All Assholes

After Lebron James lost in the 1st round against the Suns, do you think Obama scurried down into his man cave in Martha’s Vineyard to tear through his private stash of Almond Joys, hid under a giant box of Duct Tape from Costco? Joan Rivers lives. Can I get a Challah, for not giving a shit if I offended you already, and if I did, then go woke yourself, holla; thank you very much.

Why isn’t Marv Albert lionized as a hero of the LGBT community? He had an affair with a retired Broadway Transgender dancer for a solid 15 years. Doesn’t that give him a leg up on the competition? Eddie Murphy getting caught picking up a Transgender prostitute on a lonely West Hollywood night is child’s play in comparison. Oscar De La Hoya got caught wearing woman’s lingerie, whoopty freaking-do.  Del La Hoya was never canceled and had his career taken away during his prime because he liked to nosh on his sexual partners backside with extra relish on it. And there’s no way Marv Albert is capable of sexual assault on anything. He comes up to Spike Lee’s knee. If anyone is guilty of forced sodomy, it’s Spike Lee’s forced fed, media pushed narrative behind critical race theory and all lives matter being the new n word, burning up race relations faster than any Public Enemy video could, thank you very much.

Imagine Marv Albert doing play by play for Drag Queen Reading Hour. Drag Queen says, “Who wants to be a Drag Queen when they grow up?” And Marv Albert says, “We’ve entered serious garbage time folks.” Dr. Seuss, she’s not. Is that an Amber Alert I hear? Another reason, not to encourage your kids to go way downtown. I live in Soho and know what danger lurks behind those dumpster alleys late at night, which isn’t the most spectacular move to make with no protection on your person, which is why even hotels in West Virginia have room service for a reason.” Holla, thank you very much.”

Did you know Ellen DeGeneres and George W. Bush are friends? I knew she was pro bush, but what do they do together exactly? Besides play Operation with Michelle Obama, gender reassignment edition? Watch Portia De Rossi squirm as W paints a portrait of her clit being hacked off in front of Michelle for Sharia Law Appreciation Month?

Portia De Rossi is from Australia like my wife. We wanted to get married there yet my mom shot it down. She calls, “Son, Australia, is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.” I console my wife later and say, “Assuming we have a boy one day, instead of hiring a Rabbi for the circumcision, we hire Crocodile Dundee. Just so we can hear a roomful of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Daughter asks, “Daddy, was Shakespeare transgender, because he’d dress up like a girl in all his plays? I said, “Back then, male actors played all the female parts because Kate Blanchet’s, great, great, great, grandmother was a but-her-face with no make up on to. So, I don’t know if Shakespeare was Transgender because the Bard of Avon also wrote, “Hanging perverts saved many a bad marriage”, because decoupling hadn’t gone viral yet. Plus, masturbation post #meto wasn’t declared man’s last safety rail left yet. Nor was sexting, Internet porn or dick picks devised back then either, which proved to be the death knell of small talk in this country and beyond, before tatted up white chicks on crystal meth ruined the golden age of muff diving forever. But I do know for a fact that Kevin Spacy bought the Old Vic playhouse in London because backstage the Academy Award winner is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.

If my son played with dolls, I’d tell him to triple wrap his life blaster in the making in seaweed, before taking the deep dive into Polynesian Barbie.

Why is the transgender community so offended by the song Dude Looks Like a Lady? In the song, Steven Tyler takes more than a peek, proclaiming with surging lust, “Oh, what a funky lady, and I like, like it, yeah.” So did Richard Pryor, get over it already. He called it the best piece of pussy Bill Maher never had. Holla, thank you very much.

I’m breaking my Chic-fil-A strike if I see Transgender Father’s Day trend on Twitter again. Either you’re an involved father or you’re not, nipple tits. And stop acting like getting shafted is a new experience you’re closed to pursuing either.

I’m in favor of sexual expression but Drag Queen Reading Hour is a tad scary for our kids, don’t you think? Fluorescent lights don’t look flattering on anybody, let alone on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator. Also, if we’re going to be exposing our kids to Drag Queen Reading Hour and believe it’s not intended to groom our kids into pool time entertainment at John Podesta’s house, who showcases enough pedo installation art to make Marilyn Manson blush. Why not have a Drag Queen read a fable about buyer’s remorse after playing operation, gender reassignment edition called, The Missing Link? It’s a fable about a sexual awakening on the dance floor at the China Club. Where a horny, sexually repressed, 17-year-old kid from Westchester County reared on Lou Reed Records, desperately tries to his exert his presence behind stuck up Jenny From The Block but fails to flex his manhood up into her round of mound, because his missing link to old school, banging hip hop is gone baby gone. 

