I feel like less of a femboy whenever another’s man’s dog checks me