My Son Is Going To Trade School

I hate run-on sentence critics. It’s not my fault your slow and can’t keep up with my gender fluid flow.

Critical Race Theory is bullshit. Guaranteed money in the NBA, regardless of injury, is so oppressive.

The Muslim Sisterhood in congress don’t have an issue amplifying their voices in America either Jack.

Howard Beal was killed in the movie Network over lousy ratings. CNN’s worst nightmare come true.

British accents are unwelcome intrusive like Boris Johnson’s wife staring in my general direction.

Does Triple AAA offer ANTIFA roadblock assistance because the Proud Boys will do it free of charge?

Night screams mean you care about living. Or else you wouldn’t be afraid of dying before making it.

New York will come back, but everybody has left, except Free Palestine protestors and The Halal Guys.

Forcing kids to wear muzzles is wrong. Boris Johnson’s wife at the G-7 summit, not so much.

Jill Biden is a tacky, small town ho. Biden wears her panty hose when he can’t find his mask.

Masks are the new condoms only because I can’t cum in my wife wearing one either. 

99 percent of people survive COVID yet Fuck Face Fauci, AKA, Dr. Gnocchi pushed endless lockdowns and triple masking of our kids while acting as if COVID depresses your immune system more than entry into the Dallas Buyers Club.

Hydroxychloroquine can increase your survival rate by 200 percent. What’s up with that study Doc?

Still, Dr. Fauci used his power to block the use of it. He’s Dr. Kevorkian in reverse.

Biden is donating thousands of free COVID vaccines to Africa like a poor man’s Bill Gates who can’t code for shit either.

Sanctuary cities is encouraged lawlessness on crack.

1 kid only means, your diaphragm is for walls after all.

I’m against unlimited immigration because I’m not a proud member of the rapist enablement party.

If calling Baby Face Omar, a Jihad loving runt cunt, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with that.

Where were you when Fox stopped counting the ballots? Thanking God JFK didn’t die for nothing. Yeah, me to.

IBM made technology to identify Jews for Nazis. Watson Supercomputer says, “No Sherlock.”

My mom texts me Happy Father’s Day on the wrong day. Her happiness for me knows no bounds.

Boris Johnson’s wife, woof, woof needs water breaks, not my son 2 minutes into basketball practice.

My wife wants me to get COVID to say, “You should’ve worn a mask going down on MAGA mom.”

Trump Won signs at MLB is my new favorite America pastime, after telling Lebron to go woke himself.

The Mueller Report court hearing proved what again? Mueller parts his hair with gritty, elbow grease.

Did Drago pop out of your voting booth and demand, “Vote Trump or I’ll break you.”

When the Statue of Liberty went dark. I bet DeBalsio forgot to pay the Con Ed Bill on time again.

I hate the term helping others unless you’re applying for a job that says help wanted.

Maintaining relationships is overrated among those who think Mr. Groper won by a hair alone.

My son is going to trade school to become a landscape artist. Because NYC will have to start from Ground Zero at this rate. Or he could become a furniture designer within his own private studio and avoid charges of sexual harassment because he’ll design his own state of the art safe space for jerking off. Or he could become programmer and work remote unlike those software engineers who were charged with sexual harassment pre-COVID, despite them leaving the impression that they were too busy banging out new code to hit on girls anyway. Plus, I thought only ugly girls went to coding boot camp. Also, don’t programmers wear those yenta breath noise canceling headphones at work for a reason. Last, the typical Pearl script command isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”

My daughter’s 4th grade teacher just made her classroom writer tutor. Parenting matters to.

Michael Kornbluth

The Manhattan Jerkoff Project

If you want to teach your kids about masturbation, send your kids to Dalton prep school for 50 grand a year on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. They’re teaching kids about masturbation early as 1st grade, imparting liberty preserving lessons like jerking off being our last safety rail left kids.

The question is, assuming Dad is beneath teaching his kid about the importance of jerking off to avoid disease and charges of rape with due process being deader in our country than Mia Farrow’s judge of character. Where would you prefer your kids to learn about masturbation? At sleepaway camp with your kid’s camp counselor or at school from a professor who teaches porn literacy at Columbia College? Porn literacy, do the parental controls at Dalton prep ensure the porn categories on their laptops are only visible in Latin?   Forcing our kids to read porn categories in Latin, is one way to bring dead languages back to life in no time. It also ensures Dalton kids won’t be accused of Xenophobia for refusing to take a class trip to Vatican because they know what giving communion in the dark means in Latin. The main reason Dalton is teaching kids about masturbation and only allowing them to surf porn written in Latin, is because some catholic donor wants to make their Latin club great again. So his son can sprinkle his debates with more highbrow nicknames than Trump could ever belch out on Twitter like BAT SHIT CRAZY COVIDITUS PELOSI. Holla, thank you very much.

The teacher at Dalton claims the masturbations lessons in the animation video were misinterpreted. Because jerking off videos like Topless Tudors are so ambiguous.

In the masturbation video animated kids discuss how touching themselves, makes it point in the air. “So, Johnny, you ever touch yourself to Dora and feel the need to cover it with multiple backpacks? Holla, thank you very much.

Parents who send their kid to Dalton claim to be enraged over their kids being show masturbation videos in the 1st grade, but they want to remain anonymous, refusing to come out on Tucker Carlson out of fear of being kicked off Facebook or else they’d lose all showing off privileges.

Aren’t the parents who send their kids to Dalton high powered lawyers, hedge fund managers and plastic surgeons for trans teens reared on Lou Reed records, considered less disposable employees than the rest, assuming they shit in MAGA hats on company retreats in the Bahamas? And how does speaking out publicly against Dalton’s teachers sexualizing their kids age of innocence get somebody fired from a hedge fund in Connecticut bringing in 4 billion a year? Does office security yank you out of the executive corporate john, on the top floor, only to sing, “You don’t come around here no more.” Tom Petty lives, holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Wheels Of Jew Hate Burning

This is my 9-year-old daughter playing marriage counselor again. Enough daddy, mama got your point mid breath. Holla, thank you very much.

My wife is pushing me to see a therapist for my anger management issues. I suggested primal scream therapy. Wife says, “Don’t you do that on your podcast already?” I say, “How would you know? You’re only 460 episodes behind babe. Never mind your complete lack of interest in the 7 books I’ve written since our lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years.” Holla, thank you very much.  

Wife insists our 3 child Samuel, gets bored whenever he spends too much with her. I always knew he was a quick learner.

My son Samuel was bound to woo. He stops traffic at the Stop and Shop even after the prime rib sample station has closed. Random Italian grandmas consistently bum rush the kid and say, “You’re gorgeous. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” I’ll reply, “If James Woods had this face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

All my fights with my wife revolve around me not making money off my comedy yet. Since I got kicked off Twitter, I can’t even write off a joke about the Chinese resisting Wuhan lab investigations more than Aquafresh as a charitable donation anymore. Holla, thank you very much.

Imagine John Lennon resenting Paul McCartney for shaming him into becoming a stay-at-home dad against his will. Paul McCartney did write Hey Jude in honor of John Lennon’s neglected son Julian, who Lennon didn’t spend much time with during the rise of Beatlemania.  2 seconds into a leisurely baby stroll through Central Park West with his 2nd kid Sean, John Lennon yells up at the sky, “Choke on a fucking Cucumber Scone Paul.  Playing the role of stay-at-home dad, is no walk in the park mate. Even primal scream therapy has its limitations, like trying to snuggle off bad acid with Yoko whenever Dr. Leary drops by with more CIA made ACID again.” Holla, Thank you very much.

The Left says there is a rise in anti-Semitism and Islamophobia.  Arabs chanting “Hitler was right” and “Allah is great” while beating up pushover Jews in the streets of New York, London, and Los Angeles, with the blunt ends of Palestinian flag poles while the cops do shit to protect them, doesn’t mirror the act of extending an olive branch in the hopes of giving peace another chance either. I don’t see these sparks of divinity inspiring observant Jews to skip Shabbat dinner at home in favor of going to a new oxygen bar opening in Astoria once the mask mandate is cleared in NY either.

Palestinians attacking Jews in the subway, asking random New Yorkers who’s Jewish, so they could beat the shit of them with the ends of Palestinian flag poles doesn’t inspire me to try out that authentic shawarma stand in Astoria, despite the elite Yelper claiming, “It’s worth getting your skull cap crushed into your cranium for it.” The elite yelper throws in a warning advisory label in her review to and says, “Just don’t call random Palestinians attacking Jews in broad daylight, Islamic supremacists, that’s a big no go zone area in Allah’s book. Bill Maher would concur. Because he knows Israel will never achieve a 2-state solution with Palestine if Hamas keeps fucking.” Holla, thank you very much.

I’m afraid to reveal the totality of my Mezuzah necklace on the subways in NY these days. That doesn’t make me Islamophobic. It just means I’m scared of getting pushed on to the subway track and having my white man’s disease preventing me from jumping back up to the subway platform in a NY minute in the nick of time. I can’t even do one legitimate pull up if my Do It All Dad Tree Trunk was riding on it. But I’m supposed to be overly confident in adrenaline alone to catapult me high enough to grab on to the subway platform before pulling myself up to safety like the Jewish Stallone in Cliffhanger? Yeah, and Rashida Talib is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

Imagine being surrounded by a bunch of crazed Palestinian nationalists on the subway, demanding for you to tell them if you’re Jewish, without having to prove it by whipping out your business card from Goldman Sachs 1st.

Equity research analyst David Rosenbluth from Short Hills, New Jersey tenses immediately and says, “Jewish, no, of course not. Look, under my arm, I still read the New York Times. I don’t even know how many zeros are in a trillion. I count with my fingers for simple arithmetic, which your people invented from what I’ve read in the Atlantic, Mazel Tov. Oh vey! Please don’t kill me. I’ll block Mark Ruffalo on Twitter. Israel is guilty of genocide, not Mao, Stalin or Pol Pot. I voted for Obama twice. I think Farsi is the most beautiful sound in the universe to. And Obama loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Gassing all his nuke deal critics would be a gas. Palestinian nationalist says, “You’re too funny for a WASP. Samir, chop his fucking head off. So we can jump for joy like it’s 9/11 again already. And I thought David Lee Roth was a long-winded Jew.”

This is Mark Ruffalo apologizing to Jon Stewart about accusing Israel of genocide. Mark Ruffalo calls. “Hey, Jon, it’s Mark. Sorry about accusing Israel of genocide despite them giving Hamas plenty of advance warning to get their kids the fuck out of dodge before they strike back again and again. Normally, genocidal maniacs like Mao prefer to starve millions to death. And Jews don’t like to blow through money if they can avoid it.” Jon Stewart says, “Don’t sweat it, Mark. I don’t care if you repeat old school Farrakhan talking points like the mulatto version of Public Enemy. Nor do I care if Palestinians get green with envy about the Jews controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. I let Trever Noah reveal what partisan hacks my Emmy winning writers have become by siding with ANTIFA and BLM to silence any form of speech that paints them or their enablers in the White House and establishment media as the fascist, racist terrorist enablers that they are, regardless of how much CNN orders Kamal Bell to pontificate otherwise like a schlumpy, unfunny Paul Mooney for hire. I also didn’t press Obama on my show to do a better job of selling his time out deal with Iran, which had less legs than Lieutenant Dan. So, what difference does it make?” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Reimagining Cuomo Book Titles

Did you know Jared Kushner talked Dad out of Motley Crue playing at his inauguration because he insisted Tommy Lee looked too Alt-Rightish. Later he adds, “And my Hebrew Hammer can’t compete Dad.” Holla, thank you very much.

A leadership book by Cuomo carries less impactful weight than a Stacy Abrams romance novel, especially after she ditches the fat suit for a parachute jumper on casual Friday. Holla, thank you very much.

Knowing how New York State boasted the highest death rate of any US state, largely due to Cuomo’s policy of forcing sick old patients with COVID to shack up with other sick old New Yorkers older than Yiddish, to die, cursing the Italian Reptilian inside against their dying of the light, it’s time to reimagine new book titles for the thug in Armani, don’t you think? If Cuomo’s lucky, he can win another Emmy with a TV show on Netflix in his honor based on these killer, headline hooker titles alone. Let the alt righting book title reimagining being.

  1. That slut Blanch from the Golden Girls was going to die from a urinary track infection anyway. Wait a minute, in Florida she’d still be alive to suck a golf ball through a garden hose for another day, my bad.
  2. Ben Stiller thinks I’d play a convincing mob boss in a remake of the Goonies because I look like Mama Fratelli and the Thing had a baby. Wait a minute, who wrote this shit for me, Joan Rivers. I thought that annoying, Jew bitch was six feet under already for insisting Michelle Obama let it flop around on Ellen like she he don’t care. Joan lives. Holla, thank you very much.
  3. Trump’s shipped in hospital beds were just for show. Who cares if they got less touches than a bible at a bathhouse colony in Provincetown?
  4. I got Chris Rock to do a mask up PSA in my honor despite President Trump helping push prison reform to give his people new leases on life. I just gave BLM more rope to hang themselves with within the court of a public opinion.
  5. I destroyed the greatest city in the world in 14 months flat. What have you done with your life, besides wish the big, bad blond wolf could give me a nipple twister under the comment section on the Gateway Pundit?
  6. Born to Kill like Anthony Gnocchi.
  7. Vince Lombardi Lives
  8. Thugs in Armani Matter
  9. Broadway Blue Balls
  10. Andrew Black Eyes
  11. Destructive Mook Knows Best
  12. No, I Won’t Jump Off My Own Bridge.
  13. Reckless Endangerment Is Good
  14. Hijacking Hydroxychloroquine. Cuomo confiscated the entire supply in NY for his own personal stash and banned Doctors from prescribing it because the Italian Reptilian Inside had a surplus of body bags to fill, never mind.
  15. How to Kill Without Throwing Granny Off The Train
  16. From Good Too Imprisoned for Highly Avoidable Crimes Against Humanity.
  17. The Ponzi Push of Death
  18. The Art of Getting Away With Granny Choking On Her Pasta Fazool, metaphorically speaking.
  19. Too Big for Late Term Abortion
  20. Why I’m Smarter Than Tony Soprano
  21. Eating Meatballs Alone On Death Row
  22. The Hit Man’s Dilemma Around Real Made Men Tough Guys
  23. How to Get Banned From Rao’s For Life
  24. Dysfunctional Democrats Always Win Last

Michael Kornbluth

Serbian Big Man Mattering More

The robot at Stop and Shop is scary. I tell my son, “Don’t make fun of Lebron or he’ll report you to China.” Holla, thank you very much.

I don’t think Lebron ever got the Trump voiced GPS system. On your left is Mohegan Sun, Elizabeth Warren’s home away from home.

Shocked Lebron thinks Steph Curry should win the MVP over the Serbian big man averaging 26.4 points per game in addition to 10 plus boards and eight assists per game for Denver, almost pulling off an Oscar Robinson triple double average all season long. It’s a good thing Nikola Jokic never told a reporter during All-Star weekend, All Lives Matters, is the new n word. Or else we’d really have to really hear what terrorist siding black supremacists in the NBA really think, Kyrie Irving included. They don’t have a statue of him in China yet, do they? Holla, thank you very much.



Kyrie Irving’s ball handling skills have no equal. Too bad Kyrie has zero balls when it comes to defending the real victims of unjustified hate like Israeli kids kidnapped and killed in death tunnels by you know who. But it takes real balls to use big words like “dehumanize” to sound like Lebron 2.0, jerkoff. Also, I thought you never talk to journalists unless the questions are received in advance like Obama’s gym socket puppet. But now you care about the welfare of Palestinian terrorists in charge, hellbent on wiping Israel off the planet. I wonder why.

If I can’t get a lit agent for my book The Koshertarian Comedian or The Great American Jew Novel or from Waste Height, Really Short Stories, I’m going skip declaring bankruptcy. I’ll just take up fentanyl like George Floyd and stick up a pregnant woman with a fake news gun to score some counterfeit bills to buy some smokes at 711 before resisting arrest from the cops in hot pursuit, only to die from cardiac arrest, knowing at least then, Kyrie Irving would pay off the mortgage on my family’s house while Lebron could pay for my kids’ college on the down low. Holla, thank you very much.

It’s hard to keep your mouth shut when you spot a middle-aged white woman sporting a tie dye shirt that says Biden and Harris on it, days after the current administration in charge freed up 200 million for Hamas to finance a rocket launch party into Israel’s backyard for old time’s sake. First, I threw off the Karen and say, “Nice shirt”, duping her into thinking, I’m on her Jihadi jerkoff siding side. Next, I add, “Giving 200 million to Hamas to kill more Jews was totally done in the spirit of peace and love babe. I don’t know about you, but I’m sure team Biden calling for a ceasefire behind closed doors is really singing, “All we are saying United Nations, is give more money to Hamas to help wipe Israel off the map. So, they have a fighting chance. Holla, thank you very much.



AP news was slammed for claiming it was unaware of Hamas occupying an office in their building. Weren’t chants of fuck Madonna’s camel toe snatch during casual Friday or playing like Virgin on repeat after introducing office Karaoke on ironic causal Fridays or no female HR managers on site to fend off headhunters trying to recruit talent for Al Qaeda all dead giveaways already?

Never understood the fantasy of bedding 72 virgins. Doesn’t Jihadi John have enough blood on his hands already? Finally, Jihadi John arrives at a Motel 6 in virgin heaven allegedly. Virgin number one reveals herself to be a highly grating annoying Arabic version of Joy Behar. Booger face starts to demask and screeches, “Don’t you have enough blood on your hands already? Forget it, just whip out your skewer stick and get it over with already. But for what it’s worth, I just cleaned the sheets. So, let’s put that towel on your head to good use for a change. Oh, that’s right, your people aren’t into praising Downy fabric softener because it’s advertised as snuggle soft by some soft Jewish copywriter on Madison Avenue. Who prefers dead Palestinian babies over Haitian ones for blood cooking ceremonies if Hillary isn’t around to pressure the push over putz breath otherwise.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth



Follow The Vaccine Body Count

If Obama could ball. Then, why did he ride the bench at an all Asian private school in Hawaii?

I wanted to marry my wife in her native homeland of Australia. Mom says, “Australia is a long flight from New York. And your father doesn’t love you that much.”

Later, I console my wife and say, “Assuming we have a boy one day, we can hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision. Just so we can hear a room full of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

US troops are being denied earned leave without getting their vaccination 1st. On the upside, less Navy servicemen will get pricked by the barebacking ghost of Allen Ginsburg during Fleet Week. Holla, thank you very much.



The Indian Health Ambassador and former comedian gets his COVID vaccine live on TV to show everyone how safe it is and dies 2 days later. I hope the former comic is reincarnated as anal warts inside Dr. Fauci’s hell hole colon.

The Indian comedian should’ve stuck to killing with arranged marriage material instead. Former Indian comedian says, “It’s easier to get your wife into anal if you’re pushed into marrying one caste beneath you. Holla, thank you very much.”

Dr. Cole says we’ve seen more deaths from the COVID shot than all vaccines in the last 20 years combined, adding, “Morally just Wuhan Lab assistants have longer shelf lives after interview spots with Tucker Carlson.”

Dr. Cole, another outspoken critic about the ineffective practice of lockdowns also says since the dawn of man, “We’ve never quarantined the well.” Adding, “Look how well Dave Chapelle turned out after his walkabout sabbatical in Africa, using only bush dirt weed to fight off killer Mosquitos the size of Aids quilt blankets.”

Vaccinated people still wearing a mask is like Cookie insisting Magic wear a rubber snuggling up to The Inside Guys on TNT.

The Sopranos finale would be better if Meadow got to play the prosecutor in the George Floyd case and in her closing statement state, “How did all lives matter become the new n word?” Holla, thank you very much.”

2 female college students got kicked out of Amherst College for not wearing a mask from a photograph taken on campus. When did liberal art colleges become no go zone areas for Muslim housewife property during Ramadan?

Bartender looks at my wife’s credit card during our sweaty sex period before we got married and says, “Duffy, like me.” I reply, “Why don’t you 2 open a bar together and live happily ever after?” Holla, thank you very much. 

I’m so tired of hearing the NY is coming back pitch. These days, Jews feel less welcome in New York City than critical BLM theories.

Michelle Obama says, “You want to hang out with us. Get your vaccine, gardeners from Honduras excluded. Just don’t Instagram any of Obama’s pot plants Pancho, got it. He likes to puff with Malia and her friends during summer break to feel like a fake news bi-racial Bob Marley.”

Michael Kornbluth

Israel’s Loving Feeling

I don’t know what’s more annoying. Jew hater reps in congress defending Palestinian terrorist attacks on Israel or the US media’s fawning over the marriage between Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard. You love your wife’s teen boyish backside Dax, we get it. I’d call my wife soft and generous to if I could get her into another 3 way again, 3 kids later, after that promised boob job on top, that never materialized in my favor, holla, thank you very much. And calling Kristen Bell or Dax Shepard “hilarious” is like calling Alex Rodriquez and J Lo weighty deep with subtitles for an Ingmar Bergman film retrospective on Telemundo version’s of IFC. 

And why is Dax Shepard relapsing after 18 years of sobriety national news all of a sudden? You’d think James Taylor took up heroin again in need of more than a friend. How pathetic is our current state of celebrities in our country when Dax Shepard and Kristen Bell get seated next to Jay Z and Beyonce at the Met gala? I guess, the event organizers wanted hip hop royalty to feel the least overtly threatened by any credible form of discernable, jealous inducing talent in their midst. I’m surprised Lena Dunham wasn’t plopped down next to Beyonce as a party of five, so Jay Z’s wife could feel less cheated in the looks department with no makeup on compared to the hunchback of Bushwick during Restaurant Week.

Memo to antisemitic runt, aka, Baby Face Omar. If you fire 400 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an Edible Arrangements Gift Basket in return, with a thank you note written in Farsi.

Would the Jew hating US media prefer the LGBT community to comment on the colorful firework display of whizzing rockets lighting up the Israeli sky last night instead?  A gay right wing florist in downtown Tel Aviv rants on Medium with loaded sardonic bite, “The end of Ramadan always ushers in such a pretty sparkling sky. Who needs a vaccine stamped passport to visit Disneyland now? You can’t beat a firework display like this, especially when Biden gifts Hamas a cool 200 million to finance such a breathtaking array of sparkly spewing light. This is starry night recreationist wonder at it finest. Seth Rogen would totally light a joint to this shit although I still wouldn’t fuck him with Rashida Talib’s dick. And isn’t it adorable when Baby Face Omar describes Israel’s right to strike back as an “act of terrorism”? Personally, I’d call it an innocuous revenge fuck, but that’s just me. Let’s not act as if Israeli forces burned their Hashish crops, poisoned their chickpea farms, replaced all their rocks with rubber ball playgrounds from McDonalds and stripped the broadcast license away from Al Jazeera in a coordinated effort to delegitimize their insidious disinformation campaign about Israel being the one guilty of perpetual aggravated assault over the protracted annals of history.”

Seth Rogen won’t work with James Franco again because of sexual assault allegations against squinty. First, I know a girl who used to bang Franco who claims he has a small penis. So why would a predator force himself on a desperate actress, knowing she’s not going to feel anything but fake news casting couch distress 2 seconds after? Second, I also heard James Franco is bi-sexual, so how uncontrollably horny would you get around a D – actress knowing how gay men in general are a tad less selective and more open to giving anal a shot? Especially if James Franco mounting you from behind is the equivalent of Kristen Bell’s pinkie being jammed up your butt, as James Franco says from behind, “Let it go. If I don’t take away your anal virginity, Marilyn Manson will. Holla, thank you very much.

I’m beginning to feel like Tony Soprano because of my mom’s constant push to get me vaccinated for COVID after I already explained how the non-FDA approved, fake news vaccine has already killed 4000 Americans in the US alone. I’m also not the size of Chaz Bono’s belly button ring either. I also look after 3 kids when my mon’s in Arizona as my mother in a law reclines herself to death in a torn up Lazy Boy chair in Greenville, Delaware from 86. So, I can’t afford to get violently sick from the experimental gene therapy COVID shot or risk becoming paralyzed like Christopher Reeves without those monthly residual checks from Superman 1 through 3 arriving on our doorstep every month either. Also, I’m too busy banging out more sheets of comedy gold for my next killer set loaded comedy record to take five million more shots afterwards to fight off the latest strain of COVID from England, that will cause me to break out in varicose veins and a constellation of moles from head to toe. Last, if Don Lemon pushed his adopted trans son to get an HPV vaccination before he’s old enough to buy an Equinox gym membership in Chelsea, I’d trust his good intentions behind jamming his COVID vaccination pitch down America’s gun-shy throat with such breathless fury.

Michael Kornbluth

Made In Wuhan


Biden mandated that no US government employee can call COVID 19, The China Virus or the Wu-Flu. I prefer to call it Our Country Is Shit Out Of Luck Club. If we the people, let the CDC, the WHO and Fuck Face Fauci dictate whether America becomes China’s masked bitch for life.

What did they call COVID behind closed doors at the Department of Homeland Security before Biden got his nappy in a bunch over so called hate speech? Biological Warfare falls under the Department of Agriculture.

What did fat ass William Barr call the COVID virus when he was in charge of destroying what credibility remained within the Department Of Justice? Ain’t No Thing, But Poisoned Peeking Duck On A String.

What did the Department of Defense say about the COVID 19 behind closed doors before Biden’s shut up and don’t rat on the Chinse mandate began? That’s what Americans get for electing a President who didn’t start any major new wars under his watch, who finally gave Vets the hospital service they deserve? Who ordered the US military to crush ISIS in the same time it takes Jared Kushner to blow a load in Ivanka whenever she talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again.

What did the Department of Veteran Affairs call the COVID Virus before Biden thought he possessed the authority to tell our vets how to label the real enemy behind the new red scare 2.0? Lebron and Nike sitting in a Chinese Maple Tree, SUCKING.

The Sales Raise Dinner

6 months after perpetual beat down, heart tissue shredded despair from cold calling IT Directors twice my age at the tender of age of 22 in LA with no promising relief in sight, I was finally able to slam the phone down on the receiver and yell with emphatic, triumphant vibrato, “Deal”, as all my fellow IT agent recruiter sisters and brothers in arms all put down their phones in symbiotic unison and my bum rushed my section of our open office boiler room to give me one kick ass high five after another. Prior, to bawling my eyes out after winning Most Improved Basketball player at Sleepaway Camp, it was the happiest, most joy spewing moment of my life. After spending many afternoons at 5:30 PM, crying in the bathroom stall, after being hung up on all day again for 6 months straight, getting my 1st deal under my belt was equivalent to Forrest Gump getting to bang Jenny in her dorm room after her fake news original Blowing In The Wind striptease act. Then again, Hair Metal wasn’t invented yet, so you can’t be too harsh on Jenny for trying to reinvent herself as a hotter, better stacked, Joan Baez cover act in the making either.

Once you did your 1st 3 deals at Remington International, the big machers, meaning all the big-time billing managers would take you out for a fancy sales raise dinner to give you a taste for living the high life again. Steve Winwood lives post Traffic, holla, thank you very much. Understand, the sales raise wasn’t substantial at all and made zero difference after taxes for my biweekly take home paycheck. Granted, I could still afford to pay the rent on my rent-controlled apartment in West Hollywood, see a movie once a week in the Century City Mall and splurge on the Sunday NY Times pre-fake news to get my brain back in working order after puffing the green with my ex or doing E once my dealer in the valley got access to it frequently post Y2K, but that was it. None of us dignified, scrappy, resourceful yet lowly IT agency recruiters in my position made enough money to survive really, because none of us made actual commission on a 20 grand placement there, a 25 grand rip there, but at the time my illustrious sales raise dinner at Morton’s in Beverly, Hills that its, totally made up for it, Dice lives, holla, thank you very much.

The festivities started with a Grey Goose and tonic or 2, before the scallops wrapped in bacon appetizer arrived. Understand, despite growing up in the upper middle class affluent confines of Westchester County, only 50 minutes north of Peter Luger’s in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I had zero exposure to fancy schmancy steak house appetizers of this holy shit good magnitude. Every bite was perfect. The bacon wrapped around this sumptuous, high end scallop that was never rubbery chewy bland for one second, was bursting with bubbly, over the top crackling, in your face flavor. Outside of my mind melting from relishing such a tubby bitch, fine dining steakhouse appetizer at the same Morton’s in Beverly Hills, which used to be the go-to afterhours Vanity Fair party hot spot after the Academy Awards, it was impossible to not derive a communal sense of shared brotherhood with the older management crew in attendance, who all hailed from back east like myself, living it up like senior agents for freaking CAA for Christ’s sake. Pete Clochaney, the former wrestling stud from upstate in Buffalo, the living legend Michael Burns, from Greenwich, CT, who toured with Dead, bartended at Kelly’s Korner and made us watch Rudy for inspiration one morning before our daily cold calling assault resumed and my direct boss Alex Dubovoy a garbage sons from Brooklyn, done good. I loved how much vicarious pride they derived from me making it to that table with them. For once, I felt I truly earned my keep. They all wore really nice Canali suits who possessed a working knowledge of obscenely expensive brown liquor shots such as Louis the 13th cognac. My head was spinning from being accepted and encouraged to do even better under their sales leadership direction, feeling like a waste of height no more and my succulent, divine blessed, Porterhouse, sorry Kosher God hadn’t even arrived yet.

Outside of savoring every juicy, heaven sent bite, my mind veered toward my Dad for a second, who was a rainmaker himself, helping build a 90-million-dollar packaging busines in Union New Jersey. Still, it drove me nuts at the time, thinking how much my father dropped the ball, never exposing me to any motivational shoot for conquest steak dinner like this, because prior, I was only accustomed to eating the perpetually shitty, anemic, consistently mushy kosher kind. My father grilling what flavor they once possessed didn’t contribute to my complete lack of enjoyment factor from eating trying to act, I was ever into them either.  

Thank you, Lord, for giving me the balls and fortitude to not throw in the towel during my 1st six months on the job as an IT agency recruiter, a long, long, way from home, with no Vince Vaughn pep talks to rouse my depressingly downer weepy spirits at the time either. Becoming an IT Headhunter in LA and paying my own way in this world made me the man I am today. College is so overrated, knowing I was the only putz to graduate from a top communication school back east with a debilitating stutter.  

They say the true definition of failure is giving up on yourself, so by that definition, my stint as an IT Headhunter at Remington International, my 1st real deal professional working white collar job was a smashing success. All those double Turkey Burgers with glops of mayor, fine shredded lettuce, draped in mounds of American Cheese on Santa Monica Blvd. were sublime to, because I earned them from not giving into the fear of failure or more perpetual shot down rejection I endured my 1st six months on the job, which provided the impetus behind the funny man with a plan I am today. Granted, my dear, lovely LA of yesteryear has morphed into a shit show tent city of biblical proportions, yet no politicized COVID lockdowns, bullshit Dominion defamation lawsuits or post woke Twitter twat celeb blather, siding with the Wicked Witch Of The East, Baby Face Omar, King Of the Persecution Complex or Obama Be Good can every take that sales raise dinner away from me.

Michael Kornbluth

The Sales Raise Dinner

6 months after perpetual beat down, heart tissue shredded despair from cold calling IT Directors twice my age at the tender of age of 22 in LA with no promising relief in sight, I was finally able to slam the phone down on the receiver and yell with emphatic, triumphant vibrato, “Deal”, as all my fellow IT agent recruiter sisters and brothers in arms all put down their phones in symbiotic unison and my bum rushed my section of our open office boiler room to give me one kick ass high five after another. Prior, to bawling my eyes out after winning Most Improved Basketball player at Sleepaway Camp, it was the happiest, most joy spewing moment of my life. After spending many afternoons at 5:30 PM, crying in the bathroom stall, after being hung up on all day again for 6 months straight, getting my 1st deal under my belt was equivalent to Forrest Gump getting to bang Jenny in her dorm room after her fake news original Blowing In The Wind striptease act. Then again, Hair Metal wasn’t invented yet, so you can’t be too harsh on Jenny for trying to reinvent herself as a hotter, better stacked, Joan Baez cover act in the making either.

Once you did your 1st 3 deals at Remington International, the big machers, meaning all the big-time billing managers would take you out for a fancy sales raise dinner to give you a taste for living the high life again. Steve Winwood lives post Traffic, holla, thank you very much. Understand, the sales raise wasn’t substantial at all and made zero difference after taxes for my biweekly take home paycheck. Granted, I could still afford to pay the rent on my rent-controlled apartment in West Hollywood, see a movie once a week in the Century City Mall and splurge on the Sunday NY Times pre-fake news to get my brain back in working order after puffing the green with my ex or doing E once my dealer in the valley got access to it frequently post Y2K, but that was it. None of us dignified, scrappy, resourceful yet lowly IT agency recruiters in my position made enough money to survive really, because none of us made actual commission on a 20 grand placement there, a 25 grand rip there, but at the time my illustrious sales raise dinner at Morton’s in Beverly, Hills that its, totally made up for it, Dice lives, holla, thank you very much.

The festivities started with a Grey Goose and tonic or 2, before the scallops wrapped in bacon appetizer arrived. Understand, despite growing up in the upper middle class affluent confines of Westchester County, only 50 minutes north of Peter Luger’s in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I had zero exposure to fancy schmancy steak house appetizers of this holy shit good magnitude. Every bite was perfect. The bacon wrapped around this sumptuous, high end scallop that was never rubbery chewy bland for one second, was bursting with bubbly, over the top crackling, in your face flavor. Outside of my mind melting from relishing such a tubby bitch, fine dining steakhouse appetizer at the same Morton’s in Beverly Hills, which used to be the go-to afterhours Vanity Fair party hot spot after the Academy Awards, it was impossible to not derive a communal sense of shared brotherhood with the older management crew in attendance, who all hailed from back east like myself, living it up like senior agents for freaking CAA for Christ’s sake. Pete Clochaney, the former wrestling stud from upstate in Buffalo, the living legend Michael Burns, from Greenwich, CT, who toured with Dead, bartended at Kelly’s Korner and made us watch Rudy for inspiration one morning before our daily cold calling assault resumed and my direct boss Alex Dubovoy a garbage sons from Brooklyn, done good. I loved how much vicarious pride they derived from me making it to that table with them. For once, I felt I truly earned my keep. They all wore really nice Canali suits who possessed a working knowledge of obscenely expensive brown liquor shots such as Louis the 13th cognac. My head was spinning from being accepted and encouraged to do even better under their sales leadership direction, feeling like a waste of height no more and my succulent, divine blessed, Porterhouse, sorry Kosher God hadn’t even arrived yet.

Outside of savoring every juicy, heaven sent bite, my mind veered toward my Dad for a second, who was a rainmaker himself, helping build a 90-million-dollar packaging busines in Union New Jersey. Still, it drove me nuts at the time, thinking how much my father dropped the ball, never exposing me to any motivational shoot for conquest steak dinner like this, because prior, I was only accustomed to eating the perpetually shitty, anemic, consistently mushy kosher kind. My father grilling what flavor they once possessed didn’t contribute to my complete lack of enjoyment factor from eating trying to act, I was ever into them either.  

Thank you, Lord, for giving me the balls and fortitude to not throw in the towel during my 1st six months on the job as an IT agency recruiter, a long, long, way from home, with no Vince Vaughn pep talks to rouse my depressingly downer weepy spirits at the time either. Becoming an IT Headhunter in LA and paying my own way in this world made me the man I am today. College is so overrated, knowing I was the only putz to graduate from a top communication school back east with a debilitating stutter.  

They say the true definition of failure is giving up on yourself, so by that definition, my stint as an IT Headhunter at Remington International, my 1st real deal professional working white collar job was a smashing success. All those double Turkey Burgers with glops of mayor, fine shredded lettuce, draped in mounds of American Cheese on Santa Monica Blvd. were sublime to, because I earned them from not giving into the fear of failure or more perpetual shot down rejection I endured my 1st six months on the job, which provided the impetus behind the funny man with a plan I am today. Granted, my dear, lovely LA of yesteryear has morphed into a shit show tent city of biblical proportions, yet no politicized COVID lockdowns, bullshit Dominion defamation lawsuits or post woke Twitter twat celeb blather, siding with the Wicked Witch Of The East, Baby Face Omar, King Of the Persecution Complex or Obama Be Good can every take that sales raise dinner away from me.

Michael Kornbluth