Price Of Promiscuity

I wish the price of Promiscuity wasn’t so high.

That’s why masturbation is our last safety rail left.

Plus, your dick never bitches about not filling up your wife’s car because you’re too busy unloading on your phone again.

Miraculously that’s only happened to me once considering my sheer amount of time in the pump and dump position.

Companies would clear themselves of sexual harassment lawsuits on their hands. If they only created a safe space bathroom for jerking it, jerking, jerking it well. So you’re not dragged out the bathroom stall by your legs. As the office security guard croons in his best Tom Petty voice, “You don’t come around here no more.”

I think kids today should be banned from sporting Steph Curry jerseys unless they identify with having to high step over the shit lined streets of San Francisco. Or boast a mother that’s hot enough to win Miss Washington Heights. Who could charge the price of Hamilton tickets in exchange for some high end Chlamydia.

Did you know that that heart shape symbol of love is based off an ancient plant called Silphium used to treat Syphilis and anal warts according to Pliny the Elder. They even used it as a form of birth control. Plus, the heart shape was modeled after the shape of a David’s throbbing buttock.

The seed pods from this miracle STD ointment plant were associated with heart shaped seed pods. That they crushed up and snorted like Ritalin in Ancient Greece.

They even put the pod shape on coins in ancient Greece for Christ’s sake. Anal wart ointment was so money and gender fluid generals knew it. Seriously according to Pliny the Elder, this ground up Roman herb was used to treat warts in the seat. So you bet your ass it cost more than gold. Between a gold bracelet for your wife’s birthday or a frictionless railing from behind, what would you pick, Prick?

If I can avoid any Fungi outgrowth of my anus hole, I’ll do it. I’d wipe my ass with Benjamin’s used as poop paper in a bat cage made in Wuhan used for to launch biochemical warfare if it got the job done.

In summary, Heart shaped seeds that cured the clap is why we celebrate Valentine’s Day today. So, Nero could fiddle in the spa without his anus-hole burning.

To make matters worse, I can’t stare at my daughter’s new Teacup with a heart on it without thinking.

I better start selling her on the upside of Lesbianism.

Matilda, being a lesbian is good. For starters you can’t get Aids. Plus, you can take a licking and keep on ticking.

Price of Promiscuity, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Sketchy Screener Test

Text a picture of a Hannukah mug your son created using oil pastels that could be sold in the MOMA gift shop easy. And you either A) Don’t acknowledge the creative genius at work B) Pretend you didn’t know the mini masterpiece came from your creatively jacked son or C) Act as if you never received the text afterwards because you’re not getting texts from Android devices allegedly or D) Fail to suck of the totality of its awesomeness after you acknowledge how the second follow text went through or E) Only muster a blandish, all your kids are special reply after hounding for a reply of any kind prior. It means, you passed the Godless Cunt test with flying colors.

Michael Kornbluth

Pitchwoman Of The Year

Aliens are capable of formulating and defending their own critical race theory, too. A bunch of Think Tank Alien Eggheads from Planet Scrambled Over Easy declared the American Dream dead and its entire race plain stupid for thinking otherwise, on both sides of the political divide, during its annual Brunch Expo address at their annual Northern Lights retreat on Planet Verde. It was known for its enormous avocado trees, tricked-out converted farmhouse party palaces, and was enveloped by hop farms galore and beautifully manicured baseball diamonds and fields of highly stimulating, brain-tickling weed.

            Even Think Tank Alien Eggheads need to cool off their hyperactive brains with some baseball, buds, and brews, from time to time.

            The Think Tank Alien Eggheads observed how unhinged and excessively biased the US media and Big Tech had become since the New Yorker from Queens exposed them for the feckless, misleading, self-serving, fear-mongering, deliberately divisive, commie sell out bastards they’d become.  

            Close Encounters Of The Third Kind was voted the number one-ranked sci-fi film for forty-four years in a row and counting, according to Egghead Alien Film Review Magazine, which still boasts an incredible print ad sales revenue because, on Planet Scrambled Easy, print is king and is considered the most prestigious medium, attracting the universe’s most talented writers, knowing they’re willing to pay up to three US dollars per word.

            There are no TV shows made on Planet Scrambled Over Easy except a hugely popular father/son alien cooking show called ‘Better Than Boobie.’ On this show, we learn the alien baby is a result of a mixed marriage between an alien and a busty, full-lipped, tan, Sicilian-blooded Italian, Barbera Bustiasti, originally hailing from Rochester, NY.

            On the show, our Stay-At-Home Alien Dad Host, Fried Brains Bourdain, a self-anointed in-house gourmand for the entire Planet Scrambled Over Easy, will ask his part-human, part-alien baby, Chef Samuels, what he thinks of his latest and greatest LEO Scramble Supreme, including smoked salmon lox, scrambled eggs, and sweet, not-too-bitter caramelized red onions.

            Normally, Chef Samuels will take a taste and pronounce the dish creation a double-fister instead of a yuck-yucker. But if baby Chef Samuels is totally enthralled with the dish, he’ll ask his cherished dada, Fried Brains Bourdain, to make the dish for him every day before he whizzes around the rings of Planet Scrambled Over Easy faster than Flash, in a high-calorie burning blaze of glory.  

            So, the reason Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy was smitten with the movie Close Encounters Of The Third Kind stemmed from the aliens portrayed in it being musical savant mutes, of sorts, like Holly Hunter in The Piano.

            The problem, on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, is how their recent open borders policy resulted in a gazillion different languages spoken at once at any given Farmer’s Market—enough to make C3Po’s language transmitter chip melt down from an intergalactic auditory sensory processing overload. So, the clamor in the streets had reached a fevered pitch, with no universal language in place capable of instilling a more melodic cadence.           And none of the star magazine writers on Planet Scrambled Over Easy were capable of banging out musical showtunes (such as West Side Think Tank Alien Stories), because Broadway tunesmith legend Stephen Sondheim declined the invitation to procreate with the alien civilization (because he was gayer about the prospect of lunging at the Othello backstage in tights, whenever asked to do his best Kevin Spacy impersonation by his cast and crew at Sardis for wrapup show celebrations, after hours.

            Stephen Sondheim gave the anal probe a shot after the Alien Think Tank Leader, Gershwin Goo, convinced him they were doing it the name of stool DNA sampling science in their long, hard, in-depth exploration pinpointing the exact genetic makeup roots responsible for sprouting such a mature musical genius out the womb.

            At six, Mozart was touring Europe, entertaining French nobles with the nimble quickness of a French prostitute who got two customers to spew with joy in one minute flat, each, so she could squeeze in her favorite customer, famed American Jewish writer Henry Miller, in one more, before closing hours, for the road.  

            So, not only was the roaring decibel of noise on the streets of Scrambled Eggs Over Easy consisting of every guttural, gross alien language imaginable, that collectively heard together sounded like the antithesis of French pillow talk in Eric Rohmer films such as Busted Burgundy Girls and Paris Dicks Are Burning, thereby making their home planet a highly grating, excessively annoying place to be; but there was also not a singe lone, beautifying voice to even sing their new planet anthem in an attempt to promote, celebrate, and unify the country behind a star’s beautiful voice in their own native tongue, Hebrew.

            What, you think the pyramids and the first great temple were built by the Israelites alone? I’ve known Jews who are allergic to Home Depot, who suffer from immediate panic attacks upon entry.

            On retreat, The Think Tank Aliens sucking down endless IPAs and puffing non-stop high-grade green over a killer double header of baseball surrounding the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, with a young, rising star egghead about to pitch his famous speedball splinter known to make most fellow aliens whiff more than Charlie Sheen at an AVN afterhours party, these days.

            An idea emerged. “Hey, fellas, instead of blowing up Planet Earth for our annual Fourth of July Celebration (to celebrate our freedom of banning the Internet in 2000, because we knew Y2K would serve as a slow-acting bomb to blow up Earth’s any last remaining capacity for critically thinking, mass-produced independent thought ever again), we convince Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth to become our permanent-in-house Planetary Anthem singer?

            “Granted, we have incredible leverage, knowing that if she refuses, we’ll go head and blow up the Earth for the best fireworks show we’ve ever seen. Bulldozing a casino is child’s play compared to planet blasting. Plus, I think the universe is ready for a new Earth to emerge, again (assuming God’s in the mood to give the human race another shot at redemption).”

            The Think Tank Aliens of Scrambled Over Easy Planet actually thought of Singing Rose Kornbluth immediately, the moment they coined the idea of establishing a Planetary Anthem in Hebrew, from eavesdropping from space whenever she’d recite the Shabbat prayers over the candles, challah, and wine.

            To them, Singing Rose Kornbluth was blessed with the most angelic-laced, beautifying, spiritually rich, jade-free voice of all time. It sounded ten times more soul-tantalizingly pretty sung in Hebrew, which she’d do in Synagogue, shining through the most whenever the Torah was taken out of the arc for the infamous Shema prayer “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”

            The Think Tank Aliens from Scrambled Over Easy Planet are able to eavesdrop into different galaxy systems due to their alien race being crossbred with Alien Hybrid Elephants reared by Alexander The Great. Alexander The Great would use those elephants to eavesdrop on his enemies or on Cleopatra the next time she plotted to roofie him, tie him up, and jam some precious gemstone beads up his ass for shits and giggles, to see if they came out looser since the last gender-neutral interkingdom orgy at her Luxor party palace.

            Now, Singing Rose Kornbluth is at home in her bedroom within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, fifty minutes north of Manhattan, brushing the mane on her new American Girl horse doll Lavender Love and singing her own made-up tune: “Lavender Love has beautiful hair, my brother Arthur better not threaten to turn him into fake news dog chow, if baby Samuel double dares.”      Then the Palomino American Girl Doll horse Lavender Love comes to life and speaks to her from the baseball diamond on the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, and says, “Singing Rose Kornbluth, don’t be alarmed. For starters, my voice can’t be any freakier than when you confuse your American Girl Doll Horse for an actual little person, on occasion.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Keep talking.”          Think Tank Alien says, “We think your singing voice, especially in Hebrew, is the most beautiful, God-loving, effortlessly sweet signing voice we’ve ever heard, without any deep vibrato rumblings (which ruin Adele and Demi Lovato’s chances as potential picks for us, if you really need to know).”     Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “And who is “we,” exactly?”

            Think Tank Alien says, “We’re Think Tank Aliens from Planet Scrambled Over Easy. Our natural tongue is Hebrew, and we just came up with our first-ever Planetary Anthem, and it needs work, because our alien civilization isn’t musically inclined whatsoever.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Do all aliens talk through American Girl Horses? I knew Aliens were real.”

             Think Tank Alien says, “Singing Rose, we love your voice. God made your supernatural voice for a reason. Still, we will be left with no choice but to blow up your planet, if you don’t let us use your gift of creation and singing love songs which touch the innermost sanctum part of the Divine.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “I’ll only help you out if you agree to take over control of our Internet, unleash virus worms to corrode all the software code for Twitter, Facebook and Google, and fill in that gaping voice of Internet bandwidth with my father’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast every Friday for another Meandering Shabbat Shalom Special.

            “My daddy is hilarious. He said, ‘Beyonce sat out the national anthem because Demi Lovato sounds like a white privilege version of Alabama Shakes.’”

            Think Tank Alien laughs a long time and replies, “We don’t have the Internet on our planet.”            Matilda says, “I’ll be your new best friend. And you’ll get one sleepover invite a year, deal? Think Taken Alien says, “Deal.”

            One year later, Singing Rose Kornbluth graced the cover of Time Magazine. On the top, the headline read ‘Pitchwoman Of The Year.’ She saved her country’s planet from being wiped off the solar system map for selling the Think Tank Aliens on making her Do It All Dad the most popular, downloadable, highly quotable podcaster in the universe.

            So, he could afford the opportunity to shine like the brightest rising comedy star in the galaxy and drive his family back from the hospital in his new Comedy Gold Porsche SUV with a new baby sister addition in the back, Lavender Love Kornbluth, to make his Do It All Dad year mission complete.

            Now Singing Rose Kornbluth could sing duets with her new baby sister, Lavender Love Kornbluth, for a double dose of beautiful wonderfulness on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, so she’d never have to feel homesick again.

Michael Kornbluth

Horrendous Heidi

Matilda’s knew the birthday of her daddy, mommy, two younger brothers, best friend Shannon, and of course, dear Miss Kitty (which wasn’t her official birthday, but the day she scurried into the Kornbluth family’s love-filled shrieks-of-joy laden home).

            Matilda was the sole pushing force who campaigned to get a cat from a rescue center in nearby Carmel because she felt a mystical connection to these graceful, courteous, endearing, clean, fuss-free felines of all stripes and colors, but no other one got under her love-laced skin more than Miss Kitty.

            Originally, Matilda named her Woodstock, because she was discovered on Woodstock Street, yet she thought Bob Dylan was annoying and overrated and couldn’t respect the alleged evolved, arc of justice leaning solely toward smug, secure, pretentious baby boomers, so the moment the name Miss Kitty was uttered by her dear dada, it stuck for good.

            Now, Matilda’s dad never grew up with a cat or dog because his father’s line of reasoning when addressing his two growing sons was, “I work. So does your father. So, who’s going to take the dog for a shit outside the house? You two?”             Understand: the rationale uttered in immediate dismissive, you’re-fucking-crazy disgust was predicated on the assumption of Matilda’s grandpa’s contention that no amount of pet responsibility would make his two sons any less lazy pieces of shit than they were already, in his eyes, regardless if he had been wearing glasses almost out of the womb.  

            Matilda’s Dad never got bit by KUJO, so he was never petrified by dogs, although he thought the incessant, barky, big muscular, bony ones were gross monstrosities who bared too much gummy teeth and shitty bad breath, for his taste.             Golden retrievers were nice, Matilda’s dad thought, but their alleged personalities were vastly overrated, in his book. Saying a golden retriever has good personality is like saying that Chelsea Clinton has a good personality. But, it’s sexist to make fun of Chelsea Clinton. But she’s not even ugly, anymore.

            Plus, mostly on both sides of the divide, I think Alyssa Milano is an uppity, divisive twat on Twitter, too.

            Matilda’s dad had a best friend, Coopy, growing up, who had two smoking hot blonde au pairs who could walk his two adorable miniature white dogs, Justie and Brandy. Brandy was the portlier of the two, yet they were snuggly cute even when they smelled like aged pee nappies.

            Those dogs were impossible not to love, which is the same way Matilda’s dad felt about their precious, otherworldly, head-rubbing, grazing Miss Kitty, who was his new official 5 a.m. alarm clocks, these days, gently nudging her Do It All Dad’s head before it got up by itself naturally, without any feline nudgy interference.

            According to Matilda’s Dad, nothing screams, ‘I don’t suffer from separation anxiety from my grandkids’ when his in-laws decide (in three-plus hours away Delaware) to adopt a miniature Doberman pinscher (a disgusting breed of English hunting dogs) named Heidi, three grandchildren later.

            Matilda didn’t like Heidi one bit. She chewed through muzzles with a dogged persistence on par with a Nazi officer trying to chew through a ball gag while playing the gimpy bitch from Pulp Fiction with Hitler, whenever his herpes sores flared up his desire to annihilate.

            One time, Matilda’s English-born Mother-in-law broached the boring subject of how great the Christmas market is in Manchester, only for her Dad to have fun at her expense, saying, “Then, you should have Jida fly us all out there for Christmas one year to visit all the relatives, so they don’t think you’re hiding our Jewish offspring with them.”

             Baba Grandam says, “But if we left for Manchester, we’d have to quarantine the dog for three weeks.”

            At that point, Matilda’s dad says, “Well, we wouldn’t want to separate you from your Anchor Baby.”

            Now it’s October 26, 2020, time for Miss Kitty’s three-year birthday bash; and her dad always says, “The best things happen in threes,” mostly referring the comedic rule of three in addition to the birth of their baby brother Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo (although four kids would really piss both virtual Facebook-involved-only grandparents off the most. Lifting a finger to them is liking a new picture on Facebook).      After Matilda’s mommy posted a picture on Instagram to show all the new gifts and party celebrations in the house for Miss Kitty’s birthday, her parents decide to visit from Delaware for a surprise visit with Heidi because doggy daycare isn’t available on the weekends (which pissed off Matilda’s dad even more so, knowing they’ve spent more on daycare for Horrendous Heidi than they did on daycare or for any enrichment activities, including camp, for all three of their grandchildren, so far).

            Matilda spots her grandparents’ lower-priced model Range Rover pulling into their driveway, and doesn’t understand why Baba and Jida are here on Miss Kitty’s birthday.  Matilda rushes downstairs to greet them at the door and says, “Hey, Baba and Jida. What are you doing here?”

            Baba says, “We’re here to celebrate Miss Kitty’s birthday, and we brought someone else with to spice up the party.” Then Jida escorts the dog Heidi out of the Range Rover, which starts barking uncontrollably, immediately.

             Matilda says, “Hey … Heidi, did you bite through your last muzzle again?”

            Jida says, “We ran out of muzzles. She bit through her last one on the car ride down.”

            Matilda says, “Yeah, the ride from Delaware is a schlep. I totally get it.” 

            Baba Grandma notices the mezuzah on the door for the first time and asks, “What’s that, Tilly?”

            Matilda says, “It’s a mezuzah. It has the schema prayer inside—the real biggie prayer in synagogue that you cite before the open and close the ark; that being, ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord (is) our God, the Lord is One’. No Jesus name drops in that prayer, sorry.”

            Baba says, “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”          Matilda says, “Yeah, I already made Miss Kitty’s party rule: no dogs allowed. We do live in horse country here in North Salem, and I hate dogs because they eat dog food made of dead horse parts. Sorry.”

            Baba Grandma presses, “Don’t be ridiculous. We came all the way down to Delaware to join the party.”

            Matilda says, “The invitation, which I don’t recall Mama sending you because I’m spying on her through her phone all the time already, explicitly said, ‘No dogs allowed on Miss Kitty’s Day. If you bring them, there will be hell to pay.’ Even though Jews don’t believe in hell, but you get the gist.

            “Look, I’ll make you a deal. Have Jida buy a Washington Post or a NY Times (they all stink), and let Heidi run around the yard and make shit piles on more op-eds from BDS activists about Palestinian terrorist leaders in charge, resisting free vaccines for their people from the dirty, greedy neighboring Jews (even from the Arab-Israeli ones with less imposing schnozes) while we celebrate Miss Kitty’s birthday inside.

            She’s my Daddy’s new good luck charm. I can feel it. His next two books, Waste Of Height and The Koshertarian Comedian, which will all be done by his 45th birthday, are bound for Do It All Dad glory.

            “Your aura of superiority will go poof in his presence, like that. I know cats have nine lives, but I’m not taking my chances with that crazy, zero jaw control bitch, Horrendous Heidi.

            “Some dogs never get adopted for a reason, unless your new daughter-in-law jams it down your throat to mark her territory.

            “Hope you made fish balls. Miss Kitty loves any fishy delectable treat.”

            Baba Grandma says, “I didn’t make fish balls, Matilda.”

            Matilda says, “But you give your dog a rib roast, half a goose, and endless ham trimmings, for Christmas. Horrendous Heidi, definitely not a Jew.”

           Golden Jew Sandler lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Maiden Bartender

You meet one Iron Maiden fan, you meet them all, right? Iron Maiden fans wear those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets even into their late thirties, to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge that such diehard fanatic fans are incapable of generating on their own.  

            Granted, Bruce Dickenson (the more exalted replacement lead singer star of Iron Maiden, otherwise known as the human air raid siren) boasts a supernatural voice which pierces through the clouds of heavy metal heaven. Still, it’s impossible to not grow tired of his rapid fire, Spinal Tap-conjuring caricature of what an English heavy metal howler should like in Samuel Johnson’s speed metal phonics dictionary under ‘Game Of Thrones horse-charging music’.

            At least, that’s what Cruise Comedian Michael Rocker thought, as he entered the colonial-constructed seaside shipbuilding town of Mystic, CT where Julia Roberts shot the movie Mystic Pizza and entertained the grips on the set by fisting her mouth in-between takes to ensure they made her look the most flattering in the face of such frigid, east coast winter light.  

            Now Michael Rocker, a tall, athletic-looking, preppy casual comic, orders a drink and says, “Hey, what local IPAs do you recommend?”

             The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline-statuesque dirty blonde sporting an Iron Maiden tattoo on her defined, yet not overtly chiseled, deltoid replies, “I don’t know. That all depends on how much hardcore bitter bite you can take. I mean, are you interested in merely quenching your thirst with a session-filler beer? Or would you prefer to get your hardcore freak on for Karaoke night with something boozier and more funktastic, like a Fat Orange Cat’s Trippel IPA, stud?”

            The Cruise Comic says, “I’ll take the Trippel IPA, Hot Stuff,” as he tries hard not to lick his lips, wanting to inhale her on the spot.

            Sitting next to the Cruise Comic at the bar is a hunched, tired, lanky, dirty blonde, long-haired guy in his late thirties, sporting bad acne spots from a poor diet full of too much beef jerky and cheap vodka tonics. He reeks of stale Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody’s appeal after the first drag.  

            The Cruise Comic gets the impression that the Newport cigarette guy who’s sporting a black Iron Maiden shirt under his faded, torn jean jacket is here solo, as usual, so he decides to try some new jokes on him in preparation for his upcoming cruise tour (heading to Jamaica for spring break the following morning).

            Cruise Comic makes eye contact with the Iron Maiden fan and says, “Nice Maiden shirt. You must know the wrestler and Fozzy front man Chris Jericho, then?”

             Maiden dude replies, “Duh, who doesn’t?”   Immediately, the Cruise Comic becomes engulfed with extreme annoyance, regretting his attempt to bond with this local in his attempt to play it cool with the hot, badass bartender, and snaps back with, “Be honest. Don’t you think Iron Maiden is a poor man’s Judas Priest, with far less sing-along, radio-friendly hits, and is forced to rely on catchy, merchandising gimmickry to radiate a cooler, far less Dungeons and Dragons nerdy veneer, instead?

            “And who is the Eddie mascot on Iron Maiden shirts supposed to be, anyway? He looks like a cyborg mummy and a virile Crypt Keeper in his prime had a baby.  ‘Run For The Hills’ was a good running song for Daniel Day Lewis to crank up when he trained for his role in The Last of the Mohicans.”

            The bartender can’t help but chuckle, doing her best to not let Cruise Comedian know it. Still, she decides to interject, knowing that fighting words were just thrown down in this normally peaceful waterfront town, and says, “Hey, Eddie, don’t listen to him. He’s not sophisticated enough to understand the intricacies and sweeping historical, majestic sweep that went into Power Slave and the other forty records of English speed metal mastery at it’s finest. Next vodka and tonic is on me, babe; don’t sweat it.”

            Cruise Comedian is turned on by the bartender’s friendly-infused fiery cheer, especially knowing that this was her way of pleasing a local and flirting with him big time, and says, “She’s right, Eddie. (That’s your name—Eddie—just like the Iron Maiden mascot; wow.)

            “I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just putting Iron Maiden down to feel better about myself. That’s what hack cruise comics do.  I think Poison, Motely Crew, and Cinderella rock out just as hard and boast infinitely catchier, kickass metal pop anthems which ooze forceful, heartfelt personality versus sounding like systematic howling knights on horseback; but what do I know, Eddie?

            “Didn’t mean to offend your hardcore fanatical Maiden sensibilities, bud.”

            Eddy’s face becomes ensnarled in acne-scar shades of red as he clenches his callous, hardened, burn-laden hands and says, “Dude, I’m a dishwasher on a cruise ship. I don’t need to take this shit.”

            The Cruise Comedian says, “I’m a lowly Cruise Comedian hack comedian, so it’s a wash, mate.

            “Looking forward to docking in Jamaica, though. This is my impression of Ziggy Marley being interviewed by High Times Magazine for their annual 4/20 issue: ‘Ziggy, your dad had eleven kids, but I thought ganja drained your life blaster dry.’ Ziggy replies, ‘Fake news, man.’”

            Cruise Comic finally scores a tension-diffusing laugh. Eddie says, “That was a good one. Perhaps I take my obsession with Iron Maiden a tad too seriously, at times. Thing is, you get pretty cagy as a cruise ship dishwasher, all alone with Iron Maiden tunes of wanton destruction stuck in your head.”

            Cruise Comic says, “No problem, dude. I was being a big dick, before. Sometimes my riffing veers into full-fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer it to. Do you smoke your mind with the crystal-specked bud?”

             Eddie the dishwasher says, “Yeah—I mean, what loner burnout Maiden Head in high school didn’t? You never outgrow the soothing lift. The green gives a loner burnout at heart.”

              Cruise comic says, “Did you know 4/20 was Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.”

            Eddie the Dishwasher says, “Oh, so you’re Jewish. That’s why you’re so annoying and pushy with your material. Well, nobody’s perfect (except Beth the bartender).”

            Beth the bartender commands the stage and clenches the mike to belt out ‘Run for the Hills’ on the Karaoke stage with enough of an incredible, hardcore edge feeling to make a jaded, English’ metal-resisting cruise comic willing to give British speed metal another shot. All that was missing was a hardcore female touch and some added funktastic feeling, with some sexy metal sass to match.

Michael Kornbluth

The Flirting Conductor

By forsaking flirting, we’re cheating ourselves of a richer life to tap into for more joy spewing tomorrows. At least, that’s what I’m teaching my son today as we near close to ending his homeschooling apprenticeship, on the importance of flirting power. But why does flirting power matter? Because sometimes, loving the one you’re with isn’t enough. Screw Stephen Stills. Loving the one you’re with is a whole lot easier in 1970 when your able to forsake condoms for silky smooth lining instead of plastic covered seats. At the same time, my son is only 5 and hasn’t started Kindergarten yet. And I haven’t even joked about sending my kid to junior high during the post me to era with a lawyer on his person to hand out pre-poundage consent forms just yet. But I never think it’s early enough to get your kids into flirtation meditation. But what is flirtation meditation exactly? And since when is small talk at the bar considered fantasy material to get off your mind anytime?  Similar to Magic Johnson visualizing what no look passes he’d turn heads with while running the Showtime Lakers at the Forum on the fast break, flirtation meditation also helps you get into the mindset of picturing what scoring and balling means to you, that’s done with the intent of being the main floor general and driving force of your life instead of remaining a starless scrub on the bench who just goes through the motions of life like a passive, beaten down dog who only eats whatever scraps he’s lucky to get thrown his perpetually downer way.

My biggest regret growing up was letting my father bully me into disinviting my dear friend Coop from attending a Motely Crue concert during the Dr. Feelgood Tour because he deemed my new friend Ari a more deserving choice. I don’t remember the reason why pops pulled an Indian Giver move at the last minute, but it might have been because Coop was the fat kid and Ari wasn’t, I don’t know. All I do know, is that I sucked that much more than my dad for not sticking up for my friend by allowing my dad to bully me into bringing my friend Ari to the concert instead.  Another huge regret was letting my father bully me into selling all my basketball rookie cards to use as drinking money in Cancun during Spring Break my senior year in High School, without pushing back at forsaking my age of innocence for pass out money on the Booze Cruise. Understand, collecting basketball cards was a major labor of love for me as a kid, to the point where I somehow was able to amass enough loose change from my father’s change dish to afford almost every rookie card of those who played on the original Dream Team such as Patrick Ewing, Scottie Pippen, Charles Barkley and John Stockton. But dad was paying for my trip to Cancun, so how much leverage did I really have at the time? Could I threaten to burn my Bar Mitzah photo album if I refused? Still, in retrospect, I’m the one responsible for allowing my dad to push me into selling my basketball cards without ever taking the time to question whether passing out on a Booze Cruise off the coast of Cancun was more important than my cherished basketball card collection that gave me prideful ownership of my own.  So, in life, don’t always be so willing to let other’s map out what moves you make. Nobody remembers the King who financed the Columbus expedition into uncharted waters, but history sure as shit remembers who the fuck Christopher Columbus was. Christopher Columbus was the original old g new life commander, and nobody could take that away from thee, who gave birth to the rebranded Indigenous Day, motherfuckers.

So, what does bequeathing any sense of free will over to your dad have to with flirtation power and being a shallow, spineless friend with zero sense of loyalty who’s already moved on to the next best thing have to do with Christopher Columbus discovering the land of Fats Domino, Micky Mantle and John Huges comedies again?  Easy, Christpher Columbus refused to settle for what shit sandwich his superiors insisted he be content eating without ever daring to flirt with major changes of his own making to make on his own, his way, all the way. Sinatra lives before he was born, Challah, thank you very much.

Christopher Columbus flirted with change and made change his booty call, muse and go to top bitch to plow for deeper, unforeseen treasures never dreamed imaginable prior. In short, Columbus allowed himself the freedom to dream of a more adventurous, conquest heavy, freedom favoring life before taking such courageous, corrective action to live in order to avoid a subservient, gun-shy, die a thousand deaths before you die existence. Loving the one you’re with wasn’t enough for Columbus and shouldn’t be enough for you either, unless you’re the type who actually enjoys going on long walks with your significant other 10 years into your relationship already.

Pig Pen, the unofficial leader of the Grateful Dead and honorary member of the Hell’s Angels during the late sixties, who looked like Captain Morgan and the Sons of Anarchy had a baby, knew a thing or 2 about the importance of flirtation power. Pig Pen was also a powerful harpist, soul fused keyboardist and blues rap singer extraordinaire who had a summer fling with the gypsy queen of ramshackle soul Janis Joplin no less. It was 1967 at the Winterland Ballroom in San Franisco, a converted ice rink converted into a jam rock palace paradise, where Dickey Bets from the Allman Brother’s jammed out with Duane Allman with ferocious fluidity into uncharted, previously unexplored horizons as endless odes to spacious, soul piercing blue skies on the Stratocaster prior filled the air, when Jimi and Santana weren’t making endlessly beautifying a plus atmospheric space hurling blues rock of their own.

But on this night, Pig Pen turned on his love light on the crowd when he encouraged the gun-shy Deadhead stoners to snap out of their stoner stuck funk, when he bellowed with big man, flirtation power, “Get your hands out of your pocket, shake your love maker, and find somebody to love, so you won’t go home again lonely tonight. Love the one you’re with, that being yourself for life, by not letting that pretty girl with rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes pass along by without saying more than hi. In other words, get it while you can, you burnout bitches. Janis did. Flirtation power is your hands. So don’t squander it all just to trip face on tour with the band.”

And that’s why Pig Pen badgering his fan base into acting like more cocksure conquistadors for a change is the greatest flirting conductor story ever sold.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Last Licks

Brother says to my son, “All those guys in the photo are my friends.” I say, “That’s why Uncle Jon blanks on my birthday because he has so many birthdays to remember. Assuming he swore off posting selfies of himself driving on Facebook. A Plus Narcissist lives matter most. Back surgeries from bending over backwards to kiss our own assholes is the family tradition. Who else would birth the expression 100 percent happy than an A plus narcissist like Uncle Jon who makes Hunter Biden look like a slacker underachiever in comparison?” Brother says, “I’m not an A Plus Narcissist.” I say, “You broke off an incoming marriage the weekend before the wedding date, before wrecking another one in a little over a year while somehow managing a way to frame your ex-lovers as the druggy degenerate slave drivers of the relationship, when neither of them did nose candy or heroin pills prior Sir Snort a Lot. Plus, you still think it’s a good look posting driving selfies on Instagram with the asshole filter permanently disabled. So, no offense A plus narcissist, but the point of objective return has passed you by bro. Just regift my Nintendo wedding gift for your 2 nephews in addition to the Pro Wrestling game I got you to overcompensate for you failing to acknowledge their birthdays ever outside of you offering me blow on my son’s birthday 7 years ago and I’ll rebrand you a C plus narcissist, which is very generous on my part. Arthur was born on New Year’s Day. Next year he turns 9, so you’ll still be in a fortunate position to be the 1st person to wish him a happy birthday in the morning because you only hear last call from the bathroom stall. Lighting some fireworks for the kids this past 4th Of July doesn’t compare to the blasts of angelic light they emit from smiling alone, which could light up a youth hostel with no Wi Fi during the next Chinese planted plague, but it’s a soul stirring start. Just stop acting like the poor unfortunate son when mom still breaks out in canker sores on your behalf. So much for being burnt out on last licks, far from fading, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Michael Kornbluth

Least Favorite Son Test

Tell your mom you got COVID, and you’ll find out where you stand immediately based on lack of meaningful follow-up on your behalf soon after. Wife texted my mother about having to cancel our plans to see them in Florida because I tested positive for COVID after going down on my wife the night prior. And they call us unvaccinated people super spreaders. Perhaps, this was God’s way of saying, I should stick to sucking off the sheer wonderfulness of my comedy records instead, 64 money shots later, throughout the last 6 months alone. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his Stay at Dad Years.

In the end though I was right, all I’ve received from COVID is an itchy esophagus and a blown-out voice stemming from repeatedly telling my wife to take her booster shot talk and shove it up her ass. Now, you can’t even enter Whole Foods if you’re shaking from rage after filling up your car for what it costs to buy an eighth of primo Maui Waui, despite never receiving the heady lift of empowerment in return. But that’s what I get for trying to get inside my wife’s booster laden body, that’s more germ laden than she gives her COVID spewing snatch credit for. What’s the science behind getting COVID from going down on your wife for old time’s sake to make your sex life above average again? Social distancing is useless if you go down on your wife’s immune weakened innards. In the end, all I got from mom was a text that read, Michael? After my mom learned about her 3 grandchildren testing positive for Covid but not showing any symptoms at all. In other words, that’s what my mongoloid moron son deserves for refusing to take his chance with the clot shot, responsible for causing more premature heart attacks than sticker shock at the gas pump these days. But I’m positive mom still thinks remote learning is a justifiable response when she isn’t required to socially distance herself from more fear mongering bullshit on CNN either.

In short, I passed the least favorite son test with flying colors considering my mom’s complete lack of follow up on my behalf like the time I got caught in a snowstorm with her 3 grandchildren when our non-existent four wheel drive almost prevented us from ever getting out of Cold Spring, NY up a snow blanketed hill at all to the point where when we finally did, our last option was to remain stationary in a gas station parking lot and dose for 3 hours before the roads became less icy fixated set. At the time, I’m sure mom just thought, “I just assumed my stay-at-home dad son was staying in as usual. It’s not as if my sheltered bum son could afford to do much else these days but write more jokes on his WordPress blog to keep the encroaching feeling of complète uselessness at bay.

Personally, I wasn’t expecting any meaningful follow up check-up from mom but it’s hard not to contemplate what her response would be if her favorite got COVID out of the blue. Chances are that mom would book a red eye back to NY from Arizona that night and rewrite the will in his favor before takeoff. Memorials will be built in his honor like the one Tiger King made for his boy toy before he blew his brains out because living off free weed, dirt bikes and ass munching alone wasn’t enough to keep him hanging on. It’s not as if he was under contract at Universal like Rock Hudson, either. 50 million records later Jim Morrison’s retired admiral dad finally located in his inner mensch and praised his son’s uncompromising genius for self-expression, only 10 years after the Lizard King slipped into unconsciousness. So, I don’t see mom rushing to make any such proclamations for her Stay At Home Comedian son either. At the same time, I don’t see me scoring a new job as the new Manager of Talent Acquisition at SoundCloud changing her lowly opinion of me this late in the Covid con game either. Maybe, Jimbo should’ve also written, mom isn’t your only friend in the end either, especially when she says, “I take your father’s side”, over her own flesh and blood after you dared to unleash a howlish shriek at Dad for making your April fresh daughter 2 days out of the hospital reek of stale cigarette smoke, smelling worse than Don Draper’s corpse, draped in Aramis. But at least I’ve got my 3 gorgeous seedling kids on my love street to love me 3 times over babe. Mr. Mojo Risin lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Screening Wild

My son just missed his screen test for kindergarten because I was jailed by Child Services after my son points out a shirt with excitable boy glee at the Danbury Mall and screams, “Rick and Morty, Rick and Morty. Then he adds, “What’s an anus hole probe again Daddy?” I say, “A shrink examining whether you’re a bigger asshole than your father.”

I call his school to reschedule his Kindergarten screen test because my wife already feels bad about forgetting to remind me about the screen test this weekend when she was working as a lactation consultant, giving new mommies breast feeding tips like, “The sooner you get your husband into sucking down regrettable non-fat lattes, the better.”

Gene from school picks up.

“Hi Gene, this is Michael Kornbluth, I was calling to reschedule Samuel’s screen test for kindergarten. He can’t wait to make his presence felt like his big sis and older brother there. So, in other words, your school forecast is more extended, perpetual sunshine.”

Gene laughs long time.

I add.

“For what’s it worth. Not only can Samuel spell his name, but he can name the members of all 3 Beastie Boys with real deal New York bred, funkified flourish. “Ad Rock, MCA and Mike Diamond. My name is Mike D, and I got all the flying juice.” Plus, he can count to 10 one armed pushups while chanting, “You suck forever stupid masks.” My dad is an ancient moron, have I told you that yet? And 8 million New Yorkers who wear 8 million masks outside are 8 million morons in a row. Did I pass my screen test for kindergarten yet? When I grow up, I’m going to live in Philadelphia to train like Rocky and little Creed. Daddy thinks, I can knock him out in 2 years. He ain’t poop without me. I know I can ‘t say poop in kindergarten. But daddy keeps force feeding me that line. He’s a comedian. But you’re not laughing, so it stinks more than my old school nappy bin.”

Challah, thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Good Bite Marks

Year without beer has reconnected me with my man meat in public again.

At the bagel shop this morning, I noticed the sexy, smile faced Latina MILF working there, exuding a deeper, more penetrative fuck me eyes glare than usual. After I’m done ordering, her eyes dance with anticipatory delight and says, “Anything else”, as her panties secrete wannabe good stuff pleasure. And I say, “Yes, a sex life with you in it. I’ll give you a smear you’ll never forget. How else can I burn off these carbs in a NY minute? Let’s give each other every venereal disease together and suck face after reloading on onion and garlic bagels for round 2, before your swelled, spent, torn apart juice box, yells in a heat of drained beyond repair fashion, “No, mas, no mas.” Because Do It All Dad does dent marks good, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth