The Koshertarian Offensive

I tried to get a Kosher butchering knife on EBAY called a Chalef knife, so I can feel like I’m capable of living off the farm like a Jewish Hank Williams Junior. But customer service told me they’re not available anymore because they’re dripping with hate speech against Halal butchers who give shout outs to Allah before butchering cows instead. Plus, they added, “Kosher butchering knives are too aggressively Israeli for EBAY’s tastes.” Holla, thank you very much.

Why do I care about rocking the Koshetarian Diet? First, I don’t have to do any of the blood draining myself, so it’s the least I can do. Second, the Koshertarian Diet makes me feel like a less all over the place Jew, which is a welcome change of pace. Third, it’s the least I can do to show my love for Hashem for blessing me with the three sweetest, most hilarious, fuss free kids in the universe. Fourth, the Koshertarian Diet allows me to look down on my younger brother and parents for never giving the Koshterian Diet inside the house and out an extended chance. And I have zero interest in being a fake news, God dissing hippy. Sorry, when you live in Arizona for 9 years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once. You’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora disagrees. Fifth, my younger brother orders bacon cheeseburgers at Wendy’s with extra bacon on top yet he thinks being lactose tolerant is responsible for his chronic stomach pains, which have nothing to do with 2 decades worth of cocaine abuse, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall. 6th, I love the Koshterian Diet because if I do go out to eat, my options are significantly lessened. So now, whenever I do dine out, I no longer feel as indecisive as Jared Kushner holding up the salad bar line at the Bellagio. 7th, I rock the Koshterian diet because I wrote about a book about my divine powered quest to get my 3 fuss free kids excited about giving the Koshterian Diet a chance. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years. And if I don’t back up the talk, I’m no worse than my fake news hippies’ parents. 8th, I embrace the Koshertarian diet to ensure God continues to bless my funny Jew bone as I bang out more sheets of comedy gold. 9th, I practice the Koshertarian Diet because it forces me to generate more mo money minting ideas such as the Do It All Dad Hero Food Truck, which peddles the1st ever smoked Kosher brisket cheesesteak, using a plant-based cheese wiz in my debut middle age coming of age story, The Great American Jew Novel. Last, the Koshertarian diet reigns supreme because it triggers Italian deli workers, whenever I order an egg and cheese with no bacon on it. Italian Deli worker says, “No Bacon on that?” And I’ll give him the same response I give my 4-year-old, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, whenever he whips out his pubescent life shooter in the making during dinner again, “Not Kosher baby.” Can I get a holla for some Challah? Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

 

The Secret Of My Soy Boy Success

Soy Dogs, get lost, not interested, they possess zero snap, never looking healthy, resembling flaccid impotence to me. I don’t care if you microwave Soy Dogs in a wet paper towel for 1 minute or throw them on the grill, the saved points on Weight Watchers aren’t worth the taste of boundless, zero thrills yuckiness throughout. Plus, soy dogs on the grill burn faster than Hitler’s desire to annihilate whenever his old school herpes sores pierced through his precious stash again. When the best thing you can say about a Soy Dog is, “I like the Ketchup on it, because if I ever needed a palate cleanser to erase the depressed, doughy, middle-aged malaise I’m trying to desperately avoid right now through forcing myself to eat this rubbery fake news conjuring hot dog, it’s now.”

But soy dogs aren’t reflective of the flavorful, absorption potential of soy either nor do soggy soy dog links compare to the scrumptious, splendidness of Morning Star’s soy nuggets, which got me into adopting more soy-based meals into my diet. I even put my sales hat on in Morning Star’s honor and sold the shit out their soy based frozen products on my own mock advertising portfolio for junior copywriter roles after my daughter was born, when my Stay-At-Home Comedian journey began, such as Morning Star Nuggets, “So Good You’ll Eat The Crumbs”, which I also billed as the “Best Piece You Never Had.” My favorite print ad in my portfolio was reserved for breaded Morning Star burgers: Fuss Free + Guilt Free +Mess Free=Zero Regrets.  Soy Dogs were a long distance memory now, offering less titillating interest than Hello Kitty trying to lip-sync Surrender by Cheap Trick for Karaoke Critter Appreciation Night.

There’s a vegetarian restaurant by NYU called Bamboo, which does tantalizing, recreationist wonder with soy, especially in the form of fried chicken replication, somehow magically transforming soy into real deal Holyfield tasting fried chicken, compelling even Iron Mike back in the day to chew off more than a nibble, passing the bad boy soy boy test in my book, holla, thank you very much. Again, Guilt Free +Fuss free +Mess Free= Zero Regrets, especially, when A) You get to devour huge mounds of protein rich soy based fried chicken, without feeling like a lazy brain, fast food junkie whale B) Don’t have to concern yourself with breading anything or worry about the concentrated shots of estrogen in the soy based fried chicken, knowing your 9-year-old daughter has nothing to bare upstairs yet. Plus, if my daughter fills out like mommy, chances are she won’t become another busty beauty like Jennifer Tilly. And C) It’s impossible to regret ordering soy based fried chicken when it tastes like an airy light version of the real thing, especially knowing that a block of soy was never a living breathing, claustrophobic, nerve damaged chicken who died of a heart attack the time Pedro Martinez showed it a cockfighting fight on YouTube to see if Chicken Little was ready to fight up a weight class after he promised to pump  her up with chicken liver schmaltz hormones with his signature breaking balls speed.

I got my 2 boys into soy dogs for a bit, before I introduced them to the highly superior Hebrew National Jumbo Dogs, draped with spicy brown mustard, whenever we ran out of ketchup again, because I plopped out every last drop to make soy dogs still eaten by daughter on occasion, edible tolerable, from start to finish.  Last night, I decided to slay Tofu The Terrible again and make my best batch of Golden Child Tofu Pitas, made in a yummy, barbeque sauce, consisting of fried sweet red peppers and red onions, promoting my daughter to declare, “Daddy, I want the recipe for your Golden Child Tofu Pitas. Eddie Murphy lives, through a random, yet not direct quote from the Golden Child, which is “I, want the knife”. What Gen X Dads understand, holla, thank you very much.

First, you must dehydrate the soy wrapped in paper towels to soak up all the water weight lost from a hilly, 45-minute Peloton ride through a no-go zone in Germany, holla thank you very much. Then, you must cut semi substantial squares of dehydrated soy to fry up in vegetable oil later on a high flame, only to be a tad fussy about using thongs to flip over each golden child cube of glistening perfection over individually to ensure the golden-brown crackling crust or else the soy cubes resemble deflated, smooshed, pieces of torn of airplane pillows.

But make sure to caramelize the red peppers and red onions separate 1st, before mixing it with the too cool for school golden child cubes, which you must splash with soy sauce throughout to give it the much needed salty, funky kick throughout if you don’t want the bubbly soy pieces to taste like chewy, flavorless soy gum either.  

Adopting soy into your diet won’t be life changing but you’ll be amazed at soybeans potential for recreationist splendor, where the thought of soggy soft day afternoons, fade faster than Daddy, next time his kids try to show him what lunch they’re making for Hello Kitty on their Amazon Fires Tablets next.

Never forget. Guilt Free +Fuss Free + Mess Free= Zero Regrets. My 7-year-old son caught a kid in his class cheating off his math quiz at school, but my son isn’t Chinese. So if my son takes after me at all, I’m not as mathematically challenged as I think.

Michael Kornbluth

In Leo We Trust

Trust is earned from sustained excellence such as Leo’s star powered acting performances in any Tarantino film without fail.   Trust makes the world go around. Trust went out the window after Liver Spots got sworn in as President of the United States without a peep from the Supreme Court the day after Democracy died.  But the Leo Scramble Supreme still reigns supreme and is trustworthy enough to entrust your happiness in him for better days and more hope filled tomorrows, pregnant with superior feel-good possibility. James Brown lives, holla, thank you very much.

Plus, making a LEO, consisting of Lox, Eggs and Onions will always remain an ideal anti-Semitic qualifier gift such as my Great American Jew Novel, knowing this divine blessed delectable breakfast, brunch or dinner worthy delight consists of pricy, cut up, overtly Jewy smoked salmon, caramelized onions and scrambled eggs from local Jewish Farmer legend behemoth, good old Stew Leonard in Connecticut, before the warm, sumptuous, funky fishy ingenious concoction get’s swirled into a bowl with a plop of Cream cheese, which melts easier in a hot bowl of eggs, adding a deeper svelte, thicker tasting dimension of deliciousness, which catapult your burst of feel good joy that much higher, Sly Stone lives, holla, thank you very much.

I hate to get political anymore since thé once boastful construct we the people offered less special value than Prince Harry’s bald spot on the open market or his feel for comedy after dressing up like a Nazi officer for Halloween to get back at mom for looking like an ugly version of E from Entourage, with far less a plus snatch to snag in London town compared to perpetually sunny, twice as smoking hot California girls. Megan Markle doesn’t count, and it’s not because she’s a biracial, royal pain in the ass, holla, thank you very much.

Now, if Prince Harry roasted himself dressed up like a Nazi officer for Halloween, I’d give hardcore Archie some funny man cred, regardless if Ricky Gervais wrote the material for him, who tires of Holocaust films because he’d rather bitch in his latest stand up comedy special about harsh online tweets about his movie career, which never got off the ground, reducing him to be in bed with the Obama’s and Netflix since HBO gave him a nice run while it lasted, now more concerned with unmasking Woody’s go to suck the thumb move, because it, “Calms Dylan down”, despite still showing all of his classic, hilarious films such as Broadway Danny Rose, which technically speaking, came out pre-Soon-Yi. But Louie can’t whip it out in his own dressing room after getting consent from fellow no name lesser female comics in the room without all of his standup comedy specials being taken down in a NY minute from HBO once the full court #meto career work retrospective cancelation began. Have they taken down the Rocky statue in Philly yet because it promotes white supremacy? But back to Ricky Gervais giving Price Harry some primo bashing Nazi material, to at least project the façade of being an ironic detached enjoyer viewer of Jewish humor, such as, “Who would Hitler kill first? A Jewish Albino or a balding ginger with a goatee? And how dumb is the swastika symbol. I don’t care that’s it Hindu, it still looks 2 stick figures doing a sixty-nine on a see saw.”

So back to the Leo Scramble Supreme, my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound Too Woo, can’t enough of it. He’s 4 by the way. The kid can request for me to play Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi on Vinyl or in the car through Spotify, can ask daddy to reheat the rest of his Leo Scramble Supreme, yet still can’t go to bed without a nappy, without me dropping his saggy, drenched filled nappy down our stairwell the following morning, only to sing, with unmatched, father son bonding glee, “Big plopping”, Warrant Lives, they sang Big Talking, holla, thank you very much.

Again, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo no longer dumps in his pants and goes to the bathroom for a number 2 with big boy precision. At the same time, one night, as I got ready to read the Guinness Book Of World Records, wanting to kill myself soon after from learning how much money Kevin Hart made last, year, which doesn’t make me a hater, just a bemused, short on laughs spectator. I do love his energy, and don’t think he’s a bad actor, whose gotten better over time, whom I believe, should buy the film rights to convert an autobiography of Wilson Picket to snag him 1 Oscar more than Eddie, who doesn’t have the balls to do a stand up comedy special again for some dumb reason such as not wanting to be deemed a divisive comedian who dared to make fun of Michelle Obama’s new parody remake, playing Tina Turner, titled, “What’s Talent Got To Do With It.” And Wilson Picket sang my favorite lyric, “I found a true love, and I can shout about her, yeah, yeah”, a truer call to action that I give a shit about taking, not uttered on LinkedIn, as never been blasted with such soul man reverberating bravado, holla, thank you very much. Anyway, this meandering piece is what you get when I’m off Adderall and my mother is in town blaming the great state of Texas for having to burn fucking furniture while Liver Spots can’t be bothered to visit or have FEMA offer nothing more than air dropped leftover Spam reserves from World War 2 or some impossible to defrost packets of TANG leftover from our moon landing the sixties before we learned JFK told Frank to not invite Sammy Davis Junior to his inauguration, because becoming a Jew, was a double whammy against him, which he should’ve known would put his desirability factor in extreme Jeopardy with Nazi profiteering Joe Kennedy in control of his son’s balls as a whole, regardless of the war hero “Being the brightest star in the universe for a time”, according to his backstabbed friend, old blue eyes, who didn’t sing New York, New York, until his late 60’s during his more pleasantly content plump years.

Yeah, so back to my son Chosen Curls, I’m getting ready for reading time and about to throw some sweats on for the occasion because I don’t give a shit about looking like a Trophy Dad when mama isn’t home at 9 on a Tuesday and my 4-year-old son barks at me, “Spread your cheeks.” I said, “Where the hell did you learn the expression, “Spread your cheeks”? Are you watching old episodes of OZ on the HBO app when I’m banging out more all-star chapter additions to my collection of short stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories or what?”

So, the LEO Scramble Supreme is the bomb and couldn’t be easier to make, even Hunter Biden can handle making it with the hangover from hell, whose hell raising ways, makes my younger brother come off as a serial underachiever. And if a man is judged by the fruit he enables, and if Liver Spots is a real man of unifying integrity, why wouldn’t Mr. Unity tell his son to cut out creaming into his dead brother’s wife after his cremation ensued? The most amount of loving attention to the Leo Scramble Supreme is paid toward the caramelizing of the onions in butter under a low heat, but make sure to add some extra deepening caramelizing agent at the end, which could be simple as a drop of pristine NY tap water or from bottled Smart Water, which adds an extra spring step to your step, making you feel like Jennifer Aniston on the rebound. After you caramelize the onions, mix them into beat up egg batter mix, with chopped up pieces of smoked salmon before dropping them into a semi hot pan, bubbling with butter yumminess itching to be immersed with such delectable, pristine, bright orange, slivers of smoked salmon but don’t be too aggressive with swirling the eggs into mini circulation motions before they get cooked through enough, before reaching the point of rubbery sucky return. The last step is throwing the LEO Scramble Supreme into a bowl with a pre-plopped mound of cream cheese, which makes swirly stick together as one magic possible and like my son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, you’ll be made in the shade, made in the shade.

Michael Kornbluth

Mr. San Diego

Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break?  Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead?  If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.

Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.

Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup  with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.

The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer.  For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.

Michael Kornbluth

Mr. San Diego

Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break?  Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead?  If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.

Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.

Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup  with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.

The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer.  For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.

Michael Kornbluth

Naughty By Nature Chili

He who controls the spice controls the universe.”
― Frank Herbert, Dune

You want to make Chili with legs? Then, look less gross making it in your oversized red and black checkered flannel shirt and trim your poor man’s ZZ Top beard. You’re a hot sauce sales rep from Long Island, not an oil rig owner’s slacker son from Odessa, Texas.

Being naughty adds zest to our days and has no age. For example, for lunch today I offered my son a mini-Diet Coke if he promised to not pound it in one sip and put it away back in the fridge to sneak in other sips once night falls the way he normally does. Although this time, my 7-Year-Old son says, “It’s not any fun that way. I’d rather sneak in the sips behind your back as usual.”  Understand, my son isn’t a problem child, who’s way sweeter than naughtier by nature compared to his old man. Granted, he’s only 7 and his Internet search history searching for Harry Potter Lego building videos on his Amazon Fire doesn’t make him Kid Rock calling 1st dibs on the barebacking train with Gianna Michaels at the AVN awards after party in Vegas, without bothering to pull out to leave those jizz freeing beauties a pearl necklace in redneck paradise.

But how do we get kids into chili who associate spicy food with drawn out, unsolicited agony on par with commercials ruining their cloud free TV?  First, make your chili out of love, imbibed with generous heaping’s of layered spiced flavor like any Kid Rock album where he sings, “I’m going to New Orleans, someone is going to treat me right and going to have a crawfish pie to start my day.” You never had crawfish before? Imagine shrimp with personality.  Chili devoid of spice is hot Gazpacho soup with depressingly dreary beans. Still, you can’t make spicy Chili for your kids, without raising their tolerance for spice or risk 1s,t, or they’ll be less likely to trust your urgings to take a walk on the wild side again, like the time you pushed your 3 kids to power through the watering hole in Woodstock with an unexpected, far from chill current on your tail or the time you encouraged your son to jump off the swing to freak out the local moms at Roselle Park in Pleasantville, NY after singing at the top of your lungs, “I’m going to take you higher.” Only for your son to take a mini tumble, skinning his knee a tad yet still finding the fortitude to bounce right back up before Dad asks him, “When you fall off the horse, what do you do?” And your son says, “Call Child Services.”

Being naughty sometimes means doing things in secret, because without any element of surprise, there ‘s no arousing, joyous lift, that makes the moment stick out from the same old situation. To achieve my goal of raising adventurous, risk taking kids who don’t flinch at the sight of a Jalapeno popper on Superbowl Sunday, I’ve been sneaking in doses of heat throughout all their meals for years like a Stay-At-Home Shaman Comedian. Since all my kids ate more than just Strawberries and boobie milk, which tastes like a regrettable, non-fate latte, I’d slip in red chili pepper flakes into my homemade penne vodka, knowing it would open them to a world of more tongue tantalizing, mind blowing, life enriching possibilities, by helping foster a sense of semi risking taking adventurism, versus me catering to their every request, so they’d become another entitled, enabled, fussy eater toddler twat like the rest.

You have to take baby steps, similar to me starting with Budweiser in high school, pale ale’s after college and double IPA’s in my forties for more fully loaded, concentrated blasts of a happiness in a glass. Now, every time I drink a pale ale again, I regret the decision immediately, because my taste buds have graduated to greener, more sumptuous pastures ever since. I have to bite my lip enough around a name calling, door slamming, f bomb hurling, always right wife, who threatens to kick me out of the house away from my 3 biggest fans in the universe, if I plan on following through with writing another book again. So, at this stage of my life, I’ve lost all desire to circumcise my happiness, which is denying myself the pleasure for the sake of trying to live out a calmer, less bombastic version of myself, because my opinions and passion for comedy gold generation are too aggressively edgy cheery for their tastes.

Now being naughty isn’t exclusive to cheating or being a sketchy, secretive fuck either. For example, one time, I won my son a big inflatable bat at Rock and Jump and as we left the building, my 4-year-old son thrusts the inflatable bat between his legs and says, “Daddy, check out my new penis. It’s bigger than Big John Stud.”  

Naughty is spicing things up, which can be as simple as using the Shishito peppers I discovered at the last minute in the freezer , which my wife’s friend gave us to throw into the chili as an inspired, improvised, las minute thrown in, after I realized the regular Jalapeno peppers didn’t pack enough collective oomph to turn my kids on to the expansive, soul penetrating powers of good heat circulated Chili, enough to raise their eyebrows and blow their minds with explosive edge like when I actually explained what OPP means, before writing this piece. I explained both versions if you’re wondering.

I used Kosher turkey meat for my Naughty By Nature Chili and threw in continuous sprinklings of mortar pulverized black ground pepper because added spice adds more uplifting rocking edge to our days. Also, make sure you don’t plop in the red kidney beans until the last 15 minutes or else they’ll become deflated shells of themselves like Rebel Wilson’s tits.

Eating chili doesn’t have to remind you of your perpetually broke twenties or early forties now, if it’s made with spicy, spontaneous, over the top love, which increases your tolerance for risk and adventure like Christopher Columbus after his 1st VD shot.

Michael Kornbluth