Vacation From Kosher

What did I learn during my vacation from Kosher? Relishing soulless shellfish on my wedding anniversary or for any future vacations to Mexico at Sammy Haggar’s Cabo Wabo Cantina in Cabo San Lucas could be resounding exceptions. Because that chilled Shrimp cocktail at our fine dining restaurant in Greenville, DE on our anniversary night, where they show off the fancy, out of reach wine bottles in sight while all the Nazi gold is buried out back, rocked my world and was holy shit, good living good to me. My crab soup wasn’t chopped liver either. The crabs were so fresh you’d think I just barebacked with Cardi B on the rebound. And my wife’s oysters were flush with more sweet svelte bites than boring briny ones, without tasing like forced maritime mop slop either.

Although along the way, I’ve realized how my relationship with non-Kosher food is no longer the same old situation. For example, when we went to Rehoboth Beach and ate at famed Pizzeria chain Grotto’s, my Stromboli, proved how pork hasn’t lost its allure on my tubby bitch’s soul one bit. I still recall fond, heartwarming memories of being introduced to Westchester’s finest Stromboli by my old childhood friend Ari in nearby Chappaqua, before Hillary Hammer Time Cankles stank fumed taint, tainted the area in general. Still, I recall the infusion of American cheese in that Stromboli while combined with Mozzarella in addition to well-spaced, garlic encrusted seasoning, taking this Stromboli into pleasure town USA so much higher. Till this day, I can’t eye a stromboli, without thinking of my dear old friend Ari Geller in addition our Holy Grail pursuit of the perfect cheesesteak and chicken cult sandwich to. One of the last times I saw Ari, was at his house in CT with his wife and 2 kids, to my only 1 at the time. Now, we both have 3. So, I shouldn’t have been surprised how when I visited, Ari grilled some chicken for us and made some homemade Tzatziki sauce in addition to warm pitas, which provided a nice hearth home infused touch. Ari gave me a great compliment that day, this was when I was writing Yelp reviews to keep my storytelling and comedy writing chops up, when he said, “I know I’m funny, but I don’t have your imagination, Killer. Plus, I’m not reading your stuff because I feel guilted into reading it. I genuinely enjoy reading it all. Do I think you can be a great standup like Jim Norton, no? But do I think you could be a great writer? Yes, without a doubt, just chill out on the wordplay already.”

I just paraphrased 2 lumped in conversations, but those talks stayed with me because when friends from your youth who came out to your stand-up comedy bringer shows and read your scripts and blogs over the years, don’t have to encourage and emote in your honor but when they’re smarter and were never treated like regretful dumb fucks by their parents, you’re going to take notice and add some extra validity to what they have to say. What does this historical rehash in my writing development’s honor from a combination of old friends from High School, who’ve been clearing 6 figures for more than 2 decades now, versus my zero, have to do with my vacation from Kosher exactly? First, it proves how I’ve never lost my respect for delivering the funny, and Ari was my original writing partner who’s the first and only man I ever wore a wig for in our sketch for the Pig Men book review we did in Junior High.  Second, my suburban Jewish roots run deep, and unlike another old friend Chaim, a successful lawyer for some major firm and Ari, a big time Kidney doctor who owns a part of his practice in CT, never embarked on this Mensch and A Half journey that I started 2 years ago when I became intent on becoming a full time practicing, Koshertarian Comedian, not knowing if it would lead to any riches along the way, outside of some good filler for a new book, The Koshertarian Comedians. I never anticipated my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo to proclaim, “Always Kosher daddy”, but I still want to eat more Peeking Duck at P.F Chang’s in Scottsdale again.” Never in a million years, would I anticipate my meat averse daughter to embrace my Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce nor picture her other brother Arthur to insist on ordering a veggie cheesesteak at Wawa that he designs, versus a standard, ho hum cheesesteak that isn’t made with Kosher meat after exposing and getting him into Kosher meat at all. At the same time, Kosher law forbids you from mixing dairy and meat, but you get the gist.

I say my relationship has changed with food since my Koshertarian Comedian journey began because having to serve my immediate, carnal rooted desires is now glaringly secondary to pleasing Hashem, with a little of Kosher commanded love and respect, which is a redemptive, less all over the place Jewy place to be. Granted, I’m only half Heeb Crazy, so technically speaking, I shouldn’t be completely bat shit crazy 365 days out of the year while denying myself some lobster tacos at Cabo Wabo to hear Sammy Haggar’s band perform live at his bar on the sand to some more Heavy Metal Music noise, especially knowing how at 75 years old, the former front man of Van Halen and Montrose makes Ryan Reynolds look like a metrosexual lesbian nerd in comparison these days.  Vacation from Kosher is what it was, a temporary respite, away from our Koshertarian comedian blessed home, when eating Kosher isn’t so easy like when you’re visiting an old college bud Mike Paone to take in George Thorogood and the Destroyers and Sammy Haggar’s band the Circle play circles around other mere meh mortals half their age easy. When your bud orders you a deep-fried ravioli, with meat inside, you oblige. When you have the option to order a duck ham benedict during your vacation from Kosher when you haven’t done Brunch in 12 years, since becoming an unplanned father of 3 because you never mastered the art of the pump fake, you oblige. When your old college bud buys you tickets to see the Cardinals in town, who’ve won the 2nd most amount of world championships after the Yankees, and insists you try the Pork on the bone Sirloin sandwich at a local barbeque haunt before gametime, you oblige, just like you don’t shy away from ordering the mac and cheese side with the smoked, succulent bacon bits inside. Still, I come back from my vacation, hop on the scale and yell up above, “209 Lord, you’ve got to be kidding me. Are that many calories in Triple Sec and Simple Syrup while housing one Cabo Wabo swirled tequila after another? I ate pork for a grand total of 4 times during my vacation from Kosher while having no beer to touch thy lips for the past 6 months, and the best you can do for me is 209, my chest. Looks like we’re back to ungodly reason to resume our Koshertarian diet again, my chest times infinity, no offense.”

Other reasons my relationship with food has changed is because my relationships or lack thereof outside of house have. At this point, I’m averaging a summer getaway to see an old friend from college or from LA every other 2 years. Only planning these trips around rock shows like seeing Aerosmith in Vegas 3 summers ago, restricts your mobility a bit. For the past 2 plus years, I’ve been our in-house Koshertarian comedian cook star, and I’d like to keep that way as I continue to get, more curtain call generating yummy dances while my 3 Koshertarian Comedian friends get perpetually more giddy about giving the Koshertarian diet at home an extended chance.  Above all else though, my main relationship that’s changed the most is with Hashem, the miracle maker, my redeemer, who makes all my sheets of comedy possible. Who allows me to grow closer to my children and his spirt through the more laughs and yummy dances I make.  

My favorite part of Rosh Hashanah services this year, was when the Rabbi went to hold my hand at the end of services, while some yenta breath interrupted my 1st line attempt at conversation, before I put things at ease and said, “It’s ok, the Rabbi is used to be going long.” And we had met only once prior, when I went to pick up a spare Shofar for my son to practice with and freak out my in-laws with this past anniversary weekend, mission accomplished. My wife booked us for a service held outside by a zoo outside of Wilmington, which was lovely, to usher in a good new year. I even indulged in some Fried chicken and waffles to finish this vacation from Kosher in style. Afterwards, the waitress, wrote me a note on our check that said, “Your family has great positive energy, don’t ever change.” If that isn’t divine intervention or infinitude now, I don’t know what is. My takeaway from this moment was Hashem saying, “Don’t give on me delivering for you kid. And keep on pitching how controlling our kids with comedy can make our kids great again. Your 3 fuss free kids are living proof of it.” Later, infinitude now occurred again, when I blew the shofar on a mountain top in North Salem, overlooking a picturesque valley that looked too pretty placed to be true.” I blew that Shofar; 1st time ever and it sang soul piecing song. The Rabbi told me that the Lord, otherwise known as Hashem, reveals himself whenever the Shofar wails, and my blasts weren’t coming out of a wimpy softy soul either and I’ve got the Instagram video as my witness, despite it not being good enough for my mother, who immediately, asked for the video link of my son heavily doctored video link immediately later. My mom’s attitude was one of complete befuddlement that screamed, you sucked at the sax, so I didn’t see this semblance of beautiful musicality in you, really. And that’s why I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. But that doesn’t matter in the eyes of Lord. What matters is that I always allow myself the power to dwell on his awesome infinitude now, especially in the form of the beautiful hearts, laughs and worry line free faces of my kids, God’s children. “Here O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.”

God bless infinitude now and my Koshertarian diet journey. Vacations from Kosher have put me closer to my soul man and a half side. Arise Mensch and a half, meaning the standup person in us all, your chosen path to at one connection with the divine has been chosen. So, for God’s sake, give the big man upstairs some extra doses of Love on a more regular basis and give the Koshertarian diet a chance.

Michael Kornbluth

Holy Lighter

It’s been officially 6 months since my year without beer journey began. It got humiliating spending so much time hungover, recycling, endless reminders of my lush-littered past, as entire Rocky Marathon marathons on AMC passed me by. Now, I fuck with type A personality types, who think it’s a good look wearing a running medal of some kind at a bagel shop during the weekend. Chances are, this edgeless, blah breath, has never been in a rush to slam double IPAs behind his kids’ back on a Friday, because his wife is being ahead of the curve annoying again, especially when she says, “Do you believe in the Monkey Pox Vaccine?” I say, “Babe, I gave up my alt right dirt rags like the Gateway Pundit and Breitbart according to Anti-MAGA country at large. So, I don’t really give a shit about any of the damned hell hole sex commentary about it. All I know, is that according to an American Thinker article from 1 month ago, kids are getting it, according to groomed are us.com. Plus, from what I’ve read in the past, I’ve learned that Monkey Pox primarily impacts the gay community and can be transferred from mere skin on skin contact, which rules out random hand job relief at the Equinox Gym in Chelsea, that I can’t afford a membership from my non-existent book sales anyway. So, I don’t see what a vaccine can do to prevent skin on skin infection outside of good old-fashioned abstinence, which I’ve got going for me because were us, and I’m in the middle of porn cleanse also, so the temptation to juice for joy at the sight of Third Legged Beauties.com has died. So, I’ll pass on the Aids light, Monkey vaccine, thanks.”

So, the Medal running douchebag at the bagel store on a Saturday gets all chummy with the manager there, taking about the upcoming New York City Marathon, I think, then his age of 36 is brought up, which is a decade a younger than me. My sober Alpha Dog attacks and spit fires, “Do you still get asked for ID?” Atkins lite barely mutters a clear sounding lie, “Well, maybe, sometime.” Because this asshole has never passed out with a raging hardon with a condom still on while blacking out the face of the gal he banged the night before, guaranteed. And I say, “I still get asked for ID and I’m 46. I win this race to the fountain of the youth, BMI light. The only thing that sucked about getting asked for ID around my 3 kids at Target, is how it made me feel like a teen drop out mom from Tallahassee. Later when I got home, I wanted to change my headline title on my LinkedIn profile to Crystal Meth Homemaker.”

So, what’s my essential thought leadership point LinkedIn, as the new king of sober media? Comedy keeps you young at heart and does wonders for your complexion, which is why upholding a rigorous regimen of banging out more endless sheets of comedy gold keeps those encroaching greys at bay. At the same time worry lines don’t become to pronounced worrisome after your done lifting the spirits of random mom’s standing next to you with your kids at Target now, with the oppressive hold of Adderall and edibles rapidly fading from your system, who thank you for “making their day”, after you refuse to get your son a Hershey Bar after stating, “No chocolate bar. We just made Chocolate chip crumbled pancakes at home. And we have crazy hick degenerate DNA to contend with on the southern side of our family, that makes Hunter come off as a slacker underachiever in comparison. Plus, mom had a drunk cousin on her Irish side who fell into a vat of Guiness while on the job once to. So, we need to temper our over top indulgent desires more than most families or else you’ll be a slave to your primal desires forever, and never achieve sustainable levels of holy lighter light. Which explains why Uncle John, looks like a hollowed version of his former self these days or why former Mets All-Star Dwight Gooden talks in that stilted, drained dry manner while losing his God given ability to throw blazing, awe inspiring fastballs that scream you better feel the fucking breeze in my presence motherfucker. Back when Dwight Gooden’s masterful timing and killer attack ease, would leave you speechless like Shoeless Joe Jackson batting .408 his rookie year, which is a hit to swing ratio even Woody Allen couldn’t match on Show of Shows with Sid Ceasar, despite him shitting out films like Bananas soon after in his sleep. That’s why holy lighter can’t be beat.”

Son says, “So not drinking beer for 6 months in a row, makes you feel lighter on your feet? I say, “Yes, and your inner light shines brighter than putz breaths who show up to bagel shops on the weekend wearing running medals with far more stable work histories to boast of, who haven’t been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot, that’s correct kid. Plus, I can finally trash my old joke about what it’s like being a Stay at Home She Male Slayer Comedian. “Well, drinking alone is no longer an issue.” Son adds, “Don’t you mean behind our back?” I add, “Well, daddy, doesn’t do that anymore, but that’s correct Art Show. Now, I can feel superior around mama while she nurses a glass of Pinot Grigio on a Friday night or around my mother for that matter, who sometimes can’t even wait for the Oaky Chard to cool because I’m strictly committed to getting high off your presence now kid, Matilda and Samuel included. That is until, next summer in Vermont, so I can order an insanely overpriced IPA in Burlington Vermont, only to spit out the 1st sip and declare, “Murderers Row work here. Sorry, I confused you for Hospitals sanctioning quadruple clot shots for its employees while more Doctors hit the floor than coin at the strip club in Montreal during pledge trips from the University of Buffalo while Neil Young and Crazed Vax Horse is reclaiming lost Spotify royalties in town. Holy Lighter rocks on in his free clot shot world, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

High On Holiness

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. 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, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth

















Holiness Rocks

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. 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, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth