Flyer. So during his morning run through the back trails of his former hop farm fantasy, he’d took notice of a the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, flashing her naked, gross, purple, green and orange feet on a tree swing and says, “Farmer Todd, did you teach your 5 sons to give foot massages like the one you give your wife every day before sunset?” If so, you just need to tell your 5 stud sons to massage my discolored pumpkin size bunions, one for each day of the week during the week of Halloween and I’ll bring your hop farm roaring back to life again.”
Because of that Farmer Todd told his 5 sons to make the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, welcome in their hands, unless they wanted to starve to death or were willing to sell enough blood to buy an apple tree in the hope of turning that into a batch of hard cider to sell at the Farmer’s Market, which was tad girly sweet for their collective tastes.
Because of that, each massage the five sons give makes the Whino Watch of Croton Falls, helped ignite her glow gene inside, which made her feet return to a beautiful, inviting form again as her transformation from Whino Witch of Croton Falls to the Fairy Hop Queen of Croton Falls became complete.
Later, Farmer Todd foots the bill for his 5 sons to open up their own hop brewery farms, knowing they’ll be able to keep growing toward profitability as long as they keep the Hop Fairy Queen’s feet happy during week of the Halloween, when all of her sordid, past emerges, through a disgusting outgrowth of fungus and wart on her feet as punishment from the Tree Spirits of Lake Oswego for making her canoe sink into the water during one her drunken diatribes against the Indians and how their Buffalo Burgers are too bloody for her taste, in addition to being racist against Native American Indians for refusing to dry and cover her wet feet in Moccasins whenever she hopped out of the Waterfall for a midnight skinny dip, and for playing the ultimate Indian giver on Halloween. Who used to give away blue cheese to little Indians trick to inject their Buffalo burgers with funkier, less gamy heft, only to demand they’d give her mini wheels of blue cheese back for her tickling her feet feet with their headdress feathers, lying about being a half-breed, called, “Tickle Foot With Feathers.
The moral of the story is don’t be an Indian giver or you’ll be cursed with ugly feet, which will turn you into a cold, whino witch queen, scaring away any suitor from ever trying to soften your bitter, angry, nasty heart again.
Thank you WordPress peeps for your steady doses of emotive encouragement and sustained interest in my development of new material as I chip away at the stone to bang out more sheets of comedy gold.