The Metal Edge

The mother responsible for her son developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at 2, called Torticollis, where the neck muscles contract causing the head to twist to one side as a result from too much newborn plopping time alone the crib, summoned the gaul to ask her son, whose about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian Mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY lounging on a money Polo Lounge green Adirondack Chair, overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into Fencing?” The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, “Headbangers Baller is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their neck. So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made Twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker with the colossus wind power to match.  Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden is a championship fencer yet his nerdy hued, Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge. I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski and Slash wrapped into one. He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss plowing play. Force =Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indominable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line which will be recession proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in post COVID universe gone wild till our last dying breath anyway.”

The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than Basketball and Baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old school fencing decorum bullshit out the window. Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, you name it, so he could afford to pay any fine for inappropriate, hot dogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.  Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before Fencing matches, boom, “Let’s get ready to rumble”, Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin”, while Kickstart My Heart by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surround sound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair. I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant, nor is he 3rd generation wrestling royalty like the Rock or have a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho. So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible? He also plays with collection of lightsabers now more than he does with his cherished Wrestling figures and he owns the original rubber dog toy size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat among many others with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off ebay to match. Kayne West is worth 6 billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for 1 grand and up ma yet there’s no limited, in demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all. I envision a flashing middle F-You, finger logo that’s sporting the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred”, to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers, ripped jeans and shorts, obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red.  He’ll have his own line of studded, belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats and tang tops to show off his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise work out videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as Moth Into Flame by Metallica plays at full blast, being responsible for his shredded physique once he steps into something more comfortable for post fencing fight interviews.  I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes and Steve Vai for love of God, kickass metal guitar solo’s and for his metal loving American Dad who pushed him to shred for bread. On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.  I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships, so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into Fencing mom.”

Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson like Football for instance. The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Will be sticking with Nerf football in yard ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, mom no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for 9 years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once yet, case closed. Alsodad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock. Because if I bowed down to this belabored, weak ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from Boarding School, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody. So, Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a Tiki Torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in 89. And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all 3 of my kids and my speedboat Slashing Thunder.”

Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?” Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric fueled comedy gold. I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids because they’re my kids, not yours, especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time. I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing work I was good at, which made me feel most kick ass, happy alive.” Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer 2 fencing scholarships a year max.”  

Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing 3 times in a row, shredding every fencing record in the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops and speed metal belt with his signature middle finger logo, sporting a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred”.

Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed addicted seed or not. Shredder’s soar. Shredder’s fly high with the angels like 3 Guitar Attack from Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird. Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive, because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

White Privilege Lasagna

Lasagna, I don’t care who makes it, is normally a soupy saucy, droopy, ricotta plopped, dumpy looking mess. For a native New Yorker like myself, I always saw Lasagna as a tourist trap order like peep shows in Times Square in the seventies or apartment rebates in Manhattan today, offering zero deposit and the 1st 2 months free, since the greatest city in the world turned into an office space ghost town. Also, if I have to hear one more story about some NY transplant renting out a million-dollar mansion in South Carolina to conduct Zoom meetings in splendid, far more spacious isolation, I’m going to drive our family SUV off the cliffs of chained, middle class fixed insanity.  

Lasagna isn’t the most versatile dish to serve after winter either. I’d rather blow my calorie intake on hop forward pilsners and 4 sipper watermelon beers from 21st Amendment from San Fran during the heat of the night this coming summer than get weighed down by a dish full of heavy melted cheese best suited for a shittier Godfather remake in the making. And how exciting is the standard ground meat stuffing offered in most Lasagnas? If I weren’t eating Kosher now, I’d prefer a bomb meatball parm hero from Carmines off Broadway, over their ground meat crumbled lasagna any day of the week because you’re getting far heartier, tastier, meatier loving bites. I also write a gay food blog for closeted married men with kids called, “Meatier, The Better.”

My wife made lasagna in the past with tofu stuffing inside, which is as arousing as it sounds. Tofu has no place in Lasagna. It’s more out of place than a Guido with a tan line in South Beach on Spring Break, holla, thank you very much. Outside of dumping on the totality of what this fabled, old school Italian dinnertime dish classic has to offer, I’m going to spotlight a superior alternative that I learned to make from the domesticated goddess of home hearth enhancement Martha Stewart, The White Privilege Mexican Lasagna.

You know your White Privilege Mexican Lasagna is a hit, when even your normally snooty, compliment free mother-in-law feels compelled to compliment it 2 bites in, uttering, “This is very good. You’re making my daughter look like a slacker lazy brain in the kitchen. She’d thrown in the towel 50 rolled perogies in for our next Uki church bake sale guaranteed.”

I’ve futzed with the Martha Stewart recipe over the years, yet my strongest batch of White Privilege Mexican Lasagna used white corn tortillas versus the standard corn tortillas, which tend to lean more toward the grating side in comparison like COVID Loonies who insist on wearing their masks in the car versus others willing to pull it down on the elevator alone to suck their thumb for added comfort.  

You sauté the black beans, red onions, and jalapenos in vegetable oil 1st, before spreading them into the casserole dish with layered mini flying saucers of white corn tortillas, layered, with shredded pepper jack cheese and Monterey in addition to homemade salsa made from cherry tomatoes, 4 jalapenos at least, cilantro, red onion, and plenty of lime. I’d buy two batches of cherry tomatoes for the salsa topping to maximize maximum spreadage like Katy Perry hoisting up her pushup bra equipped with multiple party screamer kazoos attached on the tips. Also, use 2 rectangles of Monterey and Pepper Jack from the Cabot cheese company or else it will taste like a cheeseless White Privilege Mexican Lasagna. You might well add some tofu inside and commit an Asian on white priveledge Mexican Lasagna hate crime in the process.

My 7-year-old son asked for 3rds, which was unprecedented like George Lopez doing 5 minutes of straight of stand up without spicing his set with some Spanish in between to keep it cornier yet earthier real Holmes.  White Privilege Mexican Lasagna won’t stop Asian hate yet the more we embrace culturally rich cuisines outside of our preconceived prejudices, the less clannish will act at home and out.  Last, beating up on Chinese Grandma isn’t a good look thug lives matter. JR Smith doesn’t even find the act cute. But at least JR Smith has an NBA ring and earned the right to party topless in Vegas for 3 days straight. At the same time, nobody thinks picking on Asian granny requires courage of any kind and nobody is ever confusing your disgraced nuts as Thinking Balls to devise your new 5-year masked mugger plan with. You’re offended? Good, go woke yourself to. That’s the way the Fortune Cookie crumbles.

Michael Kornbluth

Fussy About Fungi

Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.

For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.

But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”

No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”

The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight.  Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.

The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.

Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like like the neutered fucking help.  Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake,  I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does Mormonism

“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

Toni Morrison

Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of 3 was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height already.  He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him, yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be?  Do It All Dad had gorgeous looking jump shot yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league knowing, his ball handle was weak and could only dunk out with a mini basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process.  One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student, still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie in the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters, there, who mostly came from the boogie down Bronx, versus his more snuggle soft secure upbringing along the Tudor housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked over Hebrew National Dog from, assuming your uncontrollable putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again or you just dropped spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed puffed at increasingly rapid rate. One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad then known as simply Josh was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages Phonebook and launched high with zero hesitation for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority as the lost 20 year old college senior, without a passion to latch a career on to yet, miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating on the top communications schools in the country, that being Ithaca College, which he’d call Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later, thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So, I scored 10 points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor. It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge then, consisting mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint, knowing whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away scared from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla. “Then, after Julio’s raise the roof, in your face, I’m the man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking out himself, saying, “Your turn Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it player.”

Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension knowing his less than lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his Varsity playing basketball days, when he used to run on this tippy toes instead of high tops, looking like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model instead. If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach, he’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did, he’d joke about his in act when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the great. He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck up Jenny from the block. 2 minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-hoo Bottle, doesn’t spin itself bitch.”

Now, Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline who gives an encouraging fist pump raising, signaling, you can do this champ. Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he started running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff, which stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim. It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing fear prevented him from flying high again. Julio approaches Josh, as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, I’m such a worthless putz, deflated state and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly B.”

Now at 45, what was holding Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels?  Assuming ownership of his original birth name Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua, knowing Michael was considered partially God like in the sense he packed enough fire power to kick Lucifer’s ass out of Heaven wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.

Do It All Dad loved his IPA’s, yet after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut, which most would say was done in extreme poor taste, he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPA’s had to offer his rapidly depleting, voided world, without his 3 beamish, wonder kids in his life anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay at home comedian years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match after the next.  Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior. One quote, which always weighted heavily on guilty plagued conscious was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison, stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that’s way you down.” Now, Josh was divorced from what descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly. On a less psychic mumbo, jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini beer belly, which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking out glory, where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good. The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.  

Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife, like at 2 drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC for starters. After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or 2, to enjoy the post kill rush among a sea of new touch feely female fans? Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild. If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle, by giving up his precious espresso pods, IPA’s and focus on shedding the extra 20 pounds holding him back from flying with rock powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks at amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame Induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself, he was a capable of being better a man after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet he at a Seattle coffee shop.
But what would Josh do for money to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute? Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again, to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again. No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which made him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years. Josh was blessed with a booming, motor mouth to, who was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his 2nd oldest in swimming and his 3rd into volleyball, all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each, so how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child supports up?  Because getting another 50 K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at 45 wasn’t going to get the job done either.

Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blond mom in tight ripped jeans, normally, who was caught staring at his swelled package, the 1st time he gave her the greenlight to give him his spikey haired, lean mean, machine makeover, an idea emerged. Josh says to the chesty, sweat drenched, chesty, perfect feet manicured, Julie in bed,  “I can’t make a living a working comedian or as an author yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time suck in my life, which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore in life, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin, if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow, so I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Pelton riding instructor because they all bore me to freaking death. I don’t care how tan ripped solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leaderboard every time without completely coughing out a lung either. Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison in addition to becoming a star provider for my family after all, which is what I pray to God for every morning anyway. The most popular Peloton Instructors make 300 K a year. No wonder why their smiling so fucking much because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning. Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor to look stylish and be cheeky, bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Pelton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home to. Plus, I wrote the entire script for Vhl Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kick ass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time. Plus, I know enough about hard rock to know Foreigner kicks way more ass than fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could, my chest. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”

Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?” Josh says, “Mormon Moms, they’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US, even more than Beverly Hills. I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.” Julia says, “Look Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks, which I’m not complaining about one iota either, but let’s be honest, I’m your divorce rebound lay, nothing more, nothing less. Although sometimes, a divorce rebound lay, can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”

Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA for the back cover pic. I think I finally found a way to do it on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion national park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla, thank you very much. Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, can be sold as self-help, mid-life crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down, that being beer and a nagging ex-wife, who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer, which is bullshit all the way. This would prove her wrong and I could become the star provider for my family after all. Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything, for this part like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?” Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink free edibles for claiming PTSD after learning my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my 3 kids behind my back. The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello wresting wife night. Plus, I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism, because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it. I could thrown in a line how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into Heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor, who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to blocks the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the 1st place. Ban ICE, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destructions years, my chest.” Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big time, Peloton Instructor, maybe, I’ll fly to visit you.” Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay career revitalizing muse of sorts with steamy, inhalatory glee and says “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers from Yonkers, NY. Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition. So how about I pump up your box one more time for the road instead.” Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and says, “I’ll take that has a hard yes.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth  

COVID The Clown

Screw next year, today we send in the clown. I don’t care if we get fined or reported to child services, in case any of the adults in attendance are joyless rat bastards at heart, intent on alerting the authorities or Good Will Hoodie at Facebook about our socially distant resist birthday party in honor of my 1st born, the always luminous, effortlessly sweet, way funnier than Blossom will ever be, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth. You only turn 10 once baby and her grandparents don’t even know about us raising her Jewish yet or her getting Bat Mitzvah in 3 years through Zoom so our new spying Chinese overlords can see what star powered personality is in motion, knowing Ivanka Trump’s daughter, will mostly likely read her Haftorah portion in a monotone, colorless manner and do some boring speech in Mandarin about American exceptionalism losing its luster since her daddy allowed American Democracy on his watch. So here he is, without any further, drawn out, divisive introduction, COVID the Clown”, says Matilda’s former Investigative journalist father for the Chicago Tribune. Who just got canceled after his ban from Twitter for insisting the 2020 election was rigged and how the Chinese have resisted Wuhan lab investigations more than Aquafresh, forcing him to take a job as a Bitcoin blogger, addressing nefarious claims of sketchy money laundering money, being the biggest backers behind the new digital hit currency titled, Show Me The Dark Money.

One of the grandparents in attendance, Rachel, a wrinkly, veiny, haggard looking, Jewish mother, from High Land Park, sporting a BLM baseball cap, born and raised in the handsome, affluent suburb off Lake Michigan, 40 minutes north of downtown Chicago interjects immediately and says, “I wasn’t told about there being any clowns at this party? Do you have proof that he was vaccinated? Did he just come back from Florida on Spring Break? Does he have a history of performing in black face? We just had one clown in the White House, why bludgeon us to death with another? A Stay-At-Home Dad there in place for his heart surgeon wife whose always on call, interjects and says, “Clown lives matter to bitch. All the comedy clubs are shut down indefinitely and SNL only has so many open slots to fill and Pete Davidson already has a monopoly on being the boy toy rebound king of Staten Island for Generation Z, who looks like Annie Liebowitz and Barney from the Simpsons had a baby. So please spare us with anymore of your BLM bullshit, proclaiming looting aint a thing a but a Gucci thing, because were all not overrated performers like Beyonce who sat out the national anthem for the Superbowl to protest Demi Lovato singing it, because she sounds like the white privileged version of Alabama Shakes.” The other adults in attendance struggle to restrain themselves from laughing long time. Matilda’s father, who introduced the COVID Clown earlier adds, “You’ll be pleased to know Rachel, COVID The Clown, only performs in orange face, so here we go. Let’s give a huge round of applause for COVID The Clown”, resulting a in fairly tepid measuring applause that follows.

COVID The Clown enters the room doing a half-formed Cartwheel to Everybody Needs Somebody To Love by the Blues Brothers, blasting on his old school Radio Raheem conjuring boom box from the Spike Lee joint, Do The Right Thing.  Matilda’s friend, nerdy yet sassy friend Devon, who suffers from premature, puberty disease, forcing her to wear heavy sweaters to conceal her awkwardly, mountainous formations underneath and says, “Who taught this clown how to a cartwheel? Is he drunk on discontinued Trump vodka or what?” COVID the Clown launches into his standup comedy act and says, “Who’s excited for a Burning Mask Party? All the kids cheer in unison with maximum glee. Rachel the BLM hat sporting Grandma interrupts a solid attempt at crowd work and says, “But you’re not even wearing a mask Bozo the Clown. Plus, you don’t annunciate to well in the 1st place. So why would wearing a mask be such a muffled disservice to your act in the 1st place?  I have a Doctorate in Speech Pathology from the University of Chicago and was kept on retainer by the Obama administration to instruct him on the best ways to help minimize his ums, ah’s and resurgent lisp off the teleprompter. Plus, I was instrumental in reversing President Obama’s awful habit of referring to his wife as Michael for some odd reason.” COVID Clown replies, “Maybe, Obama wishes the former 1st day were more camera friendly like Mike or performed cooler under pressure after she threatened to break her arm up his ass after he offered Beyonce some Paul Newman’s lemonade over her own homemade Kombucha ever again.” Matilda’s father, howls with laughing approval as deathly silence engulfs everywhere else in the room, as the Stay-Home-Dad nearly bites off his lower lip in the process. COVID The Clown says, “Have you ever heard of divorce immunity during COVID? It’s a fake news to, doesn’t exist actually. I used to believe in divorce immunity during COVID, until my commercial agent dropped me after Twitter banned me for life for all those Wuhan lab cover up tweets. I also thought divorce immunity during COVID held out some applicable promise, after I got kicked out my Second City troupe, after killing on the main stage for 3 years straight since another cast member doxed my personal info the Chicago Tribune and had ANTIFA show up to door man apartment in the Loop after they shared my old tweet screenshots about Obama that said, “Fuck Trump, Obama’s the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized.  Mass extermination of all his pesty, hook nosed critics who criticized, his time out nuke deal with Iran would be a gas.” I’m banned from using Lyft and Uber now to because I went on the Gateway Pundit Podcast in attempt to sell some tickets for my one man show, Resist This, which isn’t happening now obviously and on air said, “Deplorable is anyone whose glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.” Rachel, the BLM hat sporting grandmother says, “I don’t think this material is child appropriate. If we were in the UK, you’d be arrested for flagrant violations of hate speech already.” COVID The Clown says, “I went to London against my will with my nurse wife before we got divorced and lost custody of my daughter, the brightest star in my universe. Wife got us tickets to see Bjork. I wanted to see Petrified Forest personally. Now, my choice is either entertain arrogant baby boomer grandparents on the kid birthday circuit as orange faced COVID The Clown or pack up my tricycle bag of clown noses and fly Southwest to Arizona to take a job as a Nurse Recruiter, next to parents’ estate in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my head between my legs, in search of my balls every dropping by for a surprise encore appearance again. Recruiting nurses for a living, based on their teamwork and ability to buy into synchronized Tic Toc dance routines for their Chinese spying masters is just what the doctor ordered.”

Matilda, the 10-year-old birthday girl chimes in and says, “I’m sorry to hear about your ex-wife COVID The Clown. And I think it’s really sweet, how you don’t want to move so far away from your little girl. But can you stick to the burning mask party material? Because my friends would rather play with my new American Girl tent set, then spend one more minute listening to your sad sack life story, with no comedic relief on the horizon in sight, no offense.” Rachel the BLM hat wearing grandmother adds, “I agree with Matilda. They’re already more people in this room than I feel comfortable with, knowing this birthday bash is a super-spreader bound to happen. Why don’t you just go home and call it a day? I’ll pay you whatever you were promised, just to stop you spreading such vicious lies and toxic disinformation about President Obama and Hollywood’s biggest overseas market today, the NBA included. COVID The Clown says, “I’ll give you a super spreader bitch”, and squeezes his flower lapel on his shirt which squirts a stream of Orange Crush into the BLM hat wearing, grandmother’s eye. Everyone in the room finally laughs together in unison. Matilda’s father says, “What’s wrong Rachel?  Would you feel more morally outraged if COVID The Clown shot grape soda into your eye instead? Because then you could’ve accused him of being a racist dictator clown, guilty of racially profiling your BLM hat, according to Trevor Noah. Ever notice how for 8 years when Obama was president, you never overheard anyone online at the Post Office, announce with sincere, palpable glee, “I love Obama.” Comedy Central Executives felt the same way when they decided to resign Trevor Noah for the foreseeable future.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Shell Shocked Snappy

Wine Coolers, Jello Shots and reluctant repeat sips from your 1st can of Budweiser help melt teen shyness away. But pet Snapping Turtles aren’t 9th graders in junior high, who haven’t got into the puberty party yet either. At this point, Matilda a 12-year-old entrepreneur and inventor of a suction sticking party ball strobe light machine called Party Magic, was willing to blow some of her Kickstarter startup money on a Past Life Regression consultation with an Animal Communicator at a nearby Crystal Shop in Ridgefield, CT to get her new pet Snapping Turtle Snappy to come out of his shell already because changing his name from Waxy to Snappy wasn’t helping. More than anything, Matilda wanted to boogie board in Australia, her mama’s home country, along Mother’s Beach, 30 minutes north of Melbourne for her parents 10 year anniversary yet she didn’t feel safe in those Jelly Fish infested waters without a trustworthy, Snapping Turtle to ward off attacks by her side, knowing their preference for scarfing up electric, purple haze stingers.

The 70 something, bushy haired, frumpy, shawl strangled, Sedona sun wrinkled transplant, Animal Communicator, Talks With Toads, lounged out in her cubby size room office within a crystal shop in nearby Ridgefield, CT, and takes of her bi focal glasses to examine Snappy The Turtle more closely. Who Matilda reveals hiding in her old beat up backpack, knowing his tendency to fart uncontrollably, especially around strangers, which she considered a reason for why Snappy The Turtle’s head was hid in perpetual shame so often.  Talks With Toads says, “Matilda, over the phone you said, Snappy won’t come out of his shell around strangers.” Matilda says, “I’ve offered him Lobster Rolls from Stew Leonard’s, smoked Nova from Russ and Daughters, bought him the Tony Robbins audiobook boxset, which wasn’t cheap either, so I’m running out of options hêre. Our first Kornbluth family vacation to Australia is tomorrow and I don’t know what to do, because Snappy is my 2nd line of defense against all those Jelly Fish in Australia after the Jelly Fish nets which aren’t even available in the beaches in Bondi, and that’s where all the serious boogie board action happens anyway. My parents wanted to get married in Australia, where my mom is from originally yet my Grandma shot it down. She calls my dad and says, “Australia is a long trip from New York Scoops and your dad doesn’t love you that much.” Then, my dad made a compromise with my mom and says, “If we have boy one day, will hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision, just to hear a room of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Talks With Toads spits out a deep, weighty laugh, opening up her throat chakra more than any downward dog pose ever could and says, “Does Snappy ever come out of his shell around your daddy or does he get intimidated by larger-than-life comedians to? I saw his performance at the Montreal Comedy Festival on YouTube and coughed up a lung in he process. He made such a strong, funny man impression the last time your family dropped by the crystal shop. And I don’t care for most stand-up comedy these days. Plus, how creepy is the comic Anthony Jeselnik, knowing that he considers psychic surveys on how many missing children they’ve seen through their Carrot Cards as being the height of God loving hilarity today?” Matilda says, “In Anthony Jeselnik’s defense, God commands his chosen people to forsake the counsel of psychics in Deuteronomy, but my dad told me is was Kosher to make an exception in Snappy The Turtle’s defense.”

Talks With Toads does her best to shrug off a smart-ass Jewess rubbing God’s law in her face with such effortless fluency and decides to plow forward with her Past Life Regression reading for Snappy The Turtle, so she can get back to watching some bestiality horse on man porn on her lunch break, which now can’t come soon enough. Talks With Toads grabs a sapphire crystal from a cramped, unorganized drawer, representing the entire kitchen sink of healing, past life reading gemstones known to mankind and places it on Snappy The Turtle’s shell. Talks With Toads says, “I see a Deadhead at Giant Stadium in a Soup Truck RV called Terrapin Soup, blowing high grade, 75 dollar an eighth weed into Snappy The Turtle’s face again and again as the live version of Scarlet Begonia’s from Cornell 77 blasts on the tape deck in the background. I stopped going to shows after I stopped smoking weed myself.”

Matilda says, “After my 2nd birthday, my Dad took me to a Dead Show in Bethel Woods, in upstate New York. I pointed at a dinged up looking Deadhead sucking down a Nitrous balloon and said, “Birthday.” And my dad says, “No, Burn Out Day.” Talks With Toads unleashes another full throaty laugh again and says, “Wait a minute. No, he can’t be.” Matilda’s interest in Talks With Toad’s Past Life Regression Reading has reached peak interest and says, “What do you see now? Is the Deadhead owner feeding Snappy The Turtle’s head with a sheet of acid or what?” Talks With Toads takes a deep breath, doing her best to conceal her startled state as she pulls back her long, tangly grey hair and utters in a whispery, barely audible tone, “The Deadhead owner is serving Snappy The Turtle’s family for dinner.”

Matilda jumps out of her chair in a bewildered state of dígust and yells, “I thought Deadheads ate Grilleđ Cheese Sandwiches after Dead shows when they got the munchies.” Talks With Toads says, “Munchies don’t happen when you’re on 4 tabs of acid dear. Hold on, I see a line of Deadheads around the parking lot in Giant Stadium waiting for this Terrapin Turtle Soup Truck to serve bowls of Turtle Soup to cure more endless bad trips on Hêrculean amounts of acid. The Merry Pranksters used to spike garbage cans full of fruit punch with Acid during 3-hour Dead jam sessions back in the day before you tripped over shit throughout the Cable Car lined streets of San Francisco. Eventually, the college dropout hippies who weren’t banking on replacing Santana anytime soon, became howling, starved lunatics, left with no other choice but to eat stray cats behind the dumpster at Mu Shu York’s. Soon after, a famed chef from New Orleans, Gumbo Greg, who went on to become the executive chef at the Philly Club for years before opening his own restaurant in North Beach, Chowder Panisse, gave Jerry Garcia the idea of serving one of his freaked out tripping groupies some Turtle Soup in their house on Haight Ashbury to cure her bad trip, after doing the same for Dr. John during Jazz Fest once after he crawled himself up into ball on stage, thinking, he’d turned into psychedelic, night tripping crawfish. Crawfish, you know Shrimp with more personality, similar to John Mayer teaming up with Grateful Dead and Company, injecting scruffy smooth with a dose of much needed personality.” Snappy The Turtle finally snaps out of his shell and yells, “Thanks for the flashback bitch.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Never-Ending Prick


“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort”, asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a 50 something well dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like. The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment within the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights from Julio Silverbade, the 3rd, before his co-op eviction trial began.

The Manipulative Prick otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot, loved doing cocaine, mainly on the weekends though, when he wasn’t working. So what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine to. Last month, when the newlyweds received their 1st of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a 40-year-old phone sales rep Verizon says, “Relax babe, our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me, because his life sucks compared to mine, that’s all. Wife Kate, a 35-year-old, one time divorced pretty yet worn-down looking ER nurse says with weary disgust, “You’re a 40-year-old cokehead who sells smartphones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of a hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about exactly, your tar stains on your 2 front teeth? Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career secure?  You think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at 4am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody free snatch? Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor for a Jewish cokehead, your Hebrew name is under judicial review? Maybe, he’s jealous about you being a no-show Uncle, whose more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from 5 years ago today, than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on News Years Day, moron.”

Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor, who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day and says, “First off, I take incredible offense, being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.” Then, a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke to get him erect with aroused interest at all these days.”

The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money here.” This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it. Now, the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion, during your eviction notice hearing already. You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name automatic fuck up, or what?” Now, the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

Co-Op Board Member 2, a wrinkly, diminutive yet feisty, retired realtor chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other 50 plus and over tenets when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion free during your final eviction notice hearing? Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, drugged out loud when consequences for your got to have satisfaction up my nose, whenever I want behavior have never been greater.”

The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him, the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior in addition to the realtor’s wig and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone when my wife works the weekend shit, especially since COVID hit these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils, which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much actually.”

Now, a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling, through a fancy schmancy chandelier, while looking more like the worm giant from Dune as all the Co-Op Board members duck for cover under their judgement table, as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction. Co-Op Board Member number 2 squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face screams, “What the fuck is that? The Never-Ending Prick.

The End  

Michael Kornbluth

The Neverending Prick


“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort”, asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a 50 something well dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like. The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment within the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights from Julio Silverbade, the 3rd, before his co-op eviction trial began.

The Manipulative Prick otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot, loved doing cocaine, mainly on the weekends though, when he wasn’t working. So what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine to. Last month, when the newlyweds received their 1st of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a 40-year-old phone sales rep Verizon says, “Relax babe, our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me, because his life sucks compared to mine, that’s all. Wife Kate, a 35-year-old, one time divorced pretty yet worn-down looking ER nurse says with weary disgust, “You’re a 40-year-old cokehead who sells smartphones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of a hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about exactly, your tar stains on your 2 front teeth? Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career secure?  You think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at 4am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody free snatch? Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor for a Jewish cokehead, your Hebrew name is under judicial review? Maybe, he’s jealous about you being a no-show Uncle, whose more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from 5 years ago today, than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on News Years Day, moron.”

Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor, who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day and says, “First off, I take incredible offense, being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.” Then, a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke to get him erect with aroused interest at all these days.”

The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money here.” This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it. Now, the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion, during your eviction notice hearing already. You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name automatic fuck up, or what?” Now, the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

Co-Op Board Member 2, a wrinkly, diminutive yet feisty, retired realtor chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other 50 plus and over tenets when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion free during your final eviction notice hearing? Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, drugged out loud when consequences for your got to have satisfaction up my nose, whenever I want behavior have never been greater.”

The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him, the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior in addition to the realtor’s wig and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone when my wife works the weekend shit, especially since COVID hit these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils, which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much actually.”

Now, a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling, through a fancy schmancy chandelier, while looking more like the worm giant from Dune as all the Co-Op Board members duck for cover under their judgement table, as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction. Co-Op Board Member number 2 squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face screams, “What the fuck is that? The Neverending prick.

The End  

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does Decadence

If my 10-year wedding anniversary celebration was less than lackluster, knowing my Koshtertarian menu options were limited to a fried fish sandwich, then, I’m not going to lose any sleep over my premature celebration of my daughter’s upcoming 10th birthday over some whitefish salad smeared on top of toasty crisp, bagels from nearby Goldberg’s in Katonah, NY this weekend, with my favorite person in the universe, before her 2 younger brothers were born, no offense mom. We had a good run while it lasted, but neither of us can compare the depths of our former love to what our 3 beamish rays of sunshine offer us, who are fuss free 98 percent of time because controlling our kids can make our kids great again, and our kids largely thanks to my Do It All Dad molding, are as good as it gets.  

Almost a decade ago, I yelled at my dad for the 1st time ever, with major divine powered, you better respect my life blaster authority feeling, for making my newborn baby girl smell like Don Draper’s corpse if he chose to forsake Lucky Strike’s for Tareyton 100’s, assuming he stayed with the Jewish department store heiress, Rachel Whinestein from Madmen, and got hooked on them one summer in Israel. I’ll also never forget the reaction from my mother, almost a decade ago in our Queens apartment on the outskirts of Astoria, NY, when she calls me after I went totally ballistic on my father for ruining his granddaughter’s April fresh smell out of the womb. Mom says, “I can’t believe you yelled at your father like that. But if I have to choose, I choose your father every time.” Wow, and I thought Gore Vidal had mommy issues. I haven’t thought of this depressingly dreary moment in ages, yet the idea of siding with your legally bound partner in love from the wedding alter, versus your own flesh and blood, unless your own kid, writes obituary headlines for Rolling Stone such as, “Rush Limbaugh Did His Best To Ruin America”, is beyond me. Working for NPR as a curated news opinion blogger is a tad better knowing they’re not afraid to rip the glaring inefficiencies embedded in our US postal service knowing it’s just another glaring extension, of federally run, ruined, overreach. But I thought big government was the answer to all our problems like removal of Holocaust history at Bronx public schools or penalization of high achieving Asian students because black power and self-reliance are outdated concepts such as good, banging intellectual rap or goaltending in Basketball knowing the NBA is going to bend over backwards to let Lebron win more rings than Jordan because it exists now as a safe space for the king of the persecution’s complex’s ego. So what difference does it make? The infinitely funnier Rush Limbaugh lives because I was blessed with the funny Jew bone, holla, thank you very much.

But Rush Limbaugh was a bigoted feminist hater because he insisted the Woman’s March on Washington looked like a whole bunch of Rosie’s sporting a whole lot of chin’s, while thinking, “Talk about stretching your pussy hat supply thin.” Wait a minute, that’s my material on debut comedy record Resist This, except when my mom asked, “Did my beautiful granddaughter Matilda watch the Woman’s March on Washington? I said, “Yeah mom, but only after I insisted, she watch the march on CNN in a full length burka, to see she had nothing to bitch about in comparison. Plus, Matilda is finally learning how to read mom. So, the last thing I need in my life, is her trying to make out one of those protest signs, asking, “Daddy, what’s pa, pa, pussy power? Is that a new show on Amazon prime?”

Well, that was pleasant stroll down memory lane, and I didn’t get to the point, when almost a decade ago, my father says, “I don’t know how we’re related.” And this was after I splurged on white fish salad, bialy’s and Sturgeon from Russ and Daughter’s in honor of their 1st grandchild not smelling like Don Draper’s dead corpse drenched in Aramis just yet.

My daughter, Singing Rose Kornbluth can read my books now such as The Great American Jew Novel where she plays my 9-year-old agent to make my do it all dad year come true but she’s too busy making flashlights from scratch for her science class to put a spotlight on my labors of love just yet. She also loved the White Fish salad, even more than us learning about fancy adjectives to describe it such as delicate, which was a funny adjective choice to use when doing a Mad Libs later that night, based on the subject of George Washington, who wasn’t an easily triggered, Millennial Mouseketeer or critical thought impaired, news idea fed, baby boomer last time I checked either.

If Do It All Dad decides to retire in Florida way down the line, at least now, I know my Do It All Daughter will love me enough to send me care packages from Russ Daughter’s whenever she’s not too busy lighting the universe, with her majestic, awe inspiring touch she has on everybody blessed enough to come in contact with such hilariously sweet poetry in motion. I can’t wait to take her to Tavern On The Green to celebrate me finally getting a lit agent, although according to Soundcloud, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan, which is the literary hub of Pakistan.  So, retiring to Pakistan, after I cash in from my a plus gem studded, stand up comedy special, Do It All Dad Does Pakistan, could be a hilarious climax to this fairytale father daughter, adventure tale.

Do It All Dad doesn’t do pork, so I’m off to a strong start in city of Lahore, Pakistan, already. Plus, they have nukes, generate 84 billion in GDP, and boast a thriving industry called Lollywood. Do It All Dad Does Lollywood has a better ring than Do It All Dad Does Pakistan actually. It has all the makings of the most hilarious standup concert comedy film ever. Fuck you Eddie. I can rock a King Solomon royal purple jacket to.

What’s my new 10-year plan? Become the king of comedy in Lahore baby.  Together, my daughter and I can plug Russ and Daughter’s and make their gift packages flush with white fish salad go viral. Shit, they can even sponsor the stand-up comedy tour and will call it Decade of Decadence, indulging the locals of Lahore with plenty of saggy tits Sarah Silverman jokes to hold them over till Ramadan ends.

Michael Kornbluth