Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”

            Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”            The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

            At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.”             Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”  

            Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.

            Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.

            Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.  

            Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.

            So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).

            Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.

            Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.  

            Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.

            “Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”

            ” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever. 

            “Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”

            Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.

            Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.

            Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.

            Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.

            “It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”

            Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

            Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”

            Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.

            American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.

            “Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?

            Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”

            Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).”      Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  

            Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”

            Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.

            “Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

            Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.”          Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”

Michael Kornbluth

Gimmel Be Good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

The Jewish Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist

Chosen, a 28-year-old black Jewish Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, required a COVID vaccine stamp on his passport for an upcoming summer tour in the US after sending Kayne West a demo tape with banging, killer rap songs such as ‘Me, My Mask and I’, ‘F The Mask Police’ and ‘Life After COVID’.

            The problem was, Canada had distributed the vaccine to only five percent of the Canuk population so far, enraging even the most stalwart, diehard, left-leaning government propagandist dirt rags of the far north. They now ran harassingly hurtful headlines about the anemic vaccine distribution numbers throughout Oh Canada such as “Operation Escargot Speed”, “Jagged Pill To Swallow” and “Flipping Out Over Florida” because Canadian caravans emerged, leading to a massive migration down south to score COVID vaccinations within swamp music country in Florida, to attain the digital proof of indoctrination necessary to work, travel, or take in a Toronto Raptors game again.

            This was despite Kwai Leonard taking his talents to LA to make mumblecore magic for the Duplass Brothers in a bunch of NBA short films for the Bleacher Report whenever he’d rest his nagging quads again.  

            Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, prided himself on being a funnier, less sadistically creepy Eminem. At the same time, he’d write record reviews and mail them to editors at the Source in LA, the hip hop Rolling Stone, for his own self-published rap debut album under COVID house arrest in Canada titled “Cosmic Chosen Perfectionists” in true cosmic-chosen perfectionist style while also proving that Kayne West didn’t have a monopoly on highly stylized, ego-topping, art rock God rap, either.

             Chosen would push album review lines in his honor to editors at the Source, such as, “Please don’t compare me to Drake for a fake news black Jewish rapper’s sake.  

            “I come from a line of hilarious Jewish rappers like Ad-Rock from the Beastie Boys, unlike fake news-persecuted Chuck D on Anthrax’s Bring The Noise.

            Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, had zero love for Good Wille Hoodie at Facebook for banning his budding fan page for so-called hate speech violations after dissing some of his primo targets in his rap such as Good Will Hoodie at Facebook, ANTIFA, Michelle Obama, Lebron James, and King of the Persecution Complex and Minnesota congressional rep Baby Face Omar for her support of the BDS movement against Israel, and for referring to death of Amy Winehouse on Twitter as, “Something happened, to a beehive-sporting, horn-hiding, satanic bitch who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.”

            Chosen got banned from LinkedIn, after getting banned from Facebook and Twitter, for calling Farrakhan a “Black supremacist who trolled Elie Wiesel on Holocaust Remembrance Day with termite emojis from dawn till night,” although what resulted in Chosen’s permanent suspension from LinkedIn was a truth bomb video link targeting the world’s largest resume database service when he did this gem-sparkling bit, “This is my impersonation of Dr. Dre discussing the recent merger of Microsoft with LinkedIn with his former protégé Eminem. Hey, Slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, “Wordddddddddddddddd, LinkedIn is lamer than ever yoh.”

            Then Chosen adds, “Eminem calls Trump Hitler, but he lifted the lifetime ban on Jewish membership when he bought Mara-A-Lago, Slim-On-Facts Shady.”

            Never getting enough of his punch-heavy, punctuated prose, Chosen goes in for the retaliatory kill against all the Trump-obsessed Twitter twats and states, “Tell me why I should care about Snoop Dogg’s political opinions, again? His brain hovers a notch below porn hood hell.            “Although I’ll still drink Old E, if it’s ice cold, at an AVN convention in Vegas. Party, Old E: you know Snoop Dogg’s Ho sprayer of choice from back in the day.

            “This was before Magic made HIV disappear, feeling exceptionally spry and swell for being an early-stage investor in Dell.

            “Trump is the Anti-Christ. But in the Bible, Part 2, Jesus defeats the Anti-Christ. So, have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you people?

            “I actually had to Google Anti-Christ. At the time, I thought, “that’s what Pig Vomit calls Howard Stern in Private Parts before he became weird, weak, woke Howard. So, how bad could the Anti-Christ be, holla, thank you very much.”

            Now Chosen was about to hop into his Toronto stripper girlfriend’s Porsche SUV. Her name was Cayenne, like the ride before their desperate dash across the border to score her some much-needed stripper work in Miami and much-needed vaccinations to keep their careers and balling lifestyle afloat.

            As Cayenne, a part-Haitian, part-French, striking, six-foot stunner hailing from the sultry Big Easy, pulls her champagne room-spewing ride out of Chosen’s driveway, she stops the car and says, “I don’t want to end up in a COVID Canadian jail, Chosen. How are we going to get past customs without showing them our vaccination IDs, Chosen?

            “I know you’re the best of the Beastie Boys all wrapped into one and are blessed with the funny Jew bone, capable of spitting out rhymes at will as if you were born to be in the perpetual zone.

            “But there’s only one Moses, babe, and I don’t see the Lord playing any part in getting the Canadian border patrol to part with their motion-sensing technology on your behalf.”

            Chosen takes in his stripper-scrumptious beauty, looking as if he could make love to her until his life blaster snaps in two, and says, “Stop talking crazy, Cayenne. We’re bound to Kayne, now, bitch. Plus, once I get that money on tour with Kayne, big tech and the Canadian mask police can’t tell me nothing.

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

Michael Kornbluth

The Jolt Felt Around The World

It was 1986. Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with a badass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life.    Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the fourth grade, spending more time now stargazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid, because she saw how tweaky and sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did.

            Her younger brother Arthur would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later-discontinued Jolt Cola, which was the equivalent of six cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep-deprived first-grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store.

            But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage, because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss because she had to write a paper about it for class.

            Actually, Matilda’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, goody two-shoes square.”

            Now Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Ways from Halloween that she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again ’till 2061.

            By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous astrophysicist who would eventually go viral (despite the Internet not having been invented yet), where she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt, too.”

            Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt, and in a frenzied spurt, she darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite her inner square telling her that she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice-in-a-lifetime event (if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow up bigger than you-know-what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads.

            As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur, still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister; yet, unfortunately, she inherited her dear dada’s clunky, heavy feet (which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon, either).

            Arthur turns his head, spots Matilda, and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt—on a school night, too.”

            Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arthur. I’m not Matilda—you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation.  I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind, like Han Solo after Leia unfreezes him from carbonite in Jabba’s place.”

            Arthur adds, “Don’t BS, me ‘Tilda. Wait a minute. I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.”      Now Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green force field-enclosing, brain-eating alien bug. Arthur freaks out, as expected, yelling, “I got killed, ‘Tilda! I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m gonna get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”

            Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching it, Arthur. I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet.”

             Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins.

            As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each other, landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with the discarded Milk Way wrappers on it.

            Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over, baby.”

            Matilda, who has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain-drilling noogie, looks up to her Dad and asks, in perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet, Dad?”

             Dad says, “But, then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grow on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need.” 

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 represented, so called Comedian Solomon Kornbluth wanted was a win, but not just any win, like getting another comedy record Mega Dumb Daddy reposted on Soundcloud again by some random, faceless music promo service, but an actual trophy, symbolizing how in this instance Solomon 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 Alicia 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 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 hockey 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 he triggered the Swamp with fits of despair for relegating good old Jeb Bush to another low energy, halfwit 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 Hockey 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, which wasn’t really thought through on their part. 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 2nd, my great, great, grandfather invented the Zamboni machine. I do the light shows for the hockey 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. 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 mobile wave runner. 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 Napa 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 Sopranos 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 our 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 else better to 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’Riley 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 wave runner mobile for one memory rich victory lap after the next after delivering a killer set for the ages that was made for these times.

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? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.”

“I 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, “Do more edibles Daddy. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.”

“This is Ziggy Marely being interviewed by High Time Magazine. Reporters says, “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 how did killing the number 2 in charge of ISIS make 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”

Solomon Kornbluth was later blown up into smithereens on his Comedy Gold Mobile Wave Runner in the Red Sea by Hamas terrorists after headlining a comedy tour there called, “Solomon Kornbluth Kills”, 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 Standing O Laughs Festival in Haifa called the Killer Set Kornbluth Award, which honors the most hardcore hilarious comedian who exhibited the most fearless, killer shtick from start to finish. All 3 of Solomon’s killer Koshertarian Comedian kids won the Killer Set Kornbluth Award in their dear dada’s honor. So comedic royalty in the mold of King Solomon Kornbluth did live 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 custom made, stretched Comedy Gold Wave Runner Mobile with his 3 biggest fans in the universe as they squeezed on to their dear dada with all their loving might. The same home team who always stood by his side, especially when his comedy career was ice cold, when mama would threaten to kick him out of the house if he ever gave his kids the common cold through COVID. 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

Radioactive Resume Theories

Son says, “Daddy, don’t leave me for New Jersey.” I say, “But desperate times call for desperate actions, when you’re 46 years old with a marriage to hold together and have 3 kids to feed after a 9-year vacation from life to work on finding your voice as a Stay At Home She Male Comedian Podcast Host Author Blogger who’s been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot.”

Son says, “Why, can’t you get a job again moron son? And when can we start selling your comedy records this summer? I get to sell Flipper Bird Baby and Not Kosher Baby because I’m on the cover licking Finn’s butt Daddy, deal? But seriously Daddy, do you have 10,000 morons stuck in your head, Ancient Moron?

I say, “I don’t need a resume coach or a climate scientist to tell me why my writing career is colder than Harvey Weinstein’s casting couch at the 4 Seasons. In fact, I’m capable of formulating some radioactive resume theories of my own Scientific American, for starters, 9 Gap Years +No Proof of Vaccination =Twice fucked at getting a job in Mr. Groper’s America Jack.

Others culture clash fit theories that come to mind are. You’re too full of yourself to judge your talent assessment skills objectively. In other words, you’re blinded by narcissistic right, like the rest.

Outsiders don’t see daddy as a real man or as dependable provider of any kind, especially when mama’s smart phone sends her an alert whenever I make another questionable purchase. Mommy calls, “Hey babe, so how was bride of Chucky?”

What else makes my resume lack all form of gravitational pull kid? The glaring expanse of gap years on my resume is bigger than when Sandra Bernhardt says cheese.

HR won’t even download my resume on to their desktops out of fear of it eroding their belief in the common good after learning through one of my podcasts how I’m another domestic terrorist dad who protested against the masking of our children like Michael’s Jackon’s kids on holiday in Bahrain during the July 4th release of my Burning Mask Party Record.

Wendy in HR almost chokes up her Shroom Burger from Shake Shack after reading my desired salary preference of 85K per year when I haven’t had any form of steady taxable income to report since hate speech was invented to silence anyone who questioned whether the Russian collusion tale used to spy on Trump while running for office had less legs than Lieutenant Dan.

Listing Allah as a character reference, only to accuse a prospective employer of being Islamophobic, if they don’t respect my religion of peace knowing my last name is Kornbluth is a new low like Baby Face Omar Gona Work It Out describing the death of Amy Winehouse on the anniversary of her death on Twitter as something happened to a devil horn concealing, beehive sporting, colonial imperialist who exploited the Great Palestinian Song Book for all it was worth.  

It’s hard to engage in foreplay with a new lover of me on the open market as a stay-at-home dad when your wife can’t even get excited about kinky foreplay of any kind anymore because you’re already choking her too hard financially.

Talking about yourself in the 3rd person in your resume bio for a copywriter role in South Carolina is crossing the ego mania gone wild line even in Kenny’s Powers eyes.

Big Bang Theory, Do It All Dad Does Jokes is no Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman regardless of it being gay about celebrating my Do It All Dad Tree Trunk that claims to blow crystal-clear streams of beautiful mind spewing hilarity, come rain or shine. Sinatra lives. Challah, thank you very much.

The universe didn’t take a collective breath after you post on your WordPress blog how Guaranteed Greatness, would be your last comedy you’d give to the deprived masses away for free.

Force feeding schtick on your resume is more off putting than laughing at your own jokes in person or texting one to an employer with an emoji clown horn that follows.

You can’t win over HR by conserving your best work in the service of making MAGA country laugh over us.

So, I’ll rebrand myself as a scene stealing supporting player and aim to win the 6th Man of Year Award like Anthony Mason on the Knicks before you’re good enough to be deemed trade worthy, only to be voted by your news fans and old as a 1st all-time star the following year, which beats wasting away in some dumpy ad agency in Union, New Jersey away from you kid.

Son says, “Does that mean you’re not leaving me for New Jersey?”

I say, “Not unless I’m calling my next comedy record, “Do It All Dad Does Martha Dump Truck. Can I get holla for some Challah?”

Son says, “Thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Loud Man’s Disease

How loud was Do It All Dad? For starters, when seeing Aerosmith live in Las Vegas two summers ago, with close seats to the stage before a mask muzzle was designed to kill freedom of speech forever, his incessant hollering and wooing made lead singer Steven Tyler shoot off retaliatory hate stares of disgust in his direction which screamed, “Somebody shut this loudmouth Jew up, already. This is my showcase career retrospective, not his. I didn’t blow millions on blow and almost derail my stadium-selling-out career in the seventies to have this big-headed putz project louder than me (without a microphone, Joe Perry, or a state-of-the-art sound system working in his magnifying favor, either).”

            There was also the time Do It All Dad saw Dice in a casino in Arizona with his younger brother, only for the Dice Man to single out the loudmouth Jew and yell, with exasperated force, “You’re an asshole!”

            And all he was doing was laughing for a long time, all the time, prior, while sporadically yelling, “Dice Lives, holla, thank you very much.”

            Dice was so flummoxed by Do It All Dad’s laugh, a throaty roar, that he beelined into his nursery rhymes prematurely, way ahead of schedule, to get the fuck out of dodge a hard 45 minutes into his set.

            Then, there was the time when Do It All Dad saw Bon Jovi at Mohegan Sun with his daughter Matilda (fairly up in the nosebleed seats this time behind the stage, yet his bombastic, rocket-fueled voice still managed to get under Zebra Print’s skin as the old-school long cowboy from Jersey projected a damning ‘you ain’t shit’ thousand-yard stare toward Mr. Loud Man’s Disease’s general direction as he sang along with rockstar-blasting authority, “Bad Medicine is all I need.”  

            Do It All Dad didn’t just piss off living legendary comedians and hall of fame rock star front men with surefire, unintentional precision. His omnipresent Loud Man’s Disease enraged his normally English-dour, future father-in-law over a dinner at his home in Delaware only two minutes after grace, compelling him to bark out, in depleted, drained-already disgust, “He’s more talkative than the other one.”

            ‘The other one’ being the gentile mute from Indiana whom his daughter was engaged to before his daughter found her real deal partner in love, this time (at least for the time being).

            The major issue now was Do It All Dad’s loud man disease causing his son, Art Show USA, to develop all-consuming migraine headaches, leading his son to sport a permanent PMS face until he started to take up mainlining extra-strength Tylenol, again.

            And Do It All Dad’s son was tough. How tough, you ask? Well, when Art Show USA required stitches for tripping on top of an empty IPA glass on the ground and had to wait 1000 lifetimes in the emergency room so the other doctors could serve all the first-in-line dreamers in attendance, the doc gave Do It All Dad two options:

            “Either A) Authorize the doc to use an anesthesia which would take twenty minutes to kick in, or B) To stitch up his son the spot, as his gaping gash continued to open wider than Octomom after Push 5000.

            Do It All Dad chose B, only for the doctor to say, “Your kid is tough.” Do It All Dad inquires, “Indulge me, doc: how tough?”

            Doc says, “One time, there was this black kid from Brooklyn.”

            Do It All Dad says, “Sold already, Doc. Thanks for giving my son tough guy bragging rights, for me to derive vicarious pride from ’till my last dying breath.”

            But how was Do It All Dad going to solve his Loud Man’s Disease, exactly? Would triple masking even get the job done, after getting his tonsils taken out for an extra safe precaution, too? Would Do It All Dad become a eunuch monk, despite already feeling this way, at times, from being a Stay-At-Home Dad and bitchy underling until his comedy writing career achieved blastoff, already? Would Do It All Dad seek out a Voodoo Doctor in Washington Heights to cure his Loud Man’s Disease by changing his pigmentation to ESL Asian?

            What could Do It All Dad do to prevent his son from receiving any more debilitating headaches in his presence again?

            Finally, Do It All Dad devised a cure-all solution. He’d buy his son a pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones to wear in his presence and would teach him fucking sign language. Because native New Yorkers were made to be heard.

Michael Kornbluth

Shooting The Shit With Jill Biden

Imagine Easter Sunday at the Biden’s Delaware estate this year? First, things get tense for Hunter’s new wife Melissa Cohen when Dr. Jill Biden says, “So today, we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus after your people heckled the Romans into crucifying our Messiah to death.”

Melissa Cohen replies, “I don’t give a shit either way Jill. I’m an atheist myself. Still, my father a conservative Jew, would disagree with your messiah premise. He wouldn’t call your hubby putting up fencing around the White House as an incoming symbol of world peace, would you? If Obama wasn’t a secret, gay Muslim, I totally could’ve seen him putting World Peace 2.0 on his gym locker at one of those private gay bathhouse clubs in Chicago to remain anonymous though. My family celebrates the Passover holiday. You know the holiday where we sub IPA’s for giant stale unleavened crackers. Not that most Jews are heavy drinkers compared to our gentile nation, but you get the gist. I know drinking is the least of Hunter’s concerns. Plus, I’m positive despite you being a gentile, you’re capable of recognizing the hilarious irony of your son from a different mother, giving up blow for blow painting. Also, cut the Mother Theresa act Jill. Everyone in Delaware knows Joe had an affair with you when he was still married before the horrific tragic car crash, which you’ve collectively exploited politically for all it’s worth, which doesn’t sound very Christ like to me. Then again, the Crusades happened to get back at the all non-believers such as my people the Jews, despite Christianity not being an official religion back in ancient biblical times during the time of Jesus’s death. Also, I never understood why Christians hate Jews so much, assuming they were Christ Killers or not. First, Jesus was a Jew and gentiles weren’t flocking to see Schindler’s List opening weekend. Second, if Jesus doesn’t get crucified, the Bible part 2 is never written. There’s no record of Jesus ever ascending to heaven, giving his 12 apostles to write his comeback life tale with the promise of eternal life, assuming you acknowledge Jesus as the only self-anointed, bouncer gatekeeper of heaven and king of the Jewish people, despite possessing zero ancestry DNA with King David or King Solomon after him, just saying. How many Jewish friends do you have Jill, being a real doctor and all? But plenty of Jews hurt our people’s image such as Bernie Madoff, Harvey Weinstein, that crystal meth head, Adam Schiff. Trust me, after knowing your son during his druggy years, I know a meth head when I see one. If Adam Schiff’s eyes were any bigger buggier, he’d be John Holmes in Wonderland, assuming his best friend is another scumbag Democratic operative like Ed Buck being charged for manslaughter for getting black homeless escorts overdose on crystal meth in his West Hollywood pad before exchanging their services. Let’s just meet in the middle and agree Adam Schiff is no angel of light or will ever be confused for being a chosen cosmic perfectionist of any kind. So, if I wanted to drop Hunter’s IPHONE into the garbage can outside of Janssen’s Market, love their Filet Mignon Egg Sandwich by the way, with pictures of him putting a gun to my head during some kinky role playing, when I play the computer repairman’s daughter in Wilmington, Delaware. Would the Secret Service keep those pics under wraps for us, or am I blowing your husband’s compromised deep state relationship with the Secret Service and China completely out of proportion? Xi is a good a guy Jill? You know nobody believes that shit Jill, especially the suicide net makers for Apple. Granted, you haven’t taught in years but deliver that line about Xi being a great guy to every mother whose had to quit their jobs to help monitor their kids remoting learning experience, with no burning mask parities in sight, vaccine mandated or not, despite more kids dying of suicide this year than from fucking COVID. And maybe then, I’ll respect your alleged Christian good deed hued nature again babe. At least our baby boy is a boy. So keeping Joe away from any future hair sniffing incidents, is one last thing I need to worry about it. I didn’t marry into the Podesta family for a reason.

Michael Kornbluth

Reimagining Cuomo Book Titles

Did you know Jared Kushner talked Dad out of Motley Crue playing at his inauguration because he insisted Tommy Lee looked too Alt-Rightish. Later he adds, “And my Hebrew Hammer can’t compete Dad.” Holla, thank you very much.

A leadership book by Cuomo carries less impactful weight than a Stacy Abrams romance novel, especially after she ditches the fat suit for a parachute jumper on casual Friday. Holla, thank you very much.

Knowing how New York State boasted the highest death rate of any US state, largely due to Cuomo’s policy of forcing sick old patients with COVID to shack up with other sick old New Yorkers older than Yiddish, to die, cursing the Italian Reptilian inside against their dying of the light, it’s time to reimagine new book titles for the thug in Armani, don’t you think? If Cuomo’s lucky, he can win another Emmy with a TV show on Netflix in his honor based on these killer, headline hooker titles alone. Let the alt righting book title reimagining being.

  1. That slut Blanch from the Golden Girls was going to die from a urinary track infection anyway. Wait a minute, in Florida she’d still be alive to suck a golf ball through a garden hose for another day, my bad.
  2. Ben Stiller thinks I’d play a convincing mob boss in a remake of the Goonies because I look like Mama Fratelli and the Thing had a baby. Wait a minute, who wrote this shit for me, Joan Rivers. I thought that annoying, Jew bitch was six feet under already for insisting Michelle Obama let it flop around on Ellen like she he don’t care. Joan lives. Holla, thank you very much.
  3. Trump’s shipped in hospital beds were just for show. Who cares if they got less touches than a bible at a bathhouse colony in Provincetown?
  4. I got Chris Rock to do a mask up PSA in my honor despite President Trump helping push prison reform to give his people new leases on life. I just gave BLM more rope to hang themselves with within the court of a public opinion.
  5. I destroyed the greatest city in the world in 14 months flat. What have you done with your life, besides wish the big, bad blond wolf could give me a nipple twister under the comment section on the Gateway Pundit?
  6. Born to Kill like Anthony Gnocchi.
  7. Vince Lombardi Lives
  8. Thugs in Armani Matter
  9. Broadway Blue Balls
  10. Andrew Black Eyes
  11. Destructive Mook Knows Best
  12. No, I Won’t Jump Off My Own Bridge.
  13. Reckless Endangerment Is Good
  14. Hijacking Hydroxychloroquine. Cuomo confiscated the entire supply in NY for his own personal stash and banned Doctors from prescribing it because the Italian Reptilian Inside had a surplus of body bags to fill, never mind.
  15. How to Kill Without Throwing Granny Off The Train
  16. From Good Too Imprisoned for Highly Avoidable Crimes Against Humanity.
  17. The Ponzi Push of Death
  18. The Art of Getting Away With Granny Choking On Her Pasta Fazool, metaphorically speaking.
  19. Too Big for Late Term Abortion
  20. Why I’m Smarter Than Tony Soprano
  21. Eating Meatballs Alone On Death Row
  22. The Hit Man’s Dilemma Around Real Made Men Tough Guys
  23. How to Get Banned From Rao’s For Life
  24. Dysfunctional Democrats Always Win Last

Michael Kornbluth