Qatar Rocks

Can I move to Qatar? You don’t have to worry about getting your Android phone rammed up your anus hole outside of Grand Central at 2 in the morning. Then again, it’s my year without beer, so I wouldn’t be in a desperate dash to catch the last train heading back to Westchester.

Thug Lives Matter Most knocks out the lushy, disgruntled ad executive for Ogilvy and Mather with just one viscous right hook to the ground. Ad Executive crunched up on the sidewalk in noggin swelling agony says, “I can hook you up with a SAG card you know. Our biggest account is Optimum. All you need is proof of vaccination, and I’ll hook you up with commercial work for them. J.B. Smoove makes Tracy Morgan sound like Sidney Poitier.”

Thug Lives Matter kicks his teeth into the pavement and says, “Fuck Optimum, they won’t let me watch individual Knicks games on NBA TV in Yorktown Heights unless I subscribe to Optimum or get MSG through Direct TV. And I only do the Cloud motherfucker. Kayne for President, you media hording heeb. And fuck your Truvada commercials on Hulu. I don’t want to see that whack ass gay shit while babysitting my sister’s son during commercial breaks after Lego Masters. With no bail laws you can’t be in jail long enough to get HIV induced hemorrhaging now. It doesn’t matter if I sell dimes or bricks of H. “

So, you can’t tongue some random bloke’s balls during a match between Mexico and Poland during the World Cup. Aren’t those games standing room only anyway? Plus, what self-respecting gay guy would book a trip to Qatar after watching the Sex In The City movie, blotchy old hags on the rag with nothing else better to do since the United Arab Emirates and China bought up all the primo posh real estate left in Manhattan that’s skunk weed smell proof. Outside of those apartheid imperialists in charge of Israel, isn’t being gay the number one cause of death in the Middle East after suicide bombing and heart attacks from rock throwing paralysis after getting booster shots in exchange for more nudie pics of Jennifer Love Hewitt in the dressing room lot for Disney Kids coupled with Brittney Spears sandy clean snatch. Singing summer loving, having a blast till his good rock throwing arm goes limp from the clot shot and has to switch jerking with his left, assuming he’s got any juice left or decides to become a kite surf instructor for John Kerry and his new world order friends to pump that family fortune for all its worth.

Michael Kornbluth

Lopsided Love Remedy

What’s my lopsided love remedy?

Text my brother on his birthday with this.

Happy Birthday bro, despite you not acknowledging my birthday since I came out as a Stay At Home Shemale Comedian outside of texting happy birthday bro once in 7 years.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot, don’t do heroin on your birthday.

And get Hanukkah gifts for all 3 of my kids if you want to rekindle any semblance of a relationship with them ever again.

You’re getting the entire inheritance anyway, once you share this text with mom soon after.

And when you give thanks for Thanksgiving with mom and dad in Arizona without me, my wife or 3 kids, thank your demons for convincing mom and dad that your ex-wife was the driving force behind your decision to add heroin to your resume into your early forties as if doing blow for 4 decades straight, after only hearing last call from the bathroom stall wasn’t enough.

I don’t care about being the sloppy second son anymore.

I don’t care about mom and dad betting against my capacity to achieve full blown independence again.

I don’t care about you being a sketchy, sniveling, drug addict bitch who can’t even muster the class to wish me good luck at my new job on Monday, which is the 1st full time opportunity I’ve had to feed my family in 7 years.

I don’t care about your life always being deemed more important in mom and dad’s eyes because of your innermost need to feel special, compared to the other mere spoiled, dumb son over here.

I don’t care about your opinions on anything, including mom and dad’s judgement of my talents, direction or beliefs anymore.

I don’t care that mom and dad would do dick for me if I wanted to get divorced.

I don’t care that mom and dad don’t treat you like the regrettable dumb fuck one.

I don’t care that you talk shit behind my back in the service of preserving your drug money from mom and dad.

I don’t care that dad gets an extra glint in his eyes when trying to upsell your endless fuckitude again.

I don’t care that mom made Yom Kippur all about whether I’d help you move.

I don’t care that mom wasn’t feeling the need to wish me a happy Jewish New Year in return because she was all over your morose dick again.

I don’t care about how you’re the sorry excuse for why and mom and dad, never spend more than a week or 2 back here every summer to see the kids.

I don’t care that your legal fees and divorce lawyer fees are the reason they reneged on taking the kids to California for Spring Break allegedly.

I don’t care about you not being a conspiracy theorist.

I don’t care about you playing the forced intermediary on mom and dad’s behalf anymore, whenever they want to meddle in my life again.

I don’t care about mom breaking into cankers sores on your behalf anymore.

I don’t care about mom only focusing on the center of your existence whenever she visits back east to see the grandkids allegedly.

I don’t care about lopsided love anymore because God put me on this earth to ensure I don’t make the same mistake with my 3 Pescatarian Comedian friends, that being my children, Matilda, Arthur, and Samuel.

That’s right, like mom and dad you refuse to acknowledge the fruits of my labor, in this case being my book The Koshertarian Comedians, which will sell huge, mark my words, no thanks to any emotive encouragement from you, mom and dad, that’s for damn sure. The follow up sequel hit book will be the Pescatarian Comedians, forget about it.

I don’t care about trying to impress you, making you laugh, or making you feel special anymore, because you’re just going to focus on you and not my kids.

Mom says, you’re making money now. I say, “Take the boys out to a baseball game.” And all I get is more bullshit promises in return.

I don’t care that you, mom and dad are A plus narcissists times infinity compared to me anymore.

I don’t care that lying, deceiving, downplaying, and minimizing has become second nature to you all.

I don’t care because I’m the star parenting genius and your enablers aren’t.

I don’t care because come Monday at my new job, will mark the greatest recruiter winning streak of all time.

I don’t care because I’m taking my family to fucking Jamaica man for Spring Break and you’re not, because you don’t have a family, but I do despite mom yearning for versions of you the most inside.

I don’t care because all of my kid’s teachers want to clone future versions of them.

I don’t care because I’ve got 3 masterful books to self-publish or sell.

I don’t care because I get to work for an older Jewish woman with style, class and a sense of humor now, who’s a loving, local, involved Grandma no less.

I don’t care because I’ve got 136 comedy records to convert into 99 cent E books for sales while having my genius artist son design all the covers after his 3rd grade teacher last night described him as the best art student she’s ever had. Especially, after she laughed long time when I said. That’s why, I call him Millionaire By 10 for a reason, Challah. Thank you very much.

I don’t care about lopsided love from mom and dad anymore because I’ve endless sheets of comedy gold, endless a plus, laugh yanker nicknames for my 3-fuss free, pitch perfect children and Dad doesn’t it, Waste Of Height, because it’s a term of affection but a great title lead for my all-star collection of funny man flash fiction stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories. I like getting milage about my dad’s endless assholishness on my behalf.

I don’t care because I’ve got one more final comedy record special to record from home on Sundy called Spoiled Dumb Son before I start cashing checks 20K commission checks on the regular while you’re hooked up to a weed pen on a forklift.

I don’t care because my Shabbat Shalom Ramble is going to kick into extra fucking high rollicking gear tonight.

I don’t care because before my birthday in April, I’ll have a screenplay Gum King Of New York to blow Tarantino away with.

I don’t care about your hurt feelings of dejection in the face of my towering genius anymore because now I live for watching hacks cry.

I don’t care about lop sided love because this is the winter, I don’t drink a drop of alcoholic, even hard fucking Kombucha, so I can finally achieve Do It All Dad Dunking out glory on my lucky 47th to make Dragon’s Lung’s year finish on fire.

I don’t care about lopsided love anymore because it only illuminates what beautifying magic the opposite can be.

Like Ayn Rand said, “New love is always waiting around the corner. And I plan on being its biggest spreader as I become the Relo King Recruiter of North White Plains as I scurry to score jobs and monster commission rips for any remaining in demand tech talent who hasn’t gotten the fuck out of New York, yet. As Jimi sang on Jimi Hendrix Blues, “I hear my train coming, and pretty soon I’m going to buy this town and put it all in my shoes. That’s what I’m going to do.” Jimmy lives, Challah. I might even pretend to give a shit about my freedom buying success that will allow me to kill on stage eventually down the line too.

Lopsided Love woes in my bruised heart are the off the fucking list, starting now, forevermore.

Thank you, sweet Lord, for my lopsided love remedy blog post very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Gimmel Be Good

            Michael The Greek Kornbluth’s only vice was betting on the Greek Chariot Racehorses. He’d study the Greek Chariot Racehorses forums, detailing past racing performances and odds with divine-powered zeal on par with his Torah study because one day, with his winnings, he wanted to become the head financer behind restoring the great First Temple destroyed by the Romans, because following in his father’s footsteps selling quicksand maps and Hebrew alphabet blocks wasn’t going to get the job done.

            One day, the Hellenization of Israel got ugly fast. Now, there was a new Greek ruler in charge who claims to be a descendant of Arie’s Anti-Semite brother, who had a worse credit rating with Jewish money lenders than Alexander’s great trust fund baby with Cleopatra, Lenny Kravitz Junior.

            No Jewish lender in Israel wanted to show any royal respectful love his way because he’d already blown through his fortune on the loser Chariot Horseraces and on a wind-powered hashish farm in Damascus, resting on top of a pile of quicksand.

            The new Greek ruler of Israel now, Pontificutus The Putz, was in charge. A new hotshot Rabbi, Rabbi Mason, moonlighting as standup comedian on the rise, came up with the nickname, and it stuck like the fake news rumor of Jews heckling the Romans into crucifying Jesus despite Twitter not being existence yet.  

            Now, with Pontificutus The Putz in charge, any Jew caught studying the Torah at home was sentenced to death. But first, those Jews would be forced to eat ham and cheese sandwiches for twenty days in a row, washed down with rotten camel’s milk, ’till they puked up their innards, establishing the roots of Greek hazing that would be used at the American Greek university level centuries later.

            Circumcision was now banned, despite Alexander the Great never being into the Greeks at the spa and sporting the inch worm hiding its head in its holster look.

            But Michael The Geek Kornbluth loved to study his Torah because he knew it made God happy and he loved to grow closer to God every day, yeah, yeah.

            What’s a poor white Jewish boy, who can do long division equations with eight zeros in his head like a young Donald Trump without any startup investment money growing on olive trees in his favor, to do?

            Michael had to come up with a diversionary tactic; a new gambling game to play at home to divert attention from his cherished Torah studies, but knowing his stellar reputation as betting advisor to top Greek senators around, coming up with a new gambling game for kids to shift focus away from their forbidden Torah studies wasn’t enough.

            So why was Pontificutus the Putz such a Jew-hater, again? Because he was a slower runner than they? Because he was bankrupting his kingdom from all his non-stop gambling losses on Chariot Racehorses and loser bets on the Gladiators versus gangs of rock-throwing Palestians from the neighboring Syrian Slingshot League. He was never confused with being a professional gambler great like future great Arnold the Brain Rothstein.

            Pontificutus the Putz also got herpes from a half-Jewish prostitute, just like Hitler did before his herpes sores inflamed his desire to annihilate all of Europe when he was on crystal meth. Also similar to Hitler, Pontififcutus the Putz, had artistic ambitions. He even applied to art school in Athens, but he got rejected because his sculpture creations were crude (like the Swastika symbol, for instance. I don’t care that it was a Photoshopped Hindu symbol. The Swastika still looks like two stick figures doing a sixty-nine on crystal meth.)

            Still, Pontificutus the Putz, bulldozed his way to the top and became a ruthless ruler of the Greek army. Not bad, for a guy who can pass for a little Greek landlord Astoria in Queens, NY any day of the week.

            What made Pontificutus the Putz such a killer warrior-turned-general was his colorblind condition, so all he saw in life was black and white death. Plus, the herpes always seemed to flare up before every major war against the Turks. He’d pierce with a spear as easy as an inserting a skewer into a fresh-out-of-the womb piece of lamb shawarma. 

            So, how does a nice Jewish boy from Tel Aviv earn the nickname Michael The Greek Kornbluth? Well, he was genius at picking the Chariot Horseraces, making fortunes for all Greek senators who would ask him for race advice in exchange for wine and challah for his hapless Dad, Joshua Kornbluth, who was known as the Willy Loman of quicksand maps and alphabet blocks.        Michael’s father Joshua would get too wrapped up in telling Gentiles Versus Jews jokes, to be taken seriously by even Jewish customers.          He’d say, “What’s the difference between Jews and Greeks? Jews are in no rush to pledge their allegiance to the God of loud rain. It’s too soon for Zeus jokes. I don’t know why I waste my breath.” 

            Today was different, because the Super Bowl of Chariot Racehorses was happening, and Pontificus The Putz needed a winner, or else his army would take him out Marc Anthony style for backing such a perpetual loser after all these years, regardless if he was related to Arie’s anti-Semite brother or not. 

            Pontificus the Putz enters Joshua’s humble hut abode (which made young Luke Skywalker’s adopted home on Tatooine look like Trump Tower).      Michael The Greek Kornbluth hides his Torah underneath his pillow and replaces it with some alphabet blocks his father carved himself (but with Greek letters on it instead of Hebrew ones).             Michael spins the dreidel. Potififcus blurts, “What are you playing with, there, Michael? Is your dad selling Hebrew Alphabet blocks that spin, now? You do realize that’s not Kosher anymore, kid?”

            Then Pontificus picks up the dreidel and says, “Oh, the letters are Greek.”

            Michael replies, “With you in charge, everything is Greek to me. I tan nude at the beach like I’m a Greek senator on holiday at the Red Sea.”

            “Alright, enough small talk, Michael. I’m a sure bet for the Chariot Race this Saturday,” Pontificus the Putz says.

            “Have I got a horse for you Pontificus. He’s named Gimmel Ge Good. You haven’t heard of him yet because he’s a black horse from a Kibbutz in the Golan Heights. They say he’s faster than Hermes with a horny Medusa on his tail. He’s a 15-1 long shot. Let it ride.”

            Gimmel Be Good did good and won the race. And Michael the Greek Kornbluth was able to resume his Torah studies without any interruption again. His father Joshua was granted a performance space to do a one-man play, Greeks Versus Jews, which received much nonstop praise. Plato’s grandson called the one-man act, “Socrates-smart, flush with big time, funny man Jewish heart.”

            More importantly, Michael The Greek the Kornbluth later changed the lettering on the dreidel to Hebrew lettering, knowing that Greeks were on the lookout for Bibles whenever they raided Jewish homes, and had a harder time recognizing mythological bullshit than basic Hebrew lettering, for that matter.

            And pretty soon the Maccabees had enough of submitting to the Greek way of life, and reclaimed Israel as their Jewish homeland again.

            Michael The Greek Kornbluth wasn’t able to parlay his billion-dollar betting brain and help finance the restoration of the great Temple of King David. But, more importantly, he was able to help preserve the roof over his head that he shared with God and his dear Aba Joshua; which was that much more important, since their mom had died from childbirth along with his newborn brother, whom he never got to study the Torah with.

            At least now, every night, dear Abba (Hebrew for ‘father’) could study the glorious reflection of the Allmighty in his son’s (Michael’s), worry line-free face, and give thanks and praises the most high, for giving to him the divine gift of fatherhood, which made dear Abba feel more blessed than the rest. 

Michael Kornbluth

The Jewish 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 had distributed the vaccine to only five percent of the Canuk population so far, enraging even the most stalwart, diehard, left-leaning government propagandist dirt rags of the far north. They 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.

            This was 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 that 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 Conspiracy 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, and 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.”

            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 and 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 stripper girlfriend’s Porsche SUV. Her 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, she stops the car and says, “I don’t want to end up in a COVID Canadian jail, Chosen. How are we going to get past customs without showing them our vaccination IDs, Chosen?

            “I know you’re the best of the Beastie Boys all wrapped into one and are 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.”

            Chosen takes in his stripper-scrumptious beauty, looking as if he could make love to her until his life blaster snaps in two, 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.

            “Worst case scenario: I get arrested, record a new album in prison like Little Wayne, and Kayne West makes a trade for me in three years when he becomes President for Jim Carey, after he paints himself as a Chicago Rapper Conspiracist like the rest.

Michael Kornbluth

Hacks With Words

Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky, it’s too bad Bill O’Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, Bill O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.

Last night, I tried the melatonin gummies that my wife has pushed on my kids as mommy vitamins for a bit.

Because nothing screams hands on parenting than Ambien with training wheels for kids.

The melatonin gummies for kids tasted like Marty making out with his mom.

No, it tasted like I just made out with one of the Flintstones kids after being put on puberty blockers.

Doing wrong for laughs, Gallagher lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Dave Chappelle on SNL

Kyrie Irving wasn’t near the Holocaust. Playing in Brooklyn surrounded by hipster Heeb nation is harrowing enough.

What about claims about Black dudes being the real chosen people spoken down to from the top of Mount Siani Dave? Like God could’ve have gotten in a word otherwise.

Do you still think Black Hebrew Israelites are the real chosen people, Dave? Sure, like King David is showing up on Kyrie Irving’s ancestry.com, Shaka Zulu.

You’re a moderate Muslim, right, Dave? Because you tolerate Obama Be Meh, banging What’s Talent Got To Do With in the Lincoln Bedroom after the new woke, She- Hulk pissed on the ceiling fan after Trumpy Poo Tits got inaugurated. Hours later, Trumpy Poo gets pissed on for real from the ceiling fan above and says to Melania, “Is this, what’s talent got to do with it meant? When the woke she-hulk said, “When they go low, we aim high?”

But nowadays, Michelle is packing on the pounds because of Menopause. And Adam Schiff never clicked on SoapyBottoms@Nothingtoseehere@moveon.org.



Accusing the crafty Jews of stealing their chosen people identity from the black Israelites is in poor taste, don’t you think so Dave?

Being a proud Muslim, would you be happy if Alex Jones accused Allah of culturally appropriating the child wife compounds from Mitt Romney country? I didn’t think so, you hypocritical, black supremacist, entertainer protector like the rest, King of The Prosecution Complex included.

Do I think Kayne should be denied a living? No, I support freedom of speech. Plus, I didn’t demonize Kyrie for refusing to take the clot-shot because your boy Rock plugged for Cuomo during the height of his pin up prime, despite always looking like Mama Fratelli from the Goonies and the Thing had a baby. If the King of Popping Cherries were still alive today, Dave, how would he defend himself against all his never land accusers again? Would the king of popping wood on Pee Wee’s Playhouse confess, “All the Beatles Royalty Points in the world, can’t buy me love.”

Hershal Walker is, “observingly stupid”, Chappelle. Hacks like you are making me return back to IT headhunting with an open, jade free heart, if you’re considered the apex standup comedy these days, my chest. You’re a race baiting piece of shit like the rest. Lebron and the CCP, SUCKING, but you’re glued to Obama’s dick way more, sniffing his sandals after Ramadan bike rides through Martha’s Vineyard if born again Muslim John Brennan hasn’t called 1st dibs 1st. You and Obama are nothing more than hacks with words.

Hershal Walker, “Has to think before Tic Tac Toe. That’s the best dumb joke you could steal from Kevin Hart’s writers Dave, you has-been, hack? Jim Brewer’s eyes and Steven Wright upholstery on your futon in Half Baked are twice as funny as you’ll ever be, Obama off the teleprompter included hacks with words, Challah. Thank you very much.



If Republicans want greater voter turnout for the Midterms moving forward or have any desire left to preserve election integrity, then they should showcase a shred of originality and counterattack the big tech machine with bound to trend hashtags on Twitter such as Late Term Abortions, Disinformation Dissing or Red States Bleed George Thorogood.  Lazily calling them the Midterms won’t get Democrats to do anything more than bone up on the basics the night before them. “Dr. Oz, neutered nincompoop. John Fetterman, Tom Segura after a chemo induced stroke.” So cut the Hoodlum Hack some slack.”

Hacks with words, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth







Master Set

#ComedyRecord136FinalOneMasterSet

Master Set

Sounds of Dronish Cuntry

Over Faking Happiness

Chosen Curls

Vaccinated Buzz Kills

Antioxidant Kids

Danish Dicks

Hardcore Hilarity

Placation Nation

Fame Whore Ho

A Plus Alter Ego

Master Set Sample

Rape Enablement Party

Lesbian Licking Losers

Cock Blocking Party

Master Set Record

Do It All Dad kills. #ComedyRecord136MasterSet

Master Set

Sounds of Dronish Cuntry

Over Faking Happiness

Chosen Curls

Vaccinated Buzz Kills

Antioxidant Kids

Danish Dicks

Hardcore Hilarity

Placation Nation

Fame Whore Ho

A Plus Alter Ego

Master Set Sample

Rape Enablement Party

Lesbian Licking Losers

Cock Blocking Party

Gum King Of New York

What’s an anti-social impression? Recording 103 comedy records from home after producing 500 plus solo Do It All Dad Year podcasts over the past 5 years without much adult interaction outside of getting almost black out drunk to see Aerosmith in Vegas 2 summers ago with an old bud from California while resenting him inviting other friends to participate in the fun despite them all becoming fans of you almost overnight, certainly qualifies. 

But what does it take to get shocked into sobriety exactly? Is it from pissing your pants while passing out in your daughter’s bed for the 1st night of Hanukkah? Or is it from not touching the stuff again till May on a Saturday getaway at a Casino in the Poconos with your wife’s friend and husband, only to learn from your daughter the following day how you blacked out while taking forever to say goodnight to her after being kicked out of the bar prior for drinking 5 double bourbons in less than an hour knowing how you polished off a bottle of wine and multiple Arnold and Palmer’s with vodka earlier that day to overcompensate for the fact that it’s your year without beer while throwing in multiple weed edibles in between? 

Does it even matter that your wife’s friend husband was buying your drinks, despite you having no intention of drinking any booze or becoming black out drunk whatsoever? No, it doesn’t. At the same time, it’s safe to say most blackouts are accidental blackouts. Nobody sets out to have a good time only to blank on what they did prior. Then again, nobody ever starts drinking in high school with the intention of failing at adulthood into their mid-forties either. Nobody wants to feel like they got 10,000 morons stuck in their head for taking so long in life to realize what a bat shit crazy friend alcohol is because alcoholism and multi-tasking don’t mix, neither do hangovers and parenting for that matter. 

I don’t care if you’re a weekend alcoholic or not. If you’re getting bombed after God blesses you with 3 beautiful, pitch perfect children, you’re running away from something. In my case, it’s been money troubles, new friendship formation woes and major angry laced resentment issues stemming from wanting to receive more credit and praise for the good writing and comedy I’ve dedicated the entirety of my life toward producing with relentless fury for the past 5 years and counting.   I’m trying to get jobs with companies to do copywriting for them because I’m good at creating compelling content. I’m good at crafting click bait headlines. I’m good at sticking to main points while going on inspired comedic laced rants to. I’m good at building up my kids. I’m good at cooking yummy dance worthy meals for my family. I’m good at complimenting friends and praising artists who inspire me to strive for originality like Miles Davis, Bill Hicks and Bob Marley. I’m good at creating a funny man impression on my Do It All Dad Year Blog. Although, one could argue that despite all the likes my comedy records, stories or blogs receive, I’ve haven’t excelled at creating plenty of meaningful interactions on my blog based on the scattering of actual comments in between because those people might be discouraged from interacting with an anti-social pariah comedian who displays psychopath tendencies such as laughing hysterically whenever one of Dexter’s victims squirms in discomfort before meeting their maker, tapped to his kill table, never ready to die, just yet. 

But in the spirit of anti-social awareness month, I wanted to discuss my anti-social impressions in person here at the Father Expo, not by launching my own social media platform like Truth Social, but by stating my commitment to make friends with sobriety. Sobriety is my new friend resolution because if I can’t get high off the presence of loved ones, especially my kids who still believe Daddy can make it as a successful comedian and businessman writer entrepreneur of some kind, then I’m a lost cause who will never be capable of paying back his debut to his parents, wife and friends who have done nothing but encourage me to pursue my funny man path with all of my God given might along the way. So, I’ve decided to make a year without beer, not just about a self-serving desire to achieve dunking out Do It All Dad Glory by giving up what’s preventing me from flying, which is hop juice. What I’m also giving up that’s preventing me from flying is anti-social impressions by declaring my independence from alcohol forever. I want to become the most engaging, hardcore hilarious sober living personality on planet earth, even more so than Russell Brand, who can make sober living a sexy lifestyle to pursue. Plus, I’ve got way fewer grey specs of wisdom on my beard than Russell Brand does. Plus, he’s English and the Declaration of Independence was signed in Philly, not in Buckingham fucking Palace. Bill Hicks gave up all drinking and produced his best work on Arizona Bay as a result, so did Amy Winehouse on the Rehab record and I will to.  So later this week on Shark Tank, I’ll be presenting a new brand of Hop flavored gum called Hop Licious Chew. It’s a killer trade off worth taking. They say rehab is about recovering your former, authentic self before you sought pleasure and escape through alcohol and drugs, and what better way to reconnect with our glorious of age innocence before social media ruined everything than through embracing gum that comes with an adult flavored twist. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t cum in my pants after my 1st sip of Budweiser, because beer is an acquired taste, just like espresso or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale ale that never gets stale, until that lifestyle gets played out in your heart. I don’t want to be bitter anymore. But I wouldn’t mind the taste of hops in gum to remind me why being a lushy alcoholic degenerate dependent blows more than being stuck on Meghan’s McCain’s lost Cheeto stuck in her belly button detail on the View either. 

Because let’s be honest folks, sobriety monogamy is sexy. Sobriety monogamy gets me harder than a new porn installment of Trans Sitters on Third Legged Beauties.com.  Sobriety monogamy never leaves you feeling like a dirty scumbag for sucking down whatever anybody is willing to buy you. Sobriety monogamy comes with a happy ending guarantee, where you don’t have to question whether you’re an awful for person for making jokes about requesting only older happy enders knowing they weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday. Sobriety Monogamy makes you feel better than Mormons who voted for Mitt Romney twice. Sobriety Monogamy should be a no-brainer commitment when you can’t manage being a good role model for your kids by blacking out on tucking them in. Sobriety Monogamy will allow me to make sober friends. And let’s be honest, were all a tad jealous of those who have AA friends, who’ve been to hell and back but still emerged victorious while you’re still stuck in the doldrums of your do dick profitless existence. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking because you’ll show some steady backbone and prove you’re worthy of funny man redemption. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking, so you can have a positive impact on others while never coming across like a goody fucking two shoes who only dealt with a crippling mental addition to weed, alcohol, Adderall or painkillers for one year max, compared to 10 or more.  Sobriety Monogamy is the best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions by passing out prematurely at the party again, because you’re in no rush to bond or learn from others. The best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions is through sobriety monogamy because how much empathy do you really have for other’s people’s problems when you’re the loudest one at the bar, yelling, “Nobody gives a fuck here, we’re in New Jersey”, but you’re actually in Pennsylvania? Sobriety Monogamy ensures you don’t become another no-show bum on the grand stage of life like Lenny Bruce would say. 

Do Sobriety Monogamy for Lenny, knowing how he was denied a living at the end. Do Sobriety Monogamy because despite your fucked up degeneracy, you’d never blame a disparaging tweet you made about Valerie Jarrett on dropping a fucking Ambien no less. Shit Roseanne at least bang out a funnier tweet on Ambien allegedly by calling Valerie Jarett, Obama’s live-in Arabian horse whisperer. Do Sobriety Monogamy, so you’ll exude a sincere, palpable good-natured vibe, that doesn’t’ feel forced like Ellen DeGeneres after she comes out on her show as friends with W because she’s pro Bush all the way. Do Sobriety Monogamy because by becoming a gum mogul in New York you can actually act your size among all the other towering personalities in the Big Apple post weird, weak woke Howard these days.  Do Sobriety Monogamy because New York is deader than Yiddish anyway, so who gives a shit about partying in NY anymore anyway? Do Sobriety Monogamy because it will represent an actualization of your best self, the most giving, emotionally present, less jaded, always criticizing self, you know, the standard New York state of mind. Do Sobriety Monogamy so you can feel superior to bartenders in wool hats in July. Do Sobriety Monogamy to claim victory over conquering your crazy Hick DNA from Kentucky after all. Do Sobriety Monogamy to give other dads something weighty to chew on while struggling to balance the demands of being a star provider and involved father teacher life coach sage all at the same time through the advent of Swami Says sayings that come with each pack of Hopo-Licious Chew, designed to add a brighter glint to your eye and greater bounce to your step. Daily Nugget of Wisdom today is, “Beer bellies give self-love a bad name.” Because Hop-O-Rama Swami Knows Best.  You want more nuggets of daily wisdom from Hop-Rama-Swami, my new sober best friend? You got it. 

Hop O Rama Swami on Success:

Swami says, “Be better than best or be nobody worth giving a shit about.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Life: 

Swami says, “Live life in fear and you’ve got less to live for than a monologue joke writer for Stephen Colbert.  It’s too bad Bill O’ Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least Bill O’ Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Love: 

Swami says, “Loving the one you’re with is an overrated experience, especially when they resent being expected to suck off even an inch-ling of your existence every other 6 months ever again.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Creativity: 

Swami says, “If you’re mom doesn’t laugh at your jokes nobody will.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Attachment:

Swami says, “Don’t get too attached to flashes of alleged genius that came out of your creatively jacked dome if they’re not embraced online or off the way you envisioned as usual.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Status:

Swami says, “Status updates on LinkedIn scream respectability straining.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Money: 

Swami says, “Money grants greater middle finger power, just ask Stone Cold or Adam Carolla on his podcast.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Fame: 

Swami says, “Doing anything for fame alone is gayer than Roger Ebert’s aghast fueled review on The Foot Fist Way, Danny McBride’s 3rd hardcore hilarious movie by the way.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Choice: 

Swami says, “You’ll be fucked over by life with your face rubbed in your feces if you allow others to push you in whatever preferred direction they choose.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Want: 

Swami says, “Stroke yourself if nobody else will do it for you.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Self-Love. 

Swami says, “Overpriced IPA’s only leave you bloated with self-importance inside.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Your Problems. 

Swami says, “Find a new lover of you and they’ll go away.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Darkness. 

Swami says, “The extent of your impact on this earth can be writing disposable ad copy for a big pharma pimping marketing firm in San Diego. So, stop acting more depressed than your Euro-Pass being rendered useless once Europe transforms into one seemingly endless no-go zone without any access to WI-FI in your Youth Hostel after the next man-made plague made in Wuhan is released to finish off our collective pursuit of happiness again.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Unnecessary Suffering: 

Swami says, “I didn’t tell you to vote for Mr. Groper. And you call the other side mongoloid morons, douche bags are us. 

Hop O Rama Swami on Facing Fears: 

Swami says, “I’d triple wrap by super soaker before playing around with Madonna’s kick the can clit to.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Pain Management. 

Swami says, “Take up blow painting and leave me out of it.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Bullshit. 

Swami says, “If it sounds like bullshit, it means the person is underselling distressment again. ” 

So, stop bullshitting yourself dads. Trade in the dad bod in exchange for dunking out in do it all dad year glory. We can form our own 3 on 3 Do It All Dad League together. 

And never forget, funnier dad, happier baby. So, reconnect with your original, starring self, before you allowed alcohol to drive the asshole component of your personality into hyperdrive. 

Dependence sucks so don’t give into it anymore. And Michael Jordan admitting on the Last Dance doc about getting into drinking later in life after winning 6 championship rings was freaking weird. That’s like Charles Barkley taking up Adderall to study for law school like Kim Kardashian because social justice lawyers are so hot right now. And Sir Charles using manufactured speedy time pills to hit the books instead of more crab legs with Shaq and Ernie at Maestro’s after work for another raise dinner on TNT doesn’t mix. 

Do It All Dad didn’t get funding for Hop-Licious Chew on Shark Tank, but he finally got a talent agent after doing a joke about KP on the broadcast in front of Marc Cuban when he said, “There’s no way KP raped the neighbor in his apartment building, the same day he tore his ACL, right Marc? Because going strong to the hole was never KP’s forte. Plus, Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein would never try to rape Gal Gadot in her trailer on the set of Wonder Woman 3 on only one good leg. Plus, Do It All Dad did sell a screenplay to Hollywood called Gum King of New York where he comes out as the King of All Sober Living Media and develops a new best friend in AA, who becomes his talent manager, agent confidant, who made him a higher paid podcaster than Joe Rogan on Spotify while never coming across as a smarmy, CBD Oil evangelist, social media deferring apologist in the process either. Ok, so maybe becoming friends with sobriety doesn’t remove your complete frontal asshole lobe all together. 

Michael Kornbluth

The Neverending Prick

“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort?” asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a fifty-something, well-dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like.

            The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last-second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment in the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights where he bought from Julio Silverbade, the Third before his co-op eviction trial began.

            The Manipulative Prick (otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot) loved doing cocaine—mainly on the weekends, though, when he wasn’t working. So, what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life (such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine, too)?

            Last month, when the newlyweds received their first of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a forty-year-old phone sales rep for Verizon, says, “Relax babe. Our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me because his life sucks compared to mine; that’s all.”

            Wife Kate, a thirty-five-year-old, one-time divorced, pretty yet worn-down-looking ER nurse, says, with weary disgust, “You’re a forty-year-old cokehead who sells smart phones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about, exactly—your tar stains on your two front teeth?

            “Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career-secure? Do you think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at four am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody-free snatch?

            “Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor, for a Jewish cokehead, that your Hebrew name is under judicial review?    “Maybe he’s jealous about you being a no-show uncle who’s more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from five years ago today than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on New Year’s Day, moron.”

            Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day.

            He says, “First off, I take incredible offense at being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.”      Then a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke, to get him erect with aroused interest at all, these days.

            The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it, and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money, here.”

            This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near-deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it.

            Now the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion during your eviction notice hearing, already? You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name Automatic Fuckup, or what?”   Now the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

            Co-Op Board Member Number Two, a wrinkly, diminutive, yet feisty, retired realtor, chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other fifty-and-over tenants, when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion-free during your final eviction notice hearing?

            “Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, and drugged out loud when consequences for your got-to-have-satisfaction-up-my-nose, whenever-I-want behavior have never been greater.”

            The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him (the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior, in addition to the realtor’s wig) and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone while my wife works the weekend shift, especially since COVID hit, these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils (which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much, actually).”

            Now a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling and through a fancy schmancy chandelier while looking more like the worm giant from Dune. All the Co-Op board members duck for cover under their judgment table as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction.

            Co-Op Board Member Number Two, squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face, screams, “What the fuck is that?”

            The Never-Ending Prick.

Michael Kornbluth