In Mosey’s Dream

Remember when your mom walked in on us singing, No Mosey No Cry for my final goodbye? You were in the Bubble again, sparkling like the Lion cub of Judah under the hot Ethiopian sun with your chosen curls dancing in the name of the Lord. And your mom asked in semi-hurt disgust, “What does Mosey no cry mean Mosey?” I say, “Were just humming some Bob Marley love songs for Michael’s bubble, nothing new here, Ms. Kornbluth.” Your mom being a banker for Chemical Bank had no idea who Bob Marley was, so she couldn’t feel too burned yet over our Lazt Waltz together before your parents moved to the suburbs so you could cry it out in your crib upstairs, which always makes the more muffled moans of despair easier to bear. Then, there was the time, when your mom walked in on you calling me mommy in the Bubble, which hurt her much more inside. She says, “Did my son just call you mommy?” And I say, “It sounds like Mosey doesn’t it.” That’s probably why your mom calls herself Me-Me around your children now. Your mother added, “Son, your being raised in Forrest Hills, Queens, not Jamaica, Queens.”

The sun wasn’t shining in my heart that day. I mean, Jamaica, Queens is fine if you don’t mind dirt weed blowing through the air as you push your son on the swing to chants of, “I’m going to take you higher.” Your dad never cared for that joke reference despite him always telling me the story about waking up in a post Acid haze to hear Sly Stone serenade 400,000 hippies with, “I’m going to take your higher”, at Woodstock only 9 years earlier because I was Jamaican, and he assumed I smoked weed at some point in my life before I decided to clean my act up and become a nanny for the prettiest boy in Forrest Hills. You were such a gay baby, Michael. You’d even choke on the rattler for fun. But I’ve been sobor for 40 years and I have you to thank.

You see I grew up in the prosperous part of Jamaica when my father was a big-time record producer for Island Records. Peter Tosh was my Godfather and taught me how Marco Polo introduced the Europeans to Lassie Soup after traveling to China, who also believed in evil Spirits like Rastas do. Bob was a was Duppy Conqueror, meaning an evil spirit conqueror, which means one who conquerors worried plagued fear. My dad never conquered his Duppy spirit and got addicted to the hell water, thinking it was his only way to conquer his doubts of having golden ears, after he passed on signing Bob Marley and The Wailers. So, once the fire water rum took over his life, he was forced to become a Janitor at Ska parties in Trenchtown on dirt roads with no electricity as he scrounged for roaches at the end of Punky Reggae parties to lift his sagging spirits, which is where the term dirt weed arose from actually. At first, I dated a Rasta bum who sold coconut water on the street in Times Square during the summer before it became available at your local 7/11 but that was it. I fell in love with his falsetto voice, he reminded me of a young Bunny Wailer really. But he smoked so much ganja, his handwriting wasn’t even legible anymore whenever he tried to write me love songs, but this was before Apple had released their desktop computer in 76, because he wasn’t the best speller on the typewriter before either. Plus, he insisted on calling Wite-Out colonial imperialism against commas to break up his killer flow, or something like that. He was higher than Richard Pyror at Freddie Prince Junior’s funeral, far from looking good. But I cut him out of my life and fell in love with a black Israelite Marcus, who became a public defender for the DA’s office, who taught Shofar lessons to rich kids in Riverdale, to pay for our wedding in Israel by a resort beach town in Eilat. Marcus wanted to visit King Solmon’s grave, who was known to have a steamy affair with the Queen of Sheeba. Bob Marley mysteriously inherited the ring King Solomon possessed, that traces back to the time when he was tapping the Queen Sheeba’s ass on the regular, did you know that? Anyway, your father always called you the cleanest boy in Forrest Hills, of course this was before you’d live in West Hollywood for 3 years and end up recording Pretty Dirty Mind for comedy record 76, I think. So, my obsession with cleaning up my life spilled into me giving you 3 bubbles a day, Michael. You were so happy in that Bubble, as I hummed you more Bob Marley love songs, which was permanent rainbow country for me. And I passed the dreaded typing test before getting a job at Apple in 76 before becoming the VP Of Sales for their floppy disk game division. I made the game Oregon Trail, the best-selling floppy disk game in America before Carmen San Diego came out as a flasher perv, stalking Bill Walton at Padres games, whenever the Grateful Dead were in town. I know that you’ve been suffering from night screams, feeling evil spirits strangle the life out of you in your dreams lately. But recently, those dreams have abated, and that’s because you haven’t lost faith in the sweet Lord, all mighty Hashem, being your protector, redeemer and ultimate celebrator, or else you wouldn’t have produced all these amazing books and comedy records to move, touch and make the universe laugh with, coming together as one. United we laugh, you prove it every day. I’m your biggest fan, always have been. Although I like this idea of you selling furniture for Bob’s Furniture in Norwalk, CT. I think this 1st interview will materialize into more good fortune for you. You’ll be inspired to get back on stage once you get out of the house again. Your soul is too pure and big for the cramped office life. Plus, I want you to write that story about triggering a Canadian furniture designer, living in Northern Westchester County who designs bookshelves for Chelsea Handler, only to tell him face to face, “Bob’s Furniture has way better stuff than this shit. And you’ll have a leg to stand on, which will be an empowering, duppy spirit conquering place to be Michael. Don’t give up on your dreams of making a living off comedic song for a living eventually. Bob worked at the Chrystler factory in Delaware before he became Bob Marely. No money, no cry for now, but earning some for a change will help remove those talking blues. Deep down you have to believe your funny enough to fill out those clown shoes.