At least our kids won’t be required to wear masks at the pool this summer, looking like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain, who are being forced to identify with the Moderate Muslim Housewives of Manhattan.

This past morning, my wife asks me, “Can I go to sleep now, after working all night at the NICU?” I say, “Do we live under Sharia Law in this house? Of course, you can go to bed now, but not until I titty blast you with this bomb strapped to your chest 1st.” Andy Kaufman lives. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Follow The Vaccine Body Count

If Obama could ball. Then, why did he ride the bench at an all Asian private school in Hawaii?

I wanted to marry my wife in her native homeland of Australia. Mom says, “Australia is a long flight from New York. And your father doesn’t love you that much.”

Later, I console my wife and say, “Assuming we have a boy one day, we can hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision. Just so we can hear a room full of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

US troops are being denied earned leave without getting their vaccination 1st. On the upside, less Navy servicemen will get pricked by the barebacking ghost of Allen Ginsburg during Fleet Week. Holla, thank you very much.



The Indian Health Ambassador and former comedian gets his COVID vaccine live on TV to show everyone how safe it is and dies 2 days later. I hope the former comic is reincarnated as anal warts inside Dr. Fauci’s hell hole colon.

The Indian comedian should’ve stuck to killing with arranged marriage material instead. Former Indian comedian says, “It’s easier to get your wife into anal if you’re pushed into marrying one caste beneath you. Holla, thank you very much.”

Dr. Cole says we’ve seen more deaths from the COVID shot than all vaccines in the last 20 years combined, adding, “Morally just Wuhan Lab truther assistants have longer shelf lives after interview spots with Tucker Carlson.”

Dr. Cole, another outspoken critic about the ineffective practice of lockdowns also says since the dawn of man, “We’ve never quarantined the well.” Adding, “Look how well Dave Chapelle turned out after his walkabout sabbatical in Africa, using only bush dirt weed to fight off killer Mosquitos the size of Aids quilt blankets.”

Vaccinated people still wearing a mask is like Cookie insisting Magic wear a rubber snuggling up to The Inside Guys on TNT.

The Sopranos finale would be better if Meadow got to play the prosecutor in the George Floyd case and in her closing statement state, “How did all lives matter become the new n word?” Holla, thank you very much.”

2 female college students got kicked out of Amherst College for not wearing a mask from a photograph taken on campus. When did liberal art colleges become no go zone areas for Muslim housewife property during Ramadan?

Bartender looks at my wife’s credit card during our sweaty sex period before we got married and says, “Duffy, like me.” I reply, “Why don’t you 2 open a bar together and live happily ever after?” Holla, thank you very much. 

I’m so tired of hearing the NY is coming back pitch. These days, Jews feel less welcome in New York City than critical BLM theories.

Michelle Obama says, “You want to hang out with us. Get your vaccine, gardeners from Honduras excluded. Just don’t Instagram any of Obama’s pot plants Pancho, got it. He likes to puff with Malia and her friends during summer break to feel like a fake news bi-racial Bob Marley.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Sales Raise Dinner

6 months after perpetual beat down, heart tissue shredded despair from cold calling IT Directors twice my age at the tender of age of 22 in LA with no promising relief in sight, I was finally able to slam the phone down on the receiver and yell with emphatic, triumphant vibrato, “Deal”, as all my fellow IT agent recruiter sisters and brothers in arms all put down their phones in symbiotic unison and my bum rushed my section of our open office boiler room to give me one kick ass high five after another. Prior, to bawling my eyes out after winning Most Improved Basketball player at Sleepaway Camp, it was the happiest, most joy spewing moment of my life. After spending many afternoons at 5:30 PM, crying in the bathroom stall, after being hung up on all day again for 6 months straight, getting my 1st deal under my belt was equivalent to Forrest Gump getting to bang Jenny in her dorm room after her fake news original Blowing In The Wind striptease act. Then again, Hair Metal wasn’t invented yet, so you can’t be too harsh on Jenny for trying to reinvent herself as a hotter, better stacked, Joan Baez cover act in the making either.

Once you did your 1st 3 deals at Remington International, the big machers, meaning all the big-time billing managers would take you out for a fancy sales raise dinner to give you a taste for living the high life again. Steve Winwood lives post Traffic, holla, thank you very much. Understand, the sales raise wasn’t substantial at all and made zero difference after taxes for my biweekly take home paycheck. Granted, I could still afford to pay the rent on my rent-controlled apartment in West Hollywood, see a movie once a week in the Century City Mall and splurge on the Sunday NY Times pre-fake news to get my brain back in working order after puffing the green with my ex or doing E once my dealer in the valley got access to it frequently post Y2K, but that was it. None of us dignified, scrappy, resourceful yet lowly IT agency recruiters in my position made enough money to survive really, because none of us made actual commission on a 20 grand placement there, a 25 grand rip there, but at the time my illustrious sales raise dinner at Morton’s in Beverly, Hills that its, totally made up for it, Dice lives, holla, thank you very much.

The festivities started with a Grey Goose and tonic or 2, before the scallops wrapped in bacon appetizer arrived. Understand, despite growing up in the upper middle class affluent confines of Westchester County, only 50 minutes north of Peter Luger’s in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I had zero exposure to fancy schmancy steak house appetizers of this holy shit good magnitude. Every bite was perfect. The bacon wrapped around this sumptuous, high end scallop that was never rubbery chewy bland for one second, was bursting with bubbly, over the top crackling, in your face flavor. Outside of my mind melting from relishing such a tubby bitch, fine dining steakhouse appetizer at the same Morton’s in Beverly Hills, which used to be the go-to afterhours Vanity Fair party hot spot after the Academy Awards, it was impossible to not derive a communal sense of shared brotherhood with the older management crew in attendance, who all hailed from back east like myself, living it up like senior agents for freaking CAA for Christ’s sake. Pete Clochaney, the former wrestling stud from upstate in Buffalo, the living legend Michael Burns, from Greenwich, CT, who toured with Dead, bartended at Kelly’s Korner and made us watch Rudy for inspiration one morning before our daily cold calling assault resumed and my direct boss Alex Dubovoy a garbage sons from Brooklyn, done good. I loved how much vicarious pride they derived from me making it to that table with them. For once, I felt I truly earned my keep. They all wore really nice Canali suits who possessed a working knowledge of obscenely expensive brown liquor shots such as Louis the 13th cognac. My head was spinning from being accepted and encouraged to do even better under their sales leadership direction, feeling like a waste of height no more and my succulent, divine blessed, Porterhouse, sorry Kosher God hadn’t even arrived yet.

Outside of savoring every juicy, heaven sent bite, my mind veered toward my Dad for a second, who was a rainmaker himself, helping build a 90-million-dollar packaging busines in Union New Jersey. Still, it drove me nuts at the time, thinking how much my father dropped the ball, never exposing me to any motivational shoot for conquest steak dinner like this, because prior, I was only accustomed to eating the perpetually shitty, anemic, consistently mushy kosher kind. My father grilling what flavor they once possessed didn’t contribute to my complete lack of enjoyment factor from eating trying to act, I was ever into them either.  

Thank you, Lord, for giving me the balls and fortitude to not throw in the towel during my 1st six months on the job as an IT agency recruiter, a long, long, way from home, with no Vince Vaughn pep talks to rouse my depressingly downer weepy spirits at the time either. Becoming an IT Headhunter in LA and paying my own way in this world made me the man I am today. College is so overrated, knowing I was the only putz to graduate from a top communication school back east with a debilitating stutter.  

They say the true definition of failure is giving up on yourself, so by that definition, my stint as an IT Headhunter at Remington International, my 1st real deal professional working white collar job was a smashing success. All those double Turkey Burgers with glops of mayor, fine shredded lettuce, draped in mounds of American Cheese on Santa Monica Blvd. were sublime to, because I earned them from not giving into the fear of failure or more perpetual shot down rejection I endured my 1st six months on the job, which provided the impetus behind the funny man with a plan I am today. Granted, my dear, lovely LA of yesteryear has morphed into a shit show tent city of biblical proportions, yet no politicized COVID lockdowns, bullshit Dominion defamation lawsuits or post woke Twitter twat celeb blather, siding with the Wicked Witch Of The East, Baby Face Omar, King Of the Persecution Complex or Obama Be Good can every take that sales raise dinner away from me.

Michael Kornbluth

Funnier Than Laughing Gas

Finally getting my wisdom teeth taken out, which is a relief knowing I can’t blame their excavation on toothbrush neglect caused by premature passing out on the couch from excessive IPA intake, again and again. I’m exaggerating. I actually gave up drinking beer this summer because it was embarrassing spending so much time hung over, recycling, empty reminders of my lush, littered past, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by, holla, thank you very much.

Kids are home from school now after I lose my facial virginity from getting gang banged pricked in my mouth with one Novocain shot after another and my beams of sparkly, good hued light, that being my 3 kids, best home team ever, don’t even recognize their depleted daddy mushed into the couch watching a Bee Gee’s doc at 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, who’s acting more low energy, barely staying alive than Jeb Bush after receiving unsolicited debate stump talking points from Karl Rove on Fox News.  Then, my wife who works as a nurse in the NICU gives me a drug cocktail consisting of Ibuprofen, Tylenol, and Amoxicillin, insisting I don’t need my prescribed pain killers, which she isn’t ecstatic about schlepping back to the Pleasantville pharmacy to pick up, because if this drug cocktail concoction is good enough for a mom who just had c section at her hospital, then, I’m in no position to run my bitchy, flappy, tore up mouth.  Then, I decide to do something about my sad sack, immobile state because I don’t need to see my kids look at me like I’m lounging out on my premature death bed again. So I semi pound a leftover Captain Lawrence Powder Dreams, a hazy, New England Style IPA which put me at immediate ease before I blast Motley Crew’s Too Fast For Love in my room as I resume editing a previous chapter post for upcoming, future bestselling Koshetarian Comedian in no time, like a man possessed to never allow fear mongering imposed by others, influence my self-reliant streak of self-imposed, willed in happiness, without the overreliance and constantly let down disgust stemming from more dashed expectations involving any hopeful expectation of those supposed to help when you need them the most,  to only come up, short, because they really don’t give a shit again, holla, thank you very much.

The laughing gas, mixed with oxygen was nice yet still prompted me to start heckling the Oral Surgeon when I said, “Doc, give me funnier, laughing gas,” because I wasn’t laughing, yet doc was long time, thank you very much. Then, I add, “Hey doc, the fake news laughing gas you’re giving me reminds me of the time I took my daughter to her 1st Grateful Dead parking scene, literally days after her 2nd Birthday up in Bethel Woods, sight of the original Woodstock. I take her for a stroll, feeling such an evolved, liberal cool Dad for a brief fleeting moment, who suddenly questions his alleged, all knowing, wise ways, once I start spotting some dinged up looking hippies sucking down nitrous balloons by the woods like their last working stuck in time, stilted brain cell could barely hang on until feeling nothing but vacant space like lower Manhattan these days, only for my daughter to point at the Nitrous balloons and, ask, “Birthday Daddy?”  And I say, “No Matilda, Burnout Day”, holla, thank you very much.”

Now it’s 5PM and I notice how my wife has no preparation for our Ravioli dinner, which I wasn’t planning on assuming ownership of after getting my wisdom teeth taken out, knowing my mom was in town to “help out” despite her crashing later that night at a hard 7:30 like the fucking Amish kid from Witness, who normally goes to sleep early because either A) He has to wake early to milk a farm full of cows for B) Is burnout on reading the Bible by candlelight again into midnight hour, when his love comes beaming around because it loses its dramatic oomph when you’ve already read it 5000 times before your 8th birthday.  

Still, feeling good about my post, New England IPA buzz on an empty stomach, knowing I’ve removed all fear from my kids prior, by being the high energy dad they love as I keep heckling Alexa to play Slip Of The Lip and Dance, Dance, Dance, by the kings of slithering Sunset Strip metal sleaze Ratt. Although along the way, my surging levels of happiness were flat lined to death when I had to endure annoying lines from my wife such as, “You can’t drink after taking Tylenol, it will wreck your liver.” I say, “If 3 days in Mardi Gras sophomore year in college, in addition to my lushastic, hound dog driven twenties in LA or my poor man’s William Faulkner, bourbon swirling impersonation in my 30’s back in Brooklyn and Queens, didn’t kill off my liver, nothing will babe, holla, thank you very much.”

So, after realizing that the 2 alleged most important adult woman in my life, that being my mother and wife of 10 years, fail to take care of dinner preparation for my 3 kids after getting my wisdom teeth taken out, I assume ownership of the situation and command the room, the way only a seasoned, all star Koshetarian Comedian can. Granted, when you’re not making Ravioli by freaking hand, or even from a pasta making machine, it’s not a drawn out, colossal time suck either. Still, when you take pride in being a yummy dance producer maestro, who’s accustomed to hearing from any of his 3 kids, “More, more”, “This is delicious Daddy” or “You haven’t made a batch this solid in months Daddy ”, you put in the extra effort to make an A Plus marinara sauce from scratch which steals the show, assuming you use your kids like open mikes in the kitchen prior enough to recognize your last 2 batches of bomb Ravioli made from scratch by some old world Italian Grandma, most likely in the same room since the Godfather was released in the boogie down Bronx, were a tad 2 al dente around the edges, to be called a complete resounding success.  

Mario Batali gave me the idea of always using red onions and carrots as a standard solid base every time you make any marinara from scratch, which I did here, having a Chopomatic at my disposal, after breaking the past 2 from being too rough with it, helped me resent my mom’s and wife’s complete lack of interest in any making life fuss free for a change a tad less in the end.  At the same time, I knew mama wouldn’t make this favorite meal for my 3 biggest fans in the universe “with love”, so it was my pleasure to fulfill the glaring Do It All Mom void in the room. After I use the reliable, semi-sturdy Chopomatic to cut some red onion, I grate some shaved carrots before bathing them in a generous pouring of olive oil, flush with peeled off bits of garlic, and chili pepper flakes, for added spicy variety, which adds more titillating lift to our days, before throwing in the chucky yet crushed, San Marzano can of tomato sauce from nearby grocery chain legend, Stew Leonard’s, a reason to live in CT alone or Northern Westchester, really.

I was also hell bent on eye fucking the shit out of the 2 boxes of Ravioli to ensure all those pillowy squares of perfection floated to the top like they were sitting top of the fucking Red Sea, before they were devoured with plenty of mmm, mmm, yumtastic, inhalatory glee, for back-to-back, licked clean servings later. Bonding through noshing with our kids from incorporating them into the creation of better than boobie dishes while using them as open mikes for real time feedback, can make our kids great again, my 3 fuss free kids, 99% of the time, are living proof of it. Thank you sweet Lord, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time there was a famous Jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more than Duke Ellington. Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra strength heroin one night, home alone, in his Queens apartment, in far Rockaway Beach, which would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience for a change and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his Jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window to.


Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes again, to make sure what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision on mind melding H, a so called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini tablet device of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell out the window into the frigid, February snow with absolute relished glee, to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing out his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before. Now, Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling and asks God in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my Jazz piano masterpiece? The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  And how dare this so called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks, I ever spent”, after his carefree son flings my Jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic, Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “Melancholy magic.”  

Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine, but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well guess what, you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me motherfucker. Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American Jazz songbook. So instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mother, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway like Cole Porter or those those fancy, schmancy Gershwin brothers for a change? At least, they dress nice and the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you got some brains cells left to use more wisely.”

Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door this time and bemoans, “Fight or flight Junky, what will your destiny be? I get it, you’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep, singing, “The Man I Love, whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  So, you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard, whoopty freaking do. I’m positive, you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter or get some sin on sin loving, behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room to.  Innovate or die a broke, boring Junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his Piano with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer on the spot. His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens alone and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone and says, “Jazz Rock is the new groove now Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you, when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative Jazz, or elevator music, on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in. Regardless, your sound, helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. Sorry about cutting out your work on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit Junky.”

Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing my new lease on life Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank, but boy could you play. And I am fucking Jazz. And Miles knows best, even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell, can see that.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

A Pagan Spirited Christmas

Growing up, I’d try to sell my Dad on allowing my mom to get a Christmas Tree and say,” Mom converted to Judaism to kick Jesus to the curb and marry into your putzy DNA dad. The least you can do is let her get a Christmas Tree already, bigger than the cobweb covered Bonsai tree relegated to the corner of our side patio last year Dad.” Dad says, “Jews don’t buy Christmas trees, unless the plan is to convert one into a Tree House and flip it for a profit.” Dad adds, “Son, when Christians look at a Christmas Tree, they see a Christmas Tree. When Jews look at a Christmas Tree, they see a camouflaged cross.”

One year for Christmas Eve, my wife had to work that evening, so we didn’t visit her folks for Christmas that year. So, I missed out on receiving the same set of black socks from my mother-in-law because the cost of postage cost more than the socks themselves. So much for postponing laundry for another week.

Another year for Christmas in Delaware, whose state slogan should be, “Your Nazi Gold Is Safe With Us, the only gift my daughter received from her Christian grandparents was a plastic, toy chest with no toys in it. I calmed my daughter and said, “Don’t worry Matilda, when we get back home to New York, will fill it with your eight thousand Hanukkah gifts.”

I wrote a short story for Hanukkah called Gimmel Be Good about the kid who invented the Dreidel game to distract the Romans from their banned Torah studies by making it a gambling game which used fake news gold Gelt. So, if a Roman Officer crashed your home to see if any forbidden circumcision was being performed to remove the future head buried into a floppy Sleeping Bag look, The Roman officer would think, “Oh, another degenerate Jew with a gambling problem, nothing to see here, play on.”

At Whole Foods, I got an Albert Einstein ornament decoration for our Christmas Tree, which I bought because it’s a solid anti-semitic qualifier. Especially, knowing, how Einstein played a huge role in building the Atom Bomb, not some Nazi tweaked on Crystal Meth, giving heil Hitler shout outs to a Swastika Flag, which looks like 2 gay stick figures giving each other a 69 on a Seesaw.

My wife got tense when I brought home the Albert Einstein ornament. She said, “Decorate your own tree.” I said, “I thought it was our in-house non-denominational tree. Because you bought a white Guido tree like the one Ray Liotta brings home for Karen in Goodfellas after he starts selling cocaine behind Paulie’s Back. So the tree you got doesn’t count as the traditional, Jesus loves you no matter what Christmas tree, even if your dad was the former head of Planned Parenthood like Bill Gate’s baby shower crashing Dad was. Wife says, “But the Christmas Tree is a pagan symbol.” I say, “But I’m trying to raise our kids in a Jewish household, not on the set of the Slayer video, Rain On More Blood.”  Plus, true believing Jews don’t bend over backwards to worship idols like Hiding Biden while giving God the stiff arm, talk to the hand treatment, or else the Maccabees would’ve never deliverthed the smackdown on the Syrians who tried to force my people to eat one too many ham and cheese sandwiches for our tastes. But Jews are the pushy, demanding ones, not the more inclusive, all loving Christians of yesteryear, and I’ll take the crusades 1 through 9 Alex.  Fine, I’m being a paranoid Jew, the Christmas Tree isn’t a camouflaged Cross, it’s just another pagan symbol rip off. So, let’s up the ante and I’ll pile all my Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath records to the ceiling and call it a tree, in the spirit of stacking pagan symbols on top of each other. I’ll even drape the bottom of my dark metal tree with a Ouija board signed by Jimmy Page from Ebay, as a combined big kahuna Hanukkah gift for all 3 kids, in case our little ones get burnt out on playing dreidel to Adam Sandler’s Chanukah song on Vinyl, one too many times, even with the new added verse, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.”

Michael Kornbluth  

The Relentless Optimist

What I love about President Trump the most, is his relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship. If Fuck Face Fauci told President Trump he contracted the HIV virus, because the Deep State pricked him with the virus in his sleep like they did to Easy E. The next morning at 530 AM still your President Trump would tweet, “Do I have I HIV? Yes, but my t-cell count numbers have never been stronger.”

Michael Kornbluth

Indentured Servant or Homemaker Ho?

Should stay at home mom’s get paid? If you can afford to be a stay at home mom and your husband doesn’t bust your balls about it because he’s allowed to live his life to the fullest, while you don’t have to penny pinch at the Farmer’s Market, then keep your white privilege issues to yourself girlfriend.

Should stay at home mom’s get paid? But I thought woman loved the divine gift of raising superior versions of themselves planned or not, because of Do It All Dad’s molding on top. I don’t think stay at home dads should get paid, but I’m not a fake feminist either.

Michael Kornbluth