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Once upon a time there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease. He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song Hells Bells. Michael Yeller always believed louder is better until now because he was longer ablet to sing Search and Destroy by Iggy Pop and Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss anymore.
Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders throughout the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding, the steel guitar slaying, Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop CC Deville from Poison. Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah but he already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.
After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA but IT Directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and non-descript, low key bars on random, zero foot traffic streets, unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl once. Eventually, Michael moved back to NY and did digital ad sales for Citysearch and started to try open mike stand up comedy. When working for Citysearch he’d say on stage, “Citysearch is city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.” But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rock star on stage, because if his 1st joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggy back off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any new inspired direction of hilarity he choose.
At the Christmas party for CitySearch Michael sang his best rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting black out drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to Oh What A Feeling.
Knowing Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of Fallen Angel in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job, where his loud man disease could be neutralized, where it wouldn’t become such a career hindering liability and got a job in suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY selling state of the art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system all together. Michael would be selling noise cancelation headphones, “Yenta Silencers”, is what he’d call them specifically before sampling new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know Google fired 25 software engineers for sexual harassment? But software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”
But one day during a demo presentation for AC/DC Back In Black on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell Church bell clang to Hells Bells. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, losing all semblance of voice control now whatsoever?
Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most bad ass metal rock records of all time, which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally. Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse and Van Halen with divine powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard non-stop-all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kick ass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again. In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore but he was still able to sell his love of loud, metal music through his blogs, and also had the kick ass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.
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Once upon a time there was a Cardiologist from New Orleans who moved to Manhattan to become a Stand-Up Leech Doctor named Aioli Kornbluth. Every day in his new Upper East Side office across the street from the famed Comic Strip Live on 2nd Avenue, he’d offer his bad blood removal service free of charge. Growing up in New Orleans, his Cardiologist father Michael decided to name his kid Aioli because no son, planned or not, could compare to his dearly departed 1st born Zevon Kornbluth who died in Vietnam from a falling tree. Aioli Kornbluth’s father always said, “Laughter was the best medicine for a heavy heart”, so he named his unplanned son Aioli, which lightened his cinderblock clogged heart every time he ordered his son to do his errands as a kid such as, “Make your bed Aioli, take out the trash Aioli, your Snoop Dog records to. I don’t care that he samples funk beats and big horns from Curtis Mayfield records. His brain still hovers a notch below porn hell in my book.”
As a kid, Aioli Kornbluth was forced to feel like the unwanted, aborted one, prompting him to use his allowance for a whole year to buy a Henry Kissinger doll from a Voodoo Doctor in the French Quarter, to seek revenge on the merchant of death responsible for the rapid, incessant, blatantly unnecessary acceleration of the Vietnam war, but he didn’t have enough money saved for the costs of so much fabric. Still, the Voodoo Doctor Chief Longwinded Bow, gave Aioli Kornbluth more than a mere constellation prize in return by offering to teach the ancient black magic art of bad blood removal through leech expungement.
A young 13-year-old Aioli Kornbluth poured his heart out to Chief Longwinded Bow, trying to look his dapper best, sporting his standard, ironed, Catholic Private School suit and tie attire, from the same school where Eli and Peyton Manning attended as kids down off the Bayou. He says, “Chief, can I call you just Chief? I’d like to be curt, so you have more time to ramble on. I can’t shake the feeling that my dad will never forgive God for taking his 1st born, my big brother away from him so soon. You’d think I’d offer some solace being on the Honor Roll year after year. I even broke Eli Manning’s single season touchdown record yet pops would rather listen to Fat’s Domino records on Sunday while sipping more Blanton’s High Balls, reading more damn Michael Crichton novels, than ever taking the time to throw the pig skin around the yard with me. Also, Eli Manning is a bigger pimp than Tom Brady. He’s New Orleans royalty for starters. Plus, Eli married his college sweetheart not some annoying Brazilian chicken head either. Giselle is also like 80 in model years.” Chief Longwinded Bow says, “And Oliver Stone has the gaul to call me longwinded compared to my younger Brother, “Snorts Coke With Vampires when he hired us as creative consultants on the set of Natural Born Killer. Moving forward I would add some leaches to your diet. You can swallow them whole or dice them and sauté them in butter nestled within a crawfish pie if you’d like. Either way, the leeches will remove any ill will you have for your father for never making you feel like an esteemed, wanted member of your family.” Aioli Kornbluth says, “I love Crawfish Pie. I’ve always told my dad Crawfish is shrimp with more personality. Yeah, my dad doesn’t think I’m funny enough to be stand up comedian either.”
But now Aioli Kornbluth is about to turn 40 in Manhattan with no kids or wife in his life. All he’s got his fancy cardiologist office practice on the Upper East Side and dreams of becoming a Stand-Up Leech Doctor although tonight was the annual audition try out for the Comic Strip, which he had been practicing for his entire life. His number is called and Aioli Kornbluth approaches the stage yet fumbles grabbing the mike out of the stand. Aioli says, “Can you believe I’m a Cardiologist and perform open heart surgery for a living.” Crowd screams with approval. Aioli relaxes a tad and roams the stage to take in the crowd and the moment he’s dreamed of turning into reality forever while almost tripping over the coiled microphone chord. Aioli stares at the mike cord on stage and says, “The mike cord isn’t a live snake. You’d think being raised by a bunch of Marti Gras Indians; I wouldn’t let a microphone chord rattle my game.” Crowd laughs again. Laughter was the best medicine for a heavy heart and Aioli Kornbluth was sad no more, until he died on stage soon after and was told to never audition for the Comic Strip ever again. The owner of the Comic Strip said, “Stick with sticking your heart attack patients with more stents.”
Once upon a time, there was a family man, hop farmer, who gave the best foot massage in Upstate New York like his father before him, name Farmer Todd. He sang for his local church choir sounding like Neil Young and Al Green had a baby, who refused to sell his hops to West Coast Breweries, preferring to make IPA’s from his own locally sourced hops because of upstate New Yorker farmer, pride, represent, represent, represent. Farmer Todd always told his 5 sons, “The way to unlock the gene glow in a gal is to rub her feet like a magical genie lamp, which is the most direct passageway to her heart filled embrace of your slowed down metabolism and all your warts inside and out to.”
Farmer Todd like Ben Franklin believed good people, drank good beer, so he dedicated every day of his life, to making the finest IPA beer because just growing hops to sell them like another one dimensional hop peddler pusher man with nothing else to sell was boring and a not family business he could bequeath to his 5 gorgeous, hardworking, ultra-chiseled sons with as much innovative pride.
Every day before sunset over his hop stud farm, Farmer Todd would give his Yoga instructor wife Crystal a foot massage, which turned her into orgasmic mush every time, opening her up to the prospect of banging out more kids, to keep their hop stud farm open to tap for more non-stop business.
Until one day, 5 days before Halloween The Whino Witch of Croton Falls, ran through Farmer Todd’s Hop fields of green with her orange and pumpkin, foot rot fungus, which infected all the hop vines on his farm, wiping out any chance of their sole cash crop growing again because she got banned from a yoga class, when she used to be a famous winemaker in Ithaca, NY known for making Ice Wines because her feet grossed out the clientele, which his Yoga instructor wife, Crystal enforced. The Wino Witch of Croton Falls never got on her feet again until now.
Because of this widespread, accelerated, hop farm plagued, fungus foot pandemic caused by The Whino Of Witch of Croton Falls, Farmer Todd had no way to keep a roof over his family’s head, which included 5 boys all named after his favorite hops varieties being, Angus, Apollo, Atlas, Bravo and Flyer. So, during his morning run through the back trails of his former hop farm fantasy land, he’d took notice of a the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, flashing her naked, gross, purple, green and orange feet on a tree swing. She says, “Farmer Todd, did you teach your 5 sons to give foot massages with the same orgasmic conjuring technique you use on your bitch yoga instructor wife every day before sunset?” If so, you just need to tell your 5 stud sons to massage my discolored pumpkin size bunions, one for each day of the week during the week of Halloween and I’ll bring your hop farm roaring back to life again, in no time.”
Because of that Farmer Todd told his 5 sons to make the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, welcome in their hands, unless they wanted to starve to death or were willing to sell enough blood to buy an apple tree in the hope of turning that into a batch of hard cider to sell at the local Farmer’s Market, which was tad girly sweet for their collective tastes.
Because of that, each massage the five sons gave the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, helped ignite her glow gene inside, which made her feet return to a beautiful, inviting form again as her transformation from The Whino Witch of Croton Falls to the Fairy Hop Queen of Croton Falls became complete.
Later, Farmer Todd foots the bill for his 5 sons to open up their own hop brewery farms, knowing they’ll be able to keep growing toward profitability as long as they keep the Hop Fairy Queen’s feet happy during the hop farm footsie scare week of Halloween every year, when all of her sordid, past emerges, through a disgusting outgrowth of fungus and warts on her feet as punishment from the Tree Spirits of Lake Oswego for making her canoe sink into the water during one her drunken diatribes against the local Hop Head Indians and how their Buffalo Burgers are too bloody for her taste, in addition to being racist against Native American Indians for refusing to dry and cover her wet feet in Moccasins whenever she hopped out of the Waterfall for a midnight skinny dip, and for playing the ultimate Indian giver on Halloween. Who used to give away blue cheese to little Indians trick or treating to inject their Buffalo burgers with funkier, less gamy heft, only to demand they’d give her mini wheels of blue cheese back if they didn’t tickle her feet with their headdress feathers in return, while lying about being a half-breed, Indian calling herself, “Tickle Foot With Feathers.
The moral of the story is don’t be an Indian giver or you’ll be cursed with ugly feet, which will turn you into a cold, whino witch queen, scaring away any potential suitor from ever trying to soften your bitter, angry, nasty heart again.
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