Michael Kornbluth

Clown Shoe Blues

Remember when your mom walked in on us Singing No Mosey No Cry for my final goodbye? You were in the bubble again, sparkling like the Lion cub of Judah under the hot Ethiopian sun with your chosen curls dancing in the name of the Lord. And your mom asked in semi-hurt disgust, “What does Mosey no cry mean Mosey?” I say, “Were just humming some Bob Marley love songs for Michael’s bubble, nothing new here, Ms. Kornbluth.” Your mom being a banker for Chemical Bank had no idea who Bob Marley was, so she couldn’t feel too burned yet over our Lazt Waltz together before your parents moved to the suburbs so you could cry it out in your crib upstairs, which always makes the more muffled moans of despair easier to bear. Then, there was the time, when your mom walked in on you calling me mommy in the Bubble, which hurt her much more inside. She says, “Did my son just call you mommy?” And I say, “It sounds like Mosey doesn’t it.” That’s probably why your mom calls herself Me-Me around your children now. Your mother added, “Son, your being raised in Forrest Hills, Queens, not Jamaica, Queens.”

The sun wasn’t shining in my heart that day. I mean, Jamaica, Queens is fine if you don’t mind dirt weed blowing through the air as you push your son on the swing to chants of, “I’m going to take you higher.” Your dad never cared for that joke reference despite him always telling me the story about waking up in a post Acid haze to hear Sly Stone serenade 400,000 hippies with I’m going to take your higher at Woodstock only 9 years earlier because I was Jamaican, and he assumed I smoked weed at some point in my life before I decided to clean my act up and become a nanny for the prettiest boy in Forrest Hills. You were such a gay baby, Michael. You’d even choke on the rattler for fun. But I’ve been sobor for 40 years and I have you to thank.

You see I grew up in the prosperous part of Jamaica when my father was a big-time record producer for Island Records. Peter Tosh was my Godfather and taught me how Marco Polo introduced the Europeans to Lassie Soup after traveling to China, who also believed in evil Spirits like Rastas do. Bob was a was Duppy Conqueror, meaning an evil spirit conqueror, which means one who conquerors worried plagued fear. My dad never conquered his Duppy spirit and got addicted to the hell water, thinking it was only way to conquer his doubts of having golden ears, after he passed on signing Bob Marley and The Wailers. So, once the fire water rum took over his life, he was forced to become a Janitor at Ska parties in Trenchtown on dirt roads with no electricity as he scrounged for roaches at the end of Punky Reggae parties to lift his sagging spirits, which is where the term dirt weed arose from actually. At first, I dated a Rasta bum who sold coconut water on the street in Times Square during the summer before it became available at your local 7/11 but that was it. I fell in love with his falsetto voice, he reminded me of a young Bunny Wailer really. But he smoked so much ganja, his handwriting wasn’t even legible anymore whenever he tried to write me love songs, but this before Apple had come out with their desktop computer in 76, because he wasn’t the best speller on the typewriter before either. Plus, he insisted on calling White Out, colonial imperialism against commas to break up his killer flow, or something like that. He was higher than Richard Pyror at Freddie Prince Junior’s funeral, far from looking good. But I cut him out of my life and fell in love with a black Israelite Marcus, who became a public defender for the DA’s office, who taught Shofar lessons to rich kids in Riverdale, to pay for our wedding in Israel by in by a resort beach town in Eilat. Marcus wanted to visit King Solmon’s grave, who was known to have a steamy affair with the Queen of Sheeba. Bob Marley mysteriously inherited the ring King Solomon possessed, that tracs back to the time he tapped Queen Sheeba’s ass on the regular, did you know that? Anyway, your father always called you cleanest boy in Forrest Hills, so my obsession with cleaning up my life spilled into me giving you 3 bubbles a day, Michael. You were so happy in that bubble, as I hummed you more Bob Marley love songs, which was permanent rainbow country for me. And I passed the dreaded typing test before getting a job at Apple in 76 before becoming the VP Of Sales for their floppy disk game division. I made the game Oregon Trail, the best-selling floppy disk game in America before Carmen San Diego came out as a flasher perv stalking Bill Walton at Padres games, whenever the Grateful Dead were in town. I know that you’ve been suffering from night screams, feeling evil spirits strangle the life out of you in your dreams lately. But recently, those dreams have abated, and that’s because you haven’t lost faith in the sweet Lord being your protector, defender and celebrator, or else you wouldn’t have produced all these amazing books and comedy records to move, touch and make the universe laugh with, coming together as one. United we laugh, you prove it every day. I’m your biggest fan, always have been. Although I like this idea of you selling furniture for Bob’s Furniture in Norwalk, CT. I think this 1st interview will materialize into more good fortune for you. You’ll be inspired to get back on stage once you get out of the house again. Your soul is too pure and big for the cramped office life. Plus, I want you to write that story about triggering a furniture designer who designs bookshelves for Chelsea Handler, only to tell him face to face, “Bob’s Furniture has way better stuff than this shit. And you’ll have a leg to stand on, which will be an empowering, duppy spirit conquering place to be Michael. Don’t give up on your dreams of making a living off comedic song for a living eventually. Bob worked at the Chrystler factory in Delaware before he became Bob Marely. No money, no cry for now, but earning some for a change will help remove those talking blues. Deep down you have to believe your funny enough to fill out those clown shoes.”

Michael Kornbluth

America’s Team Cracking

Why does Obama get one more presidential portrait than every other cracker ass President?

Does he get all the calls like MJ now?

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

Or did Mr. Groper give his 1st portrait a presidential pardon after Michelle
bitched to Dr. Jill 1st?

I’ll string you up by your fishnet stockings, you small town, townie ho.

Barack gets one more presidential portrait than hair plugs sniffer, got it
chicken feet?

I’ll spear your rack into the White House Garden like the black Goldberg if
poopy pants calls Barack his boy again, got it?

Barack gets one more of everything, including these nuts, you dig?

Prince Harry is lucky to get one when we play Twister Tea Bag Party during July 4th weekend in Martha’s Vineyard.

But I’m sure the Queen of England lauded your style past Scarecrow
Appreciation Month, Jill.

Jill Biden says, “Fuck off What’s Talent Got To Do With It. Order a
bigger propane tank to power your next Tea Bagging Party barbeque bash. It’s a bad enough look when Joe gives Zelensky more duffle bags of billions to take naps on in St. Barts, without sporting for a new shirt. Now, I know why they call them army fatigues. But I thought you loved the gender fluid artist who painted your pegging pal’s last pic, when he wasn’t inspiring W to paint a pic of Portia De Rossi’s white privileged laden clit being hacked to Shawarma shreds during Ramadan before George Floyd Appreciation Century became a thing. What does your gal Ellen even do with W after being caught palling around with the feel-good Messiah at Cowboys home games? Does W text you, “Shoulder Pads, Ellen is here, come on over for a game of Operation, Gender Reassignment Edition.” Clearly, Ellen is
pro Bush all the way. But seriously Michelle, what was the problem with the 1st presidential portrait of Barack? Was the portrait of Obama Be Meh, sitting down for a number one outside the Ivy restaurant on Robertston Blvd across the street from New Line Cinema in LA not manly enough for your tastes BABY? Plus, wipe that bitch face scowl off your face already Michelle. You’re rich bitch. And your daughter at Harvard is only a pot head slut who gets high with dad to humor his idea of being a fake news deep bi-racial Bob Marley for Halloween. When I told Hunter to make a wish and blow on his birthday, he snorted the cake. At the same time, Barack is looking ghastly skinny these days Michelle. At least, Hunter gave up blow for blow painting. The only thing it looks like Barack has given up is AZT drugs during a crack cocaine bender with Jussie Smollet after Empire replaced him with Stephen Baldwin in Blackface. He can’t stand a worst shot at causing a race riot than big brother Alex attempting to teach financial literacy to the head of BLM because Turbo Tax is some culturally biased software shit. Obama rules, my balls. It’s Mr. Groper’s world
now, you better recognize Too Tall Jones.”

America’s Team cracking, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

High On Holiness

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

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

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

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

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth

















The Untradable Summer

Jerry Garcia died, Garth Brooks played to 93,000 in Central Park and the Knicks still made long playoff runs that boasted more legs than Lieutenant Dan. Casino, Heat and Braveheart all came out in the same year, years before your in-laws who didn’t care for Inglorious Bastards, reserved stadium seating to see Apocalypto on Fandango 6 million months in advance. And Joshua Kornbluth, an aimless, long haired 20-year-old college student, who interned for the office of Special Narcotics actually developed a semi-sober conscious by giving his brain an overdue week from the weed, which also included abstaining from the less potent sprayed kind from the boogie down Bronx at Aquarius Records that tasted like Windex.   Because it’s hard to maintain a clear conscious interning for the Office of Special Narcotics when you’re perpetually burnt out on the sticky icky, responsible for draining you of what soul powered glint you were blessed with the first place that some would say beamed brighter than most.  Especially, when you’re listening in stupefied awe to an undercover cop, who’s regaling you about his latest undercover assignment as if he’s a black Donnie Brosco come to life who looked like a younger version of Duck from White Man Can’t Jump come to life.

Reality is, Joshua began to question his lushy littered past while drinking another winter break away with his friends from high school at the local bar, J. P’s, where everyone knew, you could get loaded on gin and tonics and smoke weed out back and not worry about jack shit. Which explains why Joshua once made a bet with his Japanese American friend Kohji about whether Darryl Strawberry now playing for the NY Yankees at the original Yankee Stadium before they replaced it with the House That Gentrification Built. If Darryl Strawberry went yard, then his friend Kohji would give Joshua the highly prized Bob Marley boxset which included the ultimate singer songwriter lament, Acoustic Meledy followed by the ultimate killer pick me up follow up, Hurting Inside. But only if Joshua dropped his pants and ran across the street while flinging around his drunk, dizzy dick throughout the thick, muggy summer wind, while chanting, “Darryl, Darryl, Darryl.”  Kohji fulfilled his end of the bargain, after Joshua sealed the deal with his own version of riding the bull pre-Happy Gilmore while showcasing his stroke of excitable good luck between his legs in the process.

Out of all the drunken, wasted nights of carefree collegiate youth spent at J.P’s throughout wasted winter breaks of yesteryear, Joshua remembered one encounter that stood out from the pack as, “Hey Tonight”, by Creedence blared on the jukebox which never grew old like EZ Wider Double Widers back in the day used to overcompensate for piss poor, barely even elementary rolling skills while being forced to roll the joint on a flat surface no less. Yes, Joshua wasn’t good at weed, despite him looking like a preppy version of Kevin Pickford from Dazed and Confused minus the hot, borderline mute artist hippie girlfriend. As Joshua went back to the bar for another stiff pouring of gin and tonic, he bumps into an older Latino gent by the jukebox who he never talked to prior, who says, “You shouldn’t drink too much bro. And I don’t think all your weed puffage, based on your bloodshot eyes is doing your imagination any favors either. I see you being a major public speaker one day, maybe, even an important politician, not like these other drunken animals around you. So, slow it down kid.”

And slow it down, he did. Now, Joshua woke up every morning in his old childhood room before getting dressed for his internship in Manhattan before the subways had centralized AC with a lighter flow to his step as he’d blare Sly Stone’s Greatest Hits in the car on his way to the train station and sing, “Everybody is a star.” He started running the steps after work at his high school track and field where he spent more time senior year trying to get into slamming Budweiser Tall Boys if he wasn’t sipping on flasks of Southern Comfort when hanging out with his friends, wasting time, who didn’t share his crazy alcoholic hick DNA from his mom’s southern side to contend with as much, not that his boys back then, were fuck up free Angel’s either. On Friday’s, Joshua would take the local Lex line in Manhattan and get off Astor Place from City Hall to use his weekly 125-dollar stipend to buy up whatever Grateful Dead bootleg audiocassette tapes being sold that day on the corner of Saint Marks Place in the East Village. He’d cruise the bars at North Avenue on the weekend located in New Rochelle, in southern Westchester County, because everyone went out back then. How else do you explain Zima mixed with grenadine becoming a trend at all? Joshua and his high school buds drank forties of Old English, not known yet as Snoop Dog’s ho sprayer of choice. But giving up the weed, whether it was result of developing a semi-sober conscious because of where Joshua was interning that summer or an issue of no longer wanting to be mentally enslaved by the all-mighty ganja anymore, Joshua found his smile again, exploring haunts in Little Italy for lunch in his pursuit to track the down the perfect shrimp parm hero. But if Joshua ever lost his sense of direction, which still happened on occasion, despite taking a break from the weed, he’d still have the World Trade Center to use as the ultimate North Star in his city, to help regain his bearings again.

Now, Joshua has grown a bit, and leading a boat tour of lower Manhattan as a divorced comedian in his early forties, who hasn’t broken big yet. The Freedom Tower was finally built in 2006, after a crater of death hovered over Lower Manhattan, which seemed to stretch out forever like W’s presidency before our precious news media hailed him as some sudden misunderstood genius, since he started painting pictures of maimed vets, he gave PTSD under his permanent fuck up watch. Especially now, since Ellen was spotted palling around with W at a Cowboy’s game, only for her to admit on her show soon after how their actually friends in real life. Because regardless of political affiliation or role in allowing 9/11 to happen under his watch, Ellen is pro-Bush all the way.

Joshua no longer a long-haired, completely directionless hippie, spots a woman on his tour from his untradable summer of 95. As Joshua proceeds to wrap up the tour of Manhattan as the boat spots Lady Liberty, a petite, pretty Italian girl from Staten Island raises her hand. Joshua, never one to forget a face, remembers his Staten Island girl who he took to the free Garth Brooks that summer after meeting her at a local bar on some random Friday during the summer of 95, only for them to fail at picking up more Budweiser’s to bring to Garth Brooks, because the 95,000 in attendance had already cleared out every bodega within the 20-block radius along Central Park West.

Staten Island girl says, “How do you explain 9/11 to your kids?” Joshua remembers her being the 1st girl he ever hooked up with who admitted being a single mother prior, which at the time, prompted the response, “I can handle it if you can babe.” Joshua takes a minute to reflect on her question since becoming a single dad himself after getting divorced for failing to maintain any form of steady employment till he found his sweet spot and achieved a steady stroke against the winds of change in life, as a boat tour guide of Manhattan, which combined his love of comedic storytelling and his cherished concrete jungle of Manhattan, that he loved so, that 1st love powered dreams are made of.

The island of Manhattan was also the birthplace of his endlessly beautifying son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, already a star architect at 19 years old, who just joined the American Institute of Architects, who would in fact join him for occasional joint boat tours involved the sweeping historical knowledge and sweep necessary to give a big city architectural boat tours of lower Manhattan with larger-than-life flourish. After all, when Joshua’s son Arthur was only 5-year-old he told his daddy that one day he’d built an apartment with an adjoining enclosed bridge passageway, so they could live together when they got older, which finally came true. Now, Joshua’s son emerges from the background, looming much larger than life than his dad sporting spiky blond hair and a six-foot six frame, looking like Donald Trump birthed a preppy hipster art show baby. Joshua’s son, affectionally nicknamed Art Show even before he was conceived answers the question.

“My Dad always explained 9/11 as the day his age of innocence died. But my dad would always use humor to lighten the darkest realties on his lifetime like the prospect of dying from the killer queen virus of them all, no not COVID, Aids. He’d say, “If I had a daughter, I’d encourage her to become a Lesbian because the Kama Sutra is a recipe for Aids. Plus, when you’re Lesbian, you can take a licking and keep on ticking. Don Draper lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Art Show, The Architect adds, “How did my dad make fun of the uptick in crime during the Mayor Adam’s years? He’d say, “Sanctuary Cities are encouraged lawlessness on crack. Still, the crazies on Twitter rant and rave about wanting to ban ICE. Because Homeland Security was so Weapons of Mass Destruction years.” And how did my dad bring up the Holocaust without being depressingly dreary about it? He’d made jokes about it because humor allows us to get in the last word against our dying of the light. Dyland Thomas lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Dad would say, “Did you know 4/20 the national pot smoking holiday in on Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this duped since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. Anyone visit the home of Anne Frank in Amsterdam? My 1st impression was one of shock and awe, as I thought to myself, “This place is enormous. I’ve never seen so much closet space. I expected a cubby, not a walk-in-closet.”

The entire crowd in the boat tour can’t stop laughing as beautiful streams of endless, purifying laughter fill the air. Lady Liberty radiates a prettier punctuating light that pierces through the purple and orange sun set draping coastline. And the grown-up mom from Staten Island says, “Fuck Pete Davidson, let’s crown the new king of New York comedy. I had a feeling he’d bang out something special one day. The Big Apple is a brighter place with you 2 twin towers in it. And I thought Darryl Strawberry was juicy to take in whole.”  

Darryl, Darryl, Darryl.

Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

All Metal Baby

Dear Billy Corgan,

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

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

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

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

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

Best Always,

Billy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

The Putzy Cup Of Truth

It’s hard to not feel putzy clutzy when your dad’s nickname on the streets of the Bronx was Trips on Curbs. The man never owned a spotless white IZOD sweater past Kosher meatball night for Christ’s sake. Plus, it’s hard to feel empathy for putzy stains of shame when you can’t blame the guaranteed splat attack on perpetual double IPA poundage, because you don’t want to circumcise your happiness, when your wife does that enough already by claiming how she’s the one who’s made sacrifices to. Like an aspiring comedian living in Queens during his late twenties wanted kids ever. And stop calling Queens hot, it’s not. Queens is the sloppy third Kardashian sister similar to the biggest backed one of the big 3, who’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a Lamb Gyro in Astoria. Also, there’s no way Bruce Jenner was asexual when he was married to Kris Jenner. But I’m positive Bruce stayed harder and longer after he talked Kris Jenner into cutting her hair shorter, so she’d look more like a dolled-up Ralph Macchio.

My 8-year-old son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA, The Boy Who Raised Himself said, “The Putzy Cup Of Truth never lies”, which is beyond wise or else why would he throw a tighter spiral than you when you’ve had a 4 decade head start, regardless of hiding behind lame excuses such as being a late bloomer spill prone putz at heart. The same guy who got fired from his bartender job in West Hollywood for breaking too many Boudreaux wine glasses as if I was trying to nail my audition tape for Super Putz Get’s Married to a gentile from Australia who could help uproot my putz plagued family tree for good.  We wanted to get married in Australia, but my mom had other ideas.  She calls and says, “Son, Australia is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.” So, I calm my Aussie born wife down and say, “Hey babe, assuming we have a boy one day, which uproots my family’s putzy stains of shame for good, will pass on getting a Rabbi for the circumcision and instead hire Crocodile Dundee, who should be available last time I checked on IMBD. Just so we can hear a room full of Jews say in a collective state of stupefied awe, “Now, that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Woody Allen claiming, he could “throw a football a mile in his youth”, in his memoir Apropos of Nothing when you can’t, serves as another humiliating reminder why the Putzy Cup Of Truth never lies. Granted, I was never caught stashing pictures of a half-naked Soon-Yi in my top sock drawer to tap for future film project titles such as Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years. Shit, the only thing missing from Woody’s sticky icky collection of Polaroids was Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life magazine, but I digress.  Yeshiva students shaming your chicken scratch scrawl next to you on the Subway proves how the Putzy Cup Of Truth is never too far behind, as you try to scribble away one ha inducing joke after the next only to hear Yentel’s younger brother say out of the blue to you, “What language is that Hebrew?” I say, “Yeah, it’s Hebrew Schmendel. I write deli reviews for the Kosher Planet.”

But today, I’m hosting a Burning Mask Party on July 4th and forced my daughter to invite all her friends, especially Andrea, whose father is a volunteer fireman. I want to kick his ass in The Putzy Cup of Truth to prove uppity fireman aren’t immune to sweating under pressure either, especially after he yelled at his daughter to “hurry up”, because he was running late to a “meeting” on a Sunday afternoon while my daughter’s 11-year-old birthday party was still in progress. Why was the Volunteer Fireman Dad acting so distressed exactly? Was he doing a power point presentation on Zoom for his local firehouse to prove how ANTIFA vigilante wannabes who never outgrew their pyromania phase are bigger fire hazards than posting election fraud charges on Twitter since the day Democracy died?

Fireman bust balls, go grocery shopping and try not to fuck up their Grandma’s Sunday sauce recipe for the firehouse. So this much I can do as a Stay At Home Shemale Comedian and host of the Do It All Dad Time podcast, which spits non-stop fire and non-stop truth bomb joke blasts Gen X Dads understand. I’ve also had to endure heckles on stage and plow through a karaoke set while the crowd threw napkins at me during my valiant attempt to finish singing Only God Knows Why at a Cheesecake Factory in Woodland Hills, so I can the handle pressure of increasingly damning animosity hurled in my being’s direction from every angle possible better than most. I also bombed with a Ron Artest joke at the Rainbow Room, where the stage is 3 feet below the actual audience, only to win the fire ready audience back with an inspired ad-lib for the ages when I said, “I love black guys because they don’t discriminate against pussy.” So, there’s no fucking way, I’m going to let this asshole wannabe alpha dog red headed volunteer fireman who’s not a Fire Chief try to exert a more manly stable, putz free aura on my home turf ever again. 5 million space bucks, he got triple vaxed despite real deal first responders who actually ran into the second tower never fearing the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus post COVID either. It’s not my fault his yoga teacher wife bends over backwards to shoot suck me off eyes in my presence knowing my lack of blinding red pubes with the lights on or not in the sack would be a welcome change pace as I pulverized her box into middle earth China.

All the kids are done plopping the masks in a huge pile on our front yard, itching for my long-awaited Burning Mask Party to begin. I light a bunch of Washington Posts, NY Times and issues of Atlantic Magazine on top of the masks and spray it down with Kerosine to take this Burning Mask Party so much higher.  Sly Stone lives, Challah. Thank you very much. Fireman Dad comes to crash the party early again and says, “Do you need help putting out that fire? This half ass bonfire looks like a fire hazard in the making to me. You’re surrounded by woods and your playground set is made out of wood, which is only 2 feet away from it, max.”  I say, “I got fire insurance despite ANTIFA attack premiums for homes that used to sport 2020 Trump flags going through the roof.” Fireman Dad says, “Hazel, were leaving, get in the car now. I’m running late for a meeting.” I say, “Stick around for a drink 1st. We just tapped the keg, it’s Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale that never get’s stale.” Fireman Dad says, “What kind of party are you throwing?  You’re surrounded by a bunch of 11-year-old girls? I said, “I work as an in-house copywriter for Disney now, so I’m fucking fireproof for wining and dining minors as long as I’m educating them on my sex life, which is non-existent anyway, unless you’re interested in giving your wife a pseudo celebrity lay on her birthday for a part in my new movie the Yoga Scout. Disney is producing my movie about a stay-at-home shemale comedian turned Yoga Scout who recruits divorcees looking to make their sex live above average again by meeting other willing bang, bang partners in love at his all nude, hot Yoga studio, Spread Eagles. Does your wife want to spread the love in my Hebrew Hammer’s honor or what? Fireman cocks his fist and winds up to take a swing before his daughter points out how his leg has caught fire from the Burning Mask Party gone wild.  Daughter screams, “Duck and roll daddy, duck and roll.” But Fireman Daddy trips over my kids bike and falls flat on his face in front of all the kids who start laughing uncontrollably. The Fireman father yells, “Somebody help me put out this fire already, these are favorite pair of broken in jeans from Banana Republic, which are made out of Japanese cotton no less.” So, I showered him with mercy and poured a bucket of water on his jeans and put the fire out before saying, “Japanese cotton is more breathable.” Do It All Dad’s daughter hugs her dear daddy’s leg and says, “Daddy, you saved Andrea’s dad’s favorite pair of jeans from disintegrating on the spot while he shrieked like a teenage groupie when Cheap Trick played live at Budokan. You won the Putzy Cup Of Truth challenge after all Daddy. You’re like a gender fluid version of Pat Benatar in the form of a hardcore hilarious comedian, “Come on hit me with your best shot and fire my putzy plagued past, away. Challah, thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth