Hardcore Beauty Queens

Fuck China. Chinese made Fentanyl has killed more crackers in this county than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram. Lena Dunham was Hillary’s Social Media Campaign Manager when she ran against Trumpy Poo. Only Lena Dunham could make Hillary less likeable and relatable in one blubbery swoop.

Older woman with grey hair give me old school erections like I’m 21 again. I’m hot for old school maids sucking out my white priveledge like a battery drained Dust Buster on its last legs in 1999. Plus, you know they’ve been married for long stretches of time at some point resulting in them being open to try anything new like facial cream specials by a formidable meaty mallet, before washing up for a Zoom call at noon.

I still can’t get turned on by older woman talk at the pool about five month waiting periods for private school. Mainly because I doubt those schools resemble the Girl School video by Briteny Fox. Plus, talk of private school waiting list, just reminds me how long my wife has been waiting for me make it as comedian already because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under Judicial review. I still can’t stare down an actress on Melrose without being fined for insufficient funds.

Tom Petty died from Fentanyl. They say he used Fentanyl for his back problems. Why couldn’t Tom Petty sit his ass on a piano bench which was more than sufficient whenever Jerry Lee would pound the keys with his cock with resounding, reverberating authority instead. How else do you think he came up the lyrics, Great Balls of Fire?”

I think more shrinks should prescribe edibles over anti-depressants. One, gives you a mentally tingly lift. The other turns you into a school shooter on the FBI’s Most Neglected List.

I still can’t believe recreational weed shops actually exist in our country. It makes me proud to be an American again, in a place where I know I’m free to take edibles behind my kid’s backs before they unmask my pot head eyes.

Weed edibles don’t make me feel like a total moron around my daughter whenever she asks me a super hard question on them like, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God?” I say, “God went back in time in a time machine made by Elon Musk. ” Daughter says, “That’s a really convincing theory Dad. Thanks for turning me to an atheist at 4.” David Cross lives, holla, thank you very much.

Moms who obsess over suntan protection are the same ones who insist on their kids wearing masks inside like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain. Wearing a mask in your car is like the God of War Aries wearing a tunic dress into a Greek Spa to conceal what a raging homo he is underneath.

Suntan protection shaming today is another shining example virtue signaling. Look at me, I’m willing to blind my own kid before that bitchy old sun get’s gives my kid some extra soul glow 1st.

I’m reaching out to Christian Lit agents, pitching my book, The Koshertarian Comedian, stating, “You’re my only option left because I’m the last God fearing, self-loving Jewish New Yorker left. Who doesn’t shy away from pro Trump material either like Trump’s the anti-Christ? But doesn’t Jesus’ return from Heaven to defeat the Anti-Christ in the Bible part 2? So have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you people? I actually had to Google Anti-Christ to figure out what it meant. That’s what Pig Vomit calls Howard Stern in Private Parts before he came out as weird, weak, woke Howard. So at the time, I thought how bad could the Anti-Christ be? Then again, I don’t think Howard lost any sleep over Artie turning his nose into a piece of fucking folded Capicola. After he got remarried to Beth, who’s a 6.9 by ghoulish tranny standards, who has zero feel for measured makeup application whatsoever. Weird, Weak Howard also insists all Trump supporters drop dead. Whatever it takes Howard, to ensure you still get invited over to Jimmy Kimmel’s house for more 2 bite chicken parm dinners. It’s not Trump’s fault, you’re no longer the King of All Media or Social Media ever. If you haven’t been kicked off Twitter, you’re no longer hardcore hilarious enough sorry Perm Head. Can I get a holla, for mo money mint weird weak Howard blast for the ages, Challah? Thank you very much.

Daughter sports a new tang top this morning that says, “Grateful” on it. Wife says, “Doesn’t she look like hardcore hippie in it?” I say, “I prefer to call her a hardcore beauty queen in the making babe. She doesn’t care for the Fleet Foxes, Bjork or that other band you like the Mask Miserable Seals.

The other day, my son says, “I jammed this lime up my butt.” I said, “Don’t jam limes up your butt.” He says, “Why not? I rubbed it against my penis to and it felt good.” I reply, “I better keep you away from dad’s Key Lime pie for dessert.”

Perfect father son, bonding moment. Son says, “Are you picking us up from camp today?” I said, “Yes.” He says, “That’s good, because I get to see more of you then. And we get to listen to bad ass music on the car ride home. And my wife thinks Hair Metal is rock and roll pollution. But Bjork having a band member pouring cups of water into a koi pond for a watered down drum of solo doesn’t stink.

The other night I’m tucking my daughter in and say “Hardcore Hilarious Rocks” is one of my strongest comedy records yet. My act outs of Joy Behar in Muslim virgin heaven and as Kay announcing to Michael about being pregnant with a hermaphrodite son in my bit the Gender Fluid Godfather are some of my strongest act out bits yet. Daughter says, “So you’re better at playing at girls daddy?” I say, “I don’t call myself a stay-at home shemale comedian for nothing.”

Wife pulls a dildo out of her panty drawer and says, “Do you want it?” I say, “Save for it for Samuel. He’s already jamming limes up his butt. So, at this point, what difference does it make.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives, holla, thank you very much.

Wife can’t get enough of the new soft core porn series on Netflix Sex/Life. She showed me the picture of this Aussie hunk naked who could’ve gone jump roping with it flaccid. All this time at home has given has given stuck at home, remote learning monitoring suburban moms never-ending schlocky schlong fever.

Weed dealer bud calls and says he’s going to Mexico for vacation this summer. I say, “Last time I went to Tijuana, a hooker called me faggot after I declined to fuck her which was an uplifting moment at the time. Later, a woman who I thought was a regular customer gave me a 2 second lap dance and I exploded in my sweats 2 seconds later. So, I no longer felt like a full-fledged faggot, which was a pleasant change of my pace. Once, I went to a strip club in Montreal and tipped the DJ fifty bucks to play the 22- minute Whipping Post version from the Allman Brothers record, live at The Filmore East. I’m a craftier, greedier Jew than I give myself credit for actually.   

Told my weed dealer bud about getting up on stage again recently and how I started bombing once I went after Hillary Hammer Time Cankles. On stage I say, “Hillary says she lost because of Russian collusion. I thought she lost because she’s an unhuggable cunt, my bad. She must have deleted that memo to. My wife had a Hillary spotting for lunch during restaurant week in this garden patio spot in Westchester. Wife says, “Hillary was nice. She smiled at baby. I said, “Of course she smiled at baby. Hillary was getting warmed for up for dessert.”

Michael Kornbluth

Disinterested Love Destroys

Getting vaccinated is the most patriotic thing to do. I thought it was filing defamation lawsuits on the behalf of Dominion the day Democracy died. The FBI could lock up all the ring leaders behind ANTIFA and BLM and our Supreme Court still won’t touch an election fraud case with Elizbeth Warren’s nightmare catcher Totem Pole.

Bursting with patriotic pride for July 4th since Mr. Groper got sworn via Zoom was harder than Rick Fox staying hard after ex wife Vanessa Williams took up plus size modeling bras for Victoria Secret.

Megan Rapinoe is a model for Victoria Secret now. Can’t wait to sample those edible shin guards that taste like hairy fish sticks.

Watched the firework display from Mount Rushmore on YouTube last night with my kids. Once they started the country music section of the firework broadcast, Melania looked less disinterested than Jill Biden after Vouge asked if she’s interested in her hair being airbrushed with an actual brush for a change before using an actual digital one for much needed touch up work.

Younger brother says, “Can’t stay late. Jane has tutoring to do. I said, “But she teaches ESL sporadically. So, how brain draining can the work be, knowing most Chinese kids bow in nodding submission most of the time anyway? Last, if Jane is tutoring the next Obama from Kenya, his college records will become sealed eventually. So what difference does it make?”

Dad failing to show his son interested love again. Dad, tell me I should I get a smartphone replacement instead of a flip phone because you’d die without me sending you new pics of your 3 grandkids. No nod, no change in demeanor. All I heard was crickets, like when I asked my dad in my mind, “So, with your favorite son adding Heroin use to his demon battling list of notable accomplishments, do you still think he makes Hunter look a slacker, underachiever in comparison?”

Michael Kornbluth

The Poor Sport From Dicks

Kids learn bad habits from dad but not according to an out of shape, late middle aged sales rep for Dick’s Sporting Goods in Danbury, CT. I’m about to buy a boxing bag for my kids and say, “Kids learn bad habits from Dad. That’s why I wasted my youth on smoking cigarettes and watching the Knicks stink up the joint year after year. The dick headed defiant sales rep from Dicks who was no younger than 70, whose body was no temple of fitness either replies, “That’s not true, because my dad smoked cigarettes and I was an athlete. My kids are athletes to.” I say, “So your sons forced you to work at Dicks for their employee store discount? Also, what sport did you letter in because being an all around dick doesn’t count? Because if you didn’t smoke, why should I give a shit about your kids being considéréd athletes either? Unless, your athlete sons earned sports scholarships to prove white man’s disease doesn’t matter because they can drain jumpers with their eyes closed. I’m not too interested in your motivational coach assessment abilities bud, sorry.”

Michael Kornbluth

Wheels Of Jew Hate Keep Burning

This is my 9-year-old daughter playing marriage counselor again. Enough daddy, mama got your point mid breath. Holla, thank you very much.

My wife is pushing me to see a therapist for my anger management issues. I suggested primal scream therapy. Wife says, “Don’t you do that on your podcast already?” I say, “How would you know? You’re only 460 episodes behind babe. Never mind your complete lack of interest in the 7 books I’ve written since our lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years.” Holla, thank you very much.  

Wife insists our 3 child Samuel, gets bored whenever he spends too much with her. I always knew he was a quick learner.

My son Samuel was bound to woo. He stops traffic at the Stop and Shop even after the prime rib sample station has closed. Random Italian grandmas consistently bum rush the kid and say, “You’re gorgeous. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” I’ll reply, “If James Woods had this face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

All my fights with my wife revolve around me not making money off my comedy yet. Since I got kicked off Twitter, I can’t even write off a joke about the Chinese resisting Wuhan lab investigations more than Aquafresh as a charitable donation anymore. Holla, thank you very much.

Imagine John Lennon resenting Paul McCartney for shaming him into becoming a stay-at-home dad against his will. Paul McCartney did write Hey Jude in honor of John Lennon’s neglected son Julian, who Lennon didn’t spend much time with during the rise of Beatlemania.  2 seconds into a leisurely baby stroll through Central Park West with his 2nd kid Sean, John Lennon yells up at the sky, “Choke on a fucking Cucumber Scone Paul.  Playing the role of stay-at-home dad, is no walk in the park mate. Even primal scream therapy has its limitations, like trying to snuggle off bad acid with Yoko whenever Dr. Leary drops by with more CIA made ACID again.” Holla, Thank you very much.

The Left says there is a rise in anti-Semitism and Islamophobia.  Arabs chanting “Hitler was right” and “Allah is great” while beating up pushover Jews in the streets of New York, London, and Los Angeles, with the blunt ends of Palestinian flag poles while the cops do shit to protect them, doesn’t mirror the act of extending an olive branch in the hopes of giving peace another chance either. I don’t see these sparks of divinity inspiring observant Jews to skip Shabbat dinner at home in favor of going to a new oxygen bar opening in Astoria once the mask mandate is cleared in NY either.

Palestinians attacking Jews in the subway, asking random New Yorkers who’s Jewish, so they could beat the shit of them with the ends of Palestinian flag poles doesn’t inspire me to try out that authentic shawarma stand in Astoria, despite the elite Yelper claiming, “It’s worth getting your skull cap crushed into your cranium for it.” The elite yelper throws in a warning advisory label in her review to and says, “Just don’t call random Palestinians attacking Jews in broad daylight, Islamic supremacists, that’s a big no go zone area in Allah’s book. Bill Maher would concur. Because he knows Israel will never achieve a 2-state solution with Palestine if Hamas keeps fucking.” Holla, thank you very much.

I’m afraid to reveal the totality of my Mezuzah necklace on the subways in NY these days. That doesn’t make me Islamophobic. It just means I’m scared of getting pushed on to the subway track and having my white man’s disease preventing me from jumping back up to the subway platform in a NY minute in the nick of time. I can’t even do one legitimate pull up if my Do It All Dad Tree Trunk was riding on it. But I’m supposed to be overly confident in adrenaline alone to catapult me high enough to grab on to the subway platform before pulling myself up to safety like the Jewish Stallone in Cliffhanger? Yeah, and Rashida Talib is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

Imagine being surrounded by a bunch of crazed Palestinian nationalists on the subway, demanding for you to tell them if you’re Jewish, without having to prove it by whipping out your business card from Goldman Sachs 1st.

Equity research analyst David Rosenbluth from Short Hills, New Jersey tenses immediately and says, “Jewish, no, of course not. Look, under my arm, I still read the New York Times. I don’t even know how many zeros are in a trillion. I count with my fingers for simple arithmetic, which your people invented from what I’ve read in the Atlantic, Mazel Tov. Oh vey! Please don’t kill me. I’ll block Mark Ruffalo on Twitter. Israel is guilty of genocide, not Mao, Stalin or Pol Pot. I voted for Obama twice. I think Farsi is the most beautiful sound in the universe to. And Obama loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Gassing all his nuke deal critics would be a gas. Palestinian nationalist says, “You’re too funny for a WASP. Samir, chop his fucking head off. So we can jump for joy like it’s 9/11 again already. And I thought David Lee Roth was a long-winded Jew.”

This is Mark Ruffalo apologizing to Jon Stewart about accusing Israel of genocide. Mark Ruffalo calls. “Hey, Jon, it’s Mark. Sorry about accusing Israel of genocide despite them giving Hamas plenty of advance warning to get their kids the fuck out of dodge before they strike back again and again. Normally, genocidal maniacs like Mao prefer to starve millions to death. And Jews don’t like to blow through money if they can avoid it.” Jon Stewart says, “Don’t sweat it, Mark. I don’t care if you repeat old school Farrakhan talking points like the mulatto version of Public Enemy. Nor do I care if Palestinians get green with envy about the Jews controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. I let Trever Noah reveal what partisan hacks my Emmy winning writers have become by siding with ANTIFA and BLM to silence any form of speech that paints them or their enablers in the White House and establishment media as the fascist, racist terrorist enablers that they are, regardless of how much CNN orders Kamal Bell to pontificate otherwise like a schlumpy, unfunny Paul Mooney for hire. I also didn’t press Obama on my show to do a better job of selling his time out deal with Iran, which had less legs than Lieutenant Dan. So, what difference does it make?” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Wheels Of Jew Hate Keep Burning

This is my 9-year-old daughter playing marriage counselor again. Enough daddy, mama got your point mid breath. Holla, thank you very much.

My wife is pushing me to see a therapist for my anger management issues. I suggested primal scream therapy. Wife says, “Don’t you do that on your podcast already? I say, “How would you know? You’re only 460 episodes behind babe. Never mind your complete lack of interest in the 7 books I’ve written since our lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years. Holla, thank you very much.  

Wife insists our 3 child Samuel, gets bored whenever he spends too much with her. I always knew he was a quick learner.

My son Samuel was bound to woo. He stops traffic at the Stop and Shop even after the prime rib sample station has closed. Random Italian grandmas consistently bum rush the kid and say, “You’re gorgeous. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle. I’ll reply, “If James Woods had this face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

All my fights with my wife revolve around me not making money off my comedy yet. Since I got kicked off Twitter, I can’t even write off a joke about the Chinese resisting Wuhan lab investigations more than Aquafresh as a charitable donation anymore. Holla, thank you very much.

Imagine John Lennon resenting Paul McCartney for shaming him into becoming a stay-at-home dad when he moved to New York with Yoko after he wrote Hey Jude in honor of his son Julian, who never saw much during the height of Beatlemania.  2 seconds into a leisure baby stroll through Central Park West with his 2nd kid Sean, John Lennon yells up to the sky, “Choke on a fucking Cucumber Scone Paul.  Playing the role of stay-at-home dad is no walk in the park mate. Even primal scream therapy has its limitations like trying to snuggle off bad acid with Yoko whenever Dr. Leary drops by with more CIA made ACID again.” Holla, Thank you very much.

The Left says there is a rise in anti-Semitism and Islamophobia.  Arabs chanting “Hitler was right” and “Allah is great” while beating up pushover Jews in the streets of New York, London, and Los Angeles, with the blunt ends of Palestinian Flag while the cops do shit to protect them is no fucking olive branch either Jack. I don’t see these sparks of divinity inspiring Jews to skip Shabbat dinner at home in favor of going to a new oxygen bar opening in Astoria once the mask mandate is cleared in NY either.

Palestinians attacking Jews in the subway, asking random New Yorkers who’s Jewish, so they could beat the shit of them with more Palestinian Flags doesn’t inspire me to try out that authentic shawarma stand in Astoria, despite the elite Yelper claiming, “It’s worth getting your skull cap crushed into your cranium for it.” The elite yelper throws in a warning advisory label in her review to and says, “Just don’t call random Palestinians attacking Jews in broad daylight, Islamic supremacists, that’s a big no go zone area in Allah’s book. Bill Maher would concur. Because he knows Israel will never achieve a 2-state solution with Palestine if Hamas keeps fucking.” Holla, thank you very much.

I’m afraid to reveal my Mezuzah on the subways in NY these days. That doesn’t make me Islamophobic. It just means I’m scared of getting pushed on to the subway track and having my white man’s disease preventing me from jumping back up to the subway platform in a NY minute in the nick of time. I can’t even do one legitimate pull up if my Do It All Dad Tree Trunk was riding on it. But I’m supposed to be overly confident in adrenaline alone getting me to jump high enough to grab on to the subway platform before pulling myself up to safety like the Jewish Stallone in fucking Cliffhanger. Yeah, and Rashida Talib is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

Imagine being surrounded by a bunch of crazed Palestinian nationalists on the subway, demanding for you to tell them if you’re Jewish without having to prove it by whipping out your business card from Goldman Sachs 1st.

Equity research analyst David Rosenbluth from Short Hills, New Jersey tenses immediately and says, “Jewish, no, of course not. Look, under my arm, I still read the New York Times. I don’t even know how many zeros are in a trillion. I count with my fingers for simple arithmetic, which your people invented from what I’ve read in the Atlantic, Mazel Tov. Oh vey! Please don’t kill me. I’ll block Mark Ruffalo on Twitter. Israel is guilty of genocide, not Mao, Stalin or Pol Pot. I voted for Obama twice. I think Farsi is the most beautiful sound in the universe to. And Obama loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Gassing all his nuke deal critics would be a gas. Palestinian nationalist says, “You’re too funny for a WASP. Samir, chop his fucking head off, so we can jump for joy like it’s 9/11 again already. And I thought David Lee Roth was a long-winded Jew.”

This is Mark Ruffalo apologizing to Jon Stewart about accusing Israel of genocide. Mark Ruffalo calls. “Hey, Jon, it’s Mark. Sorry about accusing Israel of Genocide despite them giving Hamas plenty of advance warning to get their kids the fuck out of dodge before they strike back again and again. Normally, genocidal maniacs like Mao prefer to starve millions to death. And Jews don’t like to blow through money if they can avoid it.” Jon Stewart says, “Don’t sweat it, Mark. I don’t care if Palestinians get green with envy about the Jews controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. Besides, I let Trever Noah and BLM burn my legacy as a good guy Jew on Israel’s side to the ground. So, what difference does it make?” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Life In The Punchline Sprint Lane

I don’t know what’s more pretentious. Glenn Frey from the Eagles claiming how music about fake news outlaws and coke filled nights could change the world to Rolling Stone. Or Dr. Fauci thinking he could score higher ratings than Dr. Drew on Love Line, giving relationship advice to sexually confused, center leaning hipster spawn reared on Lou Reed Records.

Zevon Zappa Kornbluth from Park Slope, Brooklyn calls into Love Line with Dr. Gnocchi and says, “Hi, Dr. Fauci. I’m scared about taking the plunge into full blown homosexuality with leftist Jews who act upset over killed Hamas commanders on Twitter. Dr. Fauci replies, “Why are you scared Zevon?” Zevon says, “Because I hate condoms, anal sex is dirty and Jewish leftists who attack Israel’s right to defend itself are so full of shit already.” Holla, thank you very much.

Next caller is Lavender Love from Hate Speech Free Lane. Lavender Love says, “Dr. Fauci, we all can’t make HIV disappear like Magic Johnson. So don’t you think it’s better if I stick to being a fish box muncher till my last dying breath? Dr. Fauci says, “Condoms prevent infectious diseases the way masks prevent you from contracting COVID 19.” Lavender Love says, “But I’m only 22 and COVID 19 has killed less black girls than vape pens did in South Central this past year doc. Plus, comparing masks to condoms is a stretch Dr. Fauci, because my daddy can’t come inside mommy wearing a mask either. My dad hosts a relationship podcast on Spotify called Do It All Dad Does Sexual Healing. Plus, my dad has pushed me down the silky smooth road of lesbianism for some time now, claiming, “Lavender, just stick to Lesbianism dear. 1 out 2 guys in America has HPV, which leads to cervical cancer if left undetected. 2nd, enormous love guns burst through condoms like a nuclear warhead blasting through the Hoover Dam in Superman 1. Most importantly, when you’re lesbian, you never have to worry about dying from Aids, because you can take a licking and keep on ticking.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Repulsive Marriage Model

Kids won’t be running to the altar if they see their parents fight all the time, like they’re constantly rehearsing for Summer Slam on Pay Per View at Miami International Airport. The problem is my wife views herself as Miss Elizabeth whose above reproach, and I’m the hot head speed freak like Macho Man because I’m on Adderall again to focus less on how annoying my wife can be whenever she accuses me of being the controlling one, who prevents her from working out on the Peloton. Am I preventing her from waking up early to squeeze in a ride for a change? No, all I do is bite my tongue regretting the day I ever fell in love with a woman who has to buy Kardashian Jeans, despite not being on top of the Porcupine Persian Puss Chain. I need to come up with a stronger finishing move to end our fights because giving my wife a pile driver into The Handmaid’s Tale coffee table book to get her mouth wired shut after I insist on us squashing it prior, isn’t getting the job done, holla, thank every much.

I just saw a shot of Kim Kardashian studying for the bar exam in a bikini on Instagram, so she can practice social justice law in LA to make squatting rights, outside her compound in Valencia go viral. Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now. I bet a new variant of COVID will descend upon America by the time she passes the bar in 2022. By then all our jails will emptied to protect MS13 rapists from catching an itchy Esophagus after he tears off the top of a Goya can to give himself a Tear tattoo on the tip of his dick. So what difference does it make? Holla, thank you very much.

It’s hard to remain attracted to your wife when she’s constantly blaming you for never putting her cloths away. Her argument is, “You’re always in the room working on new books and jokes or talking shit about my mother again. So I never have time to put them away.” But she can find 3 hours to dye her hair partially pink before work to work in Labor and Delivery at the hospital to secure her Punk Rock Girl, Indie cred on Instagram soon after, after squeezing in some more elaborate dance routines on Tik Tok again? How is labor and delivery at her hospital so busy again? I thought woman in New York were having less kids these days because overweight, hobbit hipsters were pulling out prematurely from excessive meat sweats. At the same time Lena Dunham encouraging her millions of followers to rock the arm flapper look while resembling the hunchback of Bushwick during Restaurant Week isn’t helping, holla, thank you very much.

My youngest one Samuel, billed as Hardcore Hunga in the WWE Squirts League, has the right idea at 4 already, admitting to me last night, “Daddy, “Playing with my pee-pee tunnel is my favorite thing to do.” I say, “Then, you’ll have no problem staying married then.” Holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Maudlin Mermaid Waffle

I’m doing sight words with my 7-year-old son Art Show, documented as Arthur Morrison Kornbluth on his Social Security Card, which looked more bad ass than it sounds when I received it in the mail. Coming up with the middle name Morrison for my son was a divine blessed miracle despite Sam Harris’s snippy claims of belief-based hogwash otherwise because Morrison creates an actual flow to Kornbluth, which is easier said than done. One time I considered naming my 1st son Arthur Brooks Kornbluth in honor of funny man Hebrews who have inspired me to become a professional funnyman one day such as the perpetually smug dour, Albert Brooks. Bu then I changed my mind because I didn’t want to give my son the permission to be a victimized plagued, Jewish pushy. At the time, I also liked the idea of pissing off my dad, with the name Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, so he could say to me, “Morrison, isn’t very Jewish genius.” Only for me to reply with, “But up and coming Jewish comedians who want to break into show busines have changed their last names since the dawn of time to come across as less overtly, kvetchy, pushover Jewy, like Jonathan Leibowitz, who changed his name to Jon Stewart or Andrew Silverstein, who went with straight up Dice, after jacking the Buddy Love asshole persona from the original Nutty Professor and Elvis’s puffed up pompadour hair due while also pumping the entirety of Mother Gooses rhymes for all they were worth.  So, it’s ok for self-motivated, scrappy comedians on the rise to change their names the way Rodney and Joan did but it isn’t kosher to give my son the middle name Morrison because it reminds you too much of Toni Morrison, Van Morrison or Tommy Gun Morrison from Rocky 5, Dad? I don’t get it. I know you prefer Dylan’s word dumps over Van Morrison or my own for that matter. Still, I’m not giving my son permission to drink himself to death by the magic 27 the way Jim MOJO Motherfucking Rising did. Instead, my son has an effortlessly cool, larger than life name to live up to, who won’t lie to reporters about his parents dying in a car accident, discovered by Indians to avoid talking about his disapproving Dad, despite being the dark price of poetic rock of his day.  

I never considered changing my last name in a sneaky, misleading attempt to break into show business in a more palatable, less in your face Jewy fashion although I did experiment on stage during my years on the open mike circuit throughout dumpy towny bars in the talent agent free hinterlands of Northern Westchester County, by having the MC introduce me as Michael Rocker for a bit. I had good sets with that name to but stopped using it because the stage name Michael Rocker started sounding like an easily discarded 1st name idea for the new porn up and comer actor to replace Dirk Diggler as the new face of VHS tape porn in Boogie Nights. Paul Thomas Anderson lives, holla, thank you very much.

Since I’ve become a practicing Koshertarian comedian, the idea of changing my last name, to blend in better with our Christian dominated nation at large, fails to give me sustained stiffage to, just to give the MC an easier last name to annunciate than Kornbluth. Kornbluth is a total mouthfeel I get it. Kim Kardashian can’t wrap her mouth around it. But now Kim is going to become a Social Justice Lawyer. Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now, What Makes Sammy Run? on Amazon, not so much.

Also, after just watching Mank on Netflix, the stubbornly depressing, factual based reality of the Jewish Moguls such as Louis B Mayer being hesitant to pressure Washington to stop Hitler from franchising Concentration Camps like Johnny Rockets throughout Poland and Germany out of fear of hurting MGM’s profit’s from the number 1 overseas market of it’s time, the China of its day, drains me of any lingering leftover desire to becoming a woke chameleon to play nice with the Dream Factories founded by Jewish moguls complicit in being engaged in the Nazi profiteering business, making them no better than Joe Kennedy in my book.

For my daughter’s 10th birthday, a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to make Kosher barbeque Brisket sliders, yet my wife got tense about the concept. I said, “Why are you tense about telling your mom about our family rocking the Koshertarian Diet? Oh, yeah, she performed eucharist on my 3 kids behind my back. I totally forget it for a second. We don’t want to advertise any affiliation with the Jewish faith in our own home, got it.  It’s like forcing your mom to eat a shit sandwich with Biden’s mask nappy on while gagging on such rancid, unpleasant in your face Jewishness. It’s borderline suicidal triggering offense, on par with Meghan Markle being forced to balance the Queen’s Gin and Tonics on her head for charm school posture 101, when she wasn’t lounging in the VIP box at Wimbledon, having it all to herself, while banning all reporters from the premises, thinking, “Even Beyonce isn’t white looking enough, to get away with this shit.”

Yeah, so if Meghan Markle was ever really suicidal while nursing a thumb sprain for losing a thumb wrestling match to Michelle Obama after a post Wimbledon party which got out of hand, over who got  1st dibs on pegging Archie from behind, before his face got rammed into royal tapestry rug to the point where his freckles got smooshed off in process, she never would’ve written a passive aggressive not on par with the one Kate Spade left for her only daughter, which read, “Dad will explain.” Kate Spade’s widowed husband reads the suicide note out loud at the time and screams, “Dad will explain. Dad will explain, what Kate? I, was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate.”  Holla, thank you very much.

So, I’m doing more sight words with my son Arthur Morison Kornbluth this morning and he only gets 2 wrong, still prompting me to call him a “Fake News Genius” and “Bubble Tape Brain”, after he failed to the recognize the word “saw”, despite me acting out using a handsaw to chop off his femur in half as he howled shrieks of endless joyous, angelic delight. But believing in a loving God is equivalent to believing in an indifferent alien psychopath like Predator, Sam Harris? I know Scientists can’t prove God exists despite you building a successful podcast career playing a pseudo brainer, punch free, zero gravitas exuding version of Bill Maher for a living, for daring to accuse Christians of killing, torturing and enslaving in name of the original, super Jew of his time, got it.  Also, I hate to burst your meditative, vastly spiritual bubble Sam Harris, but the Torah wasn’t written by Tony Kushner either, because then it would come across as excessively wordy, even for Kevin’s Smith’s tastes. Get Kevin Smith away from those damn Tablets. Punching up Good Will Hunting isn’t the same as the punching up the old Testament, Mallrats lives, holla, thank you very much.”

Later, my son’s ecstatic high was short lived after mama presented her Kellogg’s brand of purple Mermaid waffles. Don’t get me wrong the whip cream and blueberries was a nice touch on top, but it couldn’t remove the scarring of image of what Grimace puked after a group of kids gave him a barrage of leg jumps in the eighties in the ball pit at Mcdonald’s during the height of Hulkamania, assuming he was a secret lush, who drank too many vodka laced, Lavender Smoothies between bathroom breaks in between.  So much for running out of ideas for new chapter entries for the Koshertarian Comedian, despite my total non-involvement in mama’s Maudlin Mermaid Waffle bust or not. Although my wife trying to upstage me as our new in-house Koshetarian Comedian failed to materialize in her favor, when she kidded about the frozen Mermaid waffles being made of Mermaid blood, or something gross like that. In related news, did you know Neil Young left his wife of 25 years for the actress Daryll Hannah. Talk about a match made in hippie heaven. Neil Young’s Publicist told Rolling Stone off the record, “Neil is going through a post midlife never banged a mermaid crisis. What Gen X Dads understand, holla, thank very much.

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

Dreaming On Past Covid

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking 2 packs a day of Turkish blend, extra wide Camel cigarettes fended off my surging lung cancer either. I’ll never forget how top of the world scrumptious that Camel extra wide tasted after losing my virginity to Katie King in the Cape. If there was ever a reason to take up smoking again, so I could enjoy sucking face with my summer wind love who enjoyed her Camel extra wide smokes even more than I did, it was for my sweet darling, inhalable on the spot always, pitch perfect southern belle, the always magical, chills down my spine inducing from mere memories of walking hand in the hand throughout Main Street in the Cape, my dear Katie King. Especially, knowing how my bitch roommates at the time, hated how the Jew boy from New York struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina, who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in 3 years flat. Oh yeah, that’s right, one of those girls went to McGill in Canada, which was a safety school for stoners obsessed with free healthcare and Justin Trudeau’s purple specked socks. So, it looks like I’m one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never draggy dumpy, 36D tits.  

So, my parents, younger brother, friends, and ex-girlfriends can’t visit me, but I’d sure love to kiss the never annoying, always pleasantly plump on top, Katie King again. The last time I kissed her was when I surprised her while driving cross-country to California for my last semester of college, with an aching in my heart. She was more than a friend of mine Lord, Katie was a guardian angel as you know, who was sent down from Heaven to make me a true believer in the power of prayer and modern-day miracles, which benefited my love life immensely for a change. I remember praying to you alone on the beach in Cape Cod Kennedy country, during the summer when the Fugees broke big, finally giving me a woman to cry about in my heart after our romance came too a sudden, crashing end. I said, “God, I love Hair Metal ballads because they’re hopeful songs full of longing, and I always longed to have a real-life girlfriend to walk hands with at Rye Playland to win stuffed animals for, as I drained more basketball shots from way downtown with effortless, in the zone, choke free ease.”

You’ve always provided me with divine intervention comfort Lord, so I’m not going to fret against my dying of the light this late into the 9th Inning, with me going up against Mariano Rivera with a 5 run lead at the new Yankee Stadium, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. Gentrification Lord, you know, liberal talk for less black people. I wouldn’t have written that a plus joke gem without your divine powered assistance as usual. Has my sadness enshrouded heart weighed heavily on my weepy, hurting inside soul in Synagogue some years on Yom Kippur, knowing it’s another year, where I ask for another shot to be a productive, functioning member of the Jewish race versus another schmuck in a headset, whose been fired more than a Palestinian Slingshot. I’m also not going to bitch about certain friends or family members not always being there to consistently support my comedic ambitions, which lead me to killing at the Montreal Comedy Festival, thanks to your steady, unrelenting support in me doing me all the way. Those friends came to my bringer shows in Manhattan at the New York Comedy Club, when I was an average nobody putz, because they believed in my potential, which you always have Lord, back when my pursuit of getting lady laugh off long time, all the time began.

My parents raised me in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, performing well at high paying jobs, which were no labor of love either.  Plus, acting like an excessively obnoxious, supremely spoiled, entitled twat, never felt right with my labor of laugh lust pursing heart either. You made me grow up and become a man in LA, when my parents cut me off, forcing me to overcome a debilitating stutter as an IT Headhunter, cold calling through the Los Angeles Journal Book of Lists like a man possessed to be a pushover putzy no more. I got to sing Karaoke in the valley and perform high kicking, windmills to Baba O-Reilly, proving to myself I was meant to strut my stuff and sing the gift of comedic song on stage for a living one day.

Should I order Chinese for my last meal to earn myself social justice righting props on Twitter, instead of insisting how those bio-chemical warfare starting commie bastards have resisted investigations into the origin behind the Wuhan lab originator of the virus more than Aquafresh? The only time I ever feared dying was from weed induced panic attacks, thinking, I’d stop breathing, because I was being a degenerate Jew again who was bound to lose his gift of gab sooner or later.

Dying semi-alone through Zoom, doesn’t appeal to me much Lord. I say semi-alone because you’ll always be the bursting source of light in my laugh loving heart come rain or shine. Also, I prefer to say goodbyes to my parents, friends, ex-girlfriends, and younger brother through emotive, giving letters like this, which touch the soul far deeper than any belabored, drawn out Zoom call could, while our new Chinese slave masters monitor our every last show of vigorous, in your face emotion.

Dying prematurely at 44 bites, only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young blares with rollicking empathetic flourish like no other on Rocking In The Free World. I’m positive that song gets plenty of play in stage performer heaven, which I wouldn’t mind entry into, knowing Lou Reed could use some added some levity up there from time to time, next time he showcases the insufferable gaul to insist on charging Billy Idol for the priveledge of recording with him while waiting for his man Marlon Brando again off Broadway upstairs for A Streetcar Named Desire, now that’s he’s love with the act of on-stage creation again. I’m not worried about being a pseudo homo preventing me, from being embraced by your loving light in afterlife. Desmond Child isn’t dead yet, but there’s no way a loving God would damn the writer behind Livin’ On A Prayer to endless agonizing hell on par with forcing him to to act like he enjoys hearing the Fleet Foxes live in front a log cabin, on his one ordained night out for his birthday in homo performer hell, year after year.

Thanks for the thrill of killing and for the heart soothing memories involving my dear Katie King, oh, sweet Lord. Dear Katie King, the magic fairy dust beneath my wings, who took me to the other side on earth, where us oh so fortune, cosmic comedic perfectionists roam. All the bombing in life was worth the thrill of killing at the Montreal festival, especially with my dear Katie King in attendance front row to make love to my soul with her Oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring our last departed goodbye kiss, when she said in the Cape, “I never knew someone could make me so happy before.” I do, it’s you Lord, all the great good in my life stems from your miraculous handy work on my behalf. I must make you laugh more than yenta breath Seinfeld ever did, to be blessed with such infinite beauty in my life, because like your other star creation Billy Cox, Jimi’ Hendrix’s old school paratrooper buddy sings with number 1 soul brother authority at the Filmore East New Year’s Eve in 1970, “With the power of soul, anything is possible.” Being blessed with the funny Jew bone, which you gave the obsessive drive to develop to the best of my God given ability helps to. I’ll love you forever Lord, for my summer wind Katie King and for making such an out of this world beauty, beautify my life, with such a majestic, soul tantalizing sweep that summer wind dreams are made of.  

All My Love,

Michael Joshua Kornbluth