Pause Daddy

“Welcome to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast: What Gen X Dads understand; Dad-friendly entertainment for you and me. I’m your host, Michael Kornbluth.

            Controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again. My three fuss-free kids (most of the time) are living proof of this.

            I’ve been a Stay-At-Home Comedian on and off for a decade, now, although my dad is more old-school and prefers the expression ‘sheltered bum.’ Whenever I’m out with my three kids without their mommy, I hear, “You’ve got your hands full.”             I’ll say, “If any of my books ever become bestsellers and my wife agrees to an open marriage with Susan Sarandon, then my hands will be full.”

            I stopped smoking weed until I thought my daughter was asleep, already, because I felt like a moron answering her super-deep questions about the sticky icky stuff after I thought she was asleep.   She’d ask, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God?”

            I said, “God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.”

            Daughter says, “Real convincing, Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at age four.”

            Michael Kornbluth, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and proud father of the three most hilariously sweet, snuggle-shine bundles of sunshine known to mankind, adds, “Today, on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, we have a guest. Which is a rare occasion since the launch of my podcast four years ago, in my pursuit to become the paid star voice behind remote work revolution, before China could hog up all the credit for forcing corporate America to adjust to a remote work way of life to please our commie-controlled corporate masters till our last dying breath.

            “During my pilot episode, I interviewed a UX designer who worked for Apple. I know you’re bored out of your mind already (unless he was Steve Jobs, pumped for the casual grandma-jeans look for all it was worth). My standup performer instinct constantly interjected the moment I sensed my guest lose the audience. This happened automatically, whenever I allowed him to drone out another colorless, brain-reaching, screeching halt reply, so I swore off ever doing another interview on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast ever again.

            “Especially knowing that Do It All Dads who want to work from home based on free will alone, in the impassioned pursuit to make their kids the center of the universe instead of the reverse, don’t grow on freaking Bonsai trees, either.

            “But I decided to make an exception for our, guest Richard Lankfear from Plano, Texas, who is a retired drug counselor and the author of a new book called Addiction, a mind-expanding warning of drug abuse symptoms guide so parents can see if their kids are a frantic manifestation of their crazy hick degenerate gene, with zero concept of moderation in real time or not.

            “Raising drug-free children is important to me because being a druggy dependent is the opposite of feeling free. (Cream lives; holla thank you very much.)

             How can our kids get excited about the pursuit of happiness at home or at school if they are getting high off their loved ones, or from a job well done that isn’t enough (at least until their mid-twenties)?

            “Richard enacts tremendous good from his lifetime service as a drug counselor by making a drug abuse warning guide for parents today who are unaware of what constitutes drug-forming behavior under their allegedly emotionally-present watch.

            “The chilling, sobering stats in the book, such as fentanyl being 100 times more powerful than morphine, speak for themselves, and need to be illuminated with unflinching detail, knowing that either blissful ignorance, dismissive sugarcoating, or mere whitewashing of the opioid epidemic throughout the US as being a mere “white trash ” problem can become the worst fatal mistake a parent today can make.

            “This is especially true knowing how Chinese-made fentanyl, snuck in through our Mexican border, has killed more crackers in this country than Lena Dunham kicking it with Taylor Swift on Instagram.

            “The recurring theme in Richard’s book The Addicted Child is parents becoming reactive firefighters multiple rehab stints later, versus the ideal of becoming proactive troubleshooters before such residual damage has been done, which some families never truly recover from.

            “This book will help more families spot drug habit-forming warning signs by offering actionable insight to prevent their kids from facing such a life-crippling fate. More importantly, the vast breakdown of all types of drug abuse included in the book will give parents the confidence and sense of surging urgency to have the “drugs will kill your brain cells” talk with their kids and their still-developing minds, before those rapidly-deepening drug-forming habits become that much harder to break.”

            Richard, on the side of the Skype podcast interview, is red and flustered in the face, flabbergasted over how the Do It All Dad Year Podcast has made zero effort to give his guest a smidgen of breathing room to promote his book seven minutes into the broadcast, already.

            If only had Richard known of Do It All Dad’s code work trick which his three kids used whenever he went on one of his impassioned rants in one seamless endless breath, with zero auditory relief in sight as his kids long forgot what cool interesting idea, or question, they were to express!         It which was this: “Pause Daddy.” As they pointed an imaginary remote directly at him, they’d say, “Pause Daddy” with warm-hearted smiling-stretchy cheer because it was funny and it actually shut their dad the fuck up for change, whether he was on Adderall or off. 

            Stay At Home Comedian rolls on, adding, “Let’s focus on our guest, now, Richard, who didn’t spend any quality time emoting about the all-star book review I just read for you on Amazon about his book The Addicted Child (which was more than generous, considering what a snooze the book was, as a whole).

            “So, Richard, I just read another book by Lou Gramm, the former leader/signer/howler legend from Foreigner who’s known for co-writing and belting out endless classic rock staple hits such as ‘Juke Box Hero’, ‘Double Vision’, and ‘Long, Long, Long Way From Home’ (being my personal favorites among the pack).

            “In his highly readable book, in comparison to yours, he talks about getting sober and the growing frustration of not even being able to partake in lighting a doobie after killing at freaking Solider Field, on the tour party bus soon afterwards, when everybody else from the band is now in their early forties (they still are).

            “Like the roadie guy says in the movie Rockstar with Mark Wahlberg, “Don’t be half-ass about it. Live out the rock star dream for those who can’t. Or something close to that. 

            “Also, there’s a standup comedian who’s no longer with us; the late great Greg Geraldo, who said that drug use should be encouraged when in your forties more so than your twenties; especially when you learn, during a parent teacher conference, “That your son is a half a ‘tard.”

            “So, my question for Richard is, “What’s an acceptable form of addiction in your book?”    Richard says, “I wish I had a stage light to shine on you a thousand runon sentences ago.”             The Do It All Dad Year Podcast host fires back with, “So, all the Irish thugs who used to beat up nice Jewish kids in the Bronx, calling them Christ Killers and blah, blah…are they what you’d call a special kid of drunk prick later in life, or do you think the concept of a so-called happy drunk doesn’t apply to any Irish alcoholics because their rosy noses give the impression they’re really just more superficially cheery on the surface than the rest?

            “And if the Irish are the best drunk poets, then whatever happened to the Irish Beastie Boys in the Jump Around video?

            “Don’t get me wrong; I don’t thinking being a drunk prick is a strictly an Irish disease. For me, I think a fellow member of my tribe, Michel Rappaport, still sounds like he’s auditioning for the role of Wigger Number Three asshole In the Jump Around video.”

              Richard says, “Are you going to ask any of the questions I gave you?”

            The Do It All Dad Year Podcast Host Michael replies, “Why are parents so afraid to have honest conversations about drugs through their record collections with their kids, Richard? What makes these parents so apprehensive as to point out the dangers of doing shitty Chinese-made coke with Hunter Biden, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall?

            “Do you feel that sketchy degenerate behavior is born, enabled, or all the above?

            “In the movie Requiem for a Dream, Jared Leto is missing a freaking arm at the end, which is a powerful cautionary message to nail home, on par with reading your kids Allen Ginsburg’s Howl the next time they claim to not scare easily. It describes all the beautiful angels of the light’s mind ravaged by drugs, reducing them to eating stray cats throughout the streets of San Francisco.

            “Why didn’t you share such hardcore scare tactics tips in your book, for parents to use on their kids, so they wouldn’t have to spend a mini-ortune, and take out a new home equity loan on the house to afford your overrated counseling services?”

            Now all of Michael’s three kids come bursting in the room to give their dear Dada a hug after coming back from school, anxious to tell him about their day. In unison, they all point an imaginary remote at their Stay-At-Home Comedian Dad and say, “Pause Daddy.”

            Richard throws up his hands in defeated disgust on the Skype window screen and yells, “That’s it! ‘Pause Daddy’ are the magic words to shut this loudmouth, obnoxious Jew up, already.”   Stay At Home Comedian Dad replies, “When your opinions are deemed worthy enough to interrupt my killer flow, I’ll let you know, jerkoff.            “Never forget controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again. My three fuss-free kids, 95 percent of the time, living proof of it.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Headless Headhunter

Once upon a time, there was a journeyman headhunter, Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, who wasn’t much of a rainmaker. He was more of a trickler. He placed copywriters with major ad agencies along Madison Avenue with middling success, only for Don Draper to qualify these candidates even further if they got the past the initial phone screen with zero bullshit, cold-as-ice gentile inquiries such as, “Tell me, again, why you haven’t been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot, because your portfolio shows less promise than Jimmy Carter’s solar panel-powered weed plant in the White House’s new greenhouse garden.”

            It was 1976. Boston broke big with ‘More Than A Feeling’, and Peter Frampton jammed with Jimi Hendrix’s trippy, metal-type finesse on Frampton Comes Alive in your daughter, again, (assuming she looks like a less-big-backed Brooke Shields, with eyebrows that don’t take up her entire face, either).  

            Zevon was married only a year, yet his relationship with Mellissa wasn’t filling him with ‘She’s The One’ crooning vibes anymore, especially since blowing her hubby became a once in a lifetime event, like Haley’s Comet or Joe Namath seeking a shrink for depression, or Reggie Jackson sweating the dry-cleaning bill for his mink coat (assuming that George Steinbrenner refused to pay for it out of sheer winning, dependent spite alone).

            Every day, Michael would cold call creative directors in Manhattan to get them interested in copywriters who grew tired of working as freelance writers for Esquire because Norman Mailer had a monopoly on all the good Ali articles—or they grew tired of more short story rejection letters from the New Yorker, who sucked off John Updike’s short stories because he made their editors come across as less boring and annoying than usual. (If only Gore Vidal’s personality and erudite edge could’ve rubbed off on John Updike through sheer osmosis).

            But, one day, Zevon was running late for work after one too many bourbons at a strip club in Times Square called Honeysuckle Divines. He lit a cigarette on the subway path, totally oblivious to his surroundings, and before he knew it, a Metro cop smacked the cigarette out of his mouth with such force, he accidentally knocked him over and down to the subway track before the Lex line knocked his head right off from his perpetually tense, growl-heavy internalized neck.

            The problem is, The Headless Headhunter was really looking forward to his best friend Ari’s bachelor party at Honeysuckle Divine’s in Times Square the following night, which is why he was there in the first place, to scout some local stripper talent he could recruit to talk his best friend out of marrying his finance, knowing he could do better and was settling for the meh new thing.  

            More importantly, The Headless Headhunter knew what a sigh-heavy, living hell his life had descended into once he allowed his parents to push life-ruining decisions on his behalf, such as who to marry, what job to take, and when to make up with his younger brother again, thereby losing all enviable sense of righteous, self-assured, pissed-off rage (whenever he felt duly entitled to feel that way without any guilt-imbibed, parental interference to make him second guess his innermost guttural instincts again and again.

            For example, Zevon was a struggling recruiter who normally didn’t hit his monthly quota and was always coming from behind, so he didn’t have enough money to buy his future wife an engagement ring, and only got one after his mom pressured him to do so, assuring her he could pay her back after the wedding. This felt more forced for him than the time he’d tried taking it up the ass with a strap-on from his girlfriend (later, wife), only for him to question whether something extra was missing from this relationship, if this added stimulation was necessary for him to get excited about going through the motion of pulverizing her slippery snatch on her birthday again.

            Now the bachelor party is in motion, yet Ari isn’t in the most festive mood, since his best friend Zevon (now known as The Headless Headhunter) was just decapitated by New York’s closest version of a bullet train. The Headless Headhunter is in the bathroom but doesn’t know how he ended up there; and in front of the mirror, he realizes he has no head as he overhears some dudes in the nearby bathroom stall talk about seeing Kiss at MSG as ‘King Of Nighttime World’ blares in the background.

            One of the Kiss fans in the bathroom stall whips out some coke and says, “Dude, you got to take off your Gene mask if you want to do some of this blow.” The guy with the Gene mask on flings it over the bathroom stall, landing it smack in the middle of the sink, which The Headless Headhunter grabs with zero hesitation and throws over his headless head to see if sticks (and it does).  

            The Headless Headhunter bolts from the bathroom and bumps into a stripper with tits which are so humungous, they almost knock him on his ass from their sheer force of jiggly might alone.    Stripper says, “Watch where you’re going, Gene. I thought you had a show at MSG tonight. Is it true, what they say about your tongue?”

            The Headless Headhunter decides to play along in his Gene Simmons character and says, “Yes, I can tongue my own balls if I were into that sort of thing, but I’m only into licking up Playmates and groupies who I can bang standing up, with my chosen people blessed, circumcised love gun.

            “To blast with gunky-filled fun all night and every day, too, is pushing it.”

            Stripper says, “I’m only working tonight, for a bachelor party. It’s normally my night off. I had to scalp my tickets to see your band at the Garden tonight, Gene. Can I call you Gene?”

            The Headless Headhunter says, “Let’s stick to Love Gun Master, for now. But do me a favor—give the bachelor Ari more than a lap dance. Give him every reason why getting married to his fiancé is the worst idea than Neil Young starting shit with Lynyrd Skynyrd.

            “She wants him to abandon his dreams of becoming the Jewish Bob Newhart, and he’s blessed with the funny Jew bone, too. Also, she’s already moaning about having to constantly walk on eggshells around him, acting as if she’s the helpless Olympic athlete during the Iran hostage crisis.

            “His finance is a gentile, too, so there’s no way she’s going be Kosher with raising their kids Jewish, either (which he’ll bang out by mistake because he got stoned again to Lenny Bruce records, forgetting to ask her if she were on the pill).

            “Plus, I met his future English mother-in-law, and she’s less original than a Kiss cover band with a Gene Simmons character, who Crazy Glued on a prosthetic tongue because he thought it was a bright idea. He was on too much acid, one night, despite me never doing any drugs, ever.

            “Last, his fiancé has zero tits, which offers Ari zero sustained stiffage one year into the relationship, already. I just hate the idea of Ari losing his edge to become another ordinary sales rep selling pharmaceuticals for a living because his future CFO father-in-law can make a phone call at Johnson and Johnson on his behalf.”

            The stripper says, “I’ll ride his joystick off for you, no problem, Love Gun Master. By the time I’m done with this fiancé, he’ll be drained dry ’till Yom Kippur.”

             The Headless Headhunter says, “That’s funny. Only through you can I finally call myself a rainmaker.”

Michael Kornbluth

Kosher Meat Rules

New Turn-On: Any woman without a mask on in NY state. I don’t care if she’s a tad on the heavy side either. I smiled at this woman at the grocery store with a nose earing without a mask on and it turned on me immensely. When she smiled back, my loins lit up with resurgent joy, wanting to implant them inside her on the spot to return the favor. Later, I got in her check-out line and was beyond tempted to mount her from behind and bury man meat behind her jiggly bum lobes and say, “You know kosher meat rules? Let me prove it to you. We’re upstanding chosen perfectionists for a reason babe. Now, let’s tear those ass cheeks apart like a fresh piece of challah from Zarro’s.”

Today, surging interest in wanting to contaminate another mask-less woman with my super spreader blaster reached new stiffening heights at the local farm Harvest Moon after picking up some fresh farm eggs this morning as I thought, “I wouldn’t take long to spew into her snuggle shine snatch. I know who I’m thinking about tonight, when I resume round 2 with the wife tonight. Beautiful wet lips, tall statuesque frame, medium plumpage on top, huge beamish smile that could suck the fake news hate speech and misinformation about my stately schlong in a NY Minute. Who cares if I have to wear a condom later? She’s sexy enough to blast a flood filled load with by dry humping her with jeans on.

Morning After Pill Pitch: Hey babe, can you buy some morning after pills that have been amassing dust on Meghan Mccain’s dresser drawer since 85 on Ebay? I released a liberal size load in blondie last night, but nothing crazy, something more on par with the incoming Freshman class of Kenyon college. Still, pick up a morning after pill, because I don’t want my kid’s 1st image being daddy in a mask like a fake news surgeon with laughable SAT scores for a 50 percent Heeb despite taking the SAT untimed no less. By the time I finished by MATH section alone, my friends already declared their majors Sophomore year in college at Washington University. But seriously babe, who wants our 4th kid to give us grief for never aborting her when you had the chance? Daughter says, “Mom, why would you think I’d be cool with wearing a mask from Pre-K through college while every foaming Anti-Semite on campus gets their panties in a bunch for Israel still not being pushover putzy despite the UN still trying to push otherwise? Plus, according to New York State’s extra loose law, you had 9 months to terminate your unplanned parenthood accident otherwise.”

It’s hard to act excited for your friends deciding to have kids now. What’s the best thing for these kids to look forward to besides Alex Jones becoming president of the United States under the new burning mask party in my wildest edible powered dreams? Alex Jones hires Joe Rogan as his VP. Putin invites Rogan to watch him train for the Judo Olympics in Moscow. As Secretary of State, Dana White raises money for Israel’s new Iron Dome system through a pay-per-view event match between Jared Kushner and the prime minister of Canada, Justin Trudeau, winner takes all of Canada, loser has to sniff Bull Hurley’s armpits from Over The Top till their last dying breath, despite that being considered a win for win for Trudeau after all, assuming, Obama gets to watch from Gitmo after former CIA chief, converted Muslim John Brennan gets to sniff his old pair of sandy, prayer sandles from Martha’s Vineyard for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

What do John Stewart, Pete Davidson and Ben Stiller have to feel good about at Knicks games these days? One, gave us Trevor Noah who nobody loves. Comedy Central executives felt the same way when they decided to renew his contract for the foreseeable future. Pete Davidson gets to get lost in Kim Kardashian’s puss 4 pushed out kids later, Kayne West included. I’m not calling Kayne immature, but losing Kayne to Pete Davidson, the boy toy rebound king of Staten Island is a weak look. I wouldn’t say Kayne is bound to suicide like Owen Wilson after Kate Hudson dumped him for Dax Sheppard but he’s not boasting about his billion dollar-designer sneaker empire to Dave Chapelle with the same big pimping, in vogue strut of yesteryear before he started wearing those freakish Mike Myers masks post COVID is all I’m saying B. Also, didn’t Ben Stiller sell his soul to pimp for Governor Cuomo while gushing about his handsome mug despite looking like The Thing and Mama Fratelli from the Goonies had a baby? Don’t act like you wrote Zoolander or Tropic Thunder all by yourself either Stiller. But at least you don’t look as wormy, smarmy as Noah Baumbach and Jessie Eisenberg’s cross-pollinated baby come to life out of Joni Mitchell’s fake news good snatch, releasing more pretentious, self-righteous airs of superiority, blowing in the wind.

Michael Kornbluth

The Spirit of Sal Balsamo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal daddy, deal.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Owner Of a Heavy Height

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Busted Beauty

Busted Beauty, otherwise known as Becca Kornbluth, was in no singing mood on Saint Patrick’s Day, especially during the chanting portion of her Bat Mitzvah without a Torah Scroll to hide her nose behind, which she inherited from her mom’s black Irish side. Still, Becca wasn’t too green with envy on her 13th birthday compared to Ivanka Trump’s daughter, who most likely chanted her Haftorah portion in Mandarin. In fact, Becca was feeling a tad luckier than most since she struck up a platonic relationship with her best and only real friend, Joshua Prize, who turned her on to Phil Lynott’s soul man and a half’s stylings as the lead bassist and head front man singer songwriter behind Thin Lizzy, who actually looked black Irish from head to toe in real life, sporting the super-size, fly guy 70’s afro to match.  Getting Becca into the Thin Lizzy wasn’t the easiest sell despite Phil Lynott being considered Dublin’s answer to the biracial Bruce Springsteen of his day because she associated everything Irish with her busted looking nose with a bump on top, that no amount of Irish Spring when applied to it, could smooth her ruptured soul, after the time she was forced to feel excluded because of it during a game of spin the Guiness bottle on Saint Patrick’s Day on her birthday no less, which is the double whammy of in your face shame.

It was one year ago when Becca was forced to hide in the closet at Joshua’s birthday party, who was born on Saint Patric’s Day to, so maybe there was some truth behind there being a thing called luck of the black Irish after all. Normally, Becca didn’t attend many birthday parties, instead spending her free time at home listening to Neil Diamond’s record Hot August Nights while reading Cracked Magazines as her black Irish mom who possessed a piss poor tolerance for even low alcohol lagers like Killian’s Red yelled at her dad, Michael Kornbluth for not “touching” her anymore, which made her feel like the busted, broken beauty inside. But tonight, was different because Joshua Prize was a transfer student from Park Slope, Brooklyn, and not having any friends in this new suburban hamlet otherwise known as Croton Falls, 45 minutes north of New York City, home of the ultimate Sain Patrick Day’s parade, he struck up a friendly conversation with Becca after the teacher announced the classroom birthdays, despite both of them refusing to wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day. Joshua Prize’s excuse was that he didn’t think green was the most flattering color on him. Plus, his Jewish father, who married an Irish lassie also, was beat up by Irish kids non-stop growing up in Brooklyn, who called him a Christ killer ad nauseum, insisting his ancestors 9 degrees separated from Don Rickle’s ancestry family line, were responsible for heckling the Romans into crucifying Jesus to death.  So, sporting green on Saint Patrick’s Day, didn’t make Joshua Prize feel so money mighty on beat up on the Jew day for being associated with alien blood colonizing blood suckers who controlled the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. So, when Joshua Prize was given the opportunity to make an impression when introducing himself to the class, he did. Joshua says, “You’re probably wondering, why am I not wearing green today? A classmate yells, “Because you’re a dirty gay Jew bastard.” Joshua says “I was going to say, Celtics shirts darken my inner light and look too regular drab for my taste, but close enough. Anyway, I’m having a Saint Patrick’s Day Birthday at my parent’s house tonight, which also happens to be my birthday. We dyed the pool green, hired House of Pain to DJ and imported a brick oven pizza hand tiled in Italy that will be serving all the pesto pizza pies you can eat. Party starts at 7, hope to see you all there, especially Becca. She’s an extra loosy goosey live wire one, I can tell.” The entire class laughs with surging derision despite Joshua letting off a winkish smile at Becca from afar while looking directly through her soul which screamed, new love is back in town. 

2 seconds into the party, the class bully Liam O’Reilly insists they play game of spin the bottle, but only if Joshua and Becca hide in the closet, because they refused to wear a shirt that says, “Kiss me I’m Irish.” Becca and Joshua oblige.

Becca hunches over in a rather spacious closet while fighting off hanging minks and leather jackets to get a clearer view of Joshua, whose father Steven Kornbluth was a big time TV development executive in Manhattan for FX who greenlit It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Rescue Me. Finally, Becca fights through the endless jackets and her eyes meet Joshua’s piercing hazel lit eyes. She goes in for a kiss but Joshua backs away from it. Becca says, “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” Joshua says, “I’m just nervous about kissing you Becca because I’ve never kissed a girl before.” Becca says, “That makes 2 of us for now.” Joshua can sense he’ll wreck Becca’s self-esteem for the foreseeable future if he doesn’t try to get into kissing her immediately. Joshua leans in to kiss Beca with his eyes closed and they clank their teeth together, almost shattering them into the smithereens, showcasing 0.0 kissing chemistry between them. Becca says, “So I wasn’t born to be your main squeeze after all? We can still be friends, right?” Joshua says, “Do you want to try jamming this Guiness bottle up my ass to see if I’d like that?  I saw it happen to this girl in a movie once called, I Spit on Your Grave. They both exude a nervous yet hearty laugh, neither of them being able to tell if Joshua wasn’t more half serious than half joking or not.

Now, Becca stands tall over the bema, which is the elevated stage in Synagogue where she performs her speech to commemorate the completion of her Bat Mitzvah and says, “One time a dear friend told me, “Rejection toughens you up for more rejection”, yet I stopped feeling excluded from a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day since Joshua Prize came into my life. All of a sudden, my birthday felt pregnant with feel good possibility again. Now, I no longer wanted to burry my nose in AP chemistry books till science camp to hide my mark of shame. I’ve wanted a nose job for the longest time. Origiinally, it was the only reason I decided to study for my Bat Mitzvah, after my Dad bribed me with Bat Mitzvah money to pay for it.  But I don’t mind my nose anymore, since my friend Joshua gave it a positive spin after a game of Spin The Bottle on our birthdays when we were forced to sit out the game in a closet at his parent’s house amongst ourselves. Joshua said, “Don’t blame your mom for your busted nose, Busted Beauty. Blame your gay closeted dad for getting too drunk to pull out again. Who cares if you inherited your mom’s busted nose or not? Your dad’s the one you should be pissed off at, especially knowing how he wants you to use your own Bat Mitzvah money to pay for corrective nose surgery that was his glaring production oversight in the 1st place. At the same time, you can’t be too mad at pops, because he gave me you. Granted, our kissing chemistry is non-existent. But love was back in town the day we met in chemistry class, and we could always produce a test tube baby together if you’d like. Like the late great Phil Lynott said, “If you’ve got nothing but a sense of humor, you will survive.” And we’ve got each other’s back, no matter what. Who cares if you prefer girls, but not when I dress up like one in a pink wig either?  Pervs stick together. Hey, we just outed ourselves while still stuck in the closet. Regardless, you’ll always be my favorite busted beauty Becca.” And I said, “Joshua, stop being such a drama queen already. Then, we remerge from the closet while the game of spin the bottle resumes among all the party goers who continue to ignore the totality of our collective existence. Then, I go into kiss Joshua on the lips, but he arches his back away from me before cracking his head on the corner of the wall, which required 13 stiches soon after.” So, what’s my takeaway hypothesis ladies and gentlemen? He’s only a fag hag if you marry him. Besides, no busted beauties are perfect.” Billy Wilder lives as a gender fluid comedian, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Comedian Medium

Can too much goodness be a career impediment? My 5-Year-Old Son, Chosen Curls Was Bound to Woo thinks so. He says, “Daddy, your comedy records are too good like Over The Top Disorder, Blast Off Time and Flipper Bird Baby. I say, “So you think Indy records labels I’ve shared links with like the one Kevin Hart owns are intimidated by my over-the-top towering genius 90 records later compared to their miniscule, pathetically weak punchline offerings in return?” Chosen Curls replies, “Your comedy records are too good moron, got it. Maybe, you should make them half good, half suck, so you don’t come across as completely full of yourself if it half sucks. Rocky didn’t win every round against Apollo, remember?”

For the 1st night of Hanukkah, I got my son some old school WWF wrestling action figures including Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Fuji and Superfly Jimmy Snuka yet what provided him the most joy was the Rocky 1 soundtrack on vinyl. The moment the needle hit wax, Chosen Curls otherwise as known as Kung Fu Lightening and Hardcore Hunga Zone began to perform a series of one-armed pushups on the floor because it will “make him tougher.” The way I allow him to hit me in the face when I box him on my knees on our Rocky rug downstairs with his Everlast gloves as a form of flinch freeing treatment, so I don’t remain pushover putzy no more, no more. Aerosmith Rocks lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Growing up, I didn’t back way from any fist fights, but I did refrain from hurling insults whenever they were thrown my way like accusations of me eating my own jiz at the Nurse’s office, after I admitted to touching myself in there prior like a mongoloid moron, which later inspired an opening scene in my TV Pilot pitched to VH1 Classic Heavy Metal High, when my imaginary guiding star Andrew Dice Clay appears in the Nurse’s Office after I become the last member of my class to get into the puberty party. A puff of smoke clears, Dice flashes the bedazzled Dice Rules Leather jacket and starts clapping, before saying, “Congratulations, you finally achieved blastoff jerkoff.” Dice adds, “Jerking off doesn’t make you a man. It’s how you use your balls that matters most in this world kid.”

It’s hard to feel that you’re being super ballsy recording non-stop comedy records at home for 8 months in a row. Still, my wife threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn’t get a real job already and dared to write any more books before I doubled down on my imagination on her dime a bit and wrote The Koshertarian Comedian in addition to Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories. So, I can’t claim how I’m guilty of playing it safe either, especially after releasing comedy record titles such as Funny Enough Fagala, far from straight, I’m not.

But what’s nagging my psyche today on the Comedian Medium podcast, dead writer ghost talk, for you and me, is whether my excessive goodness is being used against me. I want to summon the ghost of William Blake to discuss concepts such as self-sacrifice in contrast to Ayn Rand’s ardent belief in only being able to achieve personal happiness and career fulfillment by not living out the expectations for the sake of others. Charles Bukowski says, “Writers are awful, selfish people, who save the best versions of themselves on the page.” Perhaps, I always viewed my writing as my idealized self, who’s funny, smart, brave, secure, energized, big hearted and borderline poetic as opposed to feeling like a floundering, touchy feely bitch in real life on Adderall or off.  I think most of my rage issues stem from allowing my younger brother, parents and old friends to ruin everything for me again and again. Why do they aggravate me so much? Because they’re not good enough for me anymore, which explains why I seek love from strangers for a living through my books, blogs, comedy records and podcast episodes involving dead writers who provide more varied company that I crave, who don’t pretend to be my biggest fan or loyalist supporter when they can’t even acknowledge a new comedy record posting on LinkedIn to shake up the stagnant, gun-shy boredom in the straight world. Courtney Love lives, Challah. Thank you very much. How can I honestly claim any enviable connection to old friends, a younger brother or parents when not once have they asked how’s the comedy career going over the past 5 years since my lucky number 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born?

Fuck their half ass insincerity. Fuck their glaring indifference to the greatest funny man hot streak known to mankind. Fuck their belief in thinking I should be grateful for their sloppy second treatment at all. Fuck their claims of good things happening to good people. Tell that to every family forced into bankruptcy after losing their jobs over forced mandates to prevent the common good from catching an itchy esophagus. Fuck my brother for blaming his opioid pill addition on his wife and for my parents buying that bullshit narrative like Big Tech being nothing more than freedom of speech killing bastards in bed with ANTIFA whose members resemble a bunch of Punisher vigilante wannabes in hoodies who never outgrew their pyromania phase. Fuck any friend who started ignoring my being because I went into the funny man show business on my own and used to support Trump on my old Do It All Dad Year Podcast for free. And fuck all woman who react with, “Ah”, anytime I write something, sweet and thoughtful in their honor on a LinkedIn messaging board for others to see. It makes me want to gag on a bag full of dicks for opening my beautiful heart soon after. I think my problem is that I’m too big hearted. How do I become less big hearted? Become a more enraged 1st responder whenever a friend takes his sweet ass time to reply with a “thanks bud”, after I text him Good Dad +Good Friend +Good Brother+ Good Husband + Good Jew=100 Percent Mensch proof. Are good people the most generous with their time pleasing others versus themselves? I also don’t buy into this horseshit premise about how were supposed to be content with old friends from our past reflecting our less sure, outmoded selves, when we outgrow their measured praise when we get older, especially, when they’ve shown no interest in your new and improved offspring after writing your well-reviewed book, Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, no less. At least, he writes really funny jokes. Go fuck yourself, I create a video with my daughter about your younger sister beating cancer and that’s the best you can do to pretend about actually giving a shit about me succeeding in this world with a family of 5 to provide for. It makes me sick to think I wasted any time caring about these friend’s opinions, when none of them haven taken any ballsy chances with their life whatsoever. And you’re going try to demean me and reduce me to some flailing desperate clown in need of your loving laughing approval after God came into my heart, blessing me with 3 Koshertarian comedian kids later as I proceed to plow forward with the greatest comedy record streak of all time, with comedy record 91 Too Much Goodness, coming out later tonight, yeah, you can go fuck yourself to. We weren’t that close to begin with. As usual, I romanticize all relationships way out of proportion and gave you blah brained fucks way too much benefit of the doubt. I’m the good life giver, not you asshole. Edgy energy star, you’re not. Over the top artist, not in your wildest dreams bud. So, let’s conjure William Blake already before I come across as too jaded bitter for Marc Maron’s taste before his podcast broke big.

“Yoh, William is anyone out there? What’s your favorite Door’s album? Did your pen pal Thomas Paine have enough common sense to wrap his tool before banging those busty broads in London town after Ben Franklin got 1st dibs on the house for inventing soothing bath salts for herpes? Wow, your ghost spirit looks mighty pissed off Blake. You’re redder in the face than other writer ghosts from podcast episodes past. I love your line, “Exuberance is beauty.” Because it makes my father look like an asshole whenever he tells me to calm down because if I don’t get giddy about my own brand hardcore hilarity, nobody else will. Plus, my wife freaks out if we’re out in public at a bar due to my tendency to perform in front of crowds like any self-respecting slut in a strait jacket would.” Ghost of Willaim Blake screams, “Shut up already. You’re an unholy father, who doesn’t accept Jesus Christ as his lord and savior, who wrote a blasphemous chapter called Jesus Killer Set in The Great American Jew Novel. Isn’t that correct?”

“I love being quoted by dead writer ghosts I admire almost as much as my son Chosen Curls quoting my comedy records like Not Kosher Baby, Challah, thank you very much. “

Ghost of William Blake says, “How does The Great American Jew Novel sell more copies than my self-published book of poetry, Songs Of Innocence & of Experience? Granted, my book only sold 33 copies but still. I made the Doors. Jim Morrison doesn’t exist without me. You named your son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, whoopty freaking do.”

“You mean The Sun Butter King, AKA, Art Show USA. I almost gave Arthur the middle name Brooks, in honor of comedian Albert Brooks but I didn’t want to give my son the permission to become a Jewish pussy. So, I named him Arthur Morrison Kornbluth instead, which is only fitting because his builder artist mind mojo keeps on rising, rising. I’m not crafting stories in his honor such as The Wishing Well Architect for nothing.  Yeah, so come up with a better book title that’s less schizophrenic than Songs of Innocence & Experience Blake, and I’ll give a shit about your anemic books sales again. You’re not going to give Walt Whitman sustained stiffage with a horseshit title like Songs of Innocence & Experience is all I’m saying. Not that Leaves of Grass is anything to write home about either Blake. Then again, neither of you were blessed with the funny Jew bone. And mine is more well-endowed by my maker than most, Challah, Big Mouth Moses lives. Thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth