Pissy Life Hack Tips

Do It All Dad, a self-described Stay at Home She-Male Comedian performs another killerset in his bedroom office on his Do It All Dad Time Podcast, titled, Pissy Life Hack Tips.

“My quest is to make my son a shallow sleeper, so he won’t piss his bed anymore from being such a deep-thinking sleeper. I’ll stop talking to him like he’s a Talmudic scholar for hire. “Rabbi Samuel, is it better to be loved by your kids or by strangers on stage every night at the Comedy Cellar, getting your funny man freak on for a living?” Son says, “Get a life ancient moron and figure it out yourself already. I’m still only 5 years old remember.”

But seriously, is deprogramming deepness considered a legitimate pissy life hack tip that’s a shortcut to improved parental happiness if forcing your kid to wear a nappy to bed is no longer a drawn-out tug of free will anymore?  Reality is my son only pisses his bed at night. So, my pissy life problems have to a be a result of my son being too much of a deep sleeper.  You might think I’m being a tad melodramatic for yuck, yucks sake, but having to duck under your kids bunk bed to make his bed again after washing his soaked Star Wars sheets and bedcovers is enough to push any man to the dark side. So if I want to avoid stripping my son’s wet sheets off his bed again like he’s a young Corey Feldman who’s been the hitting bottle too hard with Sam Kinson backstage at the Comedy Store again, why don’t I shame bribe him, by insisting we can’t watch Spaceballs ever again unless he comes out as a Farm Boy from Princess Bride for Halloween, except whenever a homeowner giving candy asks, “What are you dressed as for Halloween?” Samuel must say, “Piss Bucket Boy from History of The World”, before flashing his plastic pumpkin candy holder that’s packed with PJ Mask nappies to the rim.

At first, I thought banning my wife from giving our son Melatonin gummies would prevent him from falling into deeper states of extended sleep while contemplating, who would win in a street fight, Rudy or Rocky, if Bruce Lee trained Rudy first. My son’s still wetting himself like I did after waterboarding myself as a 12-year-old kid from trying to jerkoff but only succeeding in hosing myself down with a golden shower after Emanuel After Dark on Showtime because I hadn’t gotten into the puberty pool party yet.  So to avoid  becoming my son’s permanent wet nurse like Jill Biden on demand, I’m going to groom a shallow beauty, so he won’t get lost in deep enough focused thought on ways to bitch slap the future 5th grader who dares to spoil his sister with Starbucks gift cards on Valentines Day without taking the time for a midnight bathroom break who identifies with Fatal Attraction Astronauts from NASA.

Instead of watching documentaries on Andre the Giant, which focus on Andre’s excessive drinking problem to drown out the pain of being treated like a regrettable freak of nature in airports like the man who dresses like Meghan McCain in drag for Teacher Appreciation Month to read, “Divine Gives Bi-Curious Geroge a Banana in His Tail Pipe.” Will binge on Keeping Up with The Sloppy Third Kardashian Sister, since Kim backed out to focus full time on studying for her bar exam because Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now.  

I’ll insist my son doesn’t flip on his hoodie to hide his chosen curls at the grocery store anymore to avoid more grown Italian MILFS hitting on him with lines like, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” Only for me to say, “No offense lady, but if James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

I can buy my son a waterbed for his birthday to avoid more weighty deep thoughts. So instead of meditating on the rapidly encroachment of irreversible death like Hemingway does in Old Man and The Sea, my son can dream about the glory days of Boogie Nights Porn pre-VHS tape, before tatted up white girls cranked up on Crystal meth ruined the golden age of muff diving forever. Back when the mountain muff on the MILF from Scandal in the Mansion on the big screen looked like stacks of Brillo pads resting on top of a busted Slinky.

I could also deprogram deepness from son my forcing him to sleep every night in a Tanning Bed. And instead of reading him poetry at night from Charles Bukowski about the serial bitterness and predictably dronish, small soul producing dullness swallowing up our empty, consumerist controlled lives, while sloppy drunk hookers come knocking down on his door in broken high heels at 2 o clock in the morning, will start rehearsing his Trump impersonation for Halloween. But not just any old impression of Trump, but an impression of Trumpy Poo after he tests HIV positive, after the Deep State pricked him with the same dirty needle used to take out Easy E to prevent him from running again. “Who are you for Halloween?” Son says, “Little Man Trump who just tested HIV positive because Melania slept with Magic to get me back for the Stormy Daniels fiasco. Do I have HIV?  Yes, but my t-cell count numbers, have neve been stronger.”

But I like talking to my 5-year-old son like he’s my Talmudic joke whisper manager. Son says, “Daddy, stop being an ancient moron. When are going you going to record comedy record 96 already? After that, you’ll only have 4 more to reach 100. Rodney Dangerfield never did that. Even Papa would have to respect that. Johnny Cash told his daughter Roseanne Cash she had to learn to play 100 selected songs before she could set out to become a master working solo artist remember moron son? I still like the title Genius on Tap for your next comedy record. Think good and will be good like Rebbe Schmendel Schneerson said. You’re always a genius just Jack Kerouac told himself remember mega dumb son. Besides I own you and you ain’t poop without me. So, finish strong like Stallone does in Over-the-Top Daddy, none of this meet halfway crap, go for it all the way. Fight the good fight, achieve perfect laughter with the Gods, loneliness is a gift, to test your will to prove how much you really want it. What, you’ve been reading me quotes from Bukowski on Goodreads since I was 2. So, get a lit agent to read your entire manuscript for Waste of Height, Really Short Stories already.  Then, we can afford that comedy gold mobile and go on a book signing tour together, but never forget, more jokes for me, are more jokes for your comedy records, got it.  I can wear my Muscle Beach shirt when you do a book signing in Venice, despite you naming Arthur, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. I’m still really pissed at you for that by the way. But I get all the Black Sabbath records and get to watch Fist of the North Star with you, do Mad Libs with you, play blackjack with my Freddy Kruger cards and watch Japanese death matches on YouTube with Terry Funk with at you home whenever we hang out, before I start Kindergarten next year, which evens out the suck. Hey Daddy, ever think I may pee in my bed because playing with Freddy Kruger cards would scare the piss out of any little dreamer at night whenever those images of a burnt serial killer come to life?” And I say, “Thank God somebody in this relationship is playing with a full deck.”

Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

All Metal Baby

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

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 Tabitha Soren, 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 banger pretty 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. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

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 above all else, 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.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Off The List Museums

Taking down the Teddy Rosevelt statue outside the Museum of Natural History is bad enough, especially knowing how I named my 3rd child Samuel Teddy Kornbluth. Now, Kyrie Irving can play home games at the Barclay’s Center, but I can’t take my kids to the Met without them sporting a Monet mask on either.

Cump Dumpster Queens like Cardi B can teach kids about making facials great again as a form of money shot birth control to a bunch of 2nd graders at Bronx Science, since they loosened their admission standards for rap ho guest speakers to. But let’s mask up our kids on class trips like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain till their voices crack under their ball gag muzzles made in China, because the CDC, FDA, WHO, and Hunter’s Art Dealer in Wuhan, already painted COVID as the scariest virus imaginable on par with entry into the Dalla’s Buyer’s Club while smashing their age of innocence into ancient ruins. So, at this point, what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Masturbator Equalizer

“Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.”

Salvador Dali

“Money equals middle finger power”, is what my Dad always told me growing up in our quaint yet artistically loaded Comedy Grant House 50 minutes North of Manhattan within the bucolic, historically tiny village of Croton Falls, famous for being the birthplace of my dear dada’s famous catchphrase, “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, on his Do It All Dad podcast that ultimately got him a recording label deal to produce comedy record 100 Too Tall Jew, on Blessed Records and the rest is comedy gold machine making history. Personally, I preferred the comedy record title, Birds Eye View Bitches, but Daddy thought that it was tad long winded even for Bob Dylan’s tastes. At the Montreal Comedy Festival Daddy got big laughs when he said, ‘”Sorry pops, but when you live in Arizona for a decade and counting and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora suggest otherwise.

Still, growing up Papa, my grandfather, nicknamed my daddy, Waste of Height because my father is a 6’4 Jewish New Yorker, who’s only highlight when playing Varsity basketball senior year was scoring 10 points against an all-Japanese team, which isn’t hard when the opposing players thought the pick and roll, mean their choice of fish. Now, my dad was being billed by Rolling Stone as Killer Set Kornbluth, while Variety magazine hailed him as the new giant of late night after replacing Bill Maher with a new talk show called Seriously Clowning. So, at this point in his life, my dad had every right to look down on any soul sucker dream detractor who tried to make him feel like a delusional, crazy man narcissist for pursing A plus comedic glory with a middle finger power mansion located at the highest point in Bel Air next to Jerry’s Lewi’s old school crib. So, the shelf life behind papa’s degrading nickname, Waste of Height, in relation to his 1st born blossoming son, no thanks to his encouraged direction had gone sailing, Dean Martin, lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

But daddy is what you would call a late bloomer, who didn’t start tasting big deal success till his late forties, combining that with a sexless marriage, with a man who is far from straight, on top of his mom wanting him to sling other’s people’s garbage instead of his own A plus gemry jokes for a living one day, combined with in-laws who force fed Eucharist on his Jew blood tainted kids behind his back, combined with zero creative collaborators outside of his own children during his 5 year journey into the wilderness while kicking is decade long addiction to Adderall for good, resulted in creating a tsunami of resentment fueled rage that almost burnt out what love spreader light that existed left in my dear dada’s endlessly beautifying, beyond spiritualized projecting soul, before it was too late.  Because of that, Daddy did everything in his power to ensure I established moonbeam blast shot goals early as possible compared to his mother urging her “artist son”, to settle and shoot for shit by chucking the joke writing career all together and become a full-time garbage man like Magic Johnson’s father in Lansing, Michigan. Obviously, Magic Johnson dad’s is a stellar example of being a God loving, do it all dad done good. Still, Magic’s dad also slung other’s people’s trash, so his son wouldn’t have to, similar to Papa schlepping over the George Washington Bridge for 25 years only to get nickeled and dimed by the likes of Potomka Pickles while working as VP of Sales for a plastics and glass company in Union, New Jersey, otherwise known as the Swamp Thing State, so his 1st born wouldn’t have to follow in his steps and blaze a new trail of funny man innovation to derive prideful enrichment of some kind on his own.

But what really pissed off my dad was Papa resisting the notion that I had genius potential in me because his waste of height son was too much a mongoloid moron in his eyes to birth such a star powered, out of this world seedling capable of moving millions with my own powers of imagination, poetic lift and storytelling powered song. Daddy went to Ithaca College, which he derided as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But he graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications, so he could suck down some bingers of extra strong Tompkin’s country outdoor weed and avoid stuttering every other 2 seconds. I loved the idea of going to Columbia growing up, yet Daddy viewed Manhattan as yesterday’s news and planted the idea of me attending Williams University in Massachusetts instead, because former owner of the Yankees George Steinbrenner, otherwise known as the Boss, was a famous alumnus and larger than life NY bred personalities like George Steinbrenner don’t get any big more time than that. Plus, Daddy loved the standup comedian Jim Norton who claimed Boston woman were the best to slay with. Also, at Uncle John’s wedding, AKA, Sir Snort a Lot, Daddy said, “God gave my younger brother more second shots at respectable redemption than what George Steinbrenner gave Steve Howe”, which got goonish at the time. Plus, I remember my dad driving us to the Manhattan to go skating at 30 Rock once for my birthday and he points out the new Yankee stadium off the Deegan and says, “Look Matilda, the new Yankee Stadium, the house that gentrification built.” I knew all about Reggie Jackson otherwise known as Mr. October, who hit not one but 3 first pitch baseball homers in 1979 to clinch the World Series for the Yankees at the original Yankee stadium, otherwise known as the house, that Ruth built. I also knew that Babe Ruth had the most homers during his day but had the most strike outs to, because there was nothing half ass about the Babe who went down swinging, coming through in the clutch with his back against the wall like the great Messier, Derek Jeter, Andy Petite, Eli Manning and Frank Sinatra all the way. Daddy imparted the lesson of why New Yorker’s have big time egos for a reason. When Daddy actually contemplated moving our family to Texas during year 2 of COVID, I said, “Daddy, how many great comedians are from Texas? Daddy said, “Bill Hicks and Sam Kinson.” I say, “Bill Hicks only made me laugh once. And Sam Kinson had one good comedy album from start to finish that was pure standup without the cheesy Wild Thing cover song on it, that’s it. Now, name me star comedians from New York? Daddy says “Rodney Dangerfield, Andrew Dice Clay, Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Greg Giraldo, Joan Rivers, George Carlin. Have I mentioned myself yet? Alright you’re right, Texan comedians suck compared to native New Yorkers, Joe Rogan included.”

For some time, I just wanted to be a singer and write my own songs, singing in pubs like Amy Winehouse without developing the heroin addition, yet my dad insisted I become an A Plus student and accept no other goal acceptable, so he could boast to his new comedy manager and rapper friends in South Africa, where his new record label was located, that his daughter went to Williams College, which rocks the old world King Solmon Royal purple. And my Do It All Dad thought the deep purple look exuded an edgy deep suave vibe similar to Jimmy Hendrix’s head tripping beanbag within the mixing room at Electric Lady Land studios in Manhattan. Daddy also had a black and white picture of famed writer director Bill Wilder in his old office where the famed writer, director of Ace In The Hole and Fortune’s Cookie, was marching in his office with his talking stick of sorts as his famed screenwriter partner Charles Brackett is on the writer’s  couch in letting him go long again, who is another Williams alum that helped co-write Sunset Blvd, which is good work if you can get it.  The other line Daddy would always pound into my cranium growing up was from Stephen Sondheim, which is, “God is in the details”, and the famous Broadway composer lyrist graduated from Williams to, so dumb, dumb burn outs didn’t even bother to apply. Reality is, I almost never got into Williams College nor ended up becoming the female Carl Jung of my day post COVID damage done after graduating Magna Cum Laude after triple majoring in English, Psychology and Philosophy, achieving the trifecta of liberal arts lunacy, I know. But believe it or not, my fate at William’s became sealed, not because of my college essay where I insist Carl Sagen was mothered by a starless atheist cunt who gave Booger face Behar on the View a whiff of semi-respectability in comparison for a change when she asked Don Lemon why he was nothing more than another race war inciting scumbag like Jussie Smollett minus the SAG card after she got red pilled by Russell Brand from turning her on to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast during bi-sexual pride appreciate month, I think. Actually, pursuing the harder, less shit laden path started by Daddy posting an ad on Craig’s List for a jerk buddy in search of more than a friend.  

“Why did I post an ad for a jerk buddy on Craig’s List? Because I thought it was healthy alternative to laughing at my own material on the couch after my daughter was tucked in, before breaking up with my wife off 11 years, again and again”, A 45-Year-Old divorced Comedian says to his chesty, red headed, Psychologist who was an English and Psychology major at Willaims herself. Mara Weitzman, the Psychologist from Williams says, “What if I jerk off your ego instead of some random stranger on Craig’s List, who would give Jim Norton the creeps?” Do It All Dad, now a divorced still struggling comedian, living on the couch of his Film Grip bud in Ridgefield, CT who wants to be the Bill Graham of Death Metal festivals in Upstate New York one day, says, “Does my health insurance cover that added expenditure on my behalf?  Psychologist Mara Weitzman says, “Remember, the time you talked about that 1st hand job you got from Carolyn Verdichio, in Cotswold Park, which you nicknamed Actionless Park in your bit at the Montreal Comedy about how you’re no gentle giant or else why would you insist on staying home to ignore your kid for the privilege of writing more jokes while choking your wife too hard financially, again and again? You described your 1st hand job as a throbbing extension of your brutishly rough personality, to the point where she almost skinned your pussy wrecker rearranger alive, while your jeans kicked wildly in the mud like a hardheaded hog in heat. Well, what if we reenact the moment right now? I played the steel guitar growing up in Plano Texas, so I’ve got stronger hands that most. Let me if see if I can yank out that rough side out of you for good. I’ll even put in a good word for your daughter at the Williams College during admissions season. Do It All Dad drops his pants and says, “I don’t feel like such a self-centric jerkoff anymore. Mara Weitzman, you’re the only masturbator equalizer for me. Now rip off that top and start jerking it like its 1999.  I’ll give those busty beauties a liberal load to boast about it when you pump up my long-term endowment potential to your fellow alum members after I blow you away with a blast of teen spirit of my own. Kurt Cobain lives, Challah. Mara screams in extreme anticipatory ecstasy, “Nirvana, come reign on me.” Minutes later, Psychologist Mara Weitzman buttons up her top and puts her murky stained glasses back on and says, “See you next Tuesday Do It All Dad. Williams College will be lucky to have your daughter attend next fall, if she follows after your money blasting footsteps. Thank you, very, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Gen X Comedian

I like coffee like my comedy, dark and bitter.

Nirvana didn’t kill Hair Metal. Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.

Courtney Love is Mia Farrow with better husband selection.

I want to get my wife pregnant by mistake again. Just, so I can name my kid Zevon Zappa Kornbluth.

According to Wine Advocate, Snoop Dog’s Merlot, tastes like mouthwash used in Porn Hood Hell.

Russell Simmons addressing rape allegations with Gayle King. Read my lisp, I didn’t rape any, of those vengeful, over the hill hos.

My daughter finally got breast buds. Wife says, “She’s the last person in her class to get them. I said, “Then why have your buds taken so long to sprout?” Titty shaming jokes are too offensive for your taste? Then, go woke yourself to, Challah. Thank you very much.

Book Store Worker says, “Are you in our system?” I say, “All of a sudden, I feel like a registered sex offender. And being busted with a Woody Allen’s autobiography in my hands isn’t helping. For what it’s worth, I’ve only allowed my daughter to watch Woody Allen films that came pre-Soon-Yi like Crimes and Misdemeanors, the Early Years, Challah, thank you very much. At the same time, I only expose my daughter to Michael Jackson music that came out pre-Jackson 5 to ensure my pedophile playlist stance is black and white. Book Store Worker laughs long time, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth