The Untradable Summer

Jerry Garcia died, Garth Brooks played to 93,000 in Central Park and the Knicks still made long playoff runs that boasted more legs than Lieutenant Dan. Casino, Heat and Braveheart all came out in the same year, years before your in-laws who didn’t care for Inglorious Bastards, reserved stadium seating to see Apocalypto on Fandango 6 million months in advance. And Joshua Kornbluth, an aimless, long haired 20-year-old college student, who interned for the office of Special Narcotics actually developed a semi-sober conscious by giving his brain an overdue week from the weed, which also included abstaining from the less potent sprayed kind from the boogie down Bronx at Aquarius Records that tasted like Windex.   Because it’s hard to maintain a clear conscious interning for the Office of Special Narcotics when you’re perpetually burnt out on the sticky icky, responsible for draining you of what soul powered glint you were blessed with the first place that some would say beamed brighter than most.  Especially, when you’re listening in stupefied awe to an undercover cop, who’s regaling you about his latest undercover assignment as if he’s a black Donnie Brosco come to life who looked like a younger version of Duck from White Man Can’t Jump come to life.

Reality is, Joshua began to question his lushy littered past while drinking another winter break away with his friends from high school at the local bar, J. P’s, where everyone knew, you could get loaded on gin and tonics and smoke weed out back and not worry about jack shit. Which explains why Joshua once made a bet with his Japanese American friend Kohji about whether Darryl Strawberry now playing for the NY Yankees at the original Yankee Stadium before they replaced it with the House That Gentrification Built. If Darryl Strawberry went yard, then his friend Kohji would give Joshua the highly prized Bob Marley boxset which included the ultimate singer songwriter lament, Acoustic Meledy followed by the ultimate killer pick me up follow up, Hurting Inside. But only if Joshua dropped his pants and ran across the street while flinging around his drunk, dizzy dick throughout the thick, muggy summer wind, while chanting, “Darryl, Darryl, Darryl.”  Kohji fulfilled his end of the bargain, after Joshua sealed the deal with his own version of riding the bull pre-Happy Gilmore while showcasing his stroke of excitable good luck between his legs in the process.

Out of all the drunken, wasted nights of carefree collegiate youth spent at J.P’s throughout wasted winter breaks of yesteryear, Joshua remembered one encounter that stood out from the pack as, “Hey Tonight”, by Creedence blared on the jukebox which never grew old like EZ Wider Double Widers back in the day used to overcompensate for piss poor, barely even elementary rolling skills while being forced to roll the joint on a flat surface no less. Yes, Joshua wasn’t good at weed, despite him looking like a preppy version of Kevin Pickford from Dazed and Confused minus the hot, borderline mute artist hippie girlfriend. As Joshua went back to the bar for another stiff pouring of gin and tonic, he bumps into an older Latino gent by the jukebox who he never talked to prior, who says, “You shouldn’t drink too much bro. And I don’t think all your weed puffage, based on your bloodshot eyes is doing your imagination any favors either. I see you being a major public speaker one day, maybe, even an important politician, not like these other drunken animals around you. So, slow it down kid.”

And slow it down, he did. Now, Joshua woke up every morning in his old childhood room before getting dressed for his internship in Manhattan before the subways had centralized AC with a lighter flow to his step as he’d blare Sly Stone’s Greatest Hits in the car on his way to the train station and sing, “Everybody is a star.” He started running the steps after work at his high school track and field where he spent more time senior year trying to get into slamming Budweiser Tall Boys if he wasn’t sipping on flasks of Southern Comfort when hanging out with his friends, wasting time, who didn’t share his crazy alcoholic hick DNA from his mom’s southern side to contend with as much, not that his boys back then, were fuck up free Angel’s either. On Friday’s, Joshua would take the local Lex line in Manhattan and get off Astor Place from City Hall to use his weekly 125-dollar stipend to buy up whatever Grateful Dead bootleg audiocassette tapes being sold that day on the corner of Saint Marks Place in the East Village. He’d cruise the bars at North Avenue on the weekend located in New Rochelle, in southern Westchester County, because everyone went out back then. How else do you explain Zima mixed with grenadine becoming a trend at all? Joshua and his high school buds drank forties of Old English, not known yet as Snoop Dog’s ho sprayer of choice. But giving up the weed, whether it was result of developing a semi-sober conscious because of where Joshua was interning that summer or an issue of no longer wanting to be mentally enslaved by the all-mighty ganja anymore, Joshua found his smile again, exploring haunts in Little Italy for lunch in his pursuit to track the down the perfect shrimp parm hero. But if Joshua ever lost his sense of direction, which still happened on occasion, despite taking a break from the weed, he’d still have the World Trade Center to use as the ultimate North Star in his city, to help regain his bearings again.

Now, Joshua has grown a bit, and leading a boat tour of lower Manhattan as a divorced comedian in his early forties, who hasn’t broken big yet. The Freedom Tower was finally built in 2006, after a crater of death hovered over Lower Manhattan, which seemed to stretch out forever like W’s presidency before our precious news media hailed him as some sudden misunderstood genius, since he started painting pictures of maimed vets, he gave PTSD under his permanent fuck up watch. Especially now, since Ellen was spotted palling around with W at a Cowboy’s game, only for her to admit on her show soon after how their actually friends in real life. Because regardless of political affiliation or role in allowing 9/11 to happen under his watch, Ellen is pro-Bush all the way.

Joshua no longer a long-haired, completely directionless hippie, spots a woman on his tour from his untradable summer of 95. As Joshua proceeds to wrap up the tour of Manhattan as the boat spots Lady Liberty, a petite, pretty Italian girl from Staten Island raises her hand. Joshua, never one to forget a face, remembers his Staten Island girl who he took to the free Garth Brooks that summer after meeting her at a local bar on some random Friday during the summer of 95, only for them to fail at picking up more Budweiser’s to bring to Garth Brooks, because the 95,000 in attendance had already cleared out every bodega within the 20-block radius along Central Park West.

Staten Island girl says, “How do you explain 9/11 to your kids?” Joshua remembers her being the 1st girl he ever hooked up with who admitted being a single mother prior, which at the time, prompted the response, “I can handle it if you can babe.” Joshua takes a minute to reflect on her question since becoming a single dad himself after getting divorced for failing to maintain any form of steady employment till he found his sweet spot and achieved a steady stroke against the winds of change in life, as a boat tour guide of Manhattan, which combined his love of comedic storytelling and his cherished concrete jungle of Manhattan, that he loved so, that 1st love powered dreams are made of.

The island of Manhattan was also the birthplace of his endlessly beautifying son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, already a star architect at 19 years old, who just joined the American Institute of Architects, who would in fact join him for occasional joint boat tours involved the sweeping historical knowledge and sweep necessary to give a big city architectural boat tours of lower Manhattan with larger-than-life flourish. After all, when Joshua’s son Arthur was only 5-year-old he told his daddy that one day he’d built an apartment with an adjoining enclosed bridge passageway, so they could live together when they got older, which finally came true. Now, Joshua’s son emerges from the background, looming much larger than life than his dad sporting spiky blond hair and a six-foot six frame, looking like Donald Trump birthed a preppy hipster art show baby. Joshua’s son, affectionally nicknamed Art Show even before he was conceived answers the question.

“My Dad always explained 9/11 as the day his age of innocence died. But my dad would always use humor to lighten the darkest realties on his lifetime like the prospect of dying from the killer queen virus of them all, no not COVID, Aids. He’d say, “If I had a daughter, I’d encourage her to become a Lesbian because the Kama Sutra is a recipe for Aids. Plus, when you’re Lesbian, you can take a licking and keep on ticking. Don Draper lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Art Show, The Architect adds, “How did my dad make fun of the uptick in crime during the Mayor Adam’s years? He’d say, “Sanctuary Cities are encouraged lawlessness on crack. Still, the crazies on Twitter rant and rave about wanting to ban ICE. Because Homeland Security was so Weapons of Mass Destruction years.” And how did my dad bring up the Holocaust without being depressingly dreary about it? He’d made jokes about it because humor allows us to get in the last word against our dying of the light. Dyland Thomas lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Dad would say, “Did you know 4/20 the national pot smoking holiday in on Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this duped since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. Anyone visit the home of Anne Frank in Amsterdam? My 1st impression was one of shock and awe, as I thought to myself, “This place is enormous. I’ve never seen so much closet space. I expected a cubby, not a walk-in-closet.”

The entire crowd in the boat tour can’t stop laughing as beautiful streams of endless, purifying laughter fill the air. Lady Liberty radiates a prettier punctuating light that pierces through the purple and orange sun set draping coastline. And the grown-up mom from Staten Island says, “Fuck Pete Davidson, let’s crown the new king of New York comedy. I had a feeling he’d bang out something special one day. The Big Apple is a brighter place with you 2 twin towers in it. And I thought Darryl Strawberry was juicy to take in whole.”  

Darryl, Darryl, Darryl.

Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Less Garbage Lines

What’s up with black guys sporting masks outside of Whole Foods in Scottsdale, Arizona?

Yolanda yells, “Wear the damn mask.”

Black guy says, “Are black Karens in Arizona even a thing?”

Yolanda yells back, “I used to live in Ridgefield, CT, motherfucker”  

Challah, thank you very much.

Fuck Jerry West for crying about his depiction in Showtime on HBO.

Your life hasn’t been blessed enough Jerry?

Deep down, what he really hates is how it reminds everyone how he made it to the NBA finals 10 times and only won once while having Elgin Baylor and Wilt Chamberlin on his side. That’s a worst losing percentage than Hillary, every time she nominates herself for Woman of The Year despite it being the drunken druid edition or not.

And fuck Kareem for bitching about his sour puss depiction in Showtime on HBO. Airplane Cameo or not, Kareem is less likeable than Hillary Hammer Time Cankles on the rag out of Chardonay again with Whole Foods closed for Easter. At least, Hillary pretends to smile for the cameras despite the umbilical cord smoothie ripping apart her innards during a slow DNC fundraising month.

And fuck Magic for going on talk shows, bragging about not bothering to see the Showtime Lakers show on HBO as if it’s beneath him like wearing condoms since he made HIV disappear. But Magic had no problem taking a smile happy pic with the Governor of California, Gavin Getko at the Rams playoff game. Despite the sunshine scurrying state descending into a sprawling tent city sponsored by REI. But seriously, why does Magic sweat the prospect of watching the show about his showtime Lakers on HBO so much? You’d think the big cliff hanger was finding the cookie jar where Cookie hides Magic’s HIV pill suppressor stash if he’s caught scoring his brown sugar fix outside his Bel Air estate again.

And fuck Will Ferrell for ending his lifetime friendship with Adam McKay because he casted John C. Reily to play Dr. Buss over the dad in the Lego Movie. Dr. Buss was a major pussy hound in real life, which I don’t see Will Ferrell pulling off as well after seeing a pic of his wife once. And I thought Boris Johson’s wife, required a mask on at all times, woof, woof. Shit, Dr. Buss used to share girls with Magic. But Will Ferrell won’t share a bungalow editing suite with Adam McKay anymore because he cut his precious ego in 2, boo-hoo.

And what’s up with black guys tagging buildings with Swastika’s in Manhattan these days? Adolph Eichman could never leap a building in a single bound, like Nate the Great. Assuming, that building was a tall stiff in the post season like Dwight Howard.

But seriously, black guys tagging buildings with Swatika’s in Manhattan makes no sense. Are these brothers still educating themselves on Hitler? Let me drop some knowledge bombs. The founder of Planned Parenthood, a major eugenics enthusiast, was Hitler’s divine inspiration to launch his master extermination party in the 1st place genius. And Five Percenters weren’t escaping Hitler’s final cut from his dream team Aryan squad, regardless of your God blessed killer flow on 36 Chambers, Wu Tang, Wu Tang, Challah. Thank you very much.

Plus, Nick Cannon, hip hop royalty, I think, has singled out Planned Parenthood on 97.1 with Funk Master Flex for killing off more future high risers than white man’s disease and smokable cocaine, otherwise known as crack, most likely developed by a Nazi Scientist for the Deep State, as a part of their own final solution to ensure the poor don’t get on up to jack shit. That 2-state Kill “Em All solution, Metallica lives, being kill off poor blacks with crack and poor whites with meth. And if that doesn’t get the job done. Unleash the MAGA bat from Wuhan to finish off the rest. Challah, thank you very much.

But seriously, black guys tagging buildings in Manhattan with Swastikas is beyond ass backwards. That’s like Cardi B pretending her chicken nugget stuffed snatch is superior tasting to slurping German resiling all up in Hedi Klum’s innards to break your fast for Yom Kippur.

Imagine Guardian Angel Curtis Silwa catching a black dude tag another building with a swastika in Manhattan while trying to drop knowledge about what the swastika really means.

Curtis Silwa says, “Look, Curtis Blow, did you know the swastika was a Hindu symbol originally?”

Fake News Curtis Blow says, “What the fuck is a Hindu symbol?”

Curtis Silwa says, “Just think elephants with more dicks coming out it it’s ears than Cardi B on a slow Tuesday. Personally, I always thought the Swastika looked like 2 stick figures doing a 69 on crystal meth.”

Fake News Curtis Blow says, “You better back the fuck up fast, I ain’t no faggot. And what kind of fruity cap are you wearing anyway?”

Curtis Silva says,” It’s a beret. My father was a Green Beret in World 2, who was a Nazi destroyer in real life unlike those tweaked out wannabe punisher vigilantes in hoodies in ANTIFA. So, when you put a swastika on a building in Jew York, it offends the memory of my pops Curtis Blow.”

Fake News Curtis Blow says, “Why the fuck do you keep on calling me Curtis Blow?”

Curtis Silva says, “Curtis Blow was the 1st rapper to sign with a major record label from the Bronx, the birth of hip hop and condescending Jews, who expect immediate fawned upon service and guaranteed discounts on Mozzarella sticks while trying to impress his grandchildren at another mediocre restaurant in Scottsdale, Arizona, during Happy Hour.”

Fake News Curtis Blow laughs and says, “I don’t know what condescending means. But I can see how were more on the same team than apart.”

Curtis Silva extends his hand out and say, “Don’t keep me hanging, give me some love.”

Fake News Curtis Blow obliges and gives the legendary founding member of the Guardian Angels a semi firm, warm high five in return.

Curtis Silva says, “Look, if you really want to do some next level tagging shit, I’d start making your own logos, which aren’t culturally appropriated from Hindu Swami’s, English punk rockers and tweaked out Nazi’s, who make Hunter Biden come off a serial slack underachiever in comparison, Kapeesh.”

Less garbage lines, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Colorblind Clutch Gene

All Lives Matter is the new n word.

Imagine JJ Redick wearing an All-Lives Matter pin on ESPN during March Madness?

Later that evening, his wife says, “The alt-right comb over has to go dear.”

JJ Redick says, “Fine, but Christian Laettner’s tattoo on my ass stays.

He’s the only college player that played on the only Dream Team that matters before Magic made HIV disappear.

He’s only regarded as the most consistently clutch player in NCAA history who won one more national championship than Air Jordan did before he shamed Scottie Pippen on the Last Dance doc for delaying knee surgery as a salary negotiating tactic for getting paid less than BJ Armstrong’s nanny.

And Jordan had Big Game James worthy over Grant Hill.

Wife says, “Big game Worthy. Then, why did Worthy have to pay for it then?

JJ Redick replies, “I don’t know, cause Magic hogged up all the Laker girls between periods.

Did you know Christian Laettner has the most points scored in NCAA tournament history?

Wife says, “So?”

JJ Redick says, “So All American big men from Upstate New York with polish ancestry and a flawless midrange shooting game matter to dear, any dumb ass Polack who supports thugs’ lives matter most gets that.  

And you wonder why Christian Laettner is the most hated player in NCAA history. It’s because he’s the most clutch foul shooter in college basketball history while attending the Harvard of the South doing his best Tom Brady impression before Tom Brady was fucking Tom Brady in New England. But guaranteed money in the NBA regardless of having a decent hook shot with your left is so oppressive.”

Michael Kornbluth

Sacred Cow Cooking

Wife had a Hillary Clinton spotting during lunch recently with my son. Wife says, “Hillary was nice. She smiled at baby.” I said, “Of course Hillary smiled at baby. Hillary was getting warmed up for dessert.”

Emotionally Compelling Situation:

A Coroner who gives an honest toxicology report about fake news media manipulation for a change. Let’s call the book, “The Coroner Conspiracy Theorist.” Soon after, the Funeral Director calls in Zombie backup once the Deep State sends in hit men silencers to prevent the COVID clot shot expose otherwise.

Emotionally Compelling Situation part II.

A Supreme Court Justice nominee receives a thank you note from a convicted sex offender for being soft on pedophilia. “Thanks for the Pete Townsend, just doing opposition research defense for a song about the proliferation of kiddie porn today called, “Cherry Picking Private Parts, It’s So Easy, Easy, When Everyone Under 10 Years of Age Is Out to Please Me Baby.”

Emotionally Compelling Situation part III.

A big brother asks for his wedding gift back after his ex-wife already pawned off her engagement ring. Big bro calls, “Hey bro, with my 46th birthday around the corner, I was thinking you could regift my Nintendo wedding gift, especially those added games like Pro Wrestling and Double Dribble knowing how your marriage lasted longer than Knick playoff runs during the Carmelo Anthony era. Who should be the co-spokesperson with Westbrook for Tampax Tampons because name another offensive duo responsible for stopping so much flowage. Little bro asks, “Why would I do that?” I say, “Because it would be a gift for all 3 kids and when you add up their ages 8, 11 and 5 and your 23 gifts behind. And you’ll be off the hook for 23 more years, when they won’t expect you to be another uncle to be uninvolved with anymore.”

Emotionally Compelling Situation Part IIII:

How does an autistic pastry chef/activist/models bring an autistic perspective to the BLM movement? Does he count all the ways BLM leaders burned their credibility through charges of tax evasion while blowtorching tops on rows of Creme Brulees?

Just read about an all-girl Muslim prom in Detroit. So, their prom was like mine, pork free.

Minneapolis Mosques are allowed to blast the call to prayer on outdoor speakers all year around now. I didn’t realize they were struggling to amplify their cries of Islamophobia despite averaging 5 shoutouts a day of Allah Akbar already.

Fuck your Pandemic talk. The real pandemic is the vax shot which depresses your immune system more than entry into the Dallas Buyers Club.

1 kid only means your diaphragm is for walls after all.

Why does Planned Parenthood need a 20 million donation from Jeff Bezos’s ex -wife? Planned Parenthood only made 184 million in revenue after teaming up with Gate’s ex-wife to fight off the surge in global warming by selling their own brand of umbilical chard stump smoothies, while rebranding them as Century Club Elixers in honor of Bill and Fauci. In other words, year of the Four Eyed Snakes, Challah. Cooking Sacred Cows rule. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Smackdown Satan

“You shall not misuse the name of the Lord by calling him “Fake News Mercy God”, Lucifer. Just because God won’t give WWF wrestler Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings, despite you having a soft spot for flaming bear wrestlers in tights.” Arch Angel of Heaven, Michael says. Lucifer fires back with, “Michael means “Who is like God.” You mean another micromanager control freak. I give humans the permission to exercise free will in the service of pleasing themselves. That makes me the good life giver, not God, Michael.” Michael says, “You don’t get to be the ears of Lucifer, I do.” Lucifer says, “Don’t think for a second, I want to trade winged tipped shoes with you Michael. Your name Michael means who is like God. You mean another micromanager square who won’t give Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings because he considers drug overdoses a form of subconscious suicide. Your name Michael means who is like God, but what it really means is sloppy second spokesperson after Moses. And if Moses really knew God face to face, then why didn’t he prophesize about the condemnation of goatees on metal rappers during Woodstock 94, before the entire shit show went up in flames?  But that’s what happens when Jewel is considered a seat stayer middling act before Limp Bizkit gave Carson Daily sustained stiffage until Kid Rock’s performance blew everyone away in college bliss paradise.” Michael says, “Why am I hearing a new rumor around Heaven about you being the voice behind the Burning Bush Lucifer? You’d literally piss on Moses’s grave if you knew where to find it. And you wonder why God makes you feel like the sloppy second son, brother.” Lucifer says, “I was the voice behind the Burning Bush. It was a prank I learned at Angel Magic Camp. I enjoy hearing Moses stutter like the kid in Billy Madison. But Moses didn’t shatter his teeth from stuttering after I spoke to him through the Burning Bush as expected. At the same time, Moses stumbling to articulate more excuses to turn down God’s job offer was hilarious. “Whiny Jews chosen to complain about not receiving immediate recognized sit-down service at restaurants in Del Ray Beach won’t take me seriously as your chosen your spokesperson Lord. It’s not as simple as Joan Rivers hocking jewelry to Midwest housewives she detested on the QVC. I project less than Kamala Harris in the lock jaw love position. The Jewish elders won’t believe we possess the power to wrestle our Jewish brothers and sisters away from the arms of slavery, despite our God given ability to hondle better than an Egyptian. Jews are slaves to poor taste in the form of bankrolling overrated musicals like Hamilton, which sounds more awkward forced than Don Lemon rapping to Obama on his birthday with a generic, hip flavored, Shakesperian accent.  Why would Pharoah release our people from Slavery? What form of leverage do we have to offer our Lord besides the threat of my cousin Schlonka boring Pharoh to death through her mustard making workshop seminar at local JCC?” Michael, says, “Remember when God said to Mosses, God’s favorite prophet on Ranker and on Quora, last I time I checked, “You shall have no other God’s before me”, little brother? Well, that includes your Olympian size ego that rivals Obama Be Good. Who I’m sure doesn’t pleasure himself in front of the mirror naked the way you do.” Lucifer says, “That’s because Obama isn’t circumcised. I can’t get aroused by the ant eater look either.” Michael says, “Future Talmudic scholars will amplify God’s commandments in relation to you little brow when stating, “You shall not suck off the totality of your own awesomeness and refrain from stroking off what elongated love you provide the universe without 1st giving shout out props to the all mighty for endowing you with such special equipment to become a star powered lighter upper with 1st.”  Lucifer says, “But similar to Jeffery Bruckheimer, God’s not the only big swinging dick in the producer business Michael. Tell that to Brian Grazer at Imagine Entertainment or to Mark Wahlberg, who’s the executive producer of Entourage for Christ’s sake.”

Michael says, “And you wonder why God never speaks directly to you anymore, just grumbling to his assistant Joshua in the background whenever you call on his birthday again or bother to text Shana Tova and wish him a happy Jewish new year.” Lucifer says, “Communication is a 2-way street brother. And if I do hear from our holy father, it’s because he’s dictating another business memo to his cherished assistant Joshua, the temp who could transcribe all the sketched in stone commandments without complaining about surging case of carpel tunnel syndrome development in the making. The last business memo Dad sent me was called, “Life Giver God”. The all mighty called me a bigger a plus narcissist than Kayne West for claiming I could come up with better logo designs for my own line of winged, high tops sneakers like the one with a space shuttle in the form of a dragon called Rarefied Air Lucifer’s.” Michael says, “We get it Lucifer, you want to feel like God’s gift to the universe 24/7 but forget angel wing promoting power, that’s far outside of your pay grade brother. Granted, Bam, Bam Bigelow was a phenomenal wrester for his size, who power slammed his opponents into the mat with forceful funk authority like a more feral Junk Yard Dog, cranked up on Crystal Meth despite swallowing a cauldron of Hooter’s hot wings. Still, you don’t get to draft your own team of archnemesis angels.  So, stop acting as if your Dr. Jerry Buss in Winning Time on HBO who was anointed with savior type status for the city of angles, with the deep pockets to match. At least Kayne made money enough money off his artistry to justify his ego enlargement therapy sessions on wax for Def Jam and Roc-A-Fella records. Have you even had a real job Lucifer?  And playing the role of a freelance fortune teller writer doesn’t count, especially when you couldn’t even sell your own brand of weed oil pens to a Chinese Restaurant weed dispensary in Oak town, Dragon Lungs Incorporated, despite Snoop Dog’s endorsement on it. Maybe, our father in Heaven decided it was time for divine intervention again and appeared in a puff of bong smoke when Cyprus Hills was in town refusing to socially distance from Mary Jane for more than 2 seconds at a time and freaked out the owner of Dragon Lungs Incorporated, the moment he started making damning Snoop Dog jokes. Have you tried Snoop Dog’s new wine yet? According to Wine Advocate, “It tastes like mouth wash used in porn hood hell.”  Lucifer says, “Enough talk. I challenge you to a Ladder match in Heaven to wrestle away your precious favored angel status from Dad.” Problem is you don’t know how to fight do you, Michael? Michael says, “Unlike you Lucifer, I have friends in high places, to end your endless smack talking about Big Mouth Moses for good.”

A winged, Macho Man Savage launches into his famed elbow drop from way up high in the Heavens on top of Lucifer’s head while God from above bellows, “Oh yeah”. God adds, “You want to be my ears now Lucifer you got it.” Next, a winged Super Fly Jimmy Snuka comes flying down off a golden ladder tall as the World Trade Center with a coconut in hand that smashes into 2 as it comes crashing down on Lucifer’s rapidly rupturing head.” Then, a winged Owen Hart, swoops in to unleash a dropkick that smacks Lucifer into Hell, to deliver justice for all, especially in honor of Moses, Abraham and David who earned the plethora of good man shout outs in the Torah for a reason. Michael gives a bunch of ariel high fives to his new angel brothers in arms, Macho Man, Super Fly and Owen Hart, all highflyers till the end of time and says, “Slim Jim’s on me” as Flying High by Ozzy Osbourne blares on God’s decked out gold plated surround sound speakers as guitar God Randy Rhodes puts on a one man show for all WWF angels including the female wrestler China in attendance despite Lucifer talking her into doing that sex tape Back Door To Chyna in addition to her subconscious suicide from pills and booze. Even God, is a softy for female body builders and gave her angel wings because she already shouldered the responsibility of being the 1st major WWE female wrestler star to break in the big, in the “attitude era”, while becoming the only female wrestler to win the Intercontinental Belt Championship, let alone beat Triple H and high flying, metal howler Chris Jericho. Besides, who else is going to break balls about Macho Man’s steroid size nuts in Heaven with such divine powered authority. “Hey, Randy, can I be your new Miss Elizbeth in heaven? I know, your balls filled a missing person report ages ago, but are they still big enough to take on the Chyna challenge, which is drilling my hole into China for shits and giggles for Big Trouble in Back Door Chyna Part 2.” Macho Man screams, “Hell yeah. Then again, power slams are more up Bam, Bam, Bigelow’s alley.”

Michael Kornbluth