All Metal Baby

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to Sloppy Seconds Hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Tabitha Soren, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his banger pretty wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H. So, I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism Man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows above all else, when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Righteous Maniac Lives

New favorite nickname for Mr. Groper in the White House, Icky Shuffle, Challah, thank you very much.

New favorite nickname for Michelle Obama, Michelle, What’s Talent Got To Do With It Obama.

Who cares who gets elected to the Supreme Court anymore? Election integrity in our country is deader than claims of Voter ID being racist among anybody with a functioning moral compas capable of introspective correction left. But Voter ID used in white supremacist ruled countries like El Salvador is racist. Does Pedro Martinez Junior have to pass a height requirement to vote in either country to vote? I don’t get it.

I get a DM on LinkedIn from a cute Asian girl in a business suit who implores me to expose myself to some crypto currency. The gal who claimed to come from Hong Kong calls herself Montez Downey on LinkedIn, her alter crypto ego I’m assuming. I reply, “Your real name is Montez Downey from Hong Kong. Yeah, and Montel Willam’s comes from the Virgin Mary’s penis.”

Without or without you, is about who again Bono? A cute Irish Lasie who swallows but grazes time after time. 

A true friend buys your book before asking, “How many copies have you sold so far?” “What’s your next step?” “I only do audio because I’m super busy making money and living a fun filled life over you.”  

I’d almost prefer, “Just because you mailed me a free copy, doesn’t mean I’m going to use my brain on your behalf and give your stupid fucking book a review, praise it at all or give it constructive feedback of any kind jerkoff.

Kayne West trolling Taylor Swift on Twitter for old timer sake.

I know we’ve had our differences pretzel sticks.

But you’re still hot enough to get Pete Davidson to stray from Kim’s Milky Way snatch.

Dress up like a Christmas Tree fairy on his birthday, looking like an overdose at the Limelight waiting to happen.

And urge Pete to fuck your brains out in the VIP room at the 40/40 club.

So, you won’t fuck Beyonce out of any more VMA awards, you dig.

Taylor Swift saying, “She sings country music.”

Is like Kayne West saying, “He never raps in the 3rd person.”

I’m purchasing a book by Jeff Tweedy called How To Write One Song and the cashier says, 25 bucks.

I said, “25 bucks for How To Write One Song.” Jeff Tweedy is really testing the limitations of my father daughter love.”

My daughter better write an album that outsells Stevie Nick’s Bella Donna before Taylor Swift got her 1st period on her Christmas Farm village, which inspired Lollipop Legs to pen her first cross over Church hit, “Planned Parenthood Bound Train.”

I add, “Fucking Jeff Tweedy, I didn’t even know he was the singer songwriter of Wilco until now. All I know about Wilco is Jim Rome making fun of Tiger Woods for attending a Wilco concert once, which made Tiger feel whiter than White Man’s disease on Saint Patrick’s Day,while attending a Chicago cover band tribute act in Minnesota because he lost a bet to Donald Trump, after Donald bet Lindsey Vonn would choke during the winter Olympics, if Tiger told Maximum she was “overrated”, in the sack, especially compared to Rachel Uchitel, known for her infamous, blow job ready lips, who can suck a golf ball through Taylor Swift’s Fallopian Tubes.

Is giving Paul McCartney’s book of lyrics a one star review on Amazon considered hate speech, anymore than allowing the sale of Mein Kampf on Kindle, which is 720 pages of hate speech in a row?

How would Michael Jackson defend himself against his Never Land accusers today? All the Beatles Royalty Points in the world, can’t buy me love?

At my son’s parent teacher conference, she proudly admitted how my son did a bio on Leef Erickson, which was displayed on the wall outside his 2nd grade classroom, so I was able to compare his bio report to other famous people chosen by his classmates. And I said, “I’m happy to know my son didn’t do his bio on Russell Westbrook.” Teacher laughs long time. I add, “At this point Russel Westbrook should be the next spokesperson for Tampax Tampons. Name another player in the NBA besides Carmelo Anthony that’s been responsible for stopping so much flowage.” Righteous Maniac lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Spirit of Sal Balsamo

My dad didn’t care for Heavy Metal, but Sal Balsamo did. He loomed large over Mount Metal outside of Seely Place Elementary School, a sprawling rock formation dominated by his jean jacket worshipping brethren, decked out in Metallica, Slayer and Overkill patches on all. It was here where Sal Balsamo delivered his metal front men with 10 Commandments of Metal to burn into their burnout craniums forever.

Commandment 1:  Thou shall not steal metal riffs from Twinkle Toe Rhodes.

Commandment 2: Thou shall Not Disrespect thy Father and Mother of Heavy Metal, Deep Purple and Lita Ford.

Commandment 3: Thou shall not carry hatred in your heart for Metallica’s brothers in arms after the killer commercial success from the Black album and beyond.

Commandment 4: Thou shall pray to the programing manager of MTV for playing the Cherry Pie video on one endless loop during the winter of 90, which even made Kareem Adul Jabbar crack a smile during Ramadan that was eight miles wide.

Commandment 5: Thou shall request DJs at Bar Mitzvah parties to play Cult of Personality even if they insist on not knowing who the fuck Vern Reed is yet.

Commandment 6: Thou shall kiss your guitar more than your girlfriend’s ass after she puts on the freshman 50 at the University of Buffalo.

Commandment 7: Thou shall find a new groupie to love if they deride Heavy Metal music as awful despite GNR, Motely Cru, Cinderella and Poison rocking your world more than they ever did.

Commandment 8: Thou shall consider blowing Desmond Child for penning Hair Metal classic hits like Poison by Alice Cooper, Dude Looks Like A Lady by Aerosmith and Living On a Prayer by the long haired cowboys from New Jersey, Bon Jovi.

Commandment 9: Thou shall laugh when you hear Jim Norton roast Sammy Haggar on Comedy Central with, “I don’t drink, but my hunch tells me Sammy that your Tequilla Cabo Wabo, is Van Halen light.”

Commandment 10: Thou shall pay Ace Frehley’s medical bills, if Gene Simmons screws him out any future touring money ever again.

The Spirit of Sal Balsamo burned on at his fort in the woods behind Seely Place one unseasonably warm December afternoon before Christmas Break. A fire erupted after a scatter of fiery ash landed on top of some old, discarded rugs used for after school hook ups with Elisa Velle on Valentines Day. Sal and his metal head Disciples watched in holy shit man aw as the fire raced up a giant oak tree, rapidly approaching his old Kindergarten classroom at Seely as it roared with Metallica Kill Them All rage up high in the sky. Sal Balsamo’s father was a retired fireman from Yonkers, NY and former roadie for Led Zepplin, so blazing inferno’s, backdrafts and fiery satanic altars his father would walk into as Jimmy Page pleaded with the Devil for more electric slaying chops than Hendrix or Tommy Iommi ever possessed didn’t dampen Sal Balsamo’s metal worshiping spirit one bit.

Then, a voice emerged from the fire that screamed, Run For The Hills, Run For Your Life, which freaked out Sal and his crew because the voice sounded exactly like the human air raid siren Bruce Dickenson from Iron Maiden because his super natural voice pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal Heaven. So, Sal and his crew run for the hills as the fire roars on with Gene Simmons fireball blowing delight. Now, in the fire Gene Simmon’s face emerges and yells, “Loud, I wanna hear it loud, right between the eyes.” And Sal Balsamo’s crew started screaming the chorus in the unison while looking up to this Heavy Metal light show for the ages, no longer running for the hills with such divine powered pushed authority anymore.

Do It All Dad, a 46-year-old self-stylized Hair Metal Comedian takes a break from retelling the Spirit of Sal Ballsano and his son Hardcore Hunga Rocks says, “So what happened to the fire Daddy? Did Gene Simmons burn his tongue on it or what?” Do It All Dad says, “Eventually, the fireman extinguished the fire and what you see is the original Seely Place still standing.  But Heavy Metal never dies and it sure is fuck ain’t noise pollution. So, it’s on with show Hardcore Hunga Rocks. I think you’re finally ready for Nightmare on Elm Street, but let’s blast Too Fast For Love in the car first. Their leader guitar player Mick Mars is the Freddy Kruger of shredding. Hardcore Hunga says, “Let’s get on with the show already daddy. But when we get home, you get to play Van Halen on vinyl and use me as an air guitar appendage for Eruption, then we watch the movie, or I’ll be your worst nightmare, moron, got it.” Do It All Dad says, “Only if you promise to shout at any future devil bitch who tries to tell you Heavy Metal sucks.”

“Deal daddy, deal.”

Michael Kornbluth

Owner Of A Heavy Heart

Welcome to Rough Talk Rules, I’m your radio host Solomon Kornbluth, helping you work toward better tomorrows without your deadweight conversationalist ex friends and romantic partners of years past. And today is Dumping Tips Tuesdays, but first let’s take a call from Robert Gauler in Stamford, CT. Hi, Robert, what’s weighing down your heart today?

“Hi, Solomon, what’s weighing down my heart today is being unemployed during the Passover season again.  I’m losing heart from receiving more rejection emails from employer’s that read, “What kind of a moron are you today? For thinking, you could mosey your zero leveraged, broke down ass into our loving arms after a 5-year vacation life as a Stay at Home Dad, I mean sheltered bum, jerkoff. You’re obviously optionless and friendless in this world right now for a reason. Blog stats we can’t verify don’t count as give a shit credentials for our copywriter position that requires at least 5 year of agency copywriting experience. Sharing mock print ads for Woodford Reserve Whiskey with headlines such as, “Class in A Glass”, aren’t going to secure any invitations to interview for any creative professional role within our constellation of star powered creative technologists, designers and witty wordsmith scribes at large, OK! “

Radio Host Solomon says, “I feel your pain, Robert. When was the last time you pulverized a vagina of any kind?”

“I’m living in my grandma’s old apartment, which reeks of middle-aged mildew malaise. Plus, I’m so broke I can’t afford my past cell phone due bill past tomorrow. So, swiping over some random cum dumpster chick I met on Slut in A Straight Jacke .com isn’t happening anytime soon either. I can’t afford my oil pill or my electric bill, so I don’t even have the option of electrocuting myself to death in my tub with a working toaster from GE for that matter. Even if I could convince an ex-booty call to drop by, she’d get cold feet upon entry because I haven’t been able to afford the heating bill in months either. You know the price of gas is high when 10 bucks at the tank burns faster than a 2-hit pinner”, Robert Gauler from Stamford, CT says.

Solomon Kornbluth laughs and says, “You’re a funny guy Robert. Laughter is the best cure all, used to lighten the stressed-out load of fixed ineffectual, stuck in a ditch depression, that’s squeezing the life out of your loving heart, making it borderline impossible to take semi-easy deep breaths for more than 2 seconds a time, I totally get it. My advice moving forward, is to attend, an open mike, which doesn’t charge the one drink minimum, prepare some jokes about your non-existent love life on stage or just rant and rave about how much your life love life sucks compared to Martha Dump Truck in Heathers and you’ll feel less alone in your rapidly building misery. Chances are, if you’re emotionally honest about why you hate your past friends and former loves who left you for dead and kicked dirt on your premature grave, regardless of it being deserved or not, it will become impossible for the crowd to not empathize with what a decrepit, sad sack, shit sandwich, you’re forced to eat every day without sporting’s it’s an all good, all love, big pimping Puff Dadd vibe along the way. It feels liberating and empowering to get out of your head, especially on stage in front of strangers, because any form of comedy allows you to rewrite the narrative to your own liking while giving the golden opportunity to get in last word or final laugh along the way. Who knows, you might even get luck out tonight with a Lesbian poet whose heart isn’t into munching on far from scrumptious stank fumed vagina anymore.”

“Ok, I’ll take one more caller before we start our fan favorite segment, “Dumping Tips Tuesdays.” Next up is a call from Lindsey Lam from Louisville, Kentucky. My mom grew up down south in Kentucky, although my ex-wife insists Kentucky is more Midwest south. Regardless, finger food down there is considered anything that tastes your cousin’s panties, hey now. Lindsay Lam you’re on the air with Rough Talk Rules. How can I lighten your heavy heart today?”

Lindsay Lam says, “Today, I showed my daughter this pathway in the woods where I used to sneak though during lunch in the 10 grade to grab some Burger King for lunch. After pointing out to my daughter, how I used to go there alone for lunch, she made feel a level of defensive embarrassment, which I never experienced until now when she said, “Mommy, that’s a really sad story. But I don’t recall being completely miserable housing a double whopper with a cheese and a chicken sandwich all by myself in the process. Daughter says, “Didn’t you have anyone to share all that food with?” And I said, “Can you stop rubbing in me being an owner of a tubby heavy heart already?”

Solomon Kornbluth says “Look Linsday, I spent plenty of time eating lunch alone growing up. At the time, I never felt that so and so’s presence would’ve made me more at peace with world or provide any greater amount of endorphin releases than what the Double Whopper with Cheese was giving me already, I waited at least 2 minutes for the cheese to melt on it just right. God forbid. You shouldn’t allow your daughter to make your feel shame 20 years after the fact, I’m assuming, for being a friendless loner teenager at the time like Lisa Simpson with a piss poor GPA. Roger Daltry from the Who called high school a Teenage Wasteland for a reason. Maybe, reframe your solo lunches in the 10th grade with me myself and I to your daughter as self-care dates, solo shrink time, or in the spirit of the late great Warren Zevon, “Splendid Isolation,”. Warren didn’t need no one, Challah, thank you very much.”

“But now it’s time for Dumping Tips Tuesdays.  If you give a friend a thoughtful gift like a John Candy biography with an inscription you wrote inside it without receiving a thank you note or word of acknowledgement in return, it just proves you weren’t as close as you imagined. But don’t dwell on infusing more specialness into your so-called friendship. Instead, slap yourself on the shoulder for possessing a more active imagination than he ever did. But so-called friendship works both ways. So, let’s a say you claim to be friends with someone from high school 25 years after the fact but have zero desire in seeing their newborn kid, with zero plans to remember the kid’s name, then it’s safe to say, you’re a shit friend who should’ve been dumped before the relationship went to shit in the first place. So always remember, don’t act like your shit doesn’t stink when it does or else you come across as an insanely judgy, bigger headed prick than the rest. So be less shitty to yourself today and do what you want to do like eating alone for lunch without shitting on yourself for not having any deadweight conversationalist friends to invite for the privilege of being in your splendid company after all.”

Michael Kornbluth

Owner Of a Heavy Height

Welcome to Rough Talk Rules, I’m your radio host Solomon Kornbluth, helping you work toward better tomorrows without your deadweight conversationalist ex friends and romantic partners of years past. And today is Dumping Tips Tuesdays, but first let’s take a call from Robert Gauler in Stamford, CT. Hi, Robert, what’s weighing down your heart today?

“Hi, Solomon, what’s weighing down my heart today is being unemployed during the Passover season again.  I’m losing heart from receiving more rejection emails from employer’s that read, “What kind of a moron are you today? For thinking, you could mosey your zero leveraged, broke down ass into our loving arms after a 5-year vacation life as a Stay at Home Dad, I mean sheltered bum, jerkoff. You’re obviously optionless and friendless in this world right now for a reason. Blog stats we can’t verify don’t count as give a shit credentials for our copywriter position that requires at least 5 year of agency copywriting experience. Sharing mock print ads for Woodford Reserve Whiskey with headlines such as, “Class in A Glass”, aren’t going to secure any invitations to interview for any creative professional role within our constellation of star powered creative technologists, designers and witty wordsmith scribes at large, OK! “

Radio Host Solomon says, “I feel your pain, Robert. When was the last time you pulverized a vagina of any kind?”

“I’m living in my grandma’s old apartment, which reeks of middle-aged mildew malaise. Plus, I’m so broke I can’t afford my past cell phone due bill past tomorrow. So, swiping over some random cum dumpster chick I met on Slut in A Straight Jacke .com isn’t happening anytime soon either. I can’t afford my oil pill or my electric bill, so I don’t even have the option of electrocuting myself to death in my tub with a working toaster from GE for that matter. Even if I could convince an ex-booty call to drop by, she’d get cold feet upon entry because I haven’t been able to afford the heating bill in months either. You know the price of gas is high when 10 bucks at the tank burns faster than a 2-hit pinner”, Robert Gauler from Stamford, CT says.

Solomon Kornbluth laughs and says, “You’re a funny guy Robert. Laughter is the best cure all, used to lighten the stressed-out load of fixed ineffectual, stuck in a ditch depression, that’s squeezing the life out of your loving heart, making it borderline impossible to take semi-easy deep breaths for more than 2 seconds a time, I totally get it. My advice moving forward, is to attend, an open mike, which doesn’t charge the one drink minimum, prepare some jokes about your non-existent love life on stage or just rant and rave about how much your life love life sucks compared to Martha Dump Truck in Heathers and you’ll feel less alone in your rapidly building misery. Chances are, if you’re emotionally honest about why you hate your past friends and former loves who left you for dead and kicked dirt on your premature grave, regardless of it being deserved or not, it will become impossible for the crowd to not empathize with what a decrepit, sad sack, shit sandwich, you’re forced to eat every day without sporting’s it’s an all good, all love, big pimping Puff Dadd vibe along the way. It feels liberating and empowering to get out of your head, especially on stage in front of strangers, because any form of comedy allows you to rewrite the narrative to your own liking while giving the golden opportunity to get in last word or final laugh along the way. Who knows, you might even get luck out tonight with a Lesbian poet whose heart isn’t into munching on far from scrumptious stank fumed vagina anymore.”

“Ok, I’ll take one more caller before we start our fan favorite segment, “Dumping Tips Tuesdays.” Next up is a call from Lindsey Lam from Louisville, Kentucky. My mom grew up down south in Kentucky, although my ex-wife insists Kentucky is more Midwest south. Regardless, finger food down there is considered anything that tastes your cousin’s panties, hey now. Lindsay Lam you’re on the air with Rough Talk Rules. How can I lighten your heavy heart today?”

Lindsay Lam says, “Today, I showed my daughter this pathway in the woods where I used to sneak though during lunch in the 10 grade to grab some Burger King for lunch. After pointing out to my daughter, how I used to go there alone for lunch, she made feel a level of defensive embarrassment, which I never experienced until now when she said, “Mommy, that’s a really sad story. But I don’t recall being completely miserable housing a double whopper with a cheese and a chicken sandwich all by myself in the process. Daughter says, “Didn’t you have anyone to share all that food with?” And I said, “Can you stop rubbing in me being an owner of a tubby heavy heart already?”

Solomon Kornbluth says “Look Linsday, I spent plenty of time eating lunch alone growing up. At the time, I never felt that so and so’s presence would’ve made me more at peace with world or provide any greater amount of endorphin releases than what the Double Whopper with Cheese was giving me already, I waited at least 2 minutes for the cheese to melt on it just right. God forbid. You shouldn’t allow your daughter to make your feel shame 20 years after the fact, I’m assuming, for being a friendless loner teenager at the time like Lisa Simpson with a piss poor GPA. Roger Daltry from the Who called high school a Teenage Wasteland for a reason. Maybe, reframe your solo lunches in the 10th grade with me myself and I to your daughter as self-care dates, solo shrink time, or in the spirit of the late great Warren Zevon, “Splendid Isolation,”. Warren didn’t need no one, Challah, thank you very much.”

“But now it’s time for Dumping Tips Tuesdays.  If you give a friend a thoughtful gift like a John Candy biography with an inscription you wrote inside it without receiving a thank you note or word of acknowledgement in return, it just proves you weren’t as close as you imagined. But don’t dwell on infusing more specialness into your so-called friendship. Instead, slap yourself on the shoulder for possessing a more active imagination than he ever did. But so-called friendship works both ways. So, let’s a say you claim to be friends with someone from high school 25 years after the fact but have zero desire in seeing their newborn kid, with zero plans to remember the kid’s name, then it’s safe to say, you’re a shit friend who should’ve been dumped before the relationship went to shit in the first place. So always remember, don’t act like your shit doesn’t stink when it does or else you come across as an insanely judgy, bigger headed prick than the rest. So be less shitty to yourself today and do what you want to do like eating alone for lunch without shitting on yourself for not having any deadweight conversationalist friends to invite for the privilege of being in your splendid company after all.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Zamboni Artist

“No friendship is an accident.”

O. Henry

If a husband googles an ex-girlfriend 3 kids later, does it mean he’s officially divorced from great expectations at home? At the same time, what man isn’t guilty of reflecting fondly on spoiled summers past? Especially, when you’ve had to suck up another frigid east coast winter in the face of permanent career stagnation suckitude again. The same winter and so-called comedy career that felt colder than Harvey Weinstein’s old casting couch at the 4 Seasons when you’re not laughing all the way to the bank yet. But at least, Harvey Weinstein’s wife of the past 12 years finally left him, to focus on her lifetime battle with amnesia. Now, Solomon Kornbluth, a proud stay at home podcast comedian was on thin ice with his wife of 12 years for failing to make any money off his sheets of comedy gold, despite him urging his accountant to write off such an awe inspiring, sparkly array of A plus gemry dissemination on his Do It All Dad time blog and Do It All Dad Time podcast as a generous charitable donation.  What 45-year-old non-industry repped, so called Comedian, Solomon Kornbluth wanted was a win, but not just any win, like getting another comedy record Mega Dumb Daddy reposted on Sound Cloud again by some random, faceless music promo service, but an actual trophy, symbolizing how in this instance Solmon Kornbluth was best of the rest.

Solomon Kornbluth had won some awards in the past, but they weren’t a result of superior mental toughness, sustained physical dominance or a result of outperforming his competition for number 1 champion bragging rights either. Winning Most Improved Basketball player at Sleep Away Camp was an incredibly moving moment for Solomon Kornbluth because despite not knowing the full extent of it yet, he was an overly sensitive, lonely, shy, nerve plagued fag, who blew off Canteen mixers with the fellow female camp members to shoot hoop and read his Cracked comics in bed alone instead after cranking one out to freckle face specked Allyssia Rody, a counselor for the female camp who wore University Maryland boxer shorts, creeping up her supple, spry ass as Dice would say back in the day. And her mountainous cleavage formation was a thing of immovable, feast worthy beauty as those gorgeous melons dangled like luscious lobes of mouth drooling inducing perfection. Ok, so maybe Solomon Kornbluth wasn’t 100 percent gay yet, especially knowing how a fellow bunkmate tried to shame him once for owning a jar of Vaseline while having no idea what that meant. Bunkmate Jordan from New Jersey says in a crackling, just a day over puberty voice, “What do you need that Vaseline for Solomon?” And Solomon says, “I don’t know, for an itchy ass. My mom packed it for me.” Bunkmate Jordan laughs in a slightly demented, pseudo bellowing manner and says, “You can’t blame your mom for being a fudge packer dude.”

Later, on his Do It All Dad Year podcast, Solomon Kornbluth would do a routine about Sex-Ed in Sleepaway Camp throughout the late eighties before Magic made HIV disappear. He says, “Do 3rd graders today really need to know about scented lubes after using good old-fashioned Vaseline became passe already? When I was 13-year-olds at Sleepaway Camp, but still not into the puberty party yet, one of my bunkmates gay shamed me for my mom packing me Vaseline yet I still didn’t get gay lube joke connotations used at my expense till watching shemale porn decades later on 3rd Legged Beauties.com, if you really to know. It’s hard to develop any surge of self-esteem at Sleepaway camp, when you’re the 2nd worst athlete there after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck in yenta breath Seinfeld country. Seinfeld otherwise known as the “Joke Doctor”, just auctioned off one of his vintage Porsche’s for Charity. I hope half that half of those proceeds went to Larry’s kids. I also don’t want Seinfeld smirking for at least 5 years till he gives us a semi-credible excuse on being completely oblivious to Bill Cosby’s 4-decade reign of rape throughout fantastic LA, up high in those Hollywood drugging hills. Where were your powers of observation, then, Jerry? Also, why isn’t Barry Bonds or Roger Clemens in the Hall of Fame already?  They were already Hall of Fame bound when I used to collect their cards at camp. Plus, if I took HGH, Testosterone Shots or any form of performing enhancing drugs at Sleep Away Camp, I just would’ve struck out at a more accelerated speed.”

Solomon Kornbluth never got into collecting hockey cards until his friend Jared got him into the NY Rangers in 93, encouraging him to buy all the hocky cards he could so he could snag an Eric Lindros rookie card of his own, bound to be worth big money one day, who was being hyped as the new great one post Gretzky, who had a bigger mark on his back than Trump did after her triggered the Swamp with fits of despair for relegating good old Jeb Bush to another low energy, half wit hack for hire like the rest. Solomon Kornbluth targeted Laura Bush in his debut comedy album Resist This when he said, “Fuck Laura Bush for thinking the world gives a shit about her memoir, Texas Librarians Know Best.” At least, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles was willing to get rich or die trying bitch. And this is an impression of Stevie Nicks backstage at MSG, “Hillary, tell me lies, only sweet little lies. Versus humongous bitter ones, like how you lost to Trump because of Russian collusion, involving fantasy tales of Drago Holograms emerging in your voting booth only to threaten you with impossible to ignore ultimatums like, “Vote Trump or I’ll break you.” I thought you lost to Trump because you’re an unhuggable cunt, my bad. You must have deleted that memo to Hillary. And why would Trump hire 2 Russian hookers to pee on him at a hotel in Moscow, when he can hire a bunch of Ivanka look-alikes to do the same thing at his hotel in D.C whenever pussy grabber likes?”

One time Solomon and Jared got caught shoplifting Hocky Cards at Child World, yet the security guard let them off with an ominous warning, when he said, “I’m going let you 2 go, but understand the only reason I caught you 2 was because you came back to steal again and got greedy.”  This damning, ominous indictment of greedy self-serving behavior always stayed with Solomon Kornbluth who obviously didn’t pay homage to the commandment Thou Shall Not Steal one iota for some time after. Even his younger brother shamed him into stop stealing Turkey Jerky at Gelson’s as the ultimate shishy bitch life enhancer back in the day. Little bro says,” “Never steal, it’s wrong bro” And this is years after his younger brother, AKA Sir Snort A Lot, was caught on a security camera stealing thousands from his parents ATM to buy more blow at 13 years old in Washington Heights from Julio Silver Blade The 3, which resulted in his parents shipping him off to boarding school with a bunch Jew picking on Hocky jocks in Avon, CT. So Solomon Kornbluth knew what a steep price his parents had to pay for his younger brother’s crimes of incessant, serially serving selfishness like a pseudo slacker underachiever Hunter in the making, who never had the privilege of being able to collect 52 grand a month from a Ukrainian sports drink company for pushing Borscht as the new Kombucha.  

One day Solomon Kornbluth got burnt out on making the world laugh for free on his Do It All Dad Time Podcast again and went to the local hockey rink for a cheap Happy Hour special and was greeted by an Italian bartender, Vinnie Zamboni the 2nd, who’s known to stir memories of ex-girlfriend’s past. Vinnie notices how Solomon Kornbluth is a tad low energy, hunched over his phone without much fiery glint in his eyes. Vinnie says, “Is that IPA stale champ?” Do you want something a tad lighter that’s more poundable like any yenta breath from Long Island on Spring Break?” Solomon Kornbluth laughs and asks, “What’s your story? Bartenders never make me laugh, unless they’re sporting a winter wool hat in summer.” Vinnie says “I’m Vinnie Zamboni the 2rd, my great, great, grandfather invented the Zamboni machine. I do the light shows for the hocky rink. My Zamboni driving days are behind me, cool job though when your 16. I plowed my fair of share of ice queen boxes on top of that puss plower machine. Solomon says, “What type of light shows do you produce? The one at Hayden Planetarium is boring, I felt asleep 2 minutes into it. Daughter woke me with a sharp elbow in my ribs and I yell, “What, God only made Neil Grase Dyson interesting for 2-minute spurts at a time.” Vinnie Zamboni The 2nd laughs and says, “You’re a pretty funny guy yourself. So, what’s bringing you down champ? Solomon Kornbluth says, “Just longing for some fun in the sun again, 2 unplanned kids later. That’s what I get for being a degenerate pothead who keeps on forgetting to ask his girl if she’s on the pill.  What’s bringing me down is realizing how I’m getting bored of my kid’s company and need to get back on stage again. Plus, my pinched nerve in my back is killing me since my wife forced me to see a Hate Speech Therapist since I stopped taking Adderall to focus less on how ahead of the curve annoying my wife can be after droppings lines such as, “I’ve sacrificed. She acts like an aspiring comedian in his early thirties wanted kids ever.  I’m doing a Google Search for a chiropractor, and I end up finding my ex in Hawaii who I met when I used to live in Hermosa Beach. How could I ever forget Summer King beyond those Hermosa skies? Then, I googled a comedy festival in Hawaii, but realized it’s been canceled because of this COVID damage done bullshit, so it got me down because I know I can win it. The only awards I ever won was Grooviest my Senior Year in High School and Most Improved Basketball Player at Sleep Away Camp. I was also wined and dined after leading my IT agency sales office in billing one month and got to party it up in the Sunset Room in fantastic LA once but that’s it. my But I want to win that comedy festival and blast off away in my comedy gold mobile wave runner, which nobody will ever be able to take away from me. George Gershwin lives, Challah, thank you very much. If I can’t afford to get my son the SS flag GI-Joe Aircraft Carrier for Hanukkah, at least I can let him ride my comedy gold wave runner mobile. How much would gas cost to ride that wave runner back to New York exactly? I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under Judicial Review.”

Vinnie says, “So I produce light shows flush with holograms of hocky legends both dead and new like Bobby Hull, The Mighty Messier, and reenact legendary fights like when Ty Domi fought Bob Probert in 94, when he poses with the belt around his waist, boy were those the days, pre-social media, before you had to hear lines on kids shows about some character being the Lebron James of stem cell research. What the fuck does that even mean? Is he a celeb Scientist that has his own brand of tequila spiked umbilical cord stump smoothies that he sold to Bill Gates for a cool 500 million or what? Can you believe kids today get Beyond Meat tattoos around these parts? I freelance as a Tattoo artist for my brother’s Tat Parlor in Danbury, CT called Body Art USA.”

Solomon Kornbluth says, “I’ve been telling my local Pizza owner Frank to make an artichoke slice using an alfredo cream sauce, versus just a boring white slice with flaccid, deathly off-white artichokes on it, that will inspire hipsters from Bushwick to make the schlep down to these parts just to Yelp all about it. Plus, I’m getting pissed about Bill Gate’s equestrian riding daughter already owning half the real estate in North Salem already. So, I love the idea of Frank being able to grab a meatier slice of that synthetic pea protein, beyond meat pie.” Vinnie says, “So whatever happened to your Summer Wind? Solomon says, “She smiled at me one day with her soul blasting eyes that screamed I love you, and for some strange reason, my eyes didn’t love her back. One time she died her blond, when I took her out to meet up with a friend of mine in Nappa and everyone thought she was a high-end prostitute, because she dressed real classy sexy with the tight dress, creeping up her ass. I loved kissing Summer King. We’d do weed shotgun kisses together, which were the best. We made veal piccata while watching the Soprano’s together, drank Pyramid peach beers by Hermosa Beach and nobody sported prettier feet in the sand than Summer King. Vinnie says, “Summer sounds like a real trophy wife material.” Solomon says, “Yeah, she even said, “Why don’t we move to Santa Barbara so I could write books and she could day trade to make us money for the time being. Boy, did I fuck that one up. Vinnie says, “I hate to bring you down more than you already are Champ, but you’re right.”

Solomon Kornbluth says, “Summer liked Metallica, Wu Tang, the Soparnos and loved everything about me. She thought I could be a big-time writer just from reading my Friends spec script for Christ’s sake. Vinnie says, “I already told you fucked up bro. I’m known as the ex-girlfriend stirrer but you’re just progressively pissing me off for being such a dumb fuck for expunging her from your life jerkoff. You don’t think I want to kick back in the sand with a hot Asian gal from Hawaii in pebble free Hermosa Beach with a gal named Summer King no less for Christ’s sake” I had to suck up summers in an ocean full of seashells and fucking nets of seaweed in Norwalk, CT for Christ’s sake. Plus, my brother owns this rink and its family tradition to keep it family operated. You’re a little old for it, but do you want a job riding a Zamboni? We’re already running around in circles, so why not take your sad sack sob story around the ice for a couple of laps because you’re bringing me down and enraging me at the same time. I’m paraphrasing but Mark Twain said writers write interesting stories who’ve possessed a series of interesting, varied jobs, so why not a give the Zamboni driver job a shot champ? You obviously have nothing better do with your time on a Sunday, ultra-wise King Solomon you’re not.”

Solomon Kornbluth took the job and smoothed over the rough patches with his wife at home before being promoted to chief Zamboni manager, who worked on his MC skills as the host of a weekly Karaoke night, rocking out renditions of Baba O’Reily with real deal star powered authority. Then, one year later, Solomon Kornbluth got his trophy and won the Aloha Comedy Festival, coming in 1st place and was able to take his wife, and mother of 3 children for endless, killer spins in his new comedy gold mobile for one memory rich victory lap after the next after, delivering a killer set for the ages that started off like this.  

Solomon Kornbluth Kills

It’s hard to keep cool when your kids were forced to wear masks like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain.

If Michael Jackson were alive today, how would he defend himself against all his Neverland accusers exactly? Would the King of Popping cherries say, “All the Beatles royalty points in the world, can’ t buy me love?”

Anyone try Snoop Dog’s new wine?  According to Wine Advocate, it tastes like mouth wash used in porn hood hell.

Actually, gave up drinking beer last summer. It got humiliating spending so much time, hungover, recycling, endless reminders of my lush, littered past, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by.

Did you know 4/20 is Hitler’s birthday? After learning this, I felt more betrayed than the time Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.

Stopped smoking weed till I discovered weed edibles, which are half CBD because I felt like a total moron trying to answer my daughter’s questions on the pure sticky stuff. Daughter asks, “Daddy if God created the universe, then who created God?  I say, “God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk. Daughter says, “Real convincing Daddy. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.”

And this is Ziggy Marely being interviewed by High Time Magazine. Ziggy, how did your dad have 7 kids? Doesn’t ganja drain your ball sack dry? Ziggy Marely says, “Fake news, MAN.”

And if Obama is such a baller, why did he ride the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii?

What if Bob Marley became President of the United States, so Obama didn’t have to? For starters, there’s no more trouble and it’d be a punky reggae party tonight and we’d be jamming in the name of the Lord, not in honor of Allah’s Gangster ruining paradise, especially since the hopeful one rebranded ISIS, ISIL, so they’d sound more start up friendly in the NY Times.

And ISIS Headhunters aren’t good recruiters. All they do is target other lonely virgins on Face Book Messenger like Good Will Hoodie/AKA Zit Face Zuck, who wish their phones blew up.

But killing the number 2 in charge of ISIS made it easier for ISIS to recruit. Like the head of recruitment for ISIS would ever honor a non-compete agreement with Al-Qaeda.

And why are radical jihadists so into deflowering virgins in Allah’s hymen hacking Paradise? Doesn’t Jihadi John have enough blood on his hands already?

Other text in the Koran also promises the duration of sex greatly prolonged and its pleasure enduring. Spoken like a like a true Virgin asshole till the end of time and I feel fine, Challah, thank you very much.

Solomon Kornbluth was later blown up to smithereens on his Comedy Gold Mobile Wave Runner in the Red Sea by Hamas terrorists after headlining a comedy tour there called, “King Solomon Kornbluth Lives”, because a 2-state solution is impossible if Hamas keeps fucking.

Still, what’s better than a 1st place Trophy is a new award in your honor, given every year at the Standin O Laughs Festival in Haifa called the Killer Kornbluth Award, honored to a comic that year, who exhibited fearless, killer shtick till his last dying breath.  

All 3 of Solomon’s killer Koshertarian kids won the Killer Kornbluth Award in their dear dad’s honor soon after. So comedic royalty in the mold of King Solmon Kornbluth did live on through Do It All Dad’s big three after all.

And Solomon Kornbluth had his new Zamboni Artist friend to thank for his victory laps in his Comedy Gold Mobile, taken with his 3 biggest fans in the universe while squeezing on to their dear dada with all their loving might in his custom made, stretched 3-seater Wave Runner. The same team who always stood by his side, especially when his comedy career was ice cold, when mama would threaten to kick him out the house whenever the mood struck, and not even Hamas, despite them trying, could ever that away from thee.  Unplanned favorites rule, proving once again how no friendship is an accident. O. Henry lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth  

Mega Ton Hits

“Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.”

Gustave Flaubert

I don’t want my wife coming out of my mouth, especially after I got COVID from going down on her prior. How else do you explain my itchy esophagus?

At my age, I don’t care about getting my wife off when she can’t be bothered to suck off fumes of my mega ton laugh blast hits at the grocery store prior.  I say, “It’s colder than Harvey Weinstein’s old casting couch at the 4 Seasons. But at least his wife of 12 years finally left him to focus on her lifetime battle with… amnesia. At the same time, Ashely Judd isn’t a real victim of rape. Ooh, she refused to watch Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein shower himself down in his 5-star suite at the 4 Seasons. Granted, Ashley Judd being a native Kentucky gal, has plenty of experience judging fat pigs at the county fair.”  Portly, yet cheery grocery store worker releases a hearty stream of much dinero laughs long time, Challah. Thank you very much.

Daughter says, “Meat is murder.” I reply, “But you had no problem killing off that plate of Everything Kosher Tenders, made with a homemade honey mustard sauce because it was made with love as I continue to slay mama’s claims of infinite superiority in my presence again and again, so I’ll take it.”  I used a killer combo of everything bagel seasoning from Stew Leonard’s, panko breadcrumbs made in fake news Japan I’m assuming, in addition to grinded up in-house made sesame loaf bread from the local Italian grocer DiCiccio’s to create the mega blast breading hit, responsible for blowing your local bowling alley’s chicken tenders of frost burn balls yesteryear into disintegrated pieces of sad sack smithereens.

I fucked up by making the homemade honey mustard sauce with mayo, instead of vegan mayo, which stripped the holy shit nature of these Everything Kosher Tenders but didn’t realize I made this oversight till the following day. So, I can’t fret too much for forsaking God’s commanded Kosher law in the service of showing my kids the unmatched delicious might of homemade love versus store bought condiments that make you feel like half a fag for being a half ass Shishy dad bitch in the process. Also, by making homemade condiments such as Honey Mustard sauce, infused with love, you avoid circumcising your happiness like settling for burnt Starbucks espresso versus sucking down 80 percent of a homemade French pass to your head instead.

If I have one overriding message to teach my kids, one I wish my father implanted into my creatively jacked head ever was how much half-assing things sucks moose dick. You have to be nuttier than my Nutsy Russell’s for thinking anyone will return palpable, fully felt love of any kind, if you ass anything like claiming powers of independent thought, when you’re enamored with sharing links of Tucker Carlson rehashes on Fox News, knowing the same man used a Grateful Dead song from Mars Hotel, Ship Of Fools, as the tile for a book of political essays to give marble mouthed Greg Gutfeld blue balls of less fawned over suckitude in comparison, who’s still not arousing sustained stiffage among anyone in his presence ever. But seriously, how can you respect another lazy brain, fake news Journalist for Vulture or the Atlantic, when they get triggered by another ho-hum, one note, serially boring ass monotone, emotionally divorced monologue from Tucker Carlson, when it was his wife hiding in the closet in a sea of leftover dirty, Vineyard Vine boxer briefs when ANTIFA came knocking at his home address in D.C, not the other way around. The same Tucker Carlson who named his book of essays after a Grateful Dead song from Mar’ Hotel, in addition to Morrison Hotel by the Doors, which is the double whammy of wannabe be poetic pronounced shame. Tucker Carlson doesn’t have one pothead friend left from Boarding School since he left CNN for Fox News. Interviewing Kid Rock after the fact because he’s got a new record to sell about COVID damage done, doesn’t count, Challah. Resist This Neil Young, thank you very much.

So, don’t be a lazy brain minion like deviated septum Hunter, who only heard last from the bathroom stall till he gave up blow for blow painting allegedly. Be really gay about pleasing your kids with the extra effort in whatever you do to make them happier in your presence like when you involve them in making Far From Winging It Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce, that’s so holy shit good, your own meat adverse eating daughter, will claim she likes better than your Leo Lox Scramble Supreme, which again is good work if you can get it. My youngest Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo sucked the succulent meat off the bones dry and said, “Daddy, I sucked all the meat off the bone, the way Papa’s father did.” Who says, ancient biblical traditions don’t matter? Granted, my grandfather who died before I was born on my Dad’s Jewish side never recorded a comedy record called Funny Enough Fagala nor used a Pomegranate Molasses squirt bottle squeeze adding to his homemade barbeque sauce, but he was never a shadowbanned stay at home shemale comedian who had as much free time on his hands to forsake half-assing fatherhood with.

Regime change starts at rebuking past governing laws of doing what’s edible good versus dedicated your soul towards making mega bomb hits that crack the sky with holy shit, wow worthy, third servings are around the bend magnitude, which points toward the right way to do things by unearthing the extra special sauce love inside us all.

Michael Kornbluth

Hunting For Change

“What’s self-love? I think it’s not giving up on fighting for what you feel is right through the depth of your bones throughout the deep bowels of your anus hole. Whatever gets you off your ass to compete in the arena of life, keep it burning alive, or else you place your dignity within the hands of inferior, gun shy, smug laden pussies and you’ll hate yourself forever for it.

Self-love is not turning your back on your dreams yet, especially when those supposed to love you the most, love your remaining work life ambitions the least. I joke around on my Do It All Dad Time podcast, jokes Gen X Dads understand, how I prefer my comedy like my coffee, dark and bitter. Bitterness erupts in my slighted soul whenever others try to depreciate my capacity for gain like from my wife for instance. Nurse wife who works in Labor and Delivery says, “Won’t self-publishing a book cost money?” I say, “Walt Whitman self-published, yet he never banged out perfect laugh lines like this. This is my daughter playing in-house marriage counselor again. Pause daddy, mama got your point mid-breath.” Wife says, “I’m all out of patience, get a real job already, do headhunting again, tell your precious ego, vanity vagina, whatever you want to call it, to get a fucking life and provide for your family already. Your writing isn’t even that good. On NPR they say companies are struggling to fill roles more than ever before. I say, “You’re running out of patience babe. Whistling like Axl Rose helps, but thanks for making me feel like one in a million babe, my Nurse rising star.” Wife says, “I am a rising star, and have the certificate at work to prove it. How do you justify your star power exactly? Through nameless, faceless, followers on your WordPress blog or no-name downloaders of your Do It All Dad Time podcast who like your latest and greatest comedy record posts when you know deep down, they ignore the totality of your existence if they weren’t offered for free. I get it, you feel trapped to a life of shishy bitch daddy servitude, especially over the past 10 years, with no friends or family members to help out with the kids whatsoever, but I’ve had to make sacrifices to.” I say, “Sacrifices, you act like aspiring comedian in his thirties wanted to have kids ever.”

Famous Psychoanalyst Carl Jung says that “Jealously stems from lack of love.” Yet reality is I don’t have much to be jealous about since God graced this lucky old clown with my 3 unplanned favorites, that being by endlessly beautifying children, Matilda, Arthur and Samuel, the best Koshertarian Comedian home time imaginable. Tossing them into the pool up for another typhoon toss to celebrate another self-published comedy record release last summer at a local club, which we couldn’t afford, was what Do It All Dad Year dreams are made of. Punchout Poverty, splash. Too Funny To Fail, swoosh. Millionaire By 10, booya-tribe, plop. Billionaire Brain, it’s Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, wave pool time. Not Kosher Baby, woosh my troubles away.

As more shrieks of pure powered joy pierced the clouds through heaven on earth, it remained impossible to frown, for my children loving me all the way for bringing out the best from my inner clown.  But what do I want after getting to write for TV as a Hair Metal Comedian historian for America’s Hard 100 on VH1 Classic, hosted by WWE star Chris Jericho? Because he’s only wrestling leftover from the nineties that’s still rock hard, especially if Lars Ulrich from Metallica invites him over him for Norwegian brunch in his fuck paid in Bergan, Norway to catch the Northern Lights from his star powered telescope signed and designed by astrophysicist guitar God Brian May himself.

I want to avoid permanent nerve damage by never working up the nerve to finish my mission and become known as a joke truth killer made for these times. Losing out on a job after an interview is one thing but getting rejected by a unicorn tech start-up company forBudrranker.com sucks more than Meghan McCain’s husband being stuck on Cheeto retrieval detail inside her belly button again. In other words, “We’d rather go on a speed date with Snookie than interview you through Zoom. “So Snookie, is this coke good enough for Hunter to freebase with in the eighties when the shit was purer and not cut with as much Ajax, before he gave up blow for blow painting, allegedly, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall, while his tweaker biker buds from the Sons of Anarchy, yell, “Where’s Hunter, who else is going to pay for this shit?”

Carl Jung also says, “The greatest tragedy is our parents unlived lives.” On some level, I can see why my daughter doesn’t want to have kids when she gets older, because she’s seen 1st hand how I’ve been restricted in doing what I want to do the most in this world which is to produce laugh yanker love on stage and get hundreds of thousands of strangers at time off in person for a living. On stage, separates little boy blue from the Big John Stud. On stage, you get soul shine love. I want to love my big man fighter inside again and I can only achieve this by becoming a professional killer on stage for a living, especially when others constantly bemoan, “If it was going to happen, it would’ve happened already.” Fuck those towel thrower wishers. But it’s a young man’s game, man. Funny is funny asshole, that’s why your kid is a monotone mute compared to my 3, because funnier dad, happier baby, Challah, thank you very much.

I’ve reached the conclusion that the Lionshare of hostility issues in my life stem from being denied stage time to flex my stuff, regardless, if these restrictions are self-imposed or not, like getting my wife pregnant by accident again, because I never mastered the art of the pump fake or was too much a stoner to remember asking if she were on the pill or not.  

But if you’re going to ask me what I long for the most Balancing Rock Therapist, it’s to get a standing ovation again. Because getting one during my 1st IT recruiter agency job after making a 12-minute company-in pitch, where I pitch the hiring IT Manager to interview 3-4 qualified, pre-screened candidates in our office, so we can schedule 2nd round interviews soon after, doesn’t count because everyone in our sales office was already on their feet cold calling their brains out in the 1st place.

I’m running out of time to kill. My daughter has breast buds at 11 years old already, although my wife says, that her and friend Shannon were the last kids in her class to get them. So, I say, “Then, why haven’t your breast buds sprouted yet.” I know that Matilda’s younger brother, is the boy who raised himself, who literally taught himself to ride a bike without my guiding light influence, but future Harry Potter Lego sets don’t grow on trees and my youngest, Chosen Curls Was Bound Too is already requesting a waterbed set for his birthday. So perhaps, I form a man show locally at the local playhouse if I’m going to cause a ripple to spread worldwide in my material’s honor eventually.

Matilda Rose Kornbluth, Do It All Dad’s Bashert daughter now known as Ooh-La-La supreme says, “Daddy, are you done talking to your Balancing Rock Therapist yet?” I know that you’re longing for stage time away from us but this getting ridiculous.”  

Michael Kornbluth

Trucking To Zion

“Daddy, Jews for Mormonism doesn’t make any sense. So why are you converting to Mormonism again? Is it because you hate your people since you got fired from your intern blogger position for The Times of Israel for insisting China has resisted Wuhan lab investigations more than AquaFresh?, Little Samuel says. Do It All Dad takes his right hand off the steering wheel of his giant rig renamed Misinformation Machine and rubs his son’s head and says, “Your mother has a younger brother in Utah who’s a high ranking, Generation Z preacher of the Mormon Church, who with a little convincing, can grant me a religious exemption for the COVID vaccination after I convert. Then, I won’t have to worry about the fake news vaccine shot killing me more than the prospect of receiving a career consultation from LinkedIn ever again, my chest. This is an impersonation of Dr. Dre telling Eminem about Microsoft paying 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says,” Worrddddddddd, LinkedIn, is lamer than ever yoh!” Thank God, I trusted my gut, cut myself off from Mimi and Papa and got my trucker License instead.”

Little Samuel says, “I’ll always be on your team to make more comedy records daddy, because more comedy records for you is more comedy records for me, moron Son. When will you record comedy record 91, putzy moron butt carrots?” You’re taking forever already. Mama wouldn’t want you to put the brakes on your comedian career on my behalf, not that it hasn’t stopped you before, but you get the gist Boozy Beer Daddy.” Do It All Dad gets a tad misty, overwhelmed with a surge of heart aching emotion and says, “Her dreamy blond looks live through you kid, which should help bolster our case when we ask her Mormon brother Blair Rittenhouse Square The 3rd to give us that religious exemption after he converts me to Mormonism. How can you not get big love in Utah kid? One time, a MILF bum rushed you at the supermarket when you were only 2 and says, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I said, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

Little Samuel says, “Do most mommies die of heart attacks at 42 Daddy?” Do It All Dad says, “Not unless they’re employed by the WWE kid. Mama died from the COVID clot shot and she didn’t have the strained heart I had from all the cocaine I did in my twenties throughout my thirties, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall while yelling, “Where’s Hunter?” Who is else is going to pay for this shit? Shit, we’re running low on gas. You know the routine Samuel. Money equals freedom and we can’t make it to Utah if we don’t sell some bumper stickers fast. The GPS says there’s a Shell station in 1.2 miles, we should have enough to make it. Still not banking on Obama Be Good lickers like Dave Chapelle getting his cousins Trump voiced GPS systems for Kwanza. On your far left, is Mohegan Sun, Elizabeth Warren’s home away from home. Now, grab the COVID Damage Done bumper stickers and get ready to sell with divine powered authority like Kevin Hart’s agent in convincing Universal Studio’s anyone who calls him a poor man’s Eddie isn’t a jealous hater, just a short on laughs spectator.”

Little Samuel approaches a Karen type going to the bathroom at the Shell station and says, “Hi, can I interest you in a bumper sticker to support the Freedom Trucker Convoy, called COVID Damage Done?” Karen says, “Is that supposed to be a stupid Neil Young reference kid?” As far as I’m concerned you can’t vaccinate kids young enough. Thank God New York state doesn’t allow you to attend Pre-K without wearing a mask on. Wear the damn mask kid, they still work. Do It All Dad interjects, “Hey Karen, why don’t you suck the hate speech and white privilege out of my chosen person schlong first. Consider it elongated love. Pretend Justin Trudeau ordered you to leak it.” A group of truckers overhear the commotion and crack up in unison. One of the truckers raises his voice among the deafening shriek of laughter and says, “I’ll take 100 bumper stickers kid.”

Do It All Dad and Little Samuel arrive at Zion National Park to have a moment with God before plowing forward with the Do It All Dad Does Mormonism pitch to his dead wife’s brother preacher. Do It All Dad says, “God, I’m half a fag, so the polygamy thing isn’t that much a driving force behind my decision to forsake my Jewish side for Mormonism. Plus, most Mormons voted for Mitt Romney, so their judge of good character is questionable at best. The exalted, all-knowing Mitt called Trump the Anti-Christ for Christ’s sake. But in the Bible part 2, Jesus returns from heaven to defeat the Anti-Christ. So have some faith, in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you, people?” Little Samuel says, “Does this mean you’re not converting to Mormonism now Dad?” Do It All Dads beams with divine powered light and says, “Looks like it doesn’t kid. How many bumper stickers do we have left?” Samuel says, “We got 52” and one hardcore hilarious joker.” Do It All Dad says, “That should be enough gas money to get us to Vegas. There’s a new Stand-Up Comedy Festival there called, “Seriously Clowning”, the winning comedian gets 25 grand and a co-hosting audition for the Russell Brand’s podcast. I’ll take those odds kid.” Little Samuel looks up to his cherished, Dear Dada and says “You’re going to kill them Daddy, you’re going to kill them. Don’t forget to open with your bit about me confusing Grandma for Kurt Cobain on the TV, which isn’t the most flattering look.” Do It All Dad says, “Nirvana didn’t kill Hair Metal, Aids did, before Magic Made HIV disappear. Courtney Love is Mia Farrow with better husband selection. If Kurt Cobain killed himself at the height of his popularity, then Woody Allen just got book advance from Random House on a book about hands off parenting called Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years. I miss Trump’s relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship. If Trump was stabbed with the deep state needle used to take out Easy E, he’d tweet the next morning on whatever hate speech platform he’s allowed to rumble on next, “Do I have HIV? Yes, but my t-cell count numbers have never been stronger. Can I get a holla for some Challah? Mongoloid Moron lives, running on schtick till the end of the time and I feel fine, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Michel Kornbluth