The COVID Jab Pinkie Swear

New York City is reopened again. Cuomo declares victory. He killed off the greatest
city the world has in only 15 months flat.

Steven A. Smith claims Durant is the best player to represent New York. Be a more
transparent kiss ass Smith. Millennial Mouseketeers would’ve gotten stomped to
death in the vastly more rough and tumble era of the eighties NBA. The
suffocative defensive play by the Bad Boys, X Man, The Pacers, Kevin Willis and
Charles hard as oak Oakley wouldv’e torn Durant’s pipe cleaner arms off like he
was the black Gumby. Durant isn’t an actual Playground legend from Brooklyn
like Bernard King either. Bernard King was the black Larry Bird on steroids
with Rocky’s eye of the tiger snarl in Rocky 2. Who ripped the rim off the
fucking basket while going coast to coast like Westbrook on Adderall with far
greater chest puffing huffing ease.

Refusing to vote is giving up on America. No, avoiding Voter ID to cheat again is. I
forgot. Calling out election fraud is the big lie like humanization being the
religion of peaceful Palestinian protestors for hire. Which reminds me, an all
Muslim girls prom was just held in Detroit. The prom was like mine, pork free.

I hope nobody votes in America ever again. So, politicians who let Democracy die
under their watch without making a peep will feel like emptier imposter do good
helpers at the Harvard Club than normal till their last, scotch stench filled
breaths.

Is Baby Face Omar the new face of Banana Republic yet? To model their new line of
casual antisemitism footwear that comes with a complimentary Israeli doormat to
boot.

Actually, the Supreme Court gave up on America when they refused to look into the case of
election fraud that was more blatant than Jill Biden’s varicose veins with no
panty hose on in front of the Queen. Who offers stiff competition in that
department with her panty hose on in person.

Eric Clapton’s famous music friends like Steve Winwood are avoiding him like the
plague now since he opened up about partial paralysis after his 2nd COVID jab.
Back on his high horse again with chompers like that. Dear Alexa, play me any
song by Cream, Clapton or Derek and Dominoes to make me happy. It’s too bad
Steve Winwood isn’t cracking anybody’s top 100 pleasure playlist either.

Nobody has died from the COVID jab. What about boxer legend The Marvelous Marvin
Hagler? Oh yeah, MSN debunked the conspiracy theory already despite Tommy
Hearns claiming the murderous jab put him out for the count more than his
combinations ever could.

I made a COVID jab pinkie swear when my parents asked me to get vaccinated for
their behalf. But my father’s shoulders collapse whenever I go in for a hug
for old time’s sake since I came out as a Trump supporter. Plus, my parents are
vaccinated, which grants them immunity from the virus allegedly. So, at this
point, what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again.
Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth 

All American Gold

This is Russell Simmons addressing rape allegations with Gayle King. Read my lisp Gayle. I didn’t rape any of those vengeful, over the hill hoes. I was going to do that joke at the Apollo. 2 hours later, my number hasn’t been called to audition for Showtime At The Apollo. Then, I got triggered after reading article about Nipsey Hussle like he’s the second coming of Tupac and I bolted faster than Usain Bolt with a Chinese Bat on his tail. I already felt less welcome than a resurgent herpes sore on the spot. So, I bolted, thinking, “Fuck the Apollo. It lost its soul when it let Bjork perform after Amy Schumer did, which is a double whammy of shame. Moms Mabley wouldn’t have fucked Amy Schumer with a replica of Sam Cooke’s strapping dick. Who opened for Bjork at the Apollo anyway, The Shrieking Seals? I have 2 books to edit before Father’s Day, Do It Dad Does Jokes and Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story. I’m out of here. It’s bad enough my wife is already texting me with a request to call her and keep her company in the car with our 3 kids while I have the entire house to myself for change. I’m audi 5000 like Vanilla Ice if Suge Knight busts out of Folsom State Prison with a bigger chip on his shoulder than Michelle Obama’s shoulder pads after Melania was rumored to have fumigated the Lincoln bedroom once they moved in. Apparently, Michelle peed on ceiling fan before Trump’s inauguration. Seconds later, Trump comments to Melania, “Is this what She-Hulk meant when She-He said, “When they go low, we aim high.” Joan lives, holla, thank you very much.”

I leave the bowling alley with my son and this cool Latino biker taking a smoke break outside with his woman says, “Leaving so soon.” I say, “I’ve got 2 kids to pick up now. I never mastered the art of the pump fake.” Latino biker laughs long time. He adds, “You’ve got a great looking kid, God bless.” I say, “I call him chosen curls was bound to woo. I always call him that name in front of my gentile mother-in-law to make her extra tense, whenever were graced with her presence again. But that’s what the bitch deserves for giving my kids eucharist behind my back. And my people the Jews are supposed to have monopoly on backstabbing behavior. Your laugher proves I’m not being a paranoid Jew about it. Thank you very much. But I better tone it down out here in the parking lot or I’ll be charged with hate speech against Unhuggable Cunts, who blamed the broken AC in her car for not visiting her grandchildren one whole summer. Like my father-in-law wouldn’t mind his wife sweating off some tons in the process. I didn’t give her atrophy of the knees, The View did, pushing more lies about Russian collusion with less legs than Lieutenant Dan. Those same chicken heads and fake news comedians never dared to ask Jill Biden if Hunter is the smartest guy she knows. Hunter thought a Ukranian energy company was paying him 52 grand a month to sell borscht as the new Kombucha. Who needs a microphone? I’m sounding louder than Busta Rhymes at a Midnight Showing of Higher learning.” The Latino Biker and his woman laugh long time throughout. Thank you very much.

Knicks fans won’t be allowed to attend Knicks games without showing proof of vaccination if they advance to the second round of the playoffs, And I thought the Biden supporters were guilty of wishful thinking.  



It was just matter of time before the world’s most famous arena, tried to become the most woke to. The Garden of Eden has morphed into Capital Building overnight. Why not erect a fence around the Garden with dangling Knicks masks hanging on it instead? Don’t masks keep the virus at bay like triple wrapping your dick, before rolling around with Madonna’s blown-up camel snatch in the hay?

Madison Square Garden demands Knicks fans show proof of vaccination if they advance to the second round of playoffs, which hasn’t happened since 1999 during the days of Sprewell. This was before Urban Dictionary wasn’t even created to birth new words like Spree (verb) To flee from an impending choke hold. Holla, thank you very much. Again, I thought getting the vaccine prevents you from catching COVID or does it only make you immune from charges of being an anti-vaxxer conspiracy theorist, who refuses to suck off Dr. Gnocchi’s exalted wisdom concerning infectious disease prevention till your last dying breath?

Everybody knows Fuck Face Fauci helped finance the Wuhan research, which birthed the world economy wrecking Wuhan virus from hell. But keep on thinking the media and government really care about your personal wellbeing New York. Shutting down the economy for an itchy esophagus, defunding the police, embracing sanctuary city policies, which is encouraged lawlessness on crack, banning bail and posting Cuomo’s meatball recipes on Pinterest will keep New Yorkers pinned to their seats at the Garden in record numbers in no time. Because Andrew Dice Clay playing the Garden in this post woke, COVID controlled universe gone wild will make it the world’s most famous arena again, despite Durant choosing to play for Brooklyn to become the mumble core voice for the mope maligned millennial mousketeer generation. Because I’m positive MSG would welcome Dice back to perform for his 3-night special engagement only titled The Day Democracy Died, after night one, when he opens with. Fuck China. Chinese made Fentanyl has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram. Trump’s the anti-Christ. But in the bible part 2, doesn’t the original super Jew before me, Jesus Christ kill the Anti-Christ. So have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you people? I actually had to Google Anti-Christ to find out what it meant. At the time, I thought that’s what Pig Vomit called Howard in Private Parts before he came out as weird, weak woke Howard. So how bad could the Anti-Christ be? That is until Perm Head Howard divorced his wife Alison for Beth, who’s a 6.2 by ghoulish tranny standards at best. But weird woke Howard dumps on Trump supporters, so Jimmy Kimmel keeps on inviting him over for more 2-bite chicken parm dinners. Was just at Target and saw Michelle Obama’s book Reach Higher and I thought. Bill Maher just got a stiffy. Joan Rivers, I fucked her oh. I can’t take no more.

Michael Kornbluth

The Wuhan Mascot From Hell

Kristaps Porzingis got fined 50 grand for violating COVID player restrictions by briefly attending a strip club in LA, the night after Dallas beat the clippers. NBA commissioner Adam Silver proves again how Latvian blue balls don’t matter. I love how Kristaps Porzingis’s publicist emphasized to USA Today how her client only “briefly” attended a strip club after the game. All that proves is how Kristaps Porzingis made it rain in his sweats instead of on stage. Before spending his last Benjamin on his person on a Sombrero from a local Mariachi bandleader outside the strip club, to cover his stain of easily excitable shame, before hailing an Uber back to his hotel at the W.

Kristaps hops out the Uber with a Sombrero over his dick. He get’s bombarded by the crew from Entourage outside his Uber, waiting for an Uber of their own. Turtle says, “KP, huge fan man. Ask Vince, I always told him, my Uni would fly again. E says, “What’s with the Sombrero KP? Based on your size, I assume you got noting to hide. The entire entourage laughs. Vince chimes in. “Hey, KP were going to a party in the hill’s at Drake’s place to replace Michael Jordan’s new tequila brand with AVION from Entourage, for ruining the Jay Z concert at the new Yankee stadium. How do you put Drake on after Eminem, Dr. Dre and Jay Z? Drama adds, That’s more deflating than Turtle trying to keep his dick from slipping out of Kourtney Kardashian in a slink of shame after she banged the Cav’s old starting five when the Cavs PR manager told JR Smith to stop conducting interviews in the locker room on his hoverboard because he was high enough already. Why are you so quiet KP? Kourtney Kardashian, you know OJ’s daughter, the sloppy third Kardashian sister, whose easy to bang at 4 in the morning like a lamb Gyro in Astoria.” Turtle adds, “And for Knicks pride, I’m going to taunt every Jordan licker at this Tequila release party for MJ for never pushing Bulls management to pay Scottie Pippen more than BJ Armstrong’s nanny. By the way, tell Cuban, I say hi.”

KP tosses the Sombrero on to Sunset Strip and says, “Fuck it, let’s go. The strip club is dead anyway.” Drama says, “No shit, you can’t practice social distancing in the Champagne room. Isn’t that right, you long limbed Latvian freak? Next Drama starts to give KP a fist pump but finally notices the enormous wet spot between his legs and says, “Don’t sweat it KP. Next time, don’t wear sweats to Girls, Girls, Girls. You’ll blow out your ACL next time. Do you believe in miracles KP?” KP says, “I do Drama.” So wear rugged Levin jeans to the strip club next time, not those 200 dollar faggy seven jeans that Vinny always wears, no offense little bro. Turtle adds, ” I got faith in you KP, so does the rest of the Knick fan faithful. Shock the world like Ozzy post Black Sabbath after teaming up with Randy Rhodes and prove to Stephen A Smith, Uni will fly high again. For once, Stephen A won’t be able to blame your higher hopping ability on white priveledge as Lebron continues to drive NBA playoff ratings into China like a WUHAN Bat Mascot from hell.”

Michael Kornbluth

Flipping The Bird To Flopping Seals

The state of our union is like Stephen Colbert’s feel for funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O’Reilly is no longer important enough to imitate. At least, Bill gave Colbert gravitas.

Now, the Colbert show is requiring it’s live audience to show proof they got vaccinated to ensure they remain the clapping seals that they are, no matter how much Greg Gutfeld beats Colbert in the late night ratings race.

Lebron is like Jussie Smollett. He’s kisses Obama’s butt no matter what. Plus, they both act persecuted whenever you make fun of their acting again. Last, they’re both race war inciting, fake news oppressed, deplorable pieces of shit. Because deplorable is anyone glad Jussie Smollett took a shot. Too bad Jussie can’t take his hoax planning talents to CNN. Don Lemon already squeezed the role of fake news enraged, pseudo black looking Obama guy for all it was worth. Holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Serbian Big Man Mattering More

The robot at Stop and Shop is scary. I tell my son, “Don’t make fun of Lebron or he’ll report you to China.” Holla, thank you very much.

I don’t think Lebron ever got the Trump voiced GPS system. On your left is Mohegan Sun, Elizabeth Warren’s home away from home.

Shocked Lebron thinks Steph Curry should win the MVP over the Serbian big man averaging 26.4 points per game in addition to 10 plus boards and eight assists per game for Denver, almost pulling off an Oscar Robinson triple double average all season long. It’s a good thing Nikola Jokic never told a reporter during All-Star weekend, All Lives Matters, is the new n word. Or else we’d really have to really hear what terrorist siding black supremacists in the NBA really think, Kyrie Irving included. They don’t have a statue of him in China yet, do they? Holla, thank you very much.



Kyrie Irving’s ball handling skills have no equal. Too bad Kyrie has zero balls when it comes to defending the real victims of unjustified hate like Israeli kids kidnapped and killed in death tunnels by you know who. But it takes real balls to use big words like “dehumanize” to sound like Lebron 2.0, jerkoff. Also, I thought you never talk to journalists unless the questions are received in advance like Obama’s gym socket puppet. But now you care about the welfare of Palestinian terrorists in charge, hellbent on wiping Israel off the planet. I wonder why.

If I can’t get a lit agent for my book The Koshertarian Comedian or The Great American Jew Novel or from Waste Height, Really Short Stories, I’m going skip declaring bankruptcy. I’ll just take up fentanyl like George Floyd and stick up a pregnant woman with a fake news gun to score some counterfeit bills to buy some smokes at 711 before resisting arrest from the cops in hot pursuit, only to die from cardiac arrest, knowing at least then, Kyrie Irving would pay off the mortgage on my family’s house while Lebron could pay for my kids’ college on the down low. Holla, thank you very much.

It’s hard to keep your mouth shut when you spot a middle-aged white woman sporting a tie dye shirt that says Biden and Harris on it, days after the current administration in charge freed up 200 million for Hamas to finance a rocket launch party into Israel’s backyard for old time’s sake. First, I threw off the Karen and say, “Nice shirt”, duping her into thinking, I’m on her Jihadi jerkoff siding side. Next, I add, “Giving 200 million to Hamas to kill more Jews was totally done in the spirit of peace and love babe. I don’t know about you, but I’m sure team Biden calling for a ceasefire behind closed doors is really singing, “All we are saying United Nations, is give more money to Hamas to help wipe Israel off the map. So, they have a fighting chance. Holla, thank you very much.



AP news was slammed for claiming it was unaware of Hamas occupying an office in their building. Weren’t chants of fuck Madonna’s camel toe snatch during casual Friday or playing like Virgin on repeat after introducing office Karaoke on ironic causal Fridays or no female HR managers on site to fend off headhunters trying to recruit talent for Al Qaeda all dead giveaways already?

Never understood the fantasy of bedding 72 virgins. Doesn’t Jihadi John have enough blood on his hands already? Finally, Jihadi John arrives at a Motel 6 in virgin heaven allegedly. Virgin number one reveals herself to be a highly grating annoying Arabic version of Joy Behar. Booger face starts to demask and screeches, “Don’t you have enough blood on your hands already? Forget it, just whip out your skewer stick and get it over with already. But for what it’s worth, I just cleaned the sheets. So, let’s put that towel on your head to good use for a change. Oh, that’s right, your people aren’t into praising Downy fabric softener because it’s advertised as snuggle soft by some soft Jewish copywriter on Madison Avenue. Who prefers dead Palestinian babies over Haitian ones for blood cooking ceremonies if Hillary isn’t around to pressure the push over putz breath otherwise.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth



Mr. San Diego

Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break?  Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead?  If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.

Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.

Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup  with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.

The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer.  For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.

Michael Kornbluth

Mr. San Diego

Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break?  Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead?  If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.

Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.

Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup  with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.

The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer.  For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.

Michael Kornbluth

Chicken Cutlet Hunters

The Chicken Cutlet from the Edgemont Deli on Central Avenue next to Danny’s Cycle in southern Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan was always the best.  My old school dear friend Ari, now a Kidney doctor who part owns his own practice in CT, a graduate of Washington University, no dummy, would agree with me, we became fixated on hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet sandwich ever since. I remember inhaling down this chicken cutlet thinking, I was in the presence of greatness, just based on the crispy enough, herbed spice breading on it alone. Back then, I didn’t know the difference between sage or rosemary. I wasn’t aware of how cilantro was used as an herb in salsa. Shit, an underclassman fooled me into buying oregano for weed senior year in high school, so I wasn’t obsessing over the herb installation componentry embedded my bomb chicken cutlet from the Edgemont Deli at the time, that wasn’t Calista Flockhart skinny but more Jo plump like from Facts of Life, which gave you something more excitable to chomp into again and again. The perfectly shredded lettuce, semi-thin, actual fleshy red tomato on top,  nestled between the banging Kaiser roll, which was never drowning for dear life in an amorphous plop of mayo goo didn’t hurt the chicken cutlet sandwich’s overall appeal one bit either. Ah, those were the days, pre-Yelp, where you actually had to rely on your own intuition and New York bred sense of adventure to try and consume it all, like a less hyper articulate, perpetually suave, mini Anthony Bourdain in the making, minus the French royal rocker look working in your favor either.

Now, that I’m getting my 3 kids more courageous about trying different Kosher meat creations because they know I’m writing a book about it and unlike others, they still believe me in me pounding my dreams of comedic superstardom into freaking reality already, especially when I involve them in the act of pulverizing the homemade Kosher chicken cutlets I made tonight with real deal Hebrew Hammer fury.  I told my son Arthur to choke up on the mighty mallet before pounding the chicken cutlets for round 2 with the intention of smooshing those cutlets into barely recognizable form like when Mitch Blood Green came up with the bright idea to start a street fight with Iron Mike in Harlem during his prime time domination years, where he knocked out legendary heavyweights by the time you banged another one out to Taste Of Amber again.  

My wife had to Nazify my dream chicken cutlet recreation tonight, using a combination of panko breadcrumbs and homemade ones while also using a mishmash of chopped parsley, sage and rosemary, by insisting on calling the meal “Schnitzel”, saying, “I haven’t had Schnitzel since Oktoberfest in Germany.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Chances are you had pork schnitzel for starters, which is fine, but don’t lump my dish into your non-eating Kosher past in Germany before the open borders invite to invade and resist assimilation lead to no-go zones, proving too much for Angela Merkel’s hunched shoulders to bear alone. Where is W to give Angela Lansbury’s, more homely, less talented, dour dumpy clone to give an unsolicited back rub, when you need him?” Also, I didn’t  know what the hell Schnitzel was in high school, I just knew how to order a chicken cutlet at the deli, with shredded lettuce, tomato, mayo, Russian dressing or getting some melted provolone on it if I was feeling particularly eccentric for lunch, that day, that’s it. Granted, tonight, I did fry up gargantuan flatted breasts which looked like Pauly from Rocky passed out on Bridget Nielson’s tits. But I wouldn’t call a schnitzel dish using Panko breadcrumbs and Kosher certified chicken as a sterling example of keeping it real Arian like either.  Actually, for those food nerd historians at home, schnitzel was actually invented in Austria before famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal helped track down Adolf Eichman’s Nazi footsteps in Buenos Aries pleasuring himself to more Malbec and Nazi trading cards bound for the ashbins of truly deplorable history. Before shiny shoes got hanged in Israel for being Farrakhan’s dreamboat exterminator against you know who Gervais, and it wasn’t your mole infested British commoners working as Bank Tellers for Barclay’s Bank either.

I’m most impressed with my how kids continue to embrace and try any new meat creation I make for them, because they know it’s made with love and kids always love you back twice as much, when you make them like feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Last, your kids can’t help but look up to daddy a little bit in the kitchen knowing he’s doing his best to please God and obey his dietary laws in exchange for blessing him with the greatest home team imaginable, which grows closer every day, yeah, yeah.

I’m about to put my 3-year old son Samuel in the car today on our way to pick up a couple of last minute, improvised inspired ingredients and he says with a wink and brightened smile, “I hate your jokes and your books to.” I laughed long time. The fact my 3-year-old son already understands the full spectrum of silly minded, sarcastic fueled ball busting while also comprehending what work I’ve been pounding away at since he was born is a sign that God really is looking after my back through this miracle wonderkid. Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, really is the pubescent, Total Package, Lex Luger after all.

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Coach Dads Podcast Pitch

LaVar Ball’s son Lonzo Ball got him a Bentley for his birthday. Do you think a son would hook up his dad with a Bentley for his birthday, if he wasn’t the driving force responsible for him signing an NBA contract with the Lakers, so he could become everything he dreamed to be and that much more?

Barry Bonds had Bobby, Ken Griffey had Senior and Brandon had Bruce Lee, Grant Hill had Thomas Hill, Luke Walton had Bill. Are you touched yet? Do you have any interest in learning how these Do It All Coach Dads bonded through coaching with their new and improved seed, especially knowing their genetically blessed offspring, were also prime beneficiaries of such remarkable, war won wisdom to derive from the start?

Regardless, if you’re dad or not, it’s impossible to not derive some vicarious form of do it all dad pride from mere pictures of father son athletes done good like the one of Rick and Hall of Fame father Brent Barry after he won an NBA Championship for the Spurs.

What drove these Do It All Coach Dads to assume ownership of their kids life education? Because aren’t all coaches, at least the good ones, life coaches who instruct us how to become leaders of men on and off the court, if they push those to the limit, who inspire others through their sheer hard work, passion, grit, imaginative play, commanding flair and developed communicative touch?

When I think of my favorite movies, which fill my soul with infinite do good, empowered, fighting back possibility, I think of the relationships between Rocky and Mick, Mr. Miyagi and Danielsan, even Drago and his son in Creed 2. The one scene, where Drago’s son storms out of their dinner meeting with his mom and the Russian dignitary she left Drago for after losing to Stallone in Rocky 4 was brutal to watch for me, especially, when Drago’s son says to his Dad soon after on their way out the door, “She abandoned us.” I cried on the spot when watching this scene. Drago had done some hardcore bonding with his son through coaching to say the least. Dragon’s son in Creed 2 also represents all of his unfulfilled dreams, which is a common theme most Dad star athletes of yesteryear can identify with and I’ll take Glory Days by Bruce Springsteen for 500 Alex.

Do It All Coach Dads Podcast will give coach dads their long overdue praise and the much needed star studded spotlight they deserve because it’s their opinions about the enduring importance of faith, the power of positive thinking, visualization, preparation, goal setting, will power, practice, hard work, motivation and grit who I care about learning from the most. It’s those Do It All Dad Coach Dads who disperse experience informed tips on what ultimate success looks, feels and acts like as teammates, co-workers, husbands, fathers who I care about learning from the most on a sports educational podcast, not from some random 19 year old rookie in the NBA on Twitter who still educating himself on Hitler, sorry.

Who taught Do It All Coach Dads about how to bounce back from defeat? Who taught these Do It All Dad Coach Dads that the only way to feel like a winner is to win again? How were these Do It All Dad Coach Dads raised to hate losing more than I-Tunes jamming more unasked for singles from U2 down your throat?

Do It All Coach Dads Podcast sells Do It All Dad Pride in raising strong kids, who live to compete because the act of competition and pressure packed adrenaline from performing live in front others, is responsible for bringing out their best fighter selves, while team sports offers the more emotionally expansive opportunity to achieve a greater sense of wholesome purpose and blood on blood unity, which is hard to replicate in the boardroom or in the office kitchen for inclusive, Taco Tuesdays, with plenty of vegan options, after their college playing days are long gone.

Do It All Coach Dads sells do it all dad pride in raising inspirational leaders instead of sheepish followers, doers instead of talkers, creators instead of consumers, builder uppers, instead of belittling, put’um downers.

Bonding through coaching can make our kids great again. Do It All Coach Dads will tell sports related stories of triumph and comeback success, through interviews with Do It All Coach Dads and their kids sometimes together, to focus on the holy, unique bond formed among father coaches and their cherished student athlete children, who receive the greatest gift a father could give their child, like the late great Jim Valvano once said, “My Dad believed in me.”

Michael Kornbluth