Pitchwoman Of The Year

Aliens are capable of formulating and defending their own critical race theory to. Although a bunch of Think Tank Alien Eggheads from Planet Scrambled Over Easy declared the American Dream dead and it’s entire race plain stupid for thinking otherwise, on both sides of the political divide during it’s annual Brunch Expo address at their annual Northern Lights retreat on Planet Verde, known for its enormous Avocados trees, tricked out converted farmhouse party palaces, enveloped by Hop Farms galore and beautifully manicured baseball diamonds and fields of highly stimulating, brain tickling weed. Even Think Tank Alien Eggheads need to cool off their hyperactive brains with some baseball, buds and brews from time to time.

The Think Tank Alien Eggheads observed how unhinged and excessively biased the US media and Big Tech had become since the New Yorker from Queens exposed them for the feckless, misleading, self-serving, fear mongering, deliberately divisive, commie sell out bastards they’d become.  Close Encounters Of The 3rd Kind”, was voted the number one ranked Sci Fi film for 44 years in a row and counting, according to Egghead Alien Film Review Magazine, which still boasts an incredible print ad sales revenue, because on Planet Scrambled Easy, print is king and considered the most prestigious medium, attracting the universe’s most talented writers knowing they’re willing to pay up to 3 US Dollars per word. Plus, there’s no TV shows made on Planet Scrambled Over Easy except a hugely popular father son alien cooking show, called, Better Than Boobie. On this show, we learn the alien baby is a result of a mixed marriage between an alien and a busty, full lipped, tan Sicilian blooded Italian Barbera Bustiasti, originally hailing from Rochester, NY. On the show, our Stay-At-Home Alien Dad Host, Fried Brains Bourdain, a self-anointed in-house gourmand for the entire Planet Scrambled Over Easy, will ask his part human part alien baby, Chef Samuels what he thinks of his latest and greatest LEO scramble supreme, including, smoked salmon lox, scrambled eggs and sweet, not too bitter caramelized red onions. Normally, Chef Samuels will take a taste and pronounce the dish creation a double fister instead of a yuck yucker. But if baby Chef Samuels is totally enthralled with the dish, he’ll ask his cherished Dada Fried Brains Bourdain, to make the dish for him every day before he whizzes around the rings of Planet Scrambled Over Easy faster than Flash, in a high calorie burning blaze of glory.  

So, the reason Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy was smitten with the movie Close Encounters Of The Third Kind stemmed from the aliens portrayed in it, being musical savant mutes of sorts like Holly Hunter in The Piano. The problem on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, is how their recent open borders policy resulted in a gazillion different languages spoken at once on any given Farmer’s Market enough to make C3po’s language transmitter chip to melt down from an intergalactic mere auditory sensory processing overload. So, the clamor in the streets had reached a fevered pitch, with no universal language in place, capable of instilling a more melodic cadence. And none of the star magazine writers on Planet Scrambled Over Easy were capable of banging out musical showtunes such as West Side Think Tank Alien Stories, because Broadway tunesmith legend Stephen Sondheim declined the invitation to procreate with the alien civilization because he was gayer about the prospect of lunging at Othello backstage in tights, whenever asked to do his best Kevin Spacy impersonation by his cast and crew at Sardis for wrap up show celebrations after hours. Stephen Sondheim gave the anal probe a shot after the Alien Think Tank Leader Gershwin Goo, convinced him they were doing it the name of stool DNA sampling science, in their long, hard, in depth exploration of pinpointing the exact genetic makeup roots responsible for sprouting such mature musical genius out the womb. At 6 Mozart was touring Europe, entertaining French nobles with the nimble quickness of a French Prostitute, who got 2 customers to spew with joy in 1 minute flat each, so she could squeeze in her favorite customer, famed American Jewish writer Henry Miller in one more before closing hours for the road.  

So not only was the roaring decibel of noise on the streets of Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, consisting of every guttural, gross Alien language imaginable, that collectively heard together sounded like the antithesis of French pillow talk in Eric Rohmer films such as Busted Burgundy Girls and Paris Dicks Are Burning. Thereby, making their home planet a highly grating, excessively annoying place to be, but there was also not a singe lone, beautifying voice to even sing their new planet anthem, in an attempt to promote, celebrate and unify the country behind a star beautiful voice in their own native tongue, Hebrew. What, you think the Pyramids and the 1st great temple were built by the Israelites alone? I’ve known Jews who are allergic to Home Depot, who suffer from immediate panic attacks upon entry.

On retreat, The Think Tank Aliens, sucking down endless IPA’s and puffing non-stop high grade green over a killer double header of baseball surrounding the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, a young, rising star egghead about to pitch his famous speedball splinter known to make most fellow Aliens whiff more than Charlie Sheen at an AVN after hours party these days, an idea emerged, “Hey, fellas, instead of blowing up the Planet Earth for our annual 4 of the July Celebration to celebrate our freedom banning the Internet in 2000, because we knew Y2K would serve as a slow acting bomb to blow up earth’s any last remaining capacity for critically thinking, mass produced independent thought ever again, we convince Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth to become our permanent-in-house Planetary Anthem singer. Granted, we have incredible leverage knowing if she refuses, will go head and blow-up Earth for the best fireworks show, we’ve ever seen. Bulldozing a casino is child’s play compared to Planet blasting. Plus, I think the universe is ready for a new earth to emerge again, assuming God’s in the mood o give the human race another shot at redemption or not.”

The Think Tank Aliens of Scrambled Over Easy Planet actually thought of Singing Rose Kornbluth immediately, the moment they coined the idea of establishing a Planetary Anthem in Hebrew, from eavesdropping from space whenever she’d recite the Shabbat prayers over the candles, Challah and wine. To them, Singing Rose Kornbluth was blessed with the most angelic laced, beautifying, spiritually rich, jade free voice of all time, which sounded ten times more soul tantalizing pretty sung in Hebrew, which she’d do in Synagogue, shining through most, whenever the Torah was taken out of the arc for the infamous Shema prayer, “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.” Think Tank Aliens from Scrambled Over Easy Planet are able to eavesdrop into different galaxy systems due to their alien race, being crossbred with Alien Hybrid Elephants reared by Alexander The Great. Alexander The Great would use those elephants to eavesdrop on his enemies or on Cleopatra next time she plotted to roofie him, tie him up and jam some precious gemstone beads up his ass for shits and giggles to see if they came out looser since the last gender neutral interkingdom orgy at her Luxor party palace.

Now, Singing Rose Kornbluth is at home in her bedroom within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, 50 minutes north of Manhattan, brushing the mane on her new American Girl horse doll Lavender Love, singing her own made-up tune “Lavender Love has beautiful hair, my brother Arthur better not threaten to turn him into fake news dog chow, if baby Samuel double dares.” Then, the Palomino American Girl Doll horse Lavender Love comes to life and speaks to her from the baseball diamond on the Field Of Dreams Funhouse and says, “Singing Rose Kornbluth, don’t be alarmed. For starters, my voice can’t be any freakier than when you confuse your American Girl Doll Horse for an actual little person on occasion.” Singing Rose Kornbluth say, “Keep talking.”  Think Tank Alien says, “We think your singing voice, especially in Hebrew is the most beautiful, God loving, effortlessly sweet signing voice, we’ve ever heard, without any deep vibrato rumblings which ruin Adele and Demi Lovato’s chances as potential picks for us if you really need to know.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “And who is we exactly.” Think Tank Alien says, “Were Think Tank Aliens from Planet Scrambled Over Easy. Our natural tongue is Hebrew, and we just came up with our 1st ever Planetary Anthem and it needs work, because our alien civilization isn’t musically inclined whatsoever.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Do all aliens talk through American Girl Horses? I know Aliens were real. Think Tank Alien says, “Singing Rose, we love your voice. God made your supernatural voice for a reason. Still, will be left with no choice but to blow up your planet, if you don’t let us use your gift of creation and singing love songs which touch the inner most sanctum part of the Divine.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “I’ll only help you out if you agree to take over control of our Internet, unleash virus worms to corrode all the software code for Twitter, Facebook and Google and fill in that gaping voice of Internet bandwidth with my father’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast every Friday for another Meandering Shabbat Shalom Special. My daddy is hilarious. He said, Beyonce sat out the national anthem because Demi Lovato sounds like white priveledge version of Alabama Shakes.” Think Tank Alien laughs long time and replies, “We don’t have the Internet on our planet.” Matilda says, “I’ll be your new best friend. And you’ll get one sleepover invite a year, deal? Think Taken Alien says, “Deal.”

1 year later, Singing Rose Kornbluth graced the cover of Time Magazine. On the top, the headline read, Pitchwoman Of The Year, who saved her country’s planet from being wiped off the Solar System for selling the Think Tank Aliens on making her Do It All Dad the most popular, downloadable, highly quotable Podcaster in the universe. So, he could afford the opportunity to shine like the brightest, rising comedy star in the galaxy and drive his family back from the hospital in his new Comedy Gold Porsche SUV with a new baby sister addition in the back, Lavender Love Kornbluth to make his Do It All Dad year mission complete. Now Singing Rose Kornbluth could sing duets with her new baby sister Lavender Love Kornbluth for a double dose of beautiful wonderfulness on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, so she’d never have to feel homesick again.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Metal Edge

The mother responsible for her son developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at 2, called Torticollis, where the neck muscles contract causing the head to twist to one side as a result from too much newborn plopping time alone the crib, summoned the gaul to ask her son, whose about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian Mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY lounging on a money Polo Lounge green Adirondack Chair, overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into Fencing?” The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, “Headbangers Baller is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their neck. So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made Twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker with the colossus wind power to match.  Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden is a championship fencer yet his nerdy hued, Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge. I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski and Slash wrapped into one. He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss plowing play. Force =Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indominable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line which will be recession proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in post COVID universe gone wild till our last dying breath anyway.”

The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than Basketball and Baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old school fencing decorum bullshit out the window. Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, you name it, so he could afford to pay any fine for inappropriate, hot dogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.  Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before Fencing matches, boom, “Let’s get ready to rumble”, Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin”, while Kickstart My Heart by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surround sound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair. I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant, nor is he 3rd generation wrestling royalty like the Rock or have a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho. So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible? He also plays with collection of lightsabers now more than he does with his cherished Wrestling figures and he owns the original rubber dog toy size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat among many others with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off ebay to match. Kayne West is worth 6 billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for 1 grand and up ma yet there’s no limited, in demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all. I envision a flashing middle F-You, finger logo that’s sporting the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred”, to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers, ripped jeans and shorts, obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red.  He’ll have his own line of studded, belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats and tang tops to show off his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise work out videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as Moth Into Flame by Metallica plays at full blast, being responsible for his shredded physique once he steps into something more comfortable for post fencing fight interviews.  I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes and Steve Vai for love of God, kickass metal guitar solo’s and for his metal loving American Dad who pushed him to shred for bread. On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.  I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships, so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into Fencing mom.”

Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson like Football for instance. The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Will be sticking with Nerf football in yard ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, mom no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for 9 years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once yet, case closed. Alsodad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock. Because if I bowed down to this belabored, weak ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from Boarding School, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody. So, Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a Tiki Torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in 89. And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all 3 of my kids and my speedboat Slashing Thunder.”

Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?” Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric fueled comedy gold. I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids because they’re my kids, not yours, especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time. I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing work I was good at, which made me feel most kick ass, happy alive.” Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer 2 fencing scholarships a year max.”  

Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing 3 times in a row, shredding every fencing record in the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops and speed metal belt with his signature middle finger logo, sporting a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred”.

Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed addicted seed or not. Shredder’s soar. Shredder’s fly high with the angels like 3 Guitar Attack from Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird. Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive, because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

The Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist

Chosen, a 28-year-old black Jewish, Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist required a COVID vaccine stamp on his passport for an upcoming summer tour in the US after sending Kayne West a demo tape with banging, killer rap songs such as, Me, My Mask and I, F The Mask Police and Life After COVID. The problem was, Canada failed to distribute the vaccine to only 5 percent of the Canuk population so far, enraging even the most stalwart, diehard left leaning government progandist dirt rags of the far north. Who now ran harassingly hurtful headlines about the anemic vaccine distribution numbers throughout oh Canada such as “Operation Escargot Speed”, “Jagged Pill To Swallow” and “Flipping Out Over Florida”, because Canadian caravans emerged, leading to a massive migration down south to score COVID vaccinations within swamp music country in Florida to attain the digital proof of indoctrination necessary to work, travel or take in a Toronto Raptors game again, despite Kwai Leonard taking his talents to LA to make mumblecore magic for the Duplass Brothers in a bunch of NBA short films for the Bleacher Report, whenever he’d rest his nagging quads again.  

Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, prided himself on being a funnier, less sadistically creepy Eminem. At the same time, he’d write record reviews and mail them to editors at the Source in LA, the hip hop Rolling Stone, for his own self-published rap debut album under COVID house arrest, in Canada titled “Cosmic Chosen Perfectionists”, in true cosmic chosen perfectionist style while also proving Kayne West didn’t have a monopoly on highly stylized, ego topping, art rock, God rap either. Chosen would push album review lines in his honor to editors at the Source such as, “Please don’t compare me to Drake for a fake news black Jewish rapper’s sake.  I come from a line of hilarious Jewish rappers like Ad-Rock from the Beastie Boys, unlike fake news persecuted Chuck D on Anthrax’s Bring The Noise. Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Theorist had zero love for Good Wille Hoodie at Facebook for banning his budding fan page for so called hate speech violations after dissing some of his primo targets in his rap such as Good Will Hoodie at Facebook, ANTIFA, Michelle Obama, Lebron James, King of the Persecution Complex and Minnesota congressional rep Baby Face Omar for her support of the BDS movement against Israel and for referring to death of Amy Winehouse on Twitter as, “Something happened, to a beehive sporting, horn hiding, satanic bitch who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.” Now, Chosen got banned from LinkedIn, after getting banned from Facebook and Twitter for calling Farrakhan a “Black supremacist, who trolled Elie Wiesel on Holocaust Remembrance Day with termite emojis from dawn till night.” Although what resulted in Chosen’s permanent suspension from LinkedIn was a truth bomb video link targeting the world’s largest resume database service when he did this gem sparkling bit, “This is my impersonation of Dr. Dre discussing the recent merger of Microsoft with LinkedIn with his former protégé Eminem. Hey, Slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, “Wordddddddddddddddd, LinkedIn is lamer than ever yoh.” Then Chosen adds,
“Eminem calls Trump Hitler, but he lifted the lifetime ban on Jewish membership when he bought Mara-A-Lago, Slim On Facts Shady. Never getting enough of his punch heavy, punctuated prose, Chosen goes in for the retaliatory kill against all the Trump obsessed Twitter twats and states, “Tell me why I should care about Snoop Dogg’s political opinions again? His brain hovers a notch below porn hood hell. Although I’ll still drink Old E if it’s ice cold at an AVN convention in Vegas. party, Old E, you know Snoop Dogg’s Ho sprayer of choice from back in the day. This was before Magic made HIV disappear, feeling exceptionally spry swell, for being an early stage investor in Dell. Trump is the anti-Christ. But in the Bible Part 2, Jesus defeats the Anti-Christ. So have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you people. I actually had to Google Anti-Christ. At the time, I thought, that’s what Pig Vomit calls Howard Stern in Private Parts before he became weird, weak, woke Howard. So how bad could the Anti-Christ be, holla, thank you very much.”

Now Chosen was about to hop into his Toronto’s stripper girlfriend’s Porsche SUV, whose name was Cayenne like the ride before their desperate dash across the border to score her some much-needed stripper work in Miami and much needed vaccinations to keep their careers and balling lifestyle afloat. As Cayenne, a part Haitian, part French, striking, six-foot stunner, hailing from the sultry Big Easy pulls her Champagne room spewing ride out of Chosen’s driveway, stops the car and says, “I don’t want to end up in COVID Canadian Jail Chosen.” How are we going to get past customs without showing them our vaccination ID, Chosen? I know you’re the best of the Beastie Boys all wrapped into one and were blessed with the funny Jew bone, capable of spitting out rhymes at will as if you were born to be in the perpetual zone. But there’s only one Moses babe, and I don’t see the Lord playing any part in getting the Canadian border patrol to part with their motion sensing technology on your behalf.” Common takes in his stripper scrumptious beauty, looking as if he could make love to her until his life blaster snapped in 2, and says, “Stop talking crazy Cayenne. We’re bound to Kayne now bitch. Plus, once I get that money on tour with Kayne, big tech, and the Canadian mask police, can’t tell me nothing. Worse case scenario, I get arrested, record a new album in Prison like Little Wayne and Kayne West makes a trade for me in 3 years when he becomes President for Jim Carey, after he paints him as a Chicago rapper conspiracist like the rest.

The End

Michael Kornbluth  

The Pigheaded Jew

Whose more pigheaded stubborn the gentile or Jew? And I’ll take the Crusades 1 through 5000 Alex.   

But for some reasons Jews are always attacked for being the most stupid stubborn of the 2.  I thought we controlled all the world’s media messaging. I’m right, you’re wrong Christian Right country, sorry.

You want to talk about abominations? What arises more disgust, the Catholic Church never excommunicating Hitler or any Pope never excommunicating himself for granting pedophilia priests Nick At Night casting couch immunity.

You want to talk haughty.  What’s more ostentatious, Vatican’s party palace, Trump’s gold-plated hair dryer or Adam Sandler’s throwback Jam shorts on the set of Grown Ups 1 and 2?

You want to talk traitorous. Whose worse, fake news Christian Mike Pence for letting Democracy die on his watch or Obama Be Good who gifted Iran 150 billion to create overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear to make their economy less reliant on the sale of face removal cream for the Kardashians? 

Growing up in a Kosher household, eating pork outside of it, wasn’t always a guilt free experience.  Even when I used to house my morning bacon, egg and cheese at the school cafeteria, I’d feel a tad dirty like the time I touched myself over my Everlast sweatpants in the nurse’s office as the perpetually busty Lauren Lighthall entered, with her nips fuller erect than my pubescent life shooter in the making at the time, knowing I still hadn’t gotten into the puberty party yet. So, playing with myself, resulted in me giving myself a reverse golden shower. I wouldn’t saying eating bacon was the equivalent to the dirty sensation of giving myself an accidental reverse golden shower at 15, up late after watching a steamy session of the Golden Girls, where Blanch tries out to be America’s next Jane Fonda, but the surge in icky guilt came close.

Jesus declaring all foods were clean had to piss off the pigheaded Old Testament God a bit, don’t you think? 400 years after God communicated the Torah in full to Moses on Mount Sinai, Jesus the frail carpenter admits out loud, “I need more protein in my diet and having to wait for a cow’s blood to be drained, is too much of a drain on my time already. Don’t worry fellow Hebrews. God doesn’t care if you break his Kosher law anymore. Accept me as the Son of God and your only means to get into Heaven. And you can eat pulled pork sandwiches in no go zone sections in Damascus, for all I care.” Holla, thank you very much.

Gentiles love their ham. It’s the chosen family tradition on Easter to prove they’re not pigheaded, stubborn stupid Jews, I get it.

Matthew was informed through a vison, declaring all pork Kosher in God’s eyes, assuming, you said grace, got baptized, ate symbolic parts of Jesus in Church, accepted him as your only possible messiah, thêreby gâuranting you a free pass into Heaven no matter what. Regardless, if you never repented or confessed to spreading intentional Jew killing blood libel about Jews being Christ killers because he was heckled to death by the devilish ancestry of Don Rickles.

While I’m on the subject of heckling, Gentiles don’t get enough credit for being the glaringly unoriginal hecklers. Jew Devil, Jew Pig that, although dangling bacon on poles in front of Jews in the streets of London when they had a Jewish Prime Minister in power for a bit, as a form of low budget, lowbrow Guerrilla Marketing used to promote the infinite goodness of the pork brain diet, wasn’t completely chop liver either.  Oh yeah, the other popular Jew heckle back in the day was Jews are descendants of pigs. Pigs are always being heralded as smarter than Ben and Jerry’s stoned out cows by woke white elitists.  So, I still don’t see how this insult is supposed to sting as intended. A Jewish doctor invented the polio vaccine and gave it away for free. Regardless of Hunter Biden getting paid 50 grand a week to jam nose candy up his nose, for what he thought was a sports energy company in the Ukraine, pushing borscht as the new Kombucha, makes him the greedier pig in this instance. Then again, Hunter never bothered to ask his baby mama strippers to get abortions, so he’s actually least likely to be excommunicated compared to pôps who off the record, insisted the hair on Jamal’s leg doesn’t make him a person in the annual profit and loss statement for the CEO of Planned Parenthood, sorry.

How does Farrakhan celebrate Holocaust Remembrance Day?  Spray Eli Wiesel’s Twitter page, with Termite Emoji’s from dusk till dawn.

How did Baby Face Omar acknowledge the death of Amy Winehouse’s death on Twitter? Did she call Amywinehouse a horn hiding devil spawn, who exploited the great Palestinian Song Book for all it was worth.

I can pick on my people to. For example, why do Jews think it’s kosher to eat non-kosher out of the home? Do these people, think, “Porking my wife with the lights on feels more off wrong to me, if I had to choose.”

What message was a gentile sending by throwing a pork chop against a Synagogue?  Costco is our Church of Later Day Saints to. So, we’ve got some extra loving grace to spare.

And why should I thank my in-laws for ordering pizza on my daughter’s birthday with pork on it in our Jewish home?  Should I feel blessed knowing my mother-in-law didn’t tag on the pizza box, Jesus Was Here?

Again, how are Jews more pigheaded stubborn than Gentiles exactly? It was the Spanish who pushed Jews to show a gesture of goodwill by eating pork in front of them during the Spanish Inquisition to qualify the seriousness of their conversion. Despite the converted Jew being picky pushy about it, asking, “Would it kill you to grab me some acorn fed Serrano Ham to nosh on instead?

Still, the smell of smoky succulent bacon in addition it’s divine blessed crispy crunch snap is hard to beat. Thank God, he invented vegetarians to resist Jesus’s instructions to give up pork skins for Lent in his honor centuries later. Who later invented Morning Star Veggie Bacon because they never got the delectable smells of brunch centric swine out of their system either.  The key to opening up all the full blossomed flavor potential of a Koshertarian BLT is to fry the veggie bacon in veggie oil at medium heat in your double handle pancake griddle.  Now, thanks to Jewish inventions such as greenhouse grown tomatoes, Koshertarian BLTs don’t have to limited to selling your spleen for some Heirloom tomatoes in July at your local Farmer’s Market during the summer only, having a blast, till major sticker shock ensues seconds later. Also, be at one with God’s graced earth, and use cut up pieces of leafy, sparkly shimmery sage from your garden to swirl into a bowl of mayo, salt, pepper and peeled garlic to make your bomb fresh, A plus, aioli mix.  

Personally, I like to use toasted country white bread for my kids Koshterian BLT’s because most wheat toast sucks. And New York Jews like are very picky, pigheaded Jewy about what bread we use or else we’d move to Scottsdale, Arizona and act like every day is Passover day, because the sunbelt was never chosen for endless, on-demand, baked bread delight.  Although one of my favorite memories is my 3 kids conducting a cherry tomato party in our garden with my smart phone flashlight last summer to use for our Koshertarian summer loving having a blast BLT special, which felt twice as blessed knowing how these balls of rounded, red cherry tomato perfection, derived from the earth amongst our home sweet, Koshertarian promoting home.

Michael Kornbluth

The Pigheaded Jew

Whose more pigheaded stubborn the gentile or Jew? And I’ll take the Crusades 1 through 5000 Alex.   

But for some reasons Jews are always attacked for being the most stupid stubborn of the 2.  I thought we controlled all the world’s media messaging. I’m right, you’re wrong Christian Right country, sorry.

You want to talk about abominations? What arises more disgust, the Catholic Church never excommunicating Hitler or any Pope never excommunicating himself for granting pedophilia priests Nick At Night casting couch immunity.

You want to talk haughty.  What’s more ostentatious, Vatican’s party palace, Trump’s gold-plated hair dryer or Adam Sandler’s throwback Jam shorts on the set of Grown Ups 1 and 2?

You want to talk traitorous. Whose worse, fake news Christian Mike Pence for letting Democracy die on his watch or Obama Be Good who gifted Iran 150 billion to create overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear to make their economy less reliant on the sale of face removal cream for the Kardashians? 

Growing up in a Kosher household, eating pork outside of it, wasn’t always a guilt free experience.  Even when I used to house my morning bacon, egg and cheese at the school cafeteria, I’d feel a tad dirty like the time I touched myself over my Everlast sweatpants in the nurse’s office as the perpetually busty Lauren Lighthall entered, with her nips fuller erect than my pubescent life shooter in the making at the time, knowing I still hadn’t gotten into the puberty party yet. So, playing with myself, resulted in me giving myself a reverse golden shower. I wouldn’t saying eating bacon was the equivalent to the dirty sensation of giving myself an accidental reverse golden shower at 15, up late after watching a steamy session of the Golden Girls, where Blanch tries out to be America’s next Jane Fonda, but the surge in icky guilt came close.

Jesus declaring all foods were clean had to piss off the pigheaded Old Testament God a bit, don’t you think? 400 years after God communicated the Torah in full to Moses on Mount Sinai, Jesus the frail carpenter admits out loud, “I need more protein in my diet and having to wait for a cow’s blood to be drained, is too much of a drain on my time already. Don’t worry fellow Hebrews. God doesn’t care if you break his Kosher law anymore. Accept me as the Son of God and your only means to get into Heaven. And you can eat pulled pork sandwiches in no go zone sections in Damascus, for all I care.” Holla, thank you very much.

Gentiles love their ham. It’s the chosen family tradition on Easter to prove they’re not pigheaded, stubborn stupid Jews, I get it.

Matthew was informed through a vison, declaring all pork Kosher in God’s eyes, assuming, you said grace, got baptized, ate symbolic parts of Jesus in Church, accepted him as your only possible messiah, thêreby gâuranting you a free pass into Heaven no matter what. Regardless, if you never repented or confessed to spreading intentional Jew killing blood libel about Jews being Christ killers because he was heckled to death by the devilish ancestry of Don Rickles.

While I’m on the subject of heckling, Gentiles don’t get enough credit for being the glaringly unoriginal hecklers. Jew Devil, Jew Pig that, although dangling bacon on poles in front of Jews in the streets of London when they had a Jewish Prime Minister in power for a bit, as a form of low budget, lowbrow Guerrilla Marketing used to promote the infinite goodness of the pork brain diet, wasn’t completely chop liver either.  Oh yeah, the other popular Jew heckle back in the day was Jews are descendants of pigs. Pigs are always being heralded as smarter than Ben and Jerry’s stoned out cows by woke white elitists.  So, I still don’t see how this insult is supposed to sting as intended. A Jewish doctor invented the polio vaccine and gave it away for free. Regardless of Hunter Biden getting paid 50 grand a week to jam nose candy up his nose, for what he thought was a sports energy company in the Ukraine, pushing borscht as the new Kombucha, makes him the greedier pig in this instance. Then again, Hunter never bothered to ask his baby mama strippers to get abortions, so he’s actually least likely to be excommunicated compared to pôps who off the record, insisted the hair on Jamal’s leg doesn’t make him a person in the annual profit and loss statement for the CEO of Planned Parenthood, sorry.

How does Farrakhan celebrate Holocaust Remembrance Day?  Spray Eli Wiesel’s Twitter page, with Termite Emoji’s from dusk till dawn.

How did Baby Face Omar acknowledge the death of Amy Winehouse’s death on Twitter? Did she call Amywinehouse a horn hiding devil spawn, who exploited the great Palestinian Song Book for all it was worth.

I can pick on my people to. For example, why do Jews think it’s kosher to eat non-kosher out of the home? Do these people, think, “Porking my wife with the lights on feels more off wrong to me, if I had to choose.”

What message was a gentile sending by throwing a pork chop against a Synagogue?  Costco is our Church of Later Day Saints to. So, we’ve got some extra loving grace to spare.

And why should I thank my in-laws for ordering pizza on my daughter’s birthday with pork on it in our Jewish home?  Should I feel blessed knowing my mother-in-law didn’t tag on the pizza box, Jesus Was Here?

Again, how are Jews more pigheaded stubborn than Gentiles exactly? It was the Spanish who pushed Jews to show a gesture of goodwill by eating pork in front of them during the Spanish Inquisition to qualify the seriousness of their conversion. Despite the converted Jew being picky pushy about it, asking, “Would it kill you to grab me some acorn fed Serrano Ham to nosh on instead?

Still, the smell of smoky succulent bacon in addition it’s divine blessed crispy crunch snap is hard to beat. Thank God, he invented vegetarians to resist Jesus’s instructions to give up pork skins for Lent in his honor centuries later. Who later invented Morning Star Veggie Bacon because they never got the delectable smells of brunch centric swine out of their system either.  The key to opening up all the full blossomed flavor potential of a Koshertarian BLT is to fry the veggie bacon in veggie oil at medium heat in your double handle pancake griddle.  Now, thanks to Jewish inventions such as greenhouse grown tomatoes, Koshertarian BLTs don’t have to limited to selling your spleen for some Heirloom tomatoes in July at your local Farmer’s Market during the summer only, having a blast, till major sticker shock ensues seconds later. Also, be at one with God’s graced earth, and use cut up pieces of leafy, sparkly shimmery sage from your garden to swirl into a bowl of mayo, salt, pepper and peeled garlic to make your bomb fresh, A plus, aioli mix.  

Personally, I like to use toasted country white bread for my kids Koshterian BLT’s because most wheat toast sucks. And New York Jews like are very picky, pigheaded Jewy about what bread we use or else we’d move to Scottsdale, Arizona and act like every day is Passover day, because the sunbelt was never chosen for endless, on-demand, baked bread delight.  Although one of my favorite memories is my 3 kids conducting a cherry tomato party in our garden with my smart phone flashlight last summer to use for our Koshertarian summer loving having a blast BLT special, which felt twice as blessed knowing how these balls of rounded, red cherry tomato perfection, derived from the earth amongst our home sweet, Koshertarian promoting home.

Michael Kornbluth

Michael Kornbluth

Cracker Free Casserole

Did you hear about Paula Dean’s new clothing line? What are they calling it exactly, Plantation, Nation? Holla, thank you very much. Ritz Crackers were never that special to begin with, let alone worthy to be the primo breaded topping on top of any casserole to mask the disgusting mishmash of green beans below. More importantly, looks play a huge role in whether your kids get excited to try a 1st dish or not and every casserole image on Google with crumbled Ritz Crackers on top looks like Garfield got a severe case of the runs, thank you very much.

The problem with most casseroles, whether they are inspired southern comfort food or not, is they look like premade frozen TV dinner meals for mass consumption on death row. And who the fuck puts spaghetti in a casserole? That’s like putting spaghetti on a Pastrami sandwich on rye and twice as gross. Obviously, when you’re not following Kosher law, Casseroles get a tad more interesting with the inclusion of chicken but unless you’re making Chicken Tamales, Chicken Parm within a casserole type shaped, dish, I’m not interested in your Chicken Noodle, Tortilla Chip, Hash Brown, amorphous, full blown schizophrenic Casserole, all over the place dump either. Also, your roasted veggie, broccoli, zucchini dump job with cheese with more crumbled Ritz crackers on top fails to give me enough woo worthy dinner substance to get excited about long time ever, holla, thank you very much.

And am I the only one who resents the term comfort food? In other words, nice hate hick. You might as well say, “Sucks to be living on the same budget from 78, holla thank you very much. Comfort food, you mean Southern staple dishes involving gravy, cheese, butter and a fried crust of some kind that you’re comfortable inhaling because they don’t infringe upon your spacious Farmer overalls, Spanx for Southern men who grow their owe ole-tomatoes and homemade wine because a country boy can survive. Hank Williams Junior lives, holla, thank very much.

I’m not trying to start a cracker fight with live off the land, Military serving, southern bad assess and southern belles who flocked to New Orleans for Marti Gras my sophomore year in college adding effortless grace, charm and wholesome, sensualized heat to anything in touch with their endlessly beautifying orbit. No, I simply want to retell a tale about perfecting perfection and using some southern inspired direction from Paula Dean back in the day, before creating my own Kosher Casserole Supreme, which also happens to be my 10 year old daughter’s favorite dish on this planet, which is nice work if you can get it. George Gershwin lives, holla, thank you very much.

First, softer the better and hard bites suck, meaning I make my Kosher Casserole Supreme with rigatoni, which isn’t al dente to add the much needed substance for a veggie laden casserole dish without it tasting like a late night, lazy brain uninspired microwave dish for practicing vegetarians like Malia Obama at Harvard University. Later, after sucking down some bingers, Malia admits to her freshman roommate, “Yeah, I get high with dad all the time now that he’s not President. On it, he sounds like a biracial, fake news deep Bob Marley.” Holla, thank you very much.

I also prevent my Kosher Casserole Supreme from being the same old casserole situation from blanching my broccoli in it, which entails boiling it before plopping into an ice bath to extrapolate its extra bright green emerald essence from within. I’m not high on extra strength weed from Northern Cal thank, I assure you, thank you very much. Did you know Hitler was born on 4/20? Talk about another glaring failure of our public school system today. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. Blanching rules, I highly recommend the experience, before sauteing your blanched broccoli florets into a butter olive oil mixed bath with red onions to add more well rounded, fleshed out primo green flavor.

Curious about the makings of more Kosher blessed casserole magic yet? Now, as much I like blanched Broccoli, which helps retain the soft yet firm texture without it becoming a stringy, mushy mess, the Kosher Casserole Supreme only becomes a crowd pleasing woo worthy favorite dish force by including the killer one 2 combo of Shitake and Oyster Mushrooms swirled into this irresistible never played out veggie mix. You’ll be spewing for more mushroom magic joy in no time. Splurging on mushrooms such as exotic Oyster mushrooms are always worth the extra expense, knowing your baby boomer mother would never dare spend 12 dollars on a cluster of meaty, head spinning good mushrooms draped in peeled garlic and butter, caramelized in nothing more than NY state tap water to take this Kosher Supreme Casserole dish so much higher. Sly Stone lives, through my star studded, mouth watering prose, deal with it Boomer, holla, thank you very much.

Also, use any kind of canned or boxed serving of mushroom soup other than Campbell’s for your Kosher Casserole Supreme, because Campbell’s Soup doesn’t make you feel superior to Hank Williams Junior does it? Then again, you’re not country music royalty, good friends with Kid Rock or ever penned legendary, hilarious songs such as Family Tradition or All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down. So you’re no in position to be feeling superior to Hank Williams Junior ever. So you can go woke yourself long time, holla, thank you very much.

Last, you can’t knock the cheddar just like you can write off Jay Z’s Empire State Of Mind as a mere cheap rip off, which exploited our post 9/11 stupefied, malaise for all it was worth. So resist using colorless, zero personality cheeses such as Monterey, Jack or the mass produced, generic mozzarella kind for your Kosher Casserole Supreme, unless you want to be the Drake of Casseroles, holla, thank you very much.

Never forget, extra steps such as blanching the broccoli and sauteing it separately from the mushrooms with the red onions are worth the mini time suck involved. Don’t let your wife or significant other inject doubt into your surging cooking level of creative genius either, come rain or shine. Frank Sinatra lives, thank you very much.

And if you don’t want your children to be in a perpetual bitch spat mode against each forever more, refrain from showing blatant, beyond palpable favoritism and instead focus that individualuzed ẻnergy on creating favorite dishes each one can fondly remember you by the most. It’s good work, perfecting your daughter’s favorite dish, if you can get it. I highly recommend getting your girl pregnant by mistake for the experience. Last, fuck plantation nation. Cracker free casseroles rule. So stop being a copy cat, wannabe refined Reese Witherspoon clone, and give the Koshertarian Diet a chance.

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

Not Kosher Baby

Ratting out hairdressers, DJ’s, and underground standup comedy club organizers in Manhattan to the cops or Department Of Health in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild isn’t Kosher. My 4-year-old son whipping out his schmekel in the kitchen before I suck down my 1st Nespresso shot in the morning is, “Not Kosher baby.” At the same time, the same son busting my balls as I bonded with mommy over watching an old episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations in Burgundy later this morning after our 2 other ones got on the bus is Kosher, especially when he delivers hilarious lines such as, “Daddy your head has a moron inside”, or when he referenced the oyster dish Tony was eating on his show with a bunch of French chefs from Burgundy when he says, “Not Kosher Daddy”. In other words, don’t even think about it because nobody likes a fake news Koshertarian Comedian.

Reality is, all my favorite food memories before my Koshetarian Comedian book journey began didn’t involve Kosher food at all, sorry mom. Do I have pleasant memories of eating mom’s brisket for Passover? Sure, but those memories with family don’t compare with eating a grass-fed rib eye with an old dear high school bud at Smith and Wollensky’s in Manhattan, after almost not getting out of LA alive. The fact my Larry Sanders loving, lifetime basketball bud Jesse paid for everything on his FX expense account helped my enjoyment factor tremendously to. Growing up, if we went out for a Kosher meal as a family, we’d go to Epstein’s on the derelict, shabby downer section of Central Ave close to White Plains, NY, which failed to give me sustained stiffage ever. How can you compare the climax free experience of more obligatory, rubbery blubbery nosh size bites of Kosher certified Pastrami at Epstein’s, on borderline depressed, flavorless rye to more howl rich, late night drunken gorge feasts at the local Mont Greek dinner on Central Ave with your entire high school crew there in attendance, for your standard order of not one but 2 bacon and egg and cheese on bagels, which required zero nudging to inhale whole?  

Was the always crackling crispy, always well-seasoned, clean tasting rotisserie chicken at the zero frills Kosher butcher on Yonkers side of Central Avenue a respectable, borderline enjoyable Sunday afternoon nosh treat? Yes, but it didn’t compare to more late-night drunken revelry with my meathead friends at local legend bar tavern haunt the Candlelight Inn, for more delectable beef gyros, American Cheese laden, grilled stringy onion topped, hot sauce drabbed cheesesteaks, fries in cheese and gravy, on top of those steaming, extra meat piles of hot wings whose fame extended all the way to hill free suburbs of yenta country in Long Island.

Did my dad manage to fire up tolerable edible Hebrew National dogs on the grill, devoid of blistering burnt marks as a whole during the summer for the 2 days I was home before they shipped me off to sleepaway camp for 3 months a summer for a decade straight, so I could feel smug superior about being the second worst athlete there compared to the sheik’s son from Great Neck but not really? Yes, but memories of my Dad’s Kosher grilled dogs on semi-stale buns suffering from severe shrinkage problems off the barbeque will never match the warm-hearted memories of grabbing those scrumptious, airy light, always bomb fresh, Cheese Dogs at the Left Bank in the town of Lake Forest, Illinois with my college freshman roommate Kowal as a couple of pot smoking, long haired hippies in the making.  

My fondest dining memories growing up with my mom, dad and younger brother was at red and white checkered tableclothed draped Italian joint off the Grand Concourse where Italian cooking love is made. We’d load up on New Zealand style mussels, the size of fucking canoes, garlic crispy, breaded backed clams and the most slurp worthy linguini in white clam sauce ever concocted. Before I’d go in for the kill and manage to eat at least 75 percent of my pounded think veal scallopini stuffed with prosciutto in a white wine mushroom, cream sauce, mama Mia, what a country. My high school buds were in awe of the place, especially my friend Ari, who was a 50 percent Heeb like myself, who literally looks and sounds like Harvey Keitel with a far, better proportioned head.  

When I reflect on the good old days with my Pinko crew of buds of yesteryear, I become smile rich inside, when I think of our dear Korean American friend Clark, who would whip up us batches of fried rice with Kimchee before it became a thing, at his parent’s apartment after we all collectively lost our shit from watching Dazed and Confused at Phil’s apartment next door prior over some sprayed weed form the Bronx that tasted like Windex.  

How can I forget my end of summer goodbye date at the fanciest restaurant in Chatham, Cape Cod with my dear fabled Katie King? Until then, I had no idea 3o bucks could score you one whole, lumpalcious crab cake to share.  I’ll always cherish these Kosher free memories with old school brothers in arms and past summer loves before social media or even smart phones existed, when face to face quality hangout time with our favorite people in the universe couldn’t be beat. Back when everybody wasn’t consumed with the propulsive compulsion to document every parcel pixel of their fucking social lives. Checking beer scores for more obscenely overpriced 4 packs of hazy, New England brews on Beer Advocate was the farthest thing from my mind in 94. The predominant governing thought on my mind in 94 was what time my friends were going to pick me up for more bar crawling adventures along North Avenue in New Rochelle or throughout the never asked for ID bars such as Kelly’s Corner in the Upper East Side instead because they were all far better drunk drivers than me. Hazy IPAs weren’t a thing a yet either, nor was there a Beer Advocate website, let alone a barely functional Internet back then, equipped with an AOL modem, which took longer to load than Sammy Hagger after running of out of gunk from banging endless groupies after shows after the release of 5150 but you get the gist.

I don’t care that these bonding memories with decades old friends were alcohol fueled or not. We were hanging out more for each other’s company and accessibility to available, less annoying girls from our senior class, more so than obsessing over social bragging props about where we partied the following day. Although a good sign of a night out in the city, is not recalling the name of every place you danced to rum shaker either. The thrill of drinking all night till daylight started to break with your high school brothers in arms, when birds got up, chirping sweet, soul music throughout, our leafy suburban wonderland, helped our mutual enjoyment factor long time to.

Hitting up Papaya King on our way back from the city was far from Kosher baby yet at the time, blaring 36 chambers by the Wu Tang on the FDR Drive home back to Westchester with a sports playing, fun loving, tight crew of buds was all we needed to get through the night with ravishing over the top glee. Oh Lord, I love upholding your Kosher law to make you happy and feel like a less all over the place Jew. But boy or boy, those were magical, bonding cementing days to.

Michael Kornbluth

Bad Boy Soy Boy Strikes Back

                                         

Once upon a time there was a biracial Korean, Jewish kid from the Riverdale section of the Bronx, Steven Park, otherwise known as Bad Boy Soy Boy, since he unleashed his Nunchucks of fury at a block party on a bunch of shit talking, instigating, black gangbangers, who wore the same wife beater, corn rows and cut off jean shorts, looking like they were dressing up for Coolio Appreciation Day. Who never dared to call Bad Boy Soy Boy, a COIVD chink in his midst ever again, as he cracked one corn row braided skull in 2 after another, without breaking a sweat in a NY Minute. Son of Sam in the seventies was scary no doubt, but the surge in hate crimes against Jews and Asians in the boogie down Bronx, Jersey City and throughout the Island of Manhattan were at an all-time high with no relief or added protection in sight.

Cops today, were younger, softer, and far less hardcore than their 9/11 predecessors. Nobody in the force today possessed the balls to make money on the side through good old-fashioned extortion like 99 percent of the force in the movie Serpico. Bail was banned in NY, garbage filled the streets, rats grew the size of Lena Dunham during Restaurant Week after challenging Leslie Jones to a Junior’s Cheesecake off. But even these woke large and in charge funny woman, couldn’t believe what a scary shithole their cherished concrete jungle of yesterday had become in 4 years flat.

Crazy talk slogans punctured the air such as, “Ban ICE”, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destruction years. It’s no excuse to mug Chinese grandma in Chinatown, yet the Wuhan made virus, made New Yorkers at large crazier than ever, placing misplaced faith in a news media hellbent on feeding more unregulated hate and fear into the nation about black men in America being America’s most hunted, despite not one enlightened BLM member encouraging their fellow brothers to just stop resisting arrest or the temptation to run out on a 2000-dollar dinner check in South Beach for Spring Break, God forbid.

Every day, Bad Boy Soy Boy worked at his parent’s deli in the South Bronx, despite living in the leafier, more snuggle soft confines, of Riverdale in the Bronx, where abandoned, torched, burnt down buildings to salvage a semblance of ROI from the insurance company were less common than a B plus Korean student at Bronx Science.

Bad Boy Soy Boy had to bite his lip at the deli every time some brother would come in there talking endless shit, yelling, “COVID Chink, this, COVID Chink that,”, despite him being fucking half Korean and half Jewish. It didn’t make a difference because cum bucket dumpsters such as Cardi B today were deemed heady, culture enriching, poets from the street, whose gaping, sloppy 3rds snatch couldn’t be beat, allegedly. Jim Rome lives, holla, thank you very much.

But one day Bad Boy Soy Boy decided enough was enough, so he opened a medicinal speakeasy weed milk bar in Bergen, New Jersey as a front to offer Nunchuck self-defense classes for Asian Americans based in any of the 5 boroughs willing to make the schlep to fight for their life to live out the protracted, rapidly fading American dream with a semblance of peace of mind as they raged, raged against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas lives, holla, thank very much.

Now, Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class, became the number one tourist destination in Bergen history, not that there was much stiff competition in this department. But Bad Boy Soy Boy had a college roommate from UPENN who he’d talk to on the phone every day who worked as a rock star chef for a Korean food truck in old city in Philly, known for their Korean eggroll cheesesteak hot pocket breakfast treats. Who now had to invest in a bullet proof vest covered food truck in Old City, which was once the only really safe area in Philly outside of Center City on Chestnut street. But safe spaces for Asian Americans were now deader than Jeremey Lin’s chances of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated 7 times in a row again, especially since JR Smith bitched to Knicks management about the golden child Harvard grad who plopped in their lap out of the freaking blue, because he was hogging the Garden spotlight and bike lane all for himself.

Asian Americans including Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, who never bothered to study martial arts, thinking, it wasn’t necessary to learn from 1994 to 2020, were flocking to Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class. Bad Boy Soy Boy’s grandfather, Michael Kornbluth was a Holocaust survivor because when all the brown shirt ANTIFA members of their day banned guns, he used his own Nunchucks of fury gifted to him from his Korean father-in-law, and cracked NAZI skulls hyped on crystal meth all his way to freedom from Nazi persecution. Who pawned enough Nazi gold teeth from the skulls he cracked in 2 with his Nunchucks of fury to buy a boat pass to NY, establish a family of his own with his reflexology wife therapist and become a proud 1st generation deli owner, getting Jewish New Yorkers hooked on Kimchi for more reasonable outs from ever having to slip their wife some tongue again.

Both young and old Asian Americans no longer had to live in helpless, paralyzed fear, all thanks to Bad Boy Soy Boy teaching them the infinite beat down possibilities unleashed from the almighty Nunchuck strikes of fury, to ensure they were never fucked with again in the name of the COVID Chink virus or not. Because Bad Boy Soy Boy was on a mission from God to prove Bruce Lee’s weapon of choice, ain’t nothing to fuck with.

Michael Kornbluth

White Privilege Lasagna

Lasagna, I don’t care who makes it, is normally a soupy saucy, droopy, ricotta plopped, dumpy looking mess. For a native New Yorker like myself, I always saw Lasagna as a tourist trap order like peep shows in Times Square in the seventies or apartment rebates in Manhattan today, offering zero deposit and the 1st 2 months free, since the greatest city in the world turned into an office space ghost town. Also, if I have to hear one more story about some NY transplant renting out a million-dollar mansion in South Carolina to conduct Zoom meetings in splendid, far more spacious isolation, I’m going to drive our family SUV off the cliffs of chained, middle class fixed insanity.  

Lasagna isn’t the most versatile dish to serve after winter either. I’d rather blow my calorie intake on hop forward pilsners and 4 sipper watermelon beers from 21st Amendment from San Fran during the heat of the night this coming summer than get weighed down by a dish full of heavy melted cheese best suited for a shittier Godfather remake in the making. And how exciting is the standard ground meat stuffing offered in most Lasagnas? If I weren’t eating Kosher now, I’d prefer a bomb meatball parm hero from Carmines off Broadway, over their ground meat crumbled lasagna any day of the week because you’re getting far heartier, tastier, meatier loving bites. I also write a gay food blog for closeted married men with kids called, “Meatier, The Better.”

My wife made lasagna in the past with tofu stuffing inside, which is as arousing as it sounds. Tofu has no place in Lasagna. It’s more out of place than a Guido with a tan line in South Beach on Spring Break, holla, thank you very much. Outside of dumping on the totality of what this fabled, old school Italian dinnertime dish classic has to offer, I’m going to spotlight a superior alternative that I learned to make from the domesticated goddess of home hearth enhancement Martha Stewart, The White Privilege Mexican Lasagna.

You know your White Privilege Mexican Lasagna is a hit, when even your normally snooty, compliment free mother-in-law feels compelled to compliment it 2 bites in, uttering, “This is very good. You’re making my daughter look like a slacker lazy brain in the kitchen. She’d thrown in the towel 50 rolled perogies in for our next Uki church bake sale guaranteed.”

I’ve futzed with the Martha Stewart recipe over the years, yet my strongest batch of White Privilege Mexican Lasagna used white corn tortillas versus the standard corn tortillas, which tend to lean more toward the grating side in comparison like COVID Loonies who insist on wearing their masks in the car versus others willing to pull it down on the elevator alone to suck their thumb for added comfort.  

You sauté the black beans, red onions, and jalapenos in vegetable oil 1st, before spreading them into the casserole dish with layered mini flying saucers of white corn tortillas, layered, with shredded pepper jack cheese and Monterey in addition to homemade salsa made from cherry tomatoes, 4 jalapenos at least, cilantro, red onion, and plenty of lime. I’d buy two batches of cherry tomatoes for the salsa topping to maximize maximum spreadage like Katy Perry hoisting up her pushup bra equipped with multiple party screamer kazoos attached on the tips. Also, use 2 rectangles of Monterey and Pepper Jack from the Cabot cheese company or else it will taste like a cheeseless White Privilege Mexican Lasagna. You might well add some tofu inside and commit an Asian on white priveledge Mexican Lasagna hate crime in the process.

My 7-year-old son asked for 3rds, which was unprecedented like George Lopez doing 5 minutes of straight of stand up without spicing his set with some Spanish in between to keep it cornier yet earthier real Holmes.  White Privilege Mexican Lasagna won’t stop Asian hate yet the more we embrace culturally rich cuisines outside of our preconceived prejudices, the less clannish will act at home and out.  Last, beating up on Chinese Grandma isn’t a good look thug lives matter. JR Smith doesn’t even find the act cute. But at least JR Smith has an NBA ring and earned the right to party topless in Vegas for 3 days straight. At the same time, nobody thinks picking on Asian granny requires courage of any kind and nobody is ever confusing your disgraced nuts as Thinking Balls to devise your new 5-year masked mugger plan with. You’re offended? Good, go woke yourself to. That’s the way the Fortune Cookie crumbles.

Michael Kornbluth