The Boob Doctor

Samuel was so fond of boob; he became a Boob Doctor one day. Growing up, he’d suck mama’s boobs dry after he turned his parent’s bed into a 24/7 open milk bar. One time, it got weird because his big sister was in his parent’s bed when he said, “Booby”, only for his sister to lift her shirt up and say, “Sike, April Fools Day Samuel”, before pulling her nightie shirt immediately back down, before her younger brother could punch her nipple dots into bruised ones. Big sister was only 9, so she had no lumbering boobs, weighing down her structurally damaged vertebrae from massive overextension already, although if she did opt to get breast reduction surgery when she got older, for some selfish, stupid reason like mild back pain discomfort from bending over on clay courts in Florida in Palm Beach from playing tennis too long, chances are, it wouldn’t be a huge load off her shoulders if she filled out on top even less than mama did.

Baby Samuel would hold up one of his sister’s naked Barbies on occasion and ask his Dada, “Do you think she’s hot Dada?” And Daddy would say, “By southern belle standards, I’d give her a 7.3, although if she lived in the East Village of Manhattan these days, I’d give her a solid 9, because she’d be taller than most of the munchkin gals off off Saint Marks who you could never mount standing up, unless you held them up high up against the wall, which your Do It All Dad is too putzy to pull off, if you really need to know.” Baby Samuel was always fascinated with his Dada’s human anatomy book, which he got so his kids would have an easier time coming up with funny sounding body parts whenever they played Mad Libs, anus hole, being a made-up body part name, that became their go to personal favorite. Baby Samuel always wanted his Daddy to show him where he come from in mama’s vagina, as he constantly implored his dear Dada, “Show me where I used to live in mama’s vagina, back in the day, when I used to sip booby milk through her umbilical cord.”

Now, Baby Samuel is The Boob Doctor with a big pimping plastic surgery office in Miami Beach about to consult a 39-year-old exotic dancer, Buttercup, about a potential breast reduction surgery. Buttercup wears a tight white sweater and cheap sunglasses to her appointment with The Boob Doctor as she examines various framed degrees on the wall before The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters. The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters his office and Buttercup’s nipples begin to jingle with nervous trepidation. Dr. Kornbluth taps her shoulder ever so gently, which sends shivers of titillating tingles up and down her spine like never before, before he get’s comfortable in his desk chair to deliver his breast reduction surgery consultation.  Dr. Kornbluth says, “So, my tennis partner Dr. Ken says, “He doesn’t want you dancing at Senior Tatas in South Beach anymore.” Buttercup says, “He’s very possessive of my glittery busty beauties, but that’s not why I’m here Dr. Kornbluth.  You see I read on the Internet how breast reduction surgery causes scars, and I was wondering why any woman would be willing to risk damaging their natural beauties the way God intended them to be.  Do you ever feel like Dr. Frankenstein for playing the role of Nip Tuck God, by picking off where he left off? I was double major in philosophy and English at the University of Florida, in case you’re wondering.” Dr. Kornbluth says, “I’m confused Buttercup. I thought you came here for a breast reduction surgery consultation but it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already. I’m still getting paid by the hour, so I don’t give a shit, especially knowing how I get to glance at your luscious lobes of perfection jiggle with anticipation in my presence. I have that impact on all my female patients, except the hardcore dikes, but they normally have nothing to flaunt and hide under their natty looking, dress sweaters for a reason.” Buttercup says, “I do play plenty of tennis in my downtime with Dr. Ken and I have noticed a slight strain on my back as of late Dr. Kornbluth. Plus, I own a hot Pink Range Rover, my own boat and a condo with high ceilings and fancy fuck bags made of shaggy futon in the fancy arts district of Miami, so I’ve gotten plenty of ROI out of my gorgeous gals on top already. I just want to know what love feels like without them being the centerpiece, force field, which dominates every man’s universe.” Dr. Kornbluth says “Like Kayne West says, one good girl is worth a thousand bitches, with depleted tits on top making them half the woman they used to be, BAM.” Buttercup says, “You mangled that Kayne West line a bit Doc, but I heard your message loud and clear.” Buttercup stands up erect, pulls down her cheap sunglasses ever so slightly and says, “I wouldn’t trade in your posh Miami Beach office for a shit box in Park Slope, Brooklyn either Doc. New York is so yesterday’s news.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Boob Doctor

Samuel was so fond of boob; he became a Boob Doctor one day. Growing up, he’d suck mama’s boobs dry after he turned his parent’s bed into a 24/7 open milk bar. One time, it got weird because his big sister was in his parent’s bed when he said, “Booby”, only for his sister to lift her shirt up and say, “Sike, April Fools Day Samuel”, before pulling her nightie shirt immediately back down, before her younger brother could punch her nipple dots into bruised ones. Big sister was only 9, so she had no lumbering boobs, weighing down her structurally damaged vertebrae from massive overextension already, although if she did opt to get breast reduction surgery when she got older, for some selfish, stupid reason like mild back pain discomfort from bending over on clay courts in Florida in Palm Beach from playing tennis too long, chances are, it wouldn’t be a huge load off her shoulders if she filled out on top even less than mama did.

Baby Samuel would hold up one of his sister’s naked Barbies on occasion and ask his Dada, “Do you think she’s hot Dada?” And Daddy would say, “By southern belle standards, I’d give her a 7.3, although if she lived in the East Village of Manhattan these days, I’d give her a solid 9, because she’d be taller than most of the munchkin gals off off Saint Marks who you could never mount standing up, unless you held them up high up against the wall, which your Do It All Dad is too putzy to pull off, if you really need to know.” Baby Samuel was always fascinated with his Dada’s human anatomy book, which he got so his kids would have an easier time coming up with funny sounding body parts whenever they played Mad Libs, anus hole, being a made-up body part name, that became their go to personal favorite. Baby Samuel always wanted his Daddy to show him where he come from in mama’s vagina, as he constantly implored his dear Dada, “Show me where I used to live in mama’s vagina, back in the day, when I used to sip booby milk through her umbilical cord.”

Now, Baby Samuel is The Boob Doctor with a big pimping plastic surgery office in Miami Beach about to consult a 39-year-old exotic dancer, Buttercup, about a potential breast reduction surgery. Buttercup wears a tight white sweater and cheap sunglasses to her appointment with The Boob Doctor as she examines various framed degrees on the wall before The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters. The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters his office and Buttercup’s nipples begin to jingle with nervous trepidation. Dr. Kornbluth taps her shoulder ever so gently, which sends shivers of titillating tingles up and down her spine like never before, before he get’s comfortable in his desk chair to deliver his breast reduction surgery consultation.  Dr. Kornbluth says, “So, my tennis partner Dr. Ken says, “He doesn’t want you dancing at Senior Tatas in South Beach anymore.” Buttercup says, “He’s very possessive of my glittery busty beauties, but that’s not why I’m here Dr. Kornbluth.  You see I read on the Internet how breast reduction surgery causes scars, and I was wondering why any woman would be willing to risk damaging their natural beauties the way God intended them to be.  Do you ever feel like Dr. Frankenstein for playing the role of Nip Tuck God, by picking off where he left off? I was double major in philosophy and English at the University of Florida, in case you’re wondering.” Dr. Kornbluth says, “I’m confused Buttercup. I thought you came here for a breast reduction surgery consultation but it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already. I’m still getting paid by the hour, so I don’t give a shit, especially knowing how I get to glance at your luscious lobes of perfection jiggle with anticipation in my presence. I have that impact on all my female patients, except the hardcore dikes, but they normally have nothing to flaunt and hide under their natty looking, dress sweaters for a reason.” Buttercup says, “I do play plenty of tennis in my downtime with Dr. Ken and I have noticed a slight strain on my back as of late Dr. Kornbluth. Plus, I own a hot Pink Range Rover, my own boat and a condo with high ceilings and fancy fuck bags made of shaggy futon in the fancy arts district of Miami, so I’ve gotten plenty of ROI out of my gorgeous gals on top already. I just want to know what love feels like without them being the centerpiece, force field, which dominates every man’s universe.” Dr. Kornbluth says “Like Kayne West says, one good girl is worth a thousand bitches, with depleted tits on top making them half the woman they used to be, BAM.” Buttercup says, “You mangled that Kayne West line a bit Doc, but I heard your message loud and clear.” Buttercup stands up erect, pulls down her cheap sunglasses ever so slightly and says, “I wouldn’t trade in your posh Miami Beach office for a shit box in Park Slope, Brooklyn either Doc. New York is so yesterday’s news.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Mixed Up Mozzarella Man

Pizza isn’t everybody’s favorite food because the universe loves melted Gouda. Nobody today, is waiting online to inhale entire pizza pies drenched in smoked cheeses like gouda, unless you’re a hardcore Dutch dude from Amsterdam in lower Manhattan on holiday, because working Europeans get 5 weeks of a paid vacation and have nothing better to do than try the new Gastro pub in town, Crackers and Brews, which offers state of the art mini pizza’s on in-house made crackers, to leave more room inside for perpetual IPA poundage soon after. Mozzarella will always be the most popular cheese in New York, because you’re not melting sharp Vermont cheddar cheese on a Veal Parm hero in NOHO either. Mozzarella is the king of NY cool dominance like Laurence Fishburne and Westley Snipes in New Jack all wrapped up into one. Am I being too talky, again boss?” Boss says, “There’s no practicing schtick in the dressed-up Mozzarella hawking game off St. Marks place, especially knowing you can practice your routine at a plethora of open mikes throughout the east village and Brooklyn, that ANTIFA hasn’t planned to take over yet in your own spare, non-billable time, where you can continue to make jack shit, spewing semi-coherent streams of thought, that never amount to as much hilarity mountaintops as you think.” Talking Mozzarella Stick says, “Alright boss, I’ll stick to the script and only ask girls who pass me by, “Have you ever been sticked by Big Buster before? Because you know I have but his name was Dave from Long Island, not Big Buster, which reminds me of a fat white rapper who had no role models to emulate really. Beastie Boys always rocked skinny, jeans dragging off their ankles and shit. Vanilla Ice always opted for the flaptastic, fly guy silk sweats. Anthrax was the backup thrash metal band for Public Enemy on Bring The Noise and they’re scrappy skinny yet muscular metal white boys from Queens, the former breeding ground for Dee Sider from Twisted Sister, Nasty Nas, Black Sheep, 3rd Bass. I know the list is a greatest hits one that keeps you guessing whose even bigger on the list next. Art Garfunkel, the angelic sounding Jew and Paul Simon both hail from Queens, which stings the Republican gentile who’s jealous of creatively successful Jews, who didn’t take the Bernie Madoff route, I totally get it. But to round out the list of all-time great artists from Queens, you also have to include the consistently funny and transcendent Cyndy Lauper while also giving a loving, gushing shout out in honor of  showrunner and comedic writer, ball busting great, Doug Ellen behind Entourage, who made the legendary show on HBO infinitely cooler than Wahlberg’s producer name credits it on it. Doug Ellen is the funnier, cooler, version of John Favreau, until he started to produce, direct and write every episode it seems for the first season of Mandalorian, asshole. Look, I think John Favreau deserves a shot to reimagine Boba Fett’s backstory for Disney just for teaming up with Vince again on Made alone, even more than Richard Linklater for making Dazed and Confused the pitch perfect film to come out my senior year in high school among my old school pinko brethren buds of old. But still, asshole, if you’re creatively competitive at all, knowing John Favreau directed Elf, all the Iron Man’s and wasn’t too shabby in Rudy or PCU either. ” The big boss in charge of founding and running Mozzarella Man, says to his mouthy, unknown, unrepresented wannabe standup comedy star, “If you love John Favreau so much, then write your screenplay about being Vince Vaughn’s non-successful twin brother, because you look like him in a pre-good living, insomniac fashion and leave me out of it already.” Michael Kornbluth