Hot For Hummus

Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review.   Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.

Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahani flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for hummus but only after I stared making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese Pieces Butter Cup, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.

If you never tried hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought hummus or homemade hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.  

Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing.  So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day.  At the very least, your kids will love you more putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Plus, your kids won’t become instantly tubby and resent your existence for it later. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.

Michael Kornbluth

Memories Of Meh Brisket On Rye

The considerably less greasy Pastrami from the 2nd Ave Deli in Manhattan comparéd to Katz in the lower east side on Houston Street, offers a killer Pastrami on Rye yet memories of more meh bites of pricy Pastrami, don’t make my heart flutter with more erect interest the way repeat showings of the Cherry Pie video on MTV in junior high did or provide the same rapturous joy in hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet in high school throughout lower Westchester County once we all become licensed to drive.

Not every Pastrami sandwich on rye from Jewish Delis in New York is woo worthy. Growing up in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, our only local option for Pastrami was at Epstein’s, located on a semi-derelict, zero frills section of Central Avenue close to White Plains, NY. Where my friends and I used to frequent a local bodega who didn’t ID, to pick up more forties of Old English, Snoop Dog’s old school ho sprayer of choice.  The pastrami on Rye at Epstein’s is only 13 bucks compared to its vastly superior, smokier succulent cousin at Katz Deli on Houston, the oldest deli in America, which was big time before George Burns uttered on his deathbed, “I got off easy compared to Jackie Mason, who had the misfortune of being branded as the less lovable, more overtly Jewish, curmudgeon version of Don Rickles.”

Reality is, you get what you pay for and the pastrami at Epstein’s always tasted a tad blubbery rubbery to be classified as Yelp stroking, jerking off Pastrami ever. Is the Pastrami at Katz infinitely better than Epstein’s? Is the Catholic Church soft on condemning pedophilia? Still, Katz is a schlep if you don’t live downtown or anywhere remotely close to the Island of Manhattan. Plus, the place is a dump and pictures of Ben Stiller on the wall don’t make it anymore alluring either regardless of him being the face of Mugatu or not. Also, when you go to Katz for the 1st time when you’re already in your late twenties when you’re selling ad space for the Village Voice, which doesn’t include the sale of she male size stamps in the back, you feel unfashionably late to the Pastrami is king, rallying party. I’ve tried the Pastrami from the famed Montreal Jewish deli transplant Mile End in the East Village, which packs as much old world charm as Ethel the waitress’s armpit stains, as she scribbles in your order, cursing your existence for being such a predictable, blah brain bore like the rest as she thinks, “Pastrami on rye with spicy brown Mustard, how original. I bet he thinks Bill Maher wishing for a Recession on Real Time to get President Trump out of office, pre-Corona was an example of keeping it real, resistor like, boy!”

My intention isn’t to completely crap on the most unifying of all foods for gentiles and Jews alike, Pastrami on rye. Still, taking my 3 kids to Epstein’s this past Saturday to celebrate my upcoming all-star book review for The Great American Jew Novel, to be published in the Midwest Review of all places, I was slightly embarrassed for hard selling my kids on how Pastrami is considered the Filet Mignon of kosher cow dishes.  Granted, this type of Pastrami wasn’t the Austin smoked brisket kind or the Katz caliber, but for a comedy writer who prides himself on his originality, I felt like a used Honda car salesman, for pushing the Pastrami on rye to my 3 kids, by inferring they’d be fake news Jews without embracing the Romantic Comedy date nosh of choice.

Matilda, my eldest, actually emoted about her bit size bite of Pastrami the most, saying, “I like it Daddy. But can you make your London Broil again but a tad more tender next time?” Arthur, her younger brother said, “I like my Hebrew National Hot Dog way better than the Pastrami Daddy. Can you start making your Hebrew National Dogs at home taste more like this?” Baby brother Samuel took some excited nibbles from the pastrami, but he wasn’t doing any yummy dances in the smoked meat’s delicacy’s honor either.  I inhaled the remainder of the Pastrami sandwich but only forcmere blessed meat Kosher sake. I actually preferred bites out of our communal square potato Knish by itself, without even dipping it in the too sour spicy brown mustard, proving meat isn’t always better, especially if it’s not a homemade do it all dad creation you made yourself.

At the same time, my kids were very giddy in our padded booth, sucking down their Dr. Brown’s diet cream soda, which isn’t nearly as sugary sweet, with big hearted, didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world relish. On this unseasonably warm Saturday, before we visited my nearby old elementary school in Edgemont, NY as I proceeded to make it rain with more perfect arching jumpers from way downtown before I started freaking out the more career stable parents by the playground by gunning our nerf football at our kids heads, which they ate up with a spoon. Sometimes, the best things in life, don’t have to be smoked, cured, brined or seasoned, reminding me how the only ingredient necessary for old school fun, is being silly as you want to be, which never gets played out in our hearts.

Michael Kornbluth

Springsteen on Qantas

Bruce Springsteen told Rolling Stone he’d move to Australia if President Trump beats little girl hair sniffer. But doesn’t the Boss realize Australia is in the midst of it’s 1st recession in 30 years? So a dashing looking millennial couple in Melbourne spending 500 bucks to see Bruce perform She’s The One loses it’s oomph, knowing he campaigned for Hillary Hammer Time Cankles satanic past, which proved baby boomer mom doesn’t know best.

I think Bruce Springsteen hates President Trump because he feels like a smaller big boss man in comparison. Plus, it kills him knowing President Trump is more beloved throughout the heartland than he was during his Nebraska album tour.

I love most of Bruce Springsteen’s music, especially the live version of Land of Hopes and Dreams at the MSG. But it’s hard to embrace the music from the same man who thinks President Biden will show China whose boss since China has resisted Corona investigations more than Aquafresh.

Also, doesn’t Bruce Springsteen realize Australia isn’t into open borders for anybody interested in taking dip within the land down under? I’m married to Green Card holding Aussie who was born in Brisbane, Australia, so I can move my family of 5 to Australia whenever I want, unlike the East Street bar band crooner cracker from Jersey. What, Bruce Springsteen dressed like a wannabe blue collar cracker on the cover of his Born In The USA album.

I don’t think Australia will take in Bruce. When I visited Australia during my honeymoon, I got pissed because most of the men were either close to my height or better looking than me, so Bruce’s overall appeal is severely limited there, knowing he barely clears John Stewart’s goat tee.

After I got my TV writing break with VH1 Classic, I made my producer a Bruce Mix, stating, “This doesn’t mean I have a crush on you boss.” The same applies to the man who wrote New York Serenade and Thunder Road. Infatuation with rock legends who can’t recognize real deal patriotic might or tell Rolling Stone to go woke itself in the midst of blatant coup to usurp the will of the American people are so off the list. Because unlike Pearl Jam, Green Day, Snoop, Eminem, Bob Seager and The Silver Bullet Band, this Trump Train was bound for everlasting glory.

Have fun riding your motorcycle in Australia Bruce. Jim Jefferies can interview you through zoom about QAnon and ask you about Hillary’s former campaign manager John Podesta’s pedo installation art work at his campaign headquarters home, which is enough to make Marilyn Manson blush.

Michael Kornbluth

Springsteen On Qantas

Bruce Springsteen told Rolling Stone he’d move to Australia if President Trump beats little girl hair sniffer. But doesn’t the Boss realize Australia is in the midst of it’s 1st recession in 30 years? So a dashing looking millennial couple in Melbourne spending 500 bucks to see Bruce perform She’s The One loses it’s oomph, knowing he campaigned for Hillary Hammer Time Cankles satanic past, which proved baby boomer mom doesn’t know best.

I think Bruce Springsteen hates President Trump because he feels like a smaller big boss man in comparison. Plus, it kills him knowing President Trump is more beloved throughout the heartland than he was during his Nebraska album tour.

I love most of Bruce Springsteen’s music, especially the live version of Land of Hopes and Dreams at the MSG. But it’s hard to embrace the music from the same man who thinks President Biden will show China whose boss since China has resisted Corona investigations more than Aquafresh.

Also, doesn’t Bruce Springsteen realize Australia isn’t into open borders for anybody interested in taking dip within the land down under? I’m married to Green Card holding Aussie who was born in Brisbane, Australia, so I can move my family of 5 to Australia whenever I want, unlike the East Street bar band crooner cracker from Jersey. What, Bruce Springsteen dressed like a wannabe blue collar cracker on the cover of his Born In The USA album.

I don’t think Australia will take in Bruce. When I visited Australia during my honeymoon, I got pissed because most of the men were either close to my height or better looking than me, so Bruce’s overall appeal is severely limited there, knowing he barely clears John Stewart’s goat tee.

After I got my TV writing break with VH1 Classic, I made my producer a Bruce Mix, stating, “This doesn’t mean I have a crush on you boss.” The same applies to the man who wrote New York Serenade and Thunder Road. Infatuation with rock legends who can’t recognize real deal patriotic might or tell Rolling Stone to go woke itself in the midst of blatant coup to usurp the will of the American people are so off the list. Because unlike Pearl Jam, Green Day, Snoop, Eminem, Bob Seager and The Silver Bullet Band, this Trump Train was bound for everlasting glory.

Have fun riding your motorcycle in Australia Bruce. Jim Jefferies can interview you through zoom about QAnon and ask you about Hillary’s former campaign manager John Podesta’s pedo installation art work at his campaign headquarters home, which is enough to make Marilyn Manson blush.

Michael Kornbluth

Put Your Uncle Sam Sales Hat On

Did you know America is in the midst of a coin shortage right now? In a post COVID world, we can’t stomach the idea of looking at the significant others we live with one second longer, so we’ve taken up coin collecting to maximize face time with Dead presidents while taking up the most boring hobby again instead. Wife yells from downstairs, “What are you doing honey bun?” Husband yells back, “I’m working on my coin collection babe. It’s our country’s new favorite hobby after prayer shaming, spitting on Vets graves and trivializing the Holocaust through banning the Pledge of Allegiance because we live under Big Tech’s rule, especially since Good Will Hoodie at Facebook sold his soul to the Chinese Ministry Of Truth. Who cares if Chinese made fentanyl has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram? Who cares if Facebook has anointed China as the ultimate judge of good versus evil, despite the Corona virus made in China being responsible for your dad having to give his mother in England only a virtual kiss goodbye on her death bed? But at the least the New Yorker will know better to start every Zoom call now moving forward with, “Hands up high Toobin, where I can see them. You’re having a hard time getting a grip over the fact that Hunter Biden is starting to make Charlie Sheen look like slacker underachiever, I get it. But take a load off on your own time and don’t come around our Zoom calls no more.”

So, if you’re a parent in America today, who’s not enthralled with the prospect of enabling a future generation of ungrateful, hate filled Punisher vigilantes for ANTIFA or intent on blowing a mini fortune on an Ivy league education for your only kid to become a glaringly unoriginal, uppity, knee-jerk reactionary, blah breath hack reporter like Jefferey Toobin for the New Yorker, then I’d start selling your kids early on why patriotism matters because our schools won’t anymore. My kid’s elementary school just canceled the Pledge Of Allegiance. Will my kids school cancel Apple Pie next because it’s too aggressively cheery for kids raised on 13 Reasons Why? I never received an email from my kids school about why they canceled the Pledge of Allegiance although I suspect the expression “under God” was no longer deemed inclusive enough for the parental sect of east coast atheists who send their kids there, intent on sucking off their Gods like Bill Maher till their last dying breath. Plus, if working parents today want to keep their jobs, they must show a commitment to improve their social justice righting credit score at work by only retweeting AOC tweets comparing our border detention facilities with centralized AC, designed to stop rampant sex trafficking of minors to Nazi death camps. Plus, parents today need to be equipped with endless President Trump insults at the tips of their tongues to remain uncanceled by their far younger, mope maligned Millennial Mouseketeer coworkers over shared Taco Tuesdays, since eating lunch within their walled in office of yesteryear is now branded too alt right white collar xenophobic for their ad tech startup tastes.

It’s beyond time for American parents today to assume the responsibility of selling our kids on the importance of patriotism because respect for our elders today is lower than Hunter Biden’s Yelp rating for the Mac Shop he forgot existed until the NY Post reported on it, in Wilmington, Delaware. But parents today can still entrust Netflix, EPSN, CNN, the NY Times and especially Twitter, to teach their kids the importance of standing up for the National Anthem and putting their hands over their hearts for it at ballgames instead of futzing with their smart phones to watch Tommy Lee videos on Instagram, shouting at fake news Devils. Yeah, and Judd Apatow is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

When I push my kids on the swing, I assume the persona of Sly Stone from the original Woodstock and sing with real deal fly guy feeling, “I’m going to take you higher.” How does this playful sing-along push routine teach my kids patriotism matters? Because I tell my kids Sly Stone was a star voice behind a prideful, black nationalist musical movement in the sixties, which was a source of empowerment, not divisive derision, which didn’t command whitey to never eat in peace in a restaurant patio again.

I teach my kids patriotism, which is love of country, by teaching them about the great melting pot New York City is, which boasts more than 200 dialects, so insisting only black lives matter insults a boatload of other immigrant sects. I teach patriotism to my kids by emoting about the greatest Moderate Muslim of all time Muhammad Ali, who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee, inspiring other mouthy kids from Louisville, Kentucky to boast to Dad, “One day, that’s going to be me.”  My 3-year old son requests Jimi Hendrix Blues on vinyl, what about yours? So, stop acting like teaching your kids about patriotism is such a white nationalist laden snore.

My 9-year-old daughter knows Joan Jett is a lesbian punk rocker who sang Love Is Pain but made it big in the face of discrimination for refusing to be the same.

At night before story time, I mix it up and tell my kids about how Walt Clyde Frazier beats Dr. Seuss as the coolest cat of rhyme who lead the Knicks past the Lakers in 73 at the Garden by dishing 19 dimes.  My kids hug American flags in the street, because I’ve shown them pictures of President Trump doing the same, which is pretty sweet, proving infectious love of old glory is hard to beat.

I teach my kids that taking a knee is the equivalent to kicking Nazi destroyers in the nuts and spitting on Vets graves, housing those unfortunate drafted sons who Jesus could never save.  I teach my 3-year old son love of country for pointing out how America the Beautiful gave birth to thrash metal guitar great Dave Mustaine, by showing him a clip on YouTube of him playing the Star Spangled Banner at a Little League game, which inspired my head banging son to say, “I’m going to play that one day.” Patriotism sells, so put your Uncle Sam sales hat on and soon enough, your kids will be hugging flags down on main street to.   

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Coach Dads Podcast Pitch

LaVar Ball’s son Lonzo Ball got him a Bentley for his birthday. Do you think a son would hook up his dad with a Bentley for his birthday, if he wasn’t the driving force responsible for him signing an NBA contract with the Lakers, so he could become everything he dreamed to be and that much more?

Barry Bonds had Bobby, Ken Griffey had Senior and Brandon had Bruce Lee, Grant Hill had Thomas Hill, Luke Walton had Bill. Are you touched yet? Do you have any interest in learning how these Do It All Coach Dads bonded through coaching with their new and improved seed, especially knowing their genetically blessed offspring, were also prime beneficiaries of such remarkable, war won wisdom to derive from the start?

Regardless, if you’re dad or not, it’s impossible to not derive some vicarious form of do it all dad pride from mere pictures of father son athletes done good like the one of Rick and Hall of Fame father Brent Barry after he won an NBA Championship for the Spurs.

What drove these Do It All Coach Dads to assume ownership of their kids life education? Because aren’t all coaches, at least the good ones, life coaches who instruct us how to become leaders of men on and off the court, if they push those to the limit, who inspire others through their sheer hard work, passion, grit, imaginative play, commanding flair and developed communicative touch?

When I think of my favorite movies, which fill my soul with infinite do good, empowered, fighting back possibility, I think of the relationships between Rocky and Mick, Mr. Miyagi and Danielsan, even Drago and his son in Creed 2. The one scene, where Drago’s son storms out of their dinner meeting with his mom and the Russian dignitary she left Drago for after losing to Stallone in Rocky 4 was brutal to watch for me, especially, when Drago’s son says to his Dad soon after on their way out the door, “She abandoned us.” I cried on the spot when watching this scene. Drago had done some hardcore bonding with his son through coaching to say the least. Dragon’s son in Creed 2 also represents all of his unfulfilled dreams, which is a common theme most Dad star athletes of yesteryear can identify with and I’ll take Glory Days by Bruce Springsteen for 500 Alex.

Do It All Coach Dads Podcast will give coach dads their long overdue praise and the much needed star studded spotlight they deserve because it’s their opinions about the enduring importance of faith, the power of positive thinking, visualization, preparation, goal setting, will power, practice, hard work, motivation and grit who I care about learning from the most. It’s those Do It All Dad Coach Dads who disperse experience informed tips on what ultimate success looks, feels and acts like as teammates, co-workers, husbands, fathers who I care about learning from the most on a sports educational podcast, not from some random 19 year old rookie in the NBA on Twitter who still educating himself on Hitler, sorry.

Who taught Do It All Coach Dads about how to bounce back from defeat? Who taught these Do It All Dad Coach Dads that the only way to feel like a winner is to win again? How were these Do It All Dad Coach Dads raised to hate losing more than I-Tunes jamming more unasked for singles from U2 down your throat?

Do It All Coach Dads Podcast sells Do It All Dad Pride in raising strong kids, who live to compete because the act of competition and pressure packed adrenaline from performing live in front others, is responsible for bringing out their best fighter selves, while team sports offers the more emotionally expansive opportunity to achieve a greater sense of wholesome purpose and blood on blood unity, which is hard to replicate in the boardroom or in the office kitchen for inclusive, Taco Tuesdays, with plenty of vegan options, after their college playing days are long gone.

Do It All Coach Dads sells do it all dad pride in raising inspirational leaders instead of sheepish followers, doers instead of talkers, creators instead of consumers, builder uppers, instead of belittling, put’um downers.

Bonding through coaching can make our kids great again. Do It All Coach Dads will tell sports related stories of triumph and comeback success, through interviews with Do It All Coach Dads and their kids sometimes together, to focus on the holy, unique bond formed among father coaches and their cherished student athlete children, who receive the greatest gift a father could give their child, like the late great Jim Valvano once said, “My Dad believed in me.”

Michael Kornbluth