Last night, with mama at work, my daughter asks, “Daddy, what do you love about mommy?” All of a sudden, I felt like a gay Tony Soprano, splathering, “I love that she’s the mother of my children but I’m not loving her more for mama saying in mean spirited, call back jest, “Don’t worry, Matilda, I won’t divorce Daddy if he keeps on making Quesadilla’s like this.” You can make an argument that a comedian should be able to take a joke at his own expense to. Still, when, my precious Bashert daughter gets involved, knowing she was the one who retrieved mama’s smartphone search history involving, how to do divorce unemployed, lushy, stay at home, she male comedians, made the offhanded on the surface innocuous reply, personally offensive to me because I don’t consider my daughter’s happiness plummeting through the equator without me in her life in my standard, beautifying at home fashion a laughing matter to derive self-serving chuckles with.
But just to reminisce a little, my love for the Quesadilla doesn’t start with one’s flush with bomb fresh, not too tarty goat cheese and glistening, piercing green zucchini blossoms, which you always spend a spleen on at the Farmer’s Market to get, the 2 days a year they’re for sale at the Farmer’s Market in Union Square and beyond. No, the roots of my fetching, surging interest in recreating some Quesadilla love on my own from home, stems from the various salsa’s I fell int love with during my IT Headhunter agency days after college throughout Southern, California, before it resembled an extended, roadside mall tent city. The Black Dog Café on Wilshire across the street from E Entertainment Television where I scored my 1st temp job in LA, which lead to me dating a casting director who used to date Gabriel Byrne from Unusual Suspects, is where my lifelong fixation on replicating the side herbed, darkened hued, tomato salsa to dip their bomb scallion, diced up chicken breast, medium sharp cheddar, always tasty, never lump or dried up, scrambled egg lined Quesadilla began. I’ll never forgive my younger brother for giving me grief for taking him to the Black Dog Café when he visited from NY once, going completely ballistic over the fact how I made the affordable, posh, no line hassle, brunch dining experience all about my needs instead of his, because I dared to order him something different than his standard, bacon egg and cheese on a roll. Granted, my younger brother had no clue about the incredibly annoying fact how in 2001 in LA, deli’s that served bacon, egg and cheeses didn’t exist, forcing me to try a microwaved egg sandwich, once, which tastes like zapped happiness on the spot. The Quesadilla was never burnt, their in-house, dark roast coffee blend to help digest this meaty, scrumptious, protein rich breakfast offering, made any meh deli back east, with their freaking faded Goodfellas posters, clinging for dear life on the walls, a far flung, easily discarded, memory. When I lived in Sherman Oaks in the Valley, I would schlep over the Laurel Canyon up to borderline Koreatown to hit up my old school stomping ground at the Black Dog café, just for that blended, concentrated blast, of brain deepening dark roast coffee again and again, so go woke yourself little bro, you unsophisticated hick, who orders angostura bitters to put in the Woodford Reserve with one cube I ordered for both of us to celebrate the birth of my lucky number 3, my chest.
Tito’s Taco’s in Culver City also offered a simple yet bomb Salsa, which you could’ve always order a larger side portion with for less than 4 bucks, which was a consistent no-brainer like hitting on the chesty MILF at the Black Dog Coffee, only for you to regret receiving her phone number after she insisted, we do more than meet for a drink, as if I’d waste a Benjamin on taking her to Six Flags in Valencia either. I used to live in West Hollywood and would take my ex-live-in girlfriend to a local Tex-Mex joint on Santa Monica, which boasted a beautiful retractable roof while serving the freshest, sliced, heat packing Jalapeno’s that every chicken and steak fajita felt incomplete depressing without them dancing on top.
So yeah, back to the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla, sauteing red, yellow, orange, any sweet pepper with red onion in butter alone and you’re set it the veggie department, throw some freaking Arugula in there to make your soul feel healthier than usual. Shredded cheddar is nice, but so is the killer combo from Stew Leonard’s, which boasts Queso, the Mexican Mozzarella, light Cheddar and Monterey on my mind. Making homemade salsa for the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla proves, you’re not above being cheesy romantic either.
Gimmel, a high school wrestling star for Jerusalem High, turned professional Bookie for the Maccabees stands in prayer, lip synching some horse-shit prayer in honor of some half horse, half man freak Centaur, who also happens to be hung like an Arabian. Shin, the local tailor, adjusts his fancy schmancy Tallis like a stressed-out Rodney bombing with new material at Dangerfield’s and says, “Gimmel, have you ever been Hellenized? Because you know I have. How else do you explain my fear of getting electrocuted to death since Zeus jammed a thunderbolt up my wife’s snatch because she called the Goddess of Wisdom Athena, fake news deep compared to the Lord, our God, not the God of Loud Rain.” Gimmel elbows Shin in stomach and says, “Stop making me laugh Shin, you’ll arouse the wrath of Gelos, the personification of laughter, because despite his Greek God status, he isn’t endowed with the funny Jew bone to bang out room shaking laughter with either. Nun, a Kosher winemaker enters the Greek Temple after wining and dining a Greek senator who threatened to take over his family winery if he didn’t erect a marble sculpture fountain of Dionysus, connected to underground barrels of pricy Cabernet Sauvignon, which spill out of his golden chalice cup every other 2 seconds. Nun spots his friends Shin and Gimmel whispering to each other, lip synching up close near the holy side of the Greek Temple where the Golden Menorah used to light up the 2nd Temple before Antiochus took over after Alexander The Great died and turned the Second Temple into a headshop for Greek Gods, where they now sell bundles of Incense Sticks for 5 shekels and a gram of Hashish. What a country, Judea had become.
Nun lines up next to friends, Shin and Gimmel, engaging in fake news Greek God prayer and whispers to his old school Jerusalem High wrestling buds, “What are you 2 doing here again? You’ll get crucified if the Greek priests overhear you kvetching about you having zero interest in worshiping Pan the Goat Boy during the never-ending 2nd Temple period. But you have to bitch because we already paid our synagogue dues before King Antiochus turned our JCC gymnasium into a members only gay bathhouse for Greek senators to bask in endless leisure, admiring each other’s flappy rounds of mound. ”
Hey, the Kosher Dairy Farmer, enters the Greek Temple with a Chalef knife, whose incredibly sharp edge ensures a painless, Torah commanded, gentle as can be death for cows later converted into Brisket stew. The Negev Desert sun glares through the newly refurbished stain glass window designs of nymphs playing tug of war with Hercules cock. But this blast of holy powered light nearly blinds the Greek Priest leading the service as the Negev desert light bounces off Hey’s Chalef butcher knife and refracts into his Greek God loving eyes. Which I’m sure reminds the Greek Priest of the time he wanted to poke his eyes out after getting black out drunk from a 3-day Theatre Festival in Athens, only to wake up next to Medusa’s sister, who rapes drunk, Greek Priests at will because in her presence, black out drunk or not, you become automatically frozen stiff. As the Greek Priest rubs his eyes in extreme agony, Hey, The Kosher Dairy Farmer, with his Chalef knife held high in the air, yells, “Maccabees rule. We’re the chosen people for a reason bitches.”
8 days later, the magnificent band of Maccabee warrior brothers reclaimed the Greek Temple and turned into the grand 2nd Temple of old, without barely breaking a sweat, because the Lord was on their side. I bet you 8 million Shekels Hermes ran for the hills away from Zion, as fast as he could, refusing to give Zeus that message. Happy Hanukkah!
Once upon a time there was a Kosher sushi chef prodigy Art Show USA who opened Kosher Klaus Sushi on Christmas Eve in 1994 before the Internet became mainstream and Asian elite Yelpers went hog wild. Kosher Klaus Sushi was located in the heart of Scarsdale Village, which earned immediate rave reviews in the Scarsdale Inquirer from local food critic Debbie Wasserman, who described Art Show’s mind blowing specialty roll creations as “Orgasmic before they reach the back of your throat good.” What made Art Show unique outside of his unmatched imaginative heft and juggling sushi knife work at the bar were his God given star powered looks, which commanded legions of groupie Yentas to schlep from the far reaches of Long Island to wait on line in the dead of winter to just catch a glance of the new age pretty boy bad ass Sushi Chef through the window, cranking out one swoon worthy, inhalatory Sushi specialty roll after the next, like his signature one, Living On The Edgemont Edge, which had smoked salmon, Cream Cheese, capers and caramelized shallots throughout to inject an extra special loaded lift.
Every day, Art Show USA would sharpen his Sushi Knives together made from Israeli steel used in bullet proof vests made for their special force’s unit Mossad, which would woo, with sparkly, dazzling delight as patrons at the Kosher Klaus Sushi Bar gave impromptu standing ovations throughout. Art Show USA was a 6 foot 4, spikey blond haired, blue eyed, lean, mean, Sushi slicing machine, who made Tom Cruise from the movie Cocktail look like a stumpy, homely hobbit hipster hack, in comparison, regardless if he kept his rolled up sleave button shirt, tucked in or not. But one day, a bunch of rowdy Irish wiggers, entered Kosher Klaus Sushi to track down a hot yenta breath from Syosset, Long Island Rachel Weinstein, who rocked swinging, booby beauties, 36 D’s to be exact, who was also a solid 5 foot 9, making her mountable from behind standing up, assuming you weren’t a stumpy Irishman, unlucky in the height department. Rachel was full lipped, Sephardic Persian tan busty beauty, even Roger Waters from Pink Floyd would pulverize her fetching snatch until he was comfortably numb. The leader of the wigger Irish pack was Liam O’Reilly who sported a Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus, which scared off most, but not Art Show USA. Art Show USA was a black belt in Judo by the time he was 13 for his Bar Mitzvah. For Art Show’s Bar Mitzvah Party, he played Siamese Dream by the Smashing Pumpkins on the guitar with his feet and teeth. So Art Show USA was never sweating the prospect of losing a fight or a girl to an Irish wigger moron from Long Island, who thought stamping a permanent Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus was a bright idea, regardless if it ensured him a truck driver job for Killan’s Red or not.
Liam and his crew of Irish wiggers came down from Long Island to start a fight with Art Show USA because they attended the same high school as Rachel Weinstein and only had eyes for inhaling her whole. Plus, they weren’t enthralled with the Rachel wearing an underground, circulated hoodie with a picture of Art Show USA on it, sporting an American flag bandana and star of David gold necklace around his neck, showcasing well earned, non-banking job related bling.
Liam cuts the line with his Irish wigger posse and bursts into Kosher Klaus Sushi like Mark Wahlberg on the set of SNL after Andy Samberg did a sketch about Marky Mark talking to farm animals. Liam bum-rushes the sushi bar and says, “Hey, faggot. I’ll kick your ass right now, to show all your groupies what a pretty boy faggot, gay pussy bitch you are in real life.” Art Show ignores Liam’s Alpha Dog attack. Liam jumps over the sushi bar to strike. Art Show does a look away kick to middle of his forehead, which sends Liam flying into the ceiling fan, which knocks him out senseless. Art Show USA says, “Alexa, play Jump Around by House of Pain.” Kosher Klaus Sushi erupts into instantaneous jubilee, Jewish pride pounces the air, inspiring Rachel Weinstein to flash her tits at Art Show USA as the entire restaurant throws their gold necklaces with Stars of David’s on it in her general direction, in honor of all those sweet, harmless Jewish boys who were never taught to defend themselves like the Hebrew Hammer, Bugsy Siegal or Art Show USA.
The considerably less greasy Pastrami from the 2nd Ave Deli in Manhattan comparéd to Katz in the lower east side on Houston Street, offers a killer Pastrami on Rye yet memories of more meh bites of pricy Pastrami, don’t make my heart flutter with more erect interest the way repeat showings of the Cherry Pie video on MTV in junior high did or provide the same rapturous joy in hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet in high school throughout lower Westchester County once we all become licensed to drive.
Not every Pastrami sandwich on rye from Jewish Delis in New York is woo worthy. Growing up in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, our only local option for Pastrami was at Epstein’s, located on a semi-derelict, zero frills section of Central Avenue close to White Plains, NY. Where my friends and I used to frequent a local bodega who didn’t ID, to pick up more forties of Old English, Snoop Dog’s old school ho sprayer of choice. The pastrami on Rye at Epstein’s is only 13 bucks compared to its vastly superior, smokier succulent cousin at Katz Deli on Houston, the oldest deli in America, which was big time before George Burns uttered on his deathbed, “I got off easy compared to Jackie Mason, who had the misfortune of being branded as the less lovable, more overtly Jewish, curmudgeon version of Don Rickles.”
Reality is, you get what you pay for and the pastrami at Epstein’s always tasted a tad blubbery rubbery to be classified as Yelp stroking, jerking off Pastrami ever. Is the Pastrami at Katz infinitely better than Epstein’s? Is the Catholic Church soft on condemning pedophilia? Still, Katz is a schlep if you don’t live downtown or anywhere remotely close to the Island of Manhattan. Plus, the place is a dump and pictures of Ben Stiller on the wall don’t make it anymore alluring either regardless of him being the face of Mugatu or not. Also, when you go to Katz for the 1st time when you’re already in your late twenties when you’re selling ad space for the Village Voice, which doesn’t include the sale of she male size stamps in the back, you feel unfashionably late to the Pastrami is king, rallying party. I’ve tried the Pastrami from the famed Montreal Jewish deli transplant Mile End in the East Village, which packs as much old world charm as Ethel the waitress’s armpit stains, as she scribbles in your order, cursing your existence for being such a predictable, blah brain bore like the rest as she thinks, “Pastrami on rye with spicy brown Mustard, how original. I bet he thinks Bill Maher wishing for a Recession on Real Time to get President Trump out of office, pre-Corona was an example of keeping it real, resistor like, boy!”
My intention isn’t to completely crap on the most unifying of all foods for gentiles and Jews alike, Pastrami on rye. Still, taking my 3 kids to Epstein’s this past Saturday to celebrate my upcoming all-star book review for The Great American Jew Novel, to be published in the Midwest Review of all places, I was slightly embarrassed for hard selling my kids on how Pastrami is considered the Filet Mignon of kosher cow dishes. Granted, this type of Pastrami wasn’t the Austin smoked brisket kind or the Katz caliber, but for a comedy writer who prides himself on his originality, I felt like a used Honda car salesman, for pushing the Pastrami on rye to my 3 kids, by inferring they’d be fake news Jews without embracing the Romantic Comedy date nosh of choice.
Matilda, my eldest, actually emoted about her bit size bite of Pastrami the most, saying, “I like it Daddy. But can you make your London Broil again but a tad more tender next time?” Arthur, her younger brother said, “I like my Hebrew National Hot Dog way better than the Pastrami Daddy. Can you start making your Hebrew National Dogs at home taste more like this?” Baby brother Samuel took some excited nibbles from the pastrami, but he wasn’t doing any yummy dances in the smoked meat’s delicacy’s honor either. I inhaled the remainder of the Pastrami sandwich but only forcmere blessed meat Kosher sake. I actually preferred bites out of our communal square potato Knish by itself, without even dipping it in the too sour spicy brown mustard, proving meat isn’t always better, especially if it’s not a homemade do it all dad creation you made yourself.
At the same time, my kids were very giddy in our padded booth, sucking down their Dr. Brown’s diet cream soda, which isn’t nearly as sugary sweet, with big hearted, didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world relish. On this unseasonably warm Saturday, before we visited my nearby old elementary school in Edgemont, NY as I proceeded to make it rain with more perfect arching jumpers from way downtown before I started freaking out the more career stable parents by the playground by gunning our nerf football at our kids heads, which they ate up with a spoon. Sometimes, the best things in life, don’t have to be smoked, cured, brined or seasoned, reminding me how the only ingredient necessary for old school fun, is being silly as you want to be, which never gets played out in our hearts.
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.
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 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’s 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 a pushy hop peddlers with nothing else to sell was boring and a not family business he could bequeath to his 5 gorgeous, hard working, 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 with her green, orange and pumpkin, foot root, which infected all the hop vines on his farm, wiping out any chance of 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 is Yoga wife instructor wife, Crystal enforced. The Wino Witch of Croton Falls, never got on her feet again until now.
Because of this Farm rot, fungus 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 hops varieties, including Angus, Apollo, Atlas, Bravo and Flyer. So during his morning run through the back trails of his former hop farm fantasy, 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 and says, “Farmer Todd, did you teach your 5 sons to give foot massages like the one you give your 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.”
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 Farmer’s Market, which was tad girly sweet for their collective tastes.
Because of that, each massage the five sons give makes the Whino Watch of Croton Falls, helped ignite her glow gene inside, which made her feet return to a beautiful, inviting form again as her transformation from 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 week of the Halloween, when all of her sordid, past emerges, through a disgusting outgrowth of fungus and wart 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 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 to inject their Buffalo burgers with funkier, less gamy heft, only to demand they’d give her mini wheels of blue cheese back for her tickling her feet feet with their headdress feathers, lying about being a half-breed, called, “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 suitor from ever trying to soften your bitter, angry, nasty heart again.
The Great American Jew Novel is finally available in old school book form. I trimmed the fat, which detracted from the thrust of my plot long time. You can consume the book in one inhaling easy. I’d love reviews in exchange for a signed a copy, which will be worth big bucks someday. The meatier offering version of The Great American Jew Novel, loaded with more mouthfuls of hilarity is available on Audible, for those who require an occasional breather from time to time. Have I sexualized my books enough for your tastes yet?
Email me anytime for a complimentary book request on the house at email@example.com. I blogged the Great American Jew Novel into existence under the Corona lockdown of 2020 through the grace of God and his sustained belief in me rising to the occasion. I also wouldn’t haven written this book with such extreme gusto without the sustained interest of all you hardcore WordPress fans throughout every new chapter post I made. My daughter Matilda, inspiring me to write a mini star vehicle in her honor and entertaining her 2 younger brothers with creative play while I banged out my 1st semi-autobiographical novel on the cusp of my 44th birthday helped long time to, despite the last thing my wife wanted to hear was that I was writing another book again.
Thanks for making me a big dreamer doer again, WordPress fans at large. My Do It All Dad Year Podcast, this blog and past 4 books wouldn’t have possible without you being the best open mike audience God has blessed with me outside of my 3 biggest fans in the universe on the stay at home comedian front, no offense. Also, thanks again to my old school Twitter peeps, for all your past retweet joke love, which helped give me the confidence to take down all the big dogs in comedy throughout my pre-election comedy special Resist This book. You’re the best to.
Last, on Yelp they don’t call me Michael the Emoter Kornbluth for nothing. So, I’d have zero problem reviewing any of your books in exchange for a review of The Great American Jew Novel or for Resist This, only 60 plus pages, available in print form now to.
My Very Best,