High Schooler Hoody Problems

“Hear my bus coming Daddy”, says Art Show USA. Do It All Dad says, “Pretty soon, Art Show USA is going to buy this town, and put it all in his shoes, that’s what he’s going to do.” Art Show USA says, “I know the town of Croton Falls is small Daddy but don’t be ridiculous. Plus, I’m going to build my own house in the woods next to another house I build for you one day, so we can be neighbors. Plus, if I put the whole town of Croton Falls in my shoe, everyone will bother me in the woods to pick up their mail since I’ve absorbed the post office in my shoe, which defeats the purpose of me living in the woods in the 1st place Daddy. Got to go now or I’ll miss the bus. Love you daddy but only if you keep on rocking the high schooler hoodie loo or I’ll stab with our sharpest knife for real. Art Show USA whizzes across the street to catch his bus in time in one spark smooth motion, which his fills his Do It All Dad’s heart with tremendous nachas, which means vicarious joy derived from your kid in Yiddish, especially when your 7-year-old son otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day, becomes more grownz up every day, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Do It All Dad though was having reservations about rocking the high schooler hoodie look anymore, which he should’ve retired in his thirties at least, when he used to be a semi-sporadic performing open miker at the New York Comedy Club in Manhattan, if he could rally enough friends in attendance again. Now, Do It All Dad was questioning the extent of his maturity, knowing he’d never outgrew his truly tasteless jokes phase, still puffed the green out of a one hitter at 44 in a hoody like Sarah Silverman minus the career. Now, Do It All Dad still got asked for ID at Target with his 3 kids, whenever he couldn’t resist snagging another 6 pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for only $9.99, knowing it’s the pale ale that never get’s stale. Still, it was impossible for Do It All Dad to stare at his sudden grey specked beard in the mirror at 44 while still not showing any touches of grey on his chosen curls on top and think, “You look better than John Oliver these days but that isn’t saying much. Can’t wait to see his new segment on the Biden inauguration called, The Day Democracy Died. I wonder if bean breath tonight possesses the balls to make a joke about a 3rd political party called, The Burning Mask Party. Now, I have to worry about a podcast hosting opportunity slipping away, because I made a joke over our 2nd call about a donkey shaped pinata with Governor Cuomo’s ugly mug on it, except instead of candy spilling out when it breaks, piles of pink masks come out instead, that say, “Cuomo Blows”, which got a big, cathartic laugh out of my future potential benefactor at the time. I’m so tired of acting like some gun shy stiff, out of fear of never getting a job in a post woke corporate America again or snagging a comedy manager ever, because I dared to make fun of Obama for gifting Iran 150 billion for overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear, to make their economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal products for the Kardashians. At the same time, why do I have to be dressed up in a Brooks Brother button down in jeans to feel more dressed to impress the Internet one love entertainment gatekeepers on my Do It All Dad Podcast, which is only audio anyway? I think my son Art Show likes to see me rock the high schooler hoodie look because it helps ensure I stay young at heart and don’t lose heart to, when I can’t even get the Jewish Book Council to review my book, The Great American Jew Novel after sharing stellar previous reviews, because I’m not an atheist has been like David Cross who hasn’t made a good W joke in 15 years or even an edge insult about Laura Bush for that matter, who just wrote a book which criticizes The Wicked Witch Of Chatham, NY in Northern Westchester County. At least Hillary had the balls to get rich or die trying bitch. Deep down, I think my son Art Show wants me to sport the high school hoodie look more than ever, to ensure I keep on rocking in our big tech ruining world, as a symbol of non-conformist resistance, knowing my comedy career can still take flight, if I never lose touch with what make me feel most kick ass and in control alive, which is getting laughs longtime all the time, with big deal talking, NY made, ball busting flourish, all the way.” Son, Art Show USA enters the the bathroom and notices his Do It All Dad, lost in thought, grazing the specs of grey on his beard with the tips of his fingers and says, “Don’t even think of shaving the beard Daddy. You look weird without one, like when you shaved it to dress up like Stan Smith from American Dad. Remember, dressing up our family like the Cleveland Show family one was no longer an option because Megyn Kelly already stole our thunder. Plus, Cleveland holding up the sign, “Build The Pool Fence”, for Mimi and Papa to see on Facebook in Arizona, would’ve lost his impactful oomph to. Also Daddy, I like you with the beard, because without it, you’ll look like a Pre-K schooler hoody. So, you won’t be able to boast on stage about the Jews being chosen by God to perfect the human race through your gorgeous sons, who stem from your Do It All Dad Year tree trunk.” Do It All Dad hugs his son, Art Show USA and says, “The beard stays kiddo. It’s just that the high schooler hoodie look rubs me the wrong way sometimes, because it reminds me too much of Sarah Silverman, which annoys me since she came out to Twitter as a social justice warrior, to detract from her once mouthwatering tits, sagging popularity.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Dreaming On Past Covid

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking 2 packs a day of Turkish blend, extra wide Camel cigarettes fended off my surging lung cancer either. I’ll never forget how top of the world scrumptious that Camel extra wide tasted after losing my virginity to Katie King in the Cape. If there was ever a reason to take up smoking again, so I could enjoy sucking face with my summer wind love who enjoyed her Camel extra wide smokes even more than I did, it was for my sweet darling, inhalable on the spot always, pitch perfect southern belle, the always magical, chills down my spine inducing from mere memories of walking hand in the hand throughout Main Street in the Cape, my dear Katie King. Especially, knowing how my bitch roommates at the time, hated how the Jew boy from New York struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina, who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in 3 years flat. Oh yeah, that’s right, one of those girls went to McGill in Canada, which was a safety school for stoners obsessed with free healthcare and Justin Trudeau’s purple specked socks. So, it looks like I’m one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never draggy dumpy, 36D tits.  

So, my parents, younger brother, friends, and ex-girlfriends can’t visit me, but I’d sure love to kiss the never annoying, always pleasantly plump on top, Katie King again. The last time I kissed her was when I surprised her while driving cross-country to California for my last semester of college, with an aching in my heart. She was more than a friend of mine Lord, Katie was a guardian angel as you know, who was sent down from Heaven to make me a true believer in the power of prayer and modern-day miracles, which benefited my love life immensely for a change. I remember praying to you alone on the beach in Cape Cod Kennedy country, during the summer when the Fugees broke big, finally giving me a woman to cry about in my heart after our romance came too a sudden, crashing end. I said, “God, I love Hair Metal ballads because they’re hopeful songs full of longing, and I always longed to have a real-life girlfriend to walk hands with at Rye Playland to win stuffed animals for, as I drained more basketball shots from way downtown with effortless, in the zone, choke free ease.”

You’ve always provided me with divine intervention comfort Lord, so I’m not going to fret against my dying of the light this late into the 9th Inning, with me going up against Mariano Rivera with a 5 run lead at the new Yankee Stadium, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. Gentrification Lord, you know, liberal talk for less black people. I wouldn’t have written that a plus joke gem without your divine powered assistance as usual. Has my sadness enshrouded heart weighed heavily on my weepy, hurting inside soul in Synagogue some years on Yom Kippur, knowing it’s another year, where I ask for another shot to be a productive, functioning member of the Jewish race versus another schmuck in a headset, whose been fired more than a Palestinian Slingshot. I’m also not going to bitch about certain friends or family members not always being there to consistently support my comedic ambitions, which lead me to killing at the Montreal Comedy Festival, thanks to your steady, unrelenting support in me doing me all the way. Those friends came to my bringer shows in Manhattan at the New York Comedy Club, when I was an average nobody putz, because they believed in my potential, which you always have Lord, back when my pursuit of getting lady laugh off long time, all the time began.

My parents raised me in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, performing well at high paying jobs, which were no labor of love either.  Plus, acting like an excessively obnoxious, supremely spoiled, entitled twat, never felt right with my labor of laugh lust pursing heart either. You made me grow up and become a man in LA, when my parents cut me off, forcing me to overcome a debilitating stutter as an IT Headhunter, cold calling through the Los Angeles Journal Book of Lists like a man possessed to be a pushover putzy no more. I got to sing Karaoke in the valley and perform high kicking, windmills to Baba O-Reilly, proving to myself I was meant to strut my stuff and sing the gift of comedic song on stage for a living one day.

Should I order Chinese for my last meal to earn myself social justice righting props on Twitter, instead of insisting how those bio-chemical warfare starting commie bastards have resisted investigations into the origin behind the Wuhan lab originator of the virus more than Aquafresh? The only time I ever feared dying was from weed induced panic attacks, thinking, I’d stop breathing, because I was being a degenerate Jew again who was bound to lose his gift of gab sooner or later.

Dying semi-alone through Zoom, doesn’t appeal to me much Lord. I say semi-alone because you’ll always be the bursting source of light in my laugh loving heart come rain or shine. Also, I prefer to say goodbyes to my parents, friends, ex-girlfriends, and younger brother through emotive, giving letters like this, which touch the soul far deeper than any belabored, drawn out Zoom call could, while our new Chinese slave masters monitor our every last show of vigorous, in your face emotion.

Dying prematurely at 44 bites, only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young blares with rollicking empathetic flourish like no other on Rocking In The Free World. I’m positive that song gets plenty of play in stage performer heaven, which I wouldn’t mind entry into, knowing Lou Reed could use some added some levity up there from time to time, next time he showcases the insufferable gaul to insist on charging Billy Idol for the priveledge of recording with him while waiting for his man Marlon Brando again off Broadway upstairs for A Streetcar Named Desire, now that’s he’s love with the act of on-stage creation again.

I’m not worried about being a pseudo homo preventing me, from being embraced by your loving light in afterlife. Desmond Child isn’t dead yet, but there’s no way a loving God would damn the writer behind Livin’ On A Prayer to endless agonizing hell on par with forcing him to to act like he enjoys hearing the Fleet Foxes live in front a log cabin, on his one ordained night out for his birthday in homo performer hell, year after year.

Thanks for the thrill of killing and for the heart soothing memories involving my dear Katie King, oh, sweet Lord. Dear Katie King, the magic fairy dust beneath my wings, who took me to the other side on earth, where us oh so fortune, cosmic comedic perfectionists roam. All the bombing in life was worth the thrill of killing at the Montreal festival, especially with my dear Katie King in attendance front row to make love to my soul with her Oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring our last departed goodbye kiss, when she said in the Cape, “I never knew someone could make me so happy before.” I do, it’s you Lord, all the great good in my life stems from your miraculous handy work on my behalf. I must make you laugh more than yenta breath Seinfeld ever did, to be blessed with such infinite beauty in my life, because like your other star creation Billy Cox, Jimi’ Hendrix’s old school paratrooper buddy sings with number 1 soul brother authority at the Filmore East New Year’s Eve in 1970, “With the power of soul, anything is possible.” Being blessed with the funny Jew bone, which you gave the obsessive drive to develop to the best of my God given ability helps to. I’ll love you forever Lord, for my summer wind Katie King and for making such an out of this world beauty, beautify my life, with such a majestic, soul tantalizing sweep that summer wind dreams are made of.  

All My Love,

Michael Joshua Kornbluth

The Divorce Immunity Quesadilla

Last night, with mama at work, my daughter asks, “Daddy, what do you love about mommy?” All of a sudden, I felt like a gay Tony Soprano, splathering, “I love that she’s the mother of my children.” Still, I’m not loving mama more, for saying in mean spirited, call back jest, “Don’t worry, Matilda, I won’t divorce Daddy if he keeps on making Quesadilla’s like this.” You can make an argument that a comedian should be able to take a joke at his own expense to. Still, when, my precious Bashert daughter gets involved, knowing she was the one who retrieved mama’s smartphone search history involving how to do divorce an unemployed, lushy, stay at home, she male comedian, made the offhanded on the surface innocuous reply, personally offensive to me, because I don’t consider my daughter’s happiness plummeting through the equator without me in her life in my standard, beautifying at home fashion a laughing matter to derive self-serving chuckles with.

But just to reminisce a little, my love for the Quesadilla doesn’t start with past Brooklyn made Quesadilla’s flush with bomb fresh, not too tarty goat cheese and glistening, piercing green zucchini blossoms, which you always spend a spleen on at the Farmer’s Market to get, the 2 days a year they’re for sale at the Farmer’s Market in Union Square and beyond. No, the roots of my fetching, surging interest in recreating some Quesadilla love on my own from home, stems from the various salsa’s I fell in love with during my IT Headhunter agency days after college throughout Southern, California, before it resembled an extended, roadside mall tent city.

The Black Dog Café on Wilshire Blvd. across the street from E Entertainment Television where I scored my 1st temp job in LA, which lead to me dating a casting director who used to date Gabriel Byrne from Unusual Suspects, is where my lifelong fixation on replicating the side herbed, darkened hued, tomato salsa to dip their bomb scallion, diced up chicken breast, medium sharp cheddar, always tasty, never lump or dried up, scrambled egg lined Quesadilla began. I’ll never forgive my younger brother for giving me grief for taking him to the Black Dog Café when he visited from NY once, going completely ballistic over the fact how I made the affordable, posh, no line hassle, brunch dining experience all about my needs instead of his, because I dared to order him something different than his standard, bacon egg and cheese on a roll. Granted, my younger brother had no clue about the incredibly annoying fact how in 2001 in LA, deli’s that served bacon, egg and cheeses didn’t exist, forcing me to try a microwaved egg sandwich once, which tastes like zapped happiness on the spot.

The Black Dog egg and cheese Quesadilla with the killer side of zippy, never soupy dark red salsa was never burnt beneath and their in-house, dark roast coffee blend to help digest this meaty, scrumptious, protein rich, breakfast offering, made any meh deli back east, with their faded Goodfellas posters, barely hanging on for dear life, a far flung, easily discarded, memory. When I lived in Sherman Oaks in the Valley, I would schlep over the Laurel Canyon up to borderline Koreatown to hit up my old school stomping ground at the Black Dog Café, just for that blended, concentrated blast, of brain deepening dark roast coffee again and again. So go woke yourself little bro, you unsophisticated hick, who orders angostura bitters to put in the Woodford Reserve with one cube I ordered for both of us to celebrate the birth of my lucky number 3, my chest.  

Tito’s Taco’s in Culver City also offered a simple yet bomb Salsa, which you could always order a larger side portion of for less than 4 bucks, which was a consistent no-brainer like hitting on the chesty MILF at the Black Dog Cafe, only for you to regret receiving her phone number after she insisted, “We do more than meet for a drink”, as if I’d waste a Benjamin on taking her to Six Flags in Valencia either.   I used to live in West Hollywood and would take my ex-live-in girlfriend to a local Tex-Mex joint on Santa Monica, which boasted a beautiful retractable roof while serving the freshest, sliced, heat packing Jalapeno’s that every chicken and steak fajita felt incomplete depressing without them dancing on top.

So yeah, back to the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla to keep your kids mental health in good shape for another day. Sauteing red, yellow, orange, any sweet pepper with red onion in butter alone and you’re set it the veggie department. Throw some freaking Arugula in there to make your soul feel healthier than usual if you’d like. Shredded cheddar is nice, but so is the killer combo from Stew Leonard’s, which boasts Queso, the Mexican Mozzarella, light Cheddar and plenty of creamy, meant to be melted Monterey.

Making homemade salsa for the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla proves, you’re not above being cheesy romantic either. I made a new batch yesterday and served it to my nurse wife upstairs in bed at 1, who worked all night prior and said, “Divorce Immunity Quesadilla Part 2.” Wife laughed long time. So never underestimate the power of the comedic callback and forgiving, loving nature of the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla, because there’s nothing cheesy about giving love another shot, in a joy spewing, non-begrudging way, with all you got.

Michael Kornbluth

The Divorce Immunity Quesadilla

Last night, with mama at work, my daughter asks, “Daddy, what do you love about mommy?” All of a sudden, I felt like a gay Tony Soprano, splathering, “I love that she’s the mother of my children but I’m not loving her more for mama saying in mean spirited, call back jest, “Don’t worry, Matilda, I won’t divorce Daddy if he keeps on making Quesadilla’s like this.” You can make an argument that a comedian should be able to take a joke at his own expense to. Still, when, my precious Bashert daughter gets involved, knowing she was the one who retrieved mama’s smartphone search history involving, how to do divorce unemployed, lushy, stay at home, she male comedians, made the offhanded on the surface innocuous reply, personally offensive to me because I don’t consider my daughter’s happiness plummeting through the equator without me in her life in my standard, beautifying at home fashion a laughing matter to derive self-serving chuckles with.

But just to reminisce a little, my love for the Quesadilla doesn’t start with one’s flush with bomb fresh, not too tarty goat cheese and glistening, piercing green zucchini blossoms, which you always spend a spleen on at the Farmer’s Market to get, the 2 days a year they’re for sale at the Farmer’s Market in Union Square and beyond. No, the roots of my fetching, surging interest in recreating some Quesadilla love on my own from home, stems from the various salsa’s I fell int love with during my IT Headhunter agency days after college throughout Southern, California, before it resembled an extended, roadside mall tent city.  The Black Dog Café on Wilshire across the street from E Entertainment Television where I scored my 1st temp job in LA, which lead to me dating a casting director who used to date Gabriel Byrne from Unusual Suspects, is where my lifelong fixation on replicating the side herbed, darkened hued, tomato salsa to dip their bomb scallion, diced up chicken breast, medium sharp cheddar, always tasty, never lump or dried up, scrambled egg lined Quesadilla began. I’ll never forgive my younger brother for giving me grief for taking him to the Black Dog Café when he visited from NY once, going completely ballistic over the fact how I made the affordable, posh, no line hassle, brunch dining experience all about my needs instead of his, because I dared to order him something different than his standard, bacon egg and cheese on a roll. Granted, my younger brother had no clue about the incredibly annoying fact how in 2001 in LA, deli’s that served bacon, egg and cheeses didn’t exist, forcing me to try a microwaved egg sandwich, once, which tastes like zapped happiness on the spot. The Quesadilla was never burnt, their in-house, dark roast coffee blend to help digest this meaty, scrumptious, protein rich breakfast offering, made any meh deli back east, with their freaking faded Goodfellas posters, clinging for dear life on the walls, a far flung, easily discarded, memory. When I lived in Sherman Oaks in the Valley, I would schlep over the Laurel Canyon up to borderline Koreatown to hit up my old school stomping ground at the Black Dog café, just for that blended, concentrated blast, of brain deepening dark roast coffee again and again, so go woke yourself little bro, you unsophisticated hick, who orders angostura bitters to put in the Woodford Reserve with one cube I ordered for both of us to celebrate the birth of my lucky number 3, my chest.  

Tito’s Taco’s in Culver City also offered a simple yet bomb Salsa, which you could’ve always order a larger side portion with for less than 4 bucks, which was a consistent no-brainer like hitting on the chesty MILF at the Black Dog Coffee, only for you to regret receiving her phone number after she insisted, we do more than meet for a drink, as if I’d waste a Benjamin on taking her to Six Flags in Valencia either.   I used to live in West Hollywood and would take my ex-live-in girlfriend to a local Tex-Mex joint on Santa Monica, which boasted a beautiful retractable roof while serving the freshest, sliced, heat packing Jalapeno’s that every chicken and steak fajita felt incomplete depressing without them dancing on top.

So yeah, back to the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla, sauteing red, yellow, orange, any sweet pepper with red onion in butter alone and you’re set it the veggie department, throw some freaking Arugula in there to make your soul feel healthier than usual. Shredded cheddar is nice, but so is the killer combo from Stew Leonard’s, which boasts Queso, the Mexican Mozzarella, light Cheddar and Monterey on my mind.  Making homemade salsa for the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla proves, you’re not above being cheesy romantic either.

Michael Kornbluth

Daddy Daughter Date Day

Overly planned dates never compare to spontaneous ones because they rarely lead to a triangle of love with some mysterious gal at the Sirens Music Festival in Staten Island, NY who makes the 1st move on your man without this being his plan in the 1st place. Of course, there are exceptions, because planning to see Elaine Stretch perform a bunch of Stephen Sondheim tunes at the famed Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side, JFK old’s school hump around stomping ground, for your 1st year wedding anniversary, while noshing on the most succulent slivers of primo smoked salmon and crackers imaginable prior in the piano bar, when your wife notices Paul McCartney checking her out with an interested, oh darling gaze, you’re not complaining about the results of a planned out date night either. Also, when Elaine Stretch, who played Jack’s mom in 30 Rock as a bad ass, domineering, woman of class, barbed wit and sophistication who can reduce any titan of industry son into a nerve plagued, mumbling man while thrust into her all-knowing aura again, and quotes in front a of live adoring audience, “The world always looks pregnant with magical delight from your hotel Carlyle window as flurries of snow start to blanket the city like the ultimate Macy’s day window display treat for mother nature to play a leading role in decorating”, isn’t making you question the importance of planning a magical date night wedding anniversary to celebrate the day, you became official life time partners in love, for better or worse either.

Still, deciding to visit the local pizzeria Frank’s in our nearby, adorably quaint hamlet town of Croton Falls, enveloped by ponds flush with trout, windy, hilly roads and high end, open aired horse stables for the finest equestrian horses the world has to offer with your pitch perfect 9 year old daughter who just schooled you on why the captain of the Titanic’s ego, was the main reason why James Cameron got his king of the universe Oscar, after getting divorced from Linda Hamilton, when he chose to dick around with some CGI some more instead of her ripping off his man skin in the sack, is what dream dates are made of.

All of a sudden, mama was out of the house with baby Samuel. Arthur was actually in school for a change in a post woke Covid crazed universe gone wild and I found myself at our kitchen table with my Bashert daughter, my new and improved female twin of the most special glowed order at noon and I proposed, “Why don’t we have a lunch date together and pick it up from Franks in town, Matilda.” Matilda says, “Great idea daddy, let’s leave now though, because my next Google classroom call is at 1240 and I know how you can do more talking than eating once you get your yak pipes warmed up.” So, we take an idyllic stroll to our local village in Croton Falls, which is a 2 minute walk max, where the old school post office in town, is where they actually shot It’s a Wonderful Life and I was so at one with my daughter during this bonding, talky stroll to even get angry over the crashing realization, we’d never gone on a daddy daughter day date to town since the era of using children as politicized pawns since terms such as remote learning went viral after the Covid virus made in China began.

Again, we didn’t have a planned lunch order at all. My daughter spotted a fresh, bright red, wrinkle free Grandma slice, begging to be devoured. Now normally, we’d order a dozen garlic nots, if her 2 brothers were partaking but it was just us 2 so the standard order of 6 bomb, roasted garlic, never burnt, always crispy on the outside and fresh within, was another no-brainer order add on especially knowing Franks’ side of marinara is always well flavored and chunky, herb flavored enough to take this standard adolescent side pizza delivery item so much higher. Do It All Dad over here couldn’t resist not ordering their consistently delicious, never too greasy, amazing hero bread shrouded, just the right amount of what tastes like homemade mozzarella on top, eggplant parm hero, to make you love embracing the Kosheterarian Diet come rain or shine. I still miss my cherished cheesesteaks of yesteryear, since embracing the Koshertarian Diet but sharing super fresh, scrumptious, never too heavy eggplant parm heroes with my daughter over daddy daughter date day, makes those cheese wiz laced, sautéed onions specked cheese steaks from Philly transplants in NY such as Tony Luke’s become a far flung distant, wasn’t as great as I remember longing for it memory, especially when you’re daughter assumes the lead and doesn’t hesitate to ask daddy for another bite of his egg parm hero. Especially after Daddy adds some salty fresh specs of pecorino from the fridge on top to make this eggplant parm hero worshiped in Queens, the original location of Frank’s Pizzeria, sing with such big deal specialness, you better recognize possibility.

I never planned on having my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth either, because I never mastered the pump fake, yet every day, she proves to me why the best things in life are never planned but given through the most high for never giving up on doing you all the way.

Michael Kornbluth

Daddy Daughter Date Day

Overly planned dates never compare to spontaneous ones because they rarely lead to a triangle of love with some mysterious gal at the Sirens Music Festival in Staten Island, NY who makes the 1st move on your man without this being his plan in the 1st place. Of course, there are exceptions, because planning to see Elaine Stretch perform a bunch of Stephen Sondheim tunes at the famed Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side, JFK old’s school hump around stomping ground, for your 1st year wedding anniversary, while noshing on the most succulent slivers of primo smoked salmon and crackers imaginable prior in the piano bar, when your wife notices Paul McCartney checking her out with an interested, oh darling gaze, you’re not complaining about the results of a planned out date night either. Also, when Elaine Stretch, who played Jack’s mom in 30 Rock as a bad ass, domineering, woman of class, barbed wit and sophistication who can reduce any titan of industry son into a nerve plagued, mumbling man while thrust into her all-knowing aura again, and quotes in front a of live adoring audience, “The world always looks pregnant with magical delight from your hotel Carlyle window as flurries of snow start to blanket the city like the ultimate Macy’s day window display treat for mother nature to play a leading role in decorating”, isn’t making you question the importance of planning a magical date night wedding anniversary to celebrate the day, you became official life time partners in love, for better or worse either.

Still, deciding to visit the local pizzeria Frank’s in our nearby, adorably quaint hamlet town of Croton Falls, enveloped by ponds flush with trout, windy, hilly roads and high end, open aired horse stables for the finest equestrian horses the world has to offer with your pitch perfect 9 year old daughter who just schooled you on why the captain of the Titanic’s ego, was the main reason why James Cameron got his king of the universe Oscar, after getting divorced from Linda Hamilton, when he chose to dick around with some CGI some more instead of her ripping off his man skin in the sack, is what dream dates are made of.

All of a sudden, mama was out of the house with baby Samuel. Arthur was actually in school for a change in a post woke Covid crazed universe gone wild and I found myself at our kitchen table with my Bashert daughter, my new and improved female twin of the most special glowed order at noon and I proposed, “Why don’t we have a lunch date together and pick it up from Franks in town, Matilda.” Matilda says, “Great idea daddy, let’s leave now though, because my next Google classroom call is at 1240 and I know how you can do more talking than eating once you get your yak pipes warmed up.” So, we take an idyllic stroll to our local village in Croton Falls, which is a 2 minute walk max, where the old school post office in town, is where they actually shot It’s a Wonderful Life and I was so at one with my daughter during this bonding, talky stroll to even get angry over the crashing realization, we’d never gone on a daddy daughter day date to town since the era of using children as politicized pawns since terms such as remote learning went viral after the Covid virus made in China began.

Again, we didn’t have a planned lunch order at all. My daughter spotted a fresh, bright red, wrinkle free Grandma slice, begging to be devoured. Now normally, we’d order a dozen garlic nots, if her 2 brothers were partaking but it was just us 2 so the standard order of 6 bomb, roasted garlic, never burnt, always crispy on the outside and fresh within, was another no-brainer order add on especially knowing Franks’ side of marinara is always well flavored and chunky, herb flavored enough to take this standard adolescent side pizza delivery item so much higher. Do It All Dad over here couldn’t resist not ordering their consistently delicious, never too greasy, amazing hero bread shrouded, just the right amount of what tastes like homemade mozzarella on top, eggplant parm hero, to make you love embracing the Kosheterarian Diet come rain or shine. I still miss my cherished cheesesteaks of yesteryear, since embracing the Koshertarian Diet but sharing super fresh, scrumptious, never too heavy eggplant parm heroes with my daughter over daddy daughter date day, makes those cheese wiz laced, sautéed onions specked cheese steaks from Philly transplants in NY such as Tony Luke’s become a far flung distant, wasn’t as great as I remember longing for it memory, especially when you’re daughter assumes the lead and doesn’t hesitate to ask daddy for another bite of his egg parm hero. Especially after Daddy adds some salty fresh specs of pecorino from the fridge on top to make this eggplant parm hero worshiped in Queens, the original location of Frank’s Pizzeria, sing with such big deal specialness, you better recognize possibility.

I never planned on having my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth either, because I never mastered the pump fake, yet every day, she proves to me why the best things in life are never planned but given through the most high for never giving up on doing you all the way.

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

Gender Fluid Pink Ziti

If identifying myself as Gender Fluid will increase my chances of getting a job interview for a paid remote writer position, then I have no problem filling out that hole. Why not write myself a starring part in a modern update remake of Tootsie, except instead of an out of work actor dressing up like a woman to get work, I’ll play a Gender Fluid blogger who dresses up like Bobby Doll from Poison for Zoom calls based on his make up complexion on the record cover Look What The Cat Dragged In? I’ve also been a stay at home dad and our in-house gourmand chef for my 3 kids much longer than your typical paid time off maternity period. So I’m more than accustomed to my nurse wife treating me like her gimpy, bitchy underling for sometime actually, the way weapons maestro maker Destro would constantly belittle Cobra Commander’s commanding heft or leadership authority of the Crimson Twins, relegating them to nothing more than, “Overrated, Trust Fund Terrorist Babies.”

Stay At Home Dads, regardless if they more than 800 followers on their WordPress blog or not, are more than used to subduing their urge to dominate a conversation and play the role of submissive puss next time the subject of whether stay at home mom’s should get paid because they’re not fake feminists who suffer from severe egotism as much either.

So now for the million dollar question, how you can make baked ziti at home for your kids while in the process of making it feel more manly about doing it? Easy, make gender fluid pink ziti. Wear out the pseudo feminent label on your rolled up button Ted Baker sleeve or live the remainder of your life scared of being outed as a shishy bitch enricher. Also, get extra flamboyant with your presentation and announce to the world in a loud and proud fashion, ” Blanket your Baked Ziti with herbed Rosemary bitches. It’s only Alice Water’s favorite herb, which she told Bill Maher on Real Time once. Oh, that’s right, only gay guys know the names of brand name female chefs, my bad.”

Using an excessive preponderance of over the top spreading of ricotta in your gender fluid pink ziti, doesn’t make the preparation of making this old school Italian classic, make you feel anymore rough and tumble manly, that’s for sure. I’d also refrain from considering the subbing the use of cream to add that pinkish, alluring glow, in favor of using Coconut Milk, if sticking with the Koshertarian Diet to please God isn’t a predominant consideration if you decided to throw meh diced up chicken bits of protein in there either.

Frying up some peeled off bits of garlic, diced fine bits of shallot in butter and virgin, cold pressed olive oil, interspersed with cut off specs of rosemary dust before plopping the pre-made Rao’s marinara sauce, doesn’t make you feel like Rocky pulling Pauli in a sled during his training sequence in Rocky 4 either.

Using locally sourced pecorino from Yonkers, DMX’s hometown, adds some salty, hardcore edge to your overall gender fluid baked ziti presentation but not nearly as much as you’d think. It’s getting pretty hot pink in here, I thought while revealing my gender fluid pink ziti, which my family inhaled with scrumptious glee. So if making delectable pink gender fluid ziti, makes it hellish hot up in here, so be it. The endless sporadic Mmmms, were worth losing whatever masculine edge I have left.

Michael Kornbluth

Roasting Fat Vegetarians

Why are fat vegetarians so pathetic? Is it their dumpy physique, droopy eyes or inflated sense of self-worth, because they’re still pastier than a formula baby under house arrest during Covid? Does a meat free diet, make your complexion look a tad less oily? Yes, but fat vegetarians not so much, knowing, their added layers of blubber weigh down any glow filled, glint to their step.

But how do fat vegetarians get so fat exactly?  It isn’t from Turkey meatballs served on toothpicks from Mark Wahlberg’s personal chef.  So, what’s preventing good intentioned vegetarians from feeling better about their humane promoting diets, despite it making their pale icky, round faces look like murky, greyish, shaved Elephant balls?  From personal experience, double IPA’s inhaled in rapid succession doesn’t help, nor does frying up Beyond Meat burgers in butter whenever you want, because you’re taking a break from drinking double IPA’s during the work week again. Also, the overreliance of cheese in your average fat vegetarian’s diet stems from the lack of eating options at the bar, which is limited to Jalapeno Poppers, French Fries and French Onion Soup. So chances are, you’ll be inhaling an eggplant roll and a Grandma slice from your local pizzeria far after 10pm, which is a big no, no, in Ryan Reynold’s book, according to Men’s Journal favorite pinup to paste inside your gym locker year after year. An eggplant roll alone is 456 calories, which eaten after 10, slows your metabolism to a screeching halt, wiping out your combined calorie loss from your past 2 days on the Peloton, which isn’t getting your body into tip top, Woody Harrelson shape on the set of Natural Born Killers either. Did you know Cheddar Cheese possess 7 times more fat content than a bite of chicken breast? Ryan Seacrest’s daily diet of egg whites, chicken breast wraps isn’t so easy to disparage with such rock solid, self-righteous, all knowing glee so much anymore, is it? That’s a humungous reason why fat vegetarians should consider giving The Koshertarian Diet a chance.

Understand, most vegetarians are vegetarians for humanity purposes, even more so than the healthier heart aspect, because those same vegetarians have zero problem taking more hits from their old school glass bong, singing, “Got to have Kaya now, because tripping on acid in a Covid masks outside will make me feel like I’m trapped the middle of a Biological war for my soul man. So, The Koshertarian Diet should appeal to the fat vegetarian within us all, because all Kosher meat is sliced with a Chalaf knife, designed to kill Ben and Jerry’s cows on spot with one seamless motion, by cutting through their jugular veins, which eliminates any painful, drawn out death. Just think the opposite of Saw 1 through 7.  Also, the Kosheterain Diet forces vegetarians to get creative without the use of the cheese, involving Kosher chicken breast meals, which forbid the mixing of dairy and meat such as the time I made a cheese-less Quesadilla with diced up chicken breast cooked on the grill, later sautéed in high grade, cold pressed, extra virgin olive oil, always the best, on top of caramelized, sweet red peppers and red onion, in addition to peeled slices of garlic, and generous sprinklings of Kosher salt, and fresh ground peppercorns for extra peppy pop. After one bite of this reimagined Chicken Quesadilla, the urge to drop your customary, shredded mounds of spicy pepper jack cheese on the top of the diced up chicken breast between the fried-up flour tortillas dissipates faster than Dominion employee profile pages on LinkedIn after Sidney Powell released the Kraken after election night. Another night, I used the same batch of leftover chicken breast chicken, diced up some more, and made a pesto out of basil, pecans, garlic, Kosher salt and olive oil, mixed with a scrumptious pappardelle pasta  while topping it with some thinly sliced, cherry tomatoes on top, for some needed color and cooler texture contrast to transform this dish into some big time summer loving, having a blast, with the entire house to myself, with my wife and 3 kids in Delaware for Baba Camp for a pleasant change of pace.  Who needs meat lasagna, when you can follow Martha Stewart’s lead and perfect your version of Mexican Lasagna without having to get too carried with the cheese distribution plopage in the process? Especially, when you use baked corn tortillas as the base while stacking a couple of layers of sautéed black beans, red onions and Jalapeno peppers, with your homemade cherry tomato based salsa, encasing the entire dish with a wall of impenetrable, impossible to resist, Cilantro specked flavor, making it hard for you to separate from your plate if La Bamba is on HBO without the use of on demand cloud technology for old time’s sake.  Plus, child separation is overrated, because if Coco never got separated from his parents, he never would’ve became a miniature Los Lobos in the making. I know, making fun of a cartoon character storyline is worse than Carlos Santana claiming President Trump has “dark energy”, despite Hillary being the best-selling voodoo doll in Hatti year after year. Plus, President Trump doesn’t need to take Acid to see who’s full of shit Carlos.

So, what’s my overriding take away message, fat vegetarians, besides turning off every lit agent imaginable who believe Hiding Biden won fair and square?  Simple, eat more Kosher chicken breast-based meals and give The Koshertarian Diet a chance.  Nothing is worse than being a fat vegetarian, besides being a fat cokehead, who lacks total self-awareness or shame, by blaming their constant stomach pains on Landa Lakes.

Michael Kornbluth

A Pagan Spirited Christmas

Growing up, I’d try to sell my Dad on allowing my mom to get a Christmas Tree and say,” Mom converted to Judaism to kick Jesus to the curb and marry into your putzy DNA dad. The least you can do is let her get a Christmas Tree already, bigger than the cobweb covered Bonsai tree relegated to the corner of our side patio last year Dad.” Dad says, “Jews don’t buy Christmas trees, unless the plan is to convert one into a Tree House and flip it for a profit.” Dad adds, “Son, when Christians look at a Christmas Tree, they see a Christmas Tree. When Jews look at a Christmas Tree, they see a camouflaged cross.”

One year for Christmas Eve, my wife had to work that evening, so we didn’t visit her folks for Christmas that year. So, I missed out on receiving the same set of black socks from my mother-in-law because the cost of postage cost more than the socks themselves. So much for postponing laundry for another week.

Another year for Christmas in Delaware, whose state slogan should be, “Your Nazi Gold Is Safe With Us, the only gift my daughter received from her Christian grandparents was a plastic, toy chest with no toys in it. I calmed my daughter and said, “Don’t worry Matilda, when we get back home to New York, will fill it with your eight thousand Hanukkah gifts.”

I wrote a short story for Hanukkah called Gimmel Be Good about the kid who invented the Dreidel game to distract the Romans from their banned Torah studies by making it a gambling game which used fake news gold Gelt. So, if a Roman Officer crashed your home to see if any forbidden circumcision was being performed to remove the future head buried into a floppy Sleeping Bag look, The Roman officer would think, “Oh, another degenerate Jew with a gambling problem, nothing to see here, play on.”

At Whole Foods, I got an Albert Einstein ornament decoration for our Christmas Tree, which I bought because it’s a solid anti-semitic qualifier. Especially, knowing, how Einstein played a huge role in building the Atom Bomb, not some Nazi tweaked on Crystal Meth, giving heil Hitler shout outs to a Swastika Flag, which looks like 2 gay stick figures giving each other a 69 on a Seesaw.

My wife got tense when I brought home the Albert Einstein ornament. She said, “Decorate your own tree.” I said, “I thought it was our in-house non-denominational tree. Because you bought a white Guido tree like the one Ray Liotta brings home for Karen in Goodfellas after he starts selling cocaine behind Paulie’s Back. So the tree you got doesn’t count as the traditional, Jesus loves you no matter what Christmas tree, even if your dad was the former head of Planned Parenthood like Bill Gate’s baby shower crashing Dad was. Wife says, “But the Christmas Tree is a pagan symbol.” I say, “But I’m trying to raise our kids in a Jewish household, not on the set of the Slayer video, Rain On More Blood.”  Plus, true believing Jews don’t bend over backwards to worship idols like Hiding Biden while giving God the stiff arm, talk to the hand treatment, or else the Maccabees would’ve never deliverthed the smackdown on the Syrians who tried to force my people to eat one too many ham and cheese sandwiches for our tastes. But Jews are the pushy, demanding ones, not the more inclusive, all loving Christians of yesteryear, and I’ll take the crusades 1 through 9 Alex.  Fine, I’m being a paranoid Jew, the Christmas Tree isn’t a camouflaged Cross, it’s just another pagan symbol rip off. So, let’s up the ante and I’ll pile all my Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath records to the ceiling and call it a tree, in the spirit of stacking pagan symbols on top of each other. I’ll even drape the bottom of my dark metal tree with a Ouija board signed by Jimmy Page from Ebay, as a combined big kahuna Hanukkah gift for all 3 kids, in case our little ones get burnt out on playing dreidel to Adam Sandler’s Chanukah song on Vinyl, one too many times, even with the new added verse, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.”

Michael Kornbluth  

Kosher Klaus Sushi

Once upon a time there was a Kosher sushi chef prodigy Art Show USA who opened Kosher Klaus Sushi on Christmas Eve in 1994 before the Internet became mainstream and Asian elite Yelpers went hog wild.  Kosher Klaus Sushi was located in the heart of Scarsdale Village, which earned immediate rave reviews in the Scarsdale Inquirer from local food critic Debbie Wasserman, who described Art Show’s mind blowing specialty roll creations as “Orgasmic before they reach the back of your throat good.”  What made Art Show unique outside of his unmatched imaginative heft and juggling sushi knife work at the bar were his God given star powered looks, which commanded legions of groupie Yentas to schlep from the far reaches of Long Island to wait on line in the dead of winter to just catch a glance of the new age pretty boy bad ass Sushi Chef through the window, cranking out one swoon worthy, inhalatory Sushi specialty roll after the next, like his signature one, Living On The Edgemont Edge, which had smoked salmon, Cream Cheese, capers and caramelized shallots throughout to inject an extra special loaded lift.   

Every day, Art Show USA would sharpen his Sushi Knives together made from Israeli steel used in bullet proof vests made for their special force’s unit Mossad, which would woo, with sparkly, dazzling delight as patrons at the Kosher Klaus Sushi Bar gave impromptu standing ovations throughout.  Art Show USA was a 6 foot 4, spikey blond haired, blue eyed, lean, mean, Sushi slicing machine, who made Tom Cruise from the movie Cocktail look like a stumpy, homely hobbit hipster hack, in comparison, regardless if he kept his rolled up sleave button shirt, tucked in or not.   But one day, a bunch of rowdy Irish wiggers, entered Kosher Klaus Sushi to track down a hot yenta breath from Syosset, Long Island Rachel Weinstein, who rocked swinging, booby beauties, 36 D’s to be exact, who was also a solid 5 foot 9, making her mountable from behind standing up, assuming you weren’t a stumpy Irishman, unlucky in the height department.   Rachel was a full lipped, Sephardic Persian tan busty beauty, even Roger Waters from Pink Floyd would pulverize her fetching snatch until he was comfortably numb.  The leader of the wigger Irish pack was Liam O’Reilly who sported a Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus, which scared off most, but not Art Show USA. Art Show USA was a black belt in Judo by the time he was 13 for his Bar Mitzvah. For Art Show’s Bar Mitzvah Party, he played Siamese Dream by the Smashing Pumpkins on the guitar with his feet and teeth.  So Art Show USA was never sweating the prospect of losing a fight or a girl to an Irish wigger moron from Long Island, who thought stamping a permanent Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus was a bright idea, regardless if it ensured him a truck driver job for Killan’s Red or not.

Liam and his crew of Irish wiggers came down from Long Island to start a fight with Art Show USA because they attended the same high school as Rachel Weinstein and only had eyes for inhaling her whole. Plus, they weren’t enthralled with the Rachel wearing an underground, circulated hoodie with a picture of Art Show USA on it, sporting an American flag bandana and star of David gold necklace around his neck, showcasing well earned, non-banking job related bling.  

Liam cuts the line with his Irish wigger posse and bursts into Kosher Klaus Sushi like Mark Wahlberg on the set of SNL after Andy Samberg did a sketch about Marky Mark talking to farm animals. Liam bum-rushes the sushi bar and says, “Hey, faggot. I’ll kick your ass right now, to show all your groupies what a pretty boy faggot, gay pussy bitch you are in real life.” Art Show ignores Liam’s Alpha Dog attack. Liam jumps over the sushi bar to strike. Art Show does a look away kick to middle of his forehead, which sends Liam flying into the ceiling fan, which knocks him out senseless. Art Show USA says, “Alexa, play Jump Around by House of Pain.” Kosher Klaus Sushi erupts into instantaneous jubilee, Jewish pride pounces the air, inspiring Rachel Weinstein to flash her tits at Art Show USA as the entire restaurant throws their gold necklaces with Stars of David’s on it in her general direction, in honor of all those sweet, harmless Jewish boys who were never taught to defend themselves like the Hebrew Hammer, Bugsy Siegal or Art Show USA.

The End

Michael Kornbluth