Fussy About Fungi

Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.

For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.

But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”

No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”

The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight.  Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.

The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.

Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like the fucking help.  Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake,  I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”

Michael Kornbluth

Twice As Happy Pancakes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Twice As Happy Pancakes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Dr. Tearjerker

“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy?”, Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy 45-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie doc.” Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think your incapable of experiencing joy for others.” Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past 2 hours?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York and a Victorian Mansion in Mount Vernon, NY, Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground by the way and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself, that’s how I know motherfucker.” Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already and we just met. Look, I’m only hear because I just got remarried yet my kid from the previous marriage is already causing a strain in our marital relationship. All the melatonin gummies in the world, can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace mommy with or not. My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy happy movies like Rudy to and questions whether I really want to have a do over baby with her after all.” Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?” Matt says, “I don’t know doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit. I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless, if The Lord of The Rings franchise being huge for his career or not. I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint as a kid than helping me develop a half away decent hook shot or believable pump fake in the post. I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother instead. I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother, to realize she uses a nickname for me Scoops, for my younger brother to. If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, would you have issues crying at the end of Rudy to?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel to learn your mom uses the same nickname on younger brother? Matt he furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman, a nobody, an unwanted futon with bed bug bite marks after college. I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy doc, I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife. Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer, yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away since giving me a daughter because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life, when she’s barley around to help with my kid in the 1st place.  Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?” Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida, or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug, which saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess. Fuck radical empathy Doc. My mom’s default sour puss mode around my happiness spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east, after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish. Either you’re excited about your 1st born raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video or not.  I get it mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for 4 decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, yet somehow blames it on him being lactose intolerant. When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror to change your depraved ways, just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking, wish fulfillment at it’s finest. And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited after insisting, “I get a maid, which I can’t afford or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever. Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with, got it. All I know doc is my mother would never break into constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.” Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married? Matt says, “I love her doc but it’s not role to criticize my daughter so soon. 4 years down the road sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then. So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my 1st marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference really.”

Doc says, “Looks our time is up.” Matt replies, “So what movie magic do you have planned for me next week doc, Remember The Titans, Hoosiers perhaps?” Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper’s fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home waddling in drunken squalor prior before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you dad”? Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.” Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you piece of shit deplorable.”

Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the Furniture salesman from Nyack, which made him feel like a fluke, another vastly depreciated, average nobody to, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equal distributed encouraged love. Now, Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straight jacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once during outdoor play. Who spends all his days now in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face, chanting with increasing force, Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know, I’m not among the walking dead yet, ” Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”  

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Triggered Tearjerker

“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy?”, Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy 45-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie doc.” Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think your incapable of experiencing joy for others.” Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past 2 hours?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York and a Victorian Mansion in Mount Vernon, NY, Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground by the way and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself, that’s how I know motherfucker.” Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already and we just met. Look, I’m only hear because I just got remarried yet my kid from the previous marriage is already causing a strain in our marital relationship. All the melatonin gummies in the world, can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace mommy with or not. My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy happy movies like Rudy to and questions whether I really want to have a do over baby with her after all.” Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?” Matt says, “I don’t know doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit. I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless, if The Lord of The Rings franchise being huge for his career or not. I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint as a kid than helping me develop a half away decent hook shot or believable pump fake in the post. I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother instead. I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother, to realize she uses a nickname for me Scoops, for my younger brother to. If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, would you have issues crying at the end of Rudy to?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel to learn your mom uses the same nickname on younger brother? Matt he furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman, a nobody, an unwanted futon with bed bug bite marks after college. I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy doc, I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife. Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer, yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away since giving me a daughter because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life, when she’s barley around to help with my kid in the 1st place.  Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?” Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida, or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug, which saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess. Fuck radical empathy Doc. My mom’s default sour puss mode around my happiness spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east, after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish. Either you’re excited about your 1st born raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video or not.  I get it mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for 4 decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, yet somehow blames it on him being lactose intolerant. When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror to change your depraved ways, just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking, wish fulfillment at it’s finest. And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited after insisting, “I get a maid, which I can’t afford or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever. Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with, got it. All I know doc is my mother would never break into constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.” Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married? Matt says, “I love her doc but it’s not role to criticize my daughter so soon. 4 years down the road sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then. So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my 1st marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference really.”

Doc says, “Looks our time is up.” Matt replies, “So what movie magic do you have planned for me next week doc, Remember The Titans, Hoosiers perhaps?” Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper’s fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home waddling in drunken squalor prior before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you dad”? Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.” Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you piece of shit deplorable.”

Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the Furniture salesman from Nyack, which made him feel like a fluke, another vastly depreciated, average nobody to, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equal distributed encouraged love. Now, Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straight jacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once during outdoor play. Who spends all his days now in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face, chanting with increasing force, Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know, I’m not among the walking dead yet, ” Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”  

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Funnier Than Laughing Gas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Funnier Than Laughing Gas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

In Leo We Trust

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

In Leo We Trust

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Pause Daddy

     

“Welcome to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, What Gen X Dads understand, Dad friendly entertainment for you and me. I’m your host Michael Kornbluth. Controlling our kids with comedy, can make our kids great again. My 3 fuss free kids most of the time, are living proof of it. I’ve been a Stay-At-Home Comedian on and off for a decade now, although my dad is more old school and prefers expression Sheltered Bum. Whenever, I’m out with my 3 kids without mommy, I hear, “You’ve got your hands full.” I’ll say, “If any of my books ever become best sellers and my wife agrees to open marriage with Susan Sarandon, then, my hands will be full.” I stopped smoking weed until I thought my daughter was asleep already because I felt like a moron answering her super deep questions on it the sticky icky stuff after I thought she was asleep already. She’d ask, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? “I said, God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.” Daughter says “Real convincing Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.”

Michael Kornbluth, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and proud father of the 3 most hilariously, sweet, snuggle shine bundles of sunshine known to mankind adds, “Today, on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, we have a guest, which is a rare occasion since the launch of my podcast 4 years ago, in my pursuit to become the paid star voice behind remote work revolution, before China could hog up all the credit for forcing Corporate America to adjust to a remote work way of life to please our commie controlled corporate masters till our last dying breath. During my pilot episode, I interviewed a UX Designer who worked for Apple. I know you’re bored out of your mind already, unless he was the guy Steve Job pumped for the casual Grandma jean look for all it was worth. My standup performer instinct constantly interjected, the moment I sensed my guest lose the audience, which happened automatically, whenever I allowed him drone out another colorless, brain reaching a screeching halt reply, so I swore off every doing another interview on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast ever again, especially knowing Do It All Dads who want to work from home based on free will alone, in the impassioned pursuit to make their kids the center of the universe instead of the reverse, don’t grow on freaking Bonsai trees either. But I decided to make an exception for our guest Richard Lankfear from Plano, Texas, who is a retired Drug Counselor and author of a new book, called, Addiction, a mind-expanding warning drug abuse symptoms guide, so parents can see if their kids are a frantic, manifestation of their crazy hick degenerate gene, with zero concept of moderation in real time or not. Raising drug free children is important to me because being a druggy dependent is the opposite of feeling free. Cream lives; holla thank you very much. Plus, how can our kids get excited about the pursuit of happiness at home or at school if getting high off their loved ones or from a job well done isn’t enough at least until their mid-twenties? Richard enacts tremendous good from his lifetime service as a Drug Counselor by making a drug abuse warning guide for parents today unaware of what constitutes drug forming behavior under their alleged, emotionally present watch. The chilling, sobering stats in the book such as fentanyl being 100 times more powerful than morphine, speak for themselves and need to be illuminated with unflinching detail knowing either blissful ignorance, dismissive sugarcoating or mere whitewashing of the opioid epidemic throughout the US as being a mere “white trash ” problem, can become the worst fatal mistake a parent today can make, especially knowing how Chinese made fentanyl snuck in through our Mexican border to NPR, has killed more crackers in this country than Lena Dunham kicking it with Taylor Swift on Instagram. The recurring theme in Richard’s books, The Addicted Child, is parents becoming reactive fire fighters, multiple rehab stints later, versus the ideal of becoming proactive troubleshooters before such residual damage has been done, which some families never truly recover from. This book will help more families spot drug habit forming warning signs by offering actionable insight to prevent their kids from facing such a life crippling fate. More importantly, the vast breakdown of all types of drug abuse included in the book, will give parents the confidence and sense of surging urgency to have the drugs will kill your braincells talk with their kids on their still developing minds, before those rapidly deepening drug forming habits become that much harder to break. Richard on the side of the Skype podcast interview is red and flustered in the face, flabbergasted over how Do It All Dad Year Podcast, has made zero effort to give his guest a smidgen of breathing room to promote his book 7 minutes into the broadcast already. If only had Richard knew of Do It All Dad’s code work trick, his 3 kids used whenever he went on one of his impassioned rants in one seamless endless breath, with zero auditory relief in sight as his kids long forgot what cool interesting idea, or question to express already, which was this, “Pause Daddy”, as they pointed an imaginary remote directly at him and say, “Pause Daddy”, with warm hearted smiled stretchy cheer because it was funny and it actually shut their dad the fuck up for change on Adderall or off.  

Stay At Home Comedian rolls on adding, “Let’s focus on our guest now Richard, who didn’t spend any quality time emoting about the all-star book review I just read for you on Amazon about his book The Addicted Child, which was more than generous considering what a snooze the book was as a whole. So, Richard, I just read another book by Lou Gramm, the former leader signer howler legend from Foreigner, known for co-writing and belting out endless classic rock staple hits such as Juke Box Hero, Double Vision, Long, Long, Long Way From Home, being my personal favorites among the pack. In his highly readable book in comparison to your one, he talks about getting sober and the growing frustration of not even being able to partake in lighting a doobie after killing at freaking Solider Field on the tour party bus soon afterwards, when everybody else from the band now in their early forties still is. Like the roadie guy says in the movie Rockstar with Mark Wahlberg, “Don’t be half ass about it, live out the Rock Star dream for those who can’t or something close to that.  Also, there’s a standup comedian whose no longer with us, the late great, Greg Geraldo, who said drug use should be encouraged when in your forties more so than your twenties especially when you learn during a parent teacher conference, “That your son is a half a tard.” So, my question for Richard, is “What’s an acceptable form of addiction in your book?” “Richard says, I wish I had stage light to shine on you, 1000 run on sentences ago.”  Do It All Dad Year Podcast host fires back with, “So, all the Irish thugs who used to beat up nice Jewish kids in the Bronx, calling them Christ Killers blah, blah.  Are they what you’d call a special kid of drunk prick later in life or do you think the concept of a so called happy drunk, doesn’t apply to any Irish alcoholics, because their rosy noses give off the impression, they’re really just more superficial cheery on the surface than the rest? And if the Irish are the best drunk poets, then whatever happened from the Irish Beastie Boys in the Jump Around Video? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t thinking being a drunk prick is a strictly an Irish disease. For me, I think a fellow member of my tribe, Michel Rappaport, still sounds like he’s auditioning for the role of Wigger Number 3 asshole In the Jump Around Video.  Richard says, “Are you going to ask any of the questions I gave you?” Do It All Dad Year Podcast Host Michael replies, “Why are parents so afraid to have honest conversations about drugs through their record collections with their kids Richard? What makes these parents so apprehensive to point out the dangers of doing shitty Chinese made coke, with Hunter Biden, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall? Do you feel sketchy degenerate behavior is born, enabled, or all the above? In the movie, Requiem, for a Dream, Jared Leto is missing a freaking arm at the end, which is a powerful cautionary message to nail home on par with reading your kids Allen Ginsburg’s Howl next time, they claim to not scary easily, describing all the beautiful angels of light’s mind, ravaged by drugs, reducing to eating stray cats throughout the streets of San Francisco. Why didn’t you share such hardcore scare tactics tips in your book, for parents to use on their kids, so they wouldn’t have to spend a mini fortune, and take out a new home equity loan on the house to afford your overrated counseling services? “

Now, all of Michael’s 3 kids come bursting in the room to give their Dear Dada a hug after coming back from school, anxious to tell him about their day. In unison, they all point an imaginary remote at their Stay-At-Home Comedian Dad and say, “Pause Daddy.” Richard throws up his hands in defeated disgust on the Skype Window screen and yells, “That’s it Pause Daddy, is the magic word to shut this loudmouth, obnoxious Jew up already.” Stay At Home Comedian Dad replies, “When your opinions are deemed worthy enough to interrupt my killer flow, I’ll let you know, jerkoff. Never forget, controlling our kids with comedy, can make our kids great again. My 3 fuss free kids most of the time are living proof of it.”

The End