When The Shredder Frets

Vinnie Boom Boom Burrata kissed his Fender Stratocaster more than his ex-wife. In his ex-wife’s defense, she was a self-conscious kisser on pure MDMA. Plus, nothing made Vinne Boom Boom Burrata smile more inside than making his Fender Stratocaster cry. Big tits get played out on the same wife compared to copping endless slides down your electrified shaft, which Vinnie could make come to life like no other. BB King had Lucille and Vinne Boom Boom Burrata had Amanda, named after his favorite power ballad by Boston who also wrote his 2nd favorite song ever, A Man I’ll Never Be, which reminded him of his dear Dad who died in his arms from fucking Gum cancer, despite giving up dip for Big League Chew ages ago.

Vinnie’s Dad, Roberto, hailed from a fine line of guitar makers in San Marzano Italy known for its olive farms and its fertile breeding ground of Ferrari red glimmery tomatoes that were sweet enough to pop in your mouth off the vine as if they were mother earth’s answer to organic nerd dispensers. After getting his strumming finger cut off by a local mob boss Domnick De-Gutter Grasi, for refusing to pay the protection money for his acoustic guitar making store for European royalty with plenty of free time on their hands to strum away the midday nappy booze under the sun. Because of that, Vinnie was forced to leave Italy for America and move in with his older brother in Staten Island who was an Italian Butcher known for his 100 Year Prosciutto curing hall beneath his shop on Arthur Kill Road.

Roberto became known as the 9 fingered butcher of Staten Island, who’d flip off the spoiled mafia offspring 6 degrees separated from the Gotti family whenever they’d drop by the shop expecting non-stop access to his primo aged pork samplings below the store, which sold for thousands per pound on the open market. Still, Roberto never lost his love of guitar creation and swore to God he’d make a Barolo wine red one for his 1st and only son Vitto Boom Boom Burrata to ensure he didn’t let the Italian Mafia kill off his family line’s gift of heart strumming serenades that put our heart’s together with our maker in one seemingly beautiful harmony.

But now Roberto’s only son, Vinnie Boom Boom Burrata, who was his best friend till the end can’t play his cherished Fender Stratocaster without crying his eyes out for his dearly departed Dad. Vinnie quit his band Shredder after they signed a recording contract with a new upstart record label Wailing Wall of Metal Records, based on the operatic, heart tingly instrumental guitar solo song, Roberto’s Son Shreds. Vinnie’s finger tapping work on Roberto’s Son Shreds was described by Guitar World as, “Getting finger blasted by Eddie Van Halen on your wedding night great.”

Little did Vinnie know, his biggest fan was a kid known on YouTube as Hardcore Hunga Rocks, who was considered pound for pound the greatest little drummer pounder prodigy since Buddy Rich headlined his own Bat Mitzvah at 10, like a young Cameron Crowe on the sticks from Almost Famous.

Hardcore Hunga Rocks tracks down his favorite shredder of all time in hopes of joining forces to make the greatest pop rock metal record Boston never made in the home recording studio Vinnie’s Dad had built for him before he was born to become the shredding beast of the six string that he could never be since pops fell in love with Led Zepplin and Jimmy Page’s masterful slide guitar work on In My Time of Dying.

Hardcore Hunga Rocks knocks on Vinnie’s door with such force, he knocks the entire door off its hinges in the process. Vinnie, a silky, long haired black stallion emerges from his Electric Playland Studio with a cigarette in hand and says, “Who invited you the fuck in?” Hardcore Hunga Rocks springs up from the marble floor and says, “How the fuck can you afford all marble floors? Your record advance from could’ve been that big? Besides, didn’t you have to give that record advance back after you quit the band to take care of your dad?” Vinnie takes a quizzical puff from his Camel Extra wide and says, “Your Hardcore Hunga Rocks. I’ve seen your drum solos on YouTube. I’ve never heard anyone smash the drums with harder edge than you kid. You should call your band Aftershock for Christ’s sake. Hardcore Hunga Rock says, “I’m not in a band, but I would want to form a supergroup with you. If Jack White and his fake news sister can do it, we can to. Make out with your guitar all you want. In fact, I was thinking we can make a video spoof of the November Rain video and have you walk down the aisle with your cherished Fender Stratocaster while doing a remake of the serially underrated cult classic, Till Death To Us Part by White Lion.”

Vinnie says, “Shit that’s my favorite song after A Man I’ll Never Be.” So, you want to join forces to become a super White Lion cover group?” Hardcore Hunga Rocks says, “When the Shredder Frets has a beautiful tonal ring to it already. Weird Al, I fucked him, I can’t take no more. My Dad was a huge Dice fan to.” Vinnie laughs for the 1st time in years as an incredible warm crash of sea calm washes over him and says, “Fuck Boston and Pete Davidson, let’s make Staten Island stand for something stand out special more than Russian gangsters sipping on espresso drinks in 25th Hour. I sold plenty of blow in the eighties, which paid for my marble laden home despite never touching the stuff. Hunter Biden was the gift that kept on giving my freshman year at Georgetown University.”

Michael Kornbluth

United We Laugh Email Pitch

November 13th, 2022

Dear David Patterson,

United We Laugh is a comedic showcase of jokes and imagined scenes post COVID damage done as the never ending shit show rolls on. I’ve recorded and starred on 136 comedy records over the past 14 months such as Stab The Clown, Lapping Losers and Do It All Dad Does China. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his stay at home dad years. I resume my Headhunter Writer career with a focus on IT in a week.

I think you’d be a strong champion of this book because of your involvement in books about punk rock that used to be anti-establishment until Tom Morello started pushing vaccination shots that work less than Russell Westbrook running the Triangle Offense, no offense. Rodney lives, that being Dangerfield, Challah. Thank you very much.

United We Laugh is my victory lap. Help me make my Do It All Dad Year come true. Carlin and Lenny Bruce would’ve called out bullshit to voting still mattering and certainly wouldn’t take the fake news vaccine, especially if the open borders Pope promoted it, just saying.

According to my SoundCloud stats, I’m huge in Lahore Pakistan and Brazil too. Wordcount for United We Laugh is 90,000 words. You want to sell a pop culture book that actually matters, you got it. Let’s break the Internet together. Trumpy Poo Tits won’t know what hit him, Groping  Biden included.

Best Regards,

Michael Kornbluth

The Spirit Of Sal Balsamo

My dad didn’t care for Heavy Metal, but Sal Balsamo did. He loomed large over Mount Metal outside of Seely Place Elementary School, a sprawling rock formation dominated by his jean jacket worshipping brethren, decked out in Metallica, Slayer and Overkill patches on all. It was here where Sal Balsamo delivered his metal front men with 10 Commandments of Metal to burn into their burnout craniums forever.

Commandment 1:  Thou shall not steal metal riffs from Twinkle Toe Rhodes.

Commandment 2: Thou shall not disrespect thy father and mother of Heavy Metal, Deep Purple and Lita Ford.

Commandment 3: Thou shall not carry hatred in your heart for Metallica’s brothers in arms after the killer commercial success from the Black album and beyond.

Commandment 4: Thou shall pray to the programing manager of MTV for playing the Cherry Pie video on one endless loop during the winter of 90, which even made Kareem Adul Jabbar crack a smile during Ramadan that was eight miles wide.

Commandment 5: Thou shall request DJs at Bar Mitzvah parties to play Cult of Personality even if they insist on not knowing who the fuck Vern Reed is yet.

Commandment 6: Thou shall kiss your guitar more than your girlfriend’s ass after she puts on the freshman 50 at the University of Buffalo.

Commandment 7: Thou shall find a new groupie to love if they deride Heavy Metal music as awful despite GNR, Motley Crue Cinderella and Poison rocking your world more than they ever did.

Commandment 8: Thou shall consider blowing Desmond Child for penning Hair Metal classic hits like Poison by Alice Cooper, Dude Looks Like a Lady by Aerosmith and Living On a Prayer by the long haired cowboys from New Jersey, Bon Jovi.

Commandment 9: Thou shall laugh when you hear Jim Norton roast Sammy Haggar on Comedy Central with, “I don’t drink, but my hunch tells me Sammy that your Tequilla Cabo Wabo, is Van Halen light.”

Commandment 10: Thou shall pay Ace Frehley’s medical bills if Gene Simmons screws him out any future touring money ever again.

The spirit of Sal Balsamo burned on at his fort in the woods behind Seely Place one unseasonably warm December afternoon before Christmas Break. A fire erupted after a scatter of fiery ash landed on top of some old, discarded rugs used for after school hook ups with Elisa Velle on Valentine’s Day. Sal and his metal head Disciples watched in holy shit man aw as the fire raced up a giant oak tree, rapidly approaching his old Kindergarten classroom at Seely as it roared with Metallica Kill Them All rage up high in the sky. Sal Balsamo’s father was a retired fireman from Yonkers, NY and former roadie for Led Zepplin, so blazing inferno’s, backdrafts and fiery satanic altars his father would walk into as Jimmy Page pleaded with the Devil for more electric slaying chops than Hendrix or Tommy Iommi ever possessed didn’t dampen Sal Balsamo’s metal worshiping spirit one bit.

Then, a voice emerged from the fire that screamed, “Run for the hills, run for your life”, which freaked out Sal and his crew because the voice sounded exactly like the human air raid siren Bruce Dickenson from Iron Maiden because his supernatural voice pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal Heaven. So, Sal and his crew run for the hills as the fire roars on with a Gene Simmon’s type of fireball blowing delight. Now, in the fire Gene Simmon’s face emerges and yells, “Loud, I wanna hear it loud, right between the eyes.” And Sal Balsamo’s crew starts screaming the chorus in the unison while looking up to this Heavy Metal light show for the ages, no longer running for the hills with such divine powered pushed authority anymore.

Do It All Dad, a 46-year-old self-stylized Hair Metal Comedian takes a break from retelling the Spirit of Sal Ballsano and his son Hardcore Hunga Rocks says, “So what happened to the fire Daddy? Did Gene Simmons burn his tongue on it or what?” Do It All Dad says, “Eventually, the fireman extinguished the fire and what you see is the original Seely Place still standing.  But Heavy Metal never dies and it sure is fuck ain’t noise pollution. So, it’s on with the show Hardcore Hunga Rocks. I think you’re finally ready for Nightmare on Elm Street, but let’s blast Too Fast For Love in the car first. Their leader guitar player Mick Mars is the Freddy Kruger of shredding.”

Hardcore Hunga says, “Let’s get on with the show already daddy. But when we get home, you get to play Van Halen on vinyl and use me as an air guitar appendage for Eruption, then we watch the movie, or I’ll be your worst nightmare, moron son, got it.”

Do It All Dad says, “Only if you promise to shout at any future devil bitch who tries to tell you Heavy Metal sucks.”

“Deal daddy, deal.”

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does China

Stop spreading disinformation about COVID, it was made in the offices of the Capital Building with China through Zoom.

What major adjustment did the Chinese make post COVID? Didn’t they all wear masks to begin with because the air quality there is more polluted than Michelle Pfeiffer’s womb in Scarface.

Seriously, what major adjustment did the Chinese make post COVID? Hire the Tiger King to manage their new social distance bat petting zoo through Zoom?

The Last Emperor of China was made emperor at 2? Is that in dog years?

When the kid become the last emperor of China at the advanced age of 2, rice farmers muttered in their pre commie censored heads, “I don’t care about the 1 kid policy anymore, if I’m still allowed my monthly ration of Mongolian Barbeque, that includes all the frozen meat packed Lassie I can eat.”

The Dali Lama was already distancing himself from Richard Gere after Sharon Stone’s birthday bash at his crib, when he said, “Those prayer beads didn’t come in red Gere.”

Why is the Delta virus so contagious again? Does it contain the distilled essence of real life patriots from past Trump rally’s of yesteryear? I don’t get it.

But seriously, why is the Delta Virus so contagious again? Is it easily catchable like jungle fever from Pamela Grier retrospectives on IFC for Queen Latifah’s lesbian awakening month?

The Washington Examiner insists all it’s employees wear a mask in the newsroom if they’re not vaccinated . Failing to call out blatant election fraud as the audits roll on, hasn’t made their bullshit detection ability any sharper with their swamp thing siding masks off.

New York City will now require proof of vaccination to dine inside. But your never ending, beyond played out, politized lockdown already destroyed the greatest city on earth and put the Oyster Bar out of business in Grand Central. So at this point, what difference does it make? Like a Jon Hamm donation to pearl necklace Harris for her failed presidential campaign, because Dominion had Mr. Groper’s back regardless, despite his failure to instruct to Hunter to cut out crack, knocking up strippers and creaming into his dead brother’s wife seconds after the cremation ensued.

But the unvaccinated will be allowed to dine outside, harassed by BLM and ANTIFA knowing the unvaccinated resisters are more easily identified to terrorize for the grave offense of sticking up for election integrity laws and for still remaining on Trumpy Poo’s side to, despite him doing less to stop election fraud in advance than ensure Ivanka inherited a shot of his colorful personality through sheer osmosis already.

New York City will now require proof of vaccination to work out at Equinox fitness in Chelsea. I don’t think the fabulous high gay furniture designer is sweating the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus before he goes down on Charlie from accounting in the men’s steam room there either.

Mayor De-Blasio says, “It’s time for vaccine ID mandates. We’ve offered everyone incentive to get the shot in the world, Shake Shack for life, VIP passes to breath on Bruce Springsteen backstage on Broadway through one of Steven Van Zandt’s silk scarves made in France, riding the train on Cardi Bi while waiting for the Lex line to resume it’s normal working business hours again, anyone out there, Mueller, Mueller.

The band Offspring fired their drummer of 14 years because he followed his doctor’s advice and refused to get the vaccine because the potential side effects put him at greater risk considering his pre-existing conditions like being a closeted Trump supporter before the day he allowed Democracy to die under his Tweet topping watch.

Kicking a drummer out of a band who refuses to get the vaccine shot is anti-establishment rock at it’s finest. What does the lead singer of Offspring do for an encore now? Bite off the head of a fake news Chinese Bat to prove non FDA approved vaccines are nothin to fuck with.

In related news Pearl Jam is reported to be playing at Obama’s 60th birthday party at his Martha’s Vineyard’s estate. Will Eddie Vedder blather on about rising sea levels overlooking such pristine oceanfront property. Will he make a plug about global warming despite Al Gore’s speaking career cooling considerably since Pearl Jam socially distanced themselves from Ticketmaster till they couldn’t find a better ticket seller around? Will Eddie Vedder dedicate the song Last Kiss to every Italian Grandma who to give the ghost of her dead husband one last last while dying alone under COVID lockdown arrest because Cuomo couldn’t let all those extra body bags ordered go to waste? Despite all those spacious hospital beds shipped in by Trump that got less touches than a bible at a bath house colony in Provincetown. Will Eddie shy away from singing the song Black, because Obama can’t identify with being a black baller knowing herode the bench an all Asian private school in Hawaii? Eddie Vedder performing the Jeremy song would be done in poor taste, knowing more kids died from suicide than from COVID this past year. Plus, the song loses it’s dramatic oomph knowing Jeremy under remote learning circumstances would’ve gone out with a less of a bang by blowing out his brains on top of his school issued laptop with 13 Reasons on Why on Vinyl playing in the back of his head.

Speilberg dropping by to celebrate Obama’s 60th birthday isn’t the best look for our Jewish people. Obama Be Good only nuke gifted Iran 150 billion on his way out the door to make their economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal creams for the Kardashians.

Interesting fact: If you’ve already gotten the COVID virus, it increases your immunity to fight off charges of fear mongering bullshit like catching an itchy esophagus from a Trump rally retrospective on Newsmax for old times sake.

Can’t you picture George Soros reluctantly watching another huge Trump rally in his one world headquarter palace in Beijing and blurt out loud, “That’s it, get me the Wuhan Lab institute. Time to unleash the Franken Bat on MAGA country once and for all. Is Andy Dick done experimenting with our bat hicky, blood draining treatment yet? With all the blow flushed out his system, I’m positive Apple TV will insure his next film The Adventures Of Tranny Sitting now.”

The Chinese show more blatant disregard for COVID birther stories than free samples of AquaFresh.

Did you know the Great Wall of China is more than 4000 miles long? That’s what Pamela Anderson said.

I’m dropping my kids off at camp and the crossing guard said, “Slow down.” I said, “That’s why Hunter’s dealer said.”

I read the 1st paragraph of 1984 to my 3 kids last night. Daughter asks, “What’s Big Brother daddy?” I say, “A bunch of fake news good will hoodies, Zit Face Zuck included.”

More lockdowns and mask mandates are living, breathing trophies to mark China’s never ending winning streak since the day Democracy died. And the never ending shit show rolls on without a peep from Bruce, who wrote Death To My Hometown. Ain’t that a shame, Fats Domino lives. Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth





Short Lived Nirvana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Captain Pricks

You never truly outgrow getting paranoid about rock concert harassment for packing weed man. It’s much simpler taking only one edible in the parking lot prior to spice up a Bjork concert with your wife in London that she booked an entire trip around despite you protesting to see the Shrieking Seals on the Isle of Wight instead.

Recently, went to a Grateful Dead cover band show in Portchester at the Capital Theatre in New York and planned my alibi in advance if Security asked about the edible I was packing. Because I needed extra reserves if I got stuck talking to any name-dropping Deadheads who always act like they’re on a 1st name basis with the band. Bobby has his own brand of Kombucha now called Mayer Monk Street, I think. Phil is modeling for Korean vogue since he gave up drinking. Jerry did so much smack in 86, even Lou Reed would call him Captain Pricks.”

So as expected, I get patted down aggressively by security, regretting my decision to get dressed up for the occasion. Personally, I would’ve preferred a hard dick squeeze versus him patting my baggie in my pants with only one measly edible in it, so I could barely feel a thing. Security has me whip it out and I say, “It’s Melatonin.” Security says, “That’s not Melatonin. Besides, you don’t have to worry about that in New York anymore.” And I say, “Then why are you trying to give me a fake news panic attack? Shouldn’t you be asking me if I prefer Indica vs. Sativa as a form practice for your day job at the cannabis dispensary if you’re such a subject matter expert already? Not that I’d ever schlep over the Andrew Cuomo, no I won’t jump off my own bridge for some more edibles in the Swamp Thing state, stink a lot Jersey, represent, but you get the gist. Captain Pricks, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Love Juice Lore

Sammy Hagar should be the new permanent cover of Men’s Journal Magazine.

Screw Deadpool in Tights, Ryan Reynolds looks like a metrosexual lesbian in comparison these days.

There’s only one way to rock and Sammy Hagar has done it for the past 45 years without losing his rock steady step.

Name another rocker who does so much banging on tour, he runs out of gunk for 3 weeks straight.

Imagine Sammy realizing he’s still out of gunk by week 3.

I don’t know what to tell you baby.

You’ll have to wait another 3 weeks to finish what we started.

Grab a meat ticket and a Cabo Wabo tequila key chain on your way out.

This Senior Frog can’t drive 55.

Love Juice Lore lives, Challah.

Red Rocker rocks on with more Heavy Metal.

This banging, American made Eagle has been in swoopy andale mode for a very, very, long time.

Michael Kornbluth

Sweet Summer’s Gone

Let’s talk about how great St. Louis Cardinals fans are and why New York should be fly over country instead. Cardinals Nation gave Mark McGwire consistent standing ovations during his initial 0 for 28 hitting slump after they traded for him midseason, not knowing if he’d resign with them in the off season after his contract was up. Halfway into his hitting slump in Pinstripes, Yankee fans would’ve been raiding Mami’s closet for Energizer batteries to pelt at his Pez Despenser head while hyped up on shitty coke from Washington Heights.  Plus, if I took HGH or any performance enhancing drugs at Sleepaway Camp at Kent, CT growing up, it would just make me strike out at a more accelerated speed. And fuck the Cubs organization for severing all ties with Sammy Sosa after bringing all of Wrigley off its feet during that long gone summer of love. It only marks the longest streak of Bill Murray remaining 80 percent smirk free, which beats out Tina Fey after pussy grabber beat Hillary Hammer Time Cankles fair and square. Fuck the Cubs for making Sammy Sosa feel less welcome than a resurgent herpes sore on the spot. I don’t care that he fucked up his face or not. Sosa was loaded with personality, who made Clemente come across as glaringly, self-conscious uppity in comparison, and made that Marris chase worth giving a shit about it, way more than Bonds and McGwire ever did. But the Cubs have no problem banishing a former shoeshine boy from Dominican Republic done good because the New York Times pre-fake news published the Mitchell Report because Bob Costas has smaller nuts than Juan Gonzalez did, that was based on hearsay and more unverified sources less reliable than Jared Kushner holding out more than 2 Mississippi after Ivanka talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again. Sweet summer’s gone, Challah. Thanks for the memories, Sammy, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Cinco De Mayo Mope

It’s hard to completely love Sammy Hagar when you’re a recovering alcoholic. He gets to rock out for 4 decades to your 1 because you pissed your bed without fail throughout your late twenties. I’d be pissed to. Especially, if you never got try to his Tequilla. Why Can’t This Be Love blasts on surround sound at the local cantina in Hermosa Beach as a Recovering Alcoholic mutters to himself over his Quiona stuffed burrito during Cinco De Mayo, “Fuck Sammy Hagar, I hear his tequila tastes Van Halen light.”

Michael Kornbluth

Funny Zone Day

Would Peloton instructor Jess King blame the clot shot if one of her tits froze during one of her summertime rides to get jiggy with it? After talking to her left tit, during a live ride of course.

“Why aren’t you moving Cabbage Patch Splat? Shit, this ride is live, I totally forgot. Yeah, so what Peloton, I call my left tit Cabbage Patch Splat. When you get paid 300 grand to pretend your comments about my bedazzled bicycle pants matter, I’ll give a shit about your designated Indian name pronouns used to address my lesbian rocker online like Strapped With Vape Cartridges, Dead Fish Flopping After 3 Hour Workdays or Doxes With Twitter Twat Wolves. Shit, Eric Clapton wasn’t really bullshitting us when he went on Instagram and claimed how his 2nd booster shot made his playing hands strung by the all mighty temporarily paralyzed almost immediately after. What, I used to bang an A&R rep for Island Records when I used to study Trance Gender Dance Studies at Borough Community College. My thesis was, “Libra Lesbians who adhere to a Pescatarian puss diet are finger licking good. Wait a minute, I can feel Cabbage Patch Splat get jiggy with it again. Thank God, I fake news believe in you again Lord. And FYI Peloton nation, my power couple lesbo baby is due in October. So, don’t expect me to me care about your upcoming training for the New York City Marathon while I’m too busy planning our 1st kid’s name together during my 2-week paid maternity time off, which is more than you make you in a year MAGA mom selling DeSantis Bobble Head Dolls on Etsy. And it’s don’t say gay, it’s happiest place on earth day, Deplorable Mom Bombing. The name Moderna is very modern, sheik sounding and full of social good, don’t you think? My Indy rock wife wants to go all in on high-end hipster cheek and name our foreign imported seed Polly Fume Blanc, she’s Frech Polynesian, in case you’re not following my killer clutch smoker flow. We’re going on a second honeymoon in Bora, Bora after I pump out this asinine Alabatros already. It was my wife’s idea, not mine. She doesn’t live in Austin Texas anymore because of the no abortion thing. Before it was Kosher living there, because the city of Austin still covers the cost health insurance for working musicians still living there like Gary Clark Junior who takes on the era of Trump Era Racism in the song, “This Land”, because prison reform for gang bangers and no bail laws, post-George Floyed riots, regardless of them resisting arrest or not or Lebron ever getting called for traveling is so oppressive. What, I was raised in a red state like Oklahoma, why else do you think I’m trying to piss off my Oil Rigger Manager Dad on purpose, now turned Solar Pannel Salesman/Caterer for Horse De Vores and Bugs on Bill Gate’s placenta Smoothie farm retreat next to a nearby military base that just housed a wrap up party for Tulsa King starring Sylvester Stallone this Fall, which reminds me. That A& R boyfriend for Island Records who turned me on to Jamaican Beef Patties for bit because he told me that all the pineapple smoothies he drank, would offset his greasy baster tip, also told me that 4/20, the national pot smoking holiday, because it grew wild around King Solomon’s grave man, is also on Hitler’s birthday. Tuff Gong Junior said, “Now, puffing to Bob on Tuff Gong, never felt so wrong. I was bummed to. I mean, the last time I felt this violently hosed was when I learned how Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson in Expendables 3. What, I’m half Jewish to. I thought my squeaky annoying voice, borderline okay-ness with working in New York and balloon size breast implants made in Miami were dead giveaways, you Jess Land hater hicks who call me a raver pig who stepped in glittered shit. I’ll dox your ass in a NY Minute if you make fun of my IVF kid like that, try me, homo hater nation. I’m a raver pig who stepped in glitter laced shit you say. I wouldn’t have been let near any aerobics instructor acceleration class in the eighties because it looks like my ass swallowed up Jane Fonda’s extended family down south on Ted Turner’s side. But Peloton is a judge free zone you, glitter hating motherfuckers. And I’m not married to giving a shit about your PowerPoint presentations any more than your hipster hobbit homo, Long Island hack breath husband is. Will you still love me tomorrow, Peloton? A red state reared Jewish Lesbo sooner from Oklahoma who identifies more with going down on premium, fast lane puss on Pelton Mats on top of Tapestries made in Paris, than housing those snooze feast fur balls in my rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side next door to Carole King. Because I’m a killer clutch smoker and you’re not.”

Who knew that off the list Jess had so much to get off her chest.

Killer Clutch Smoker lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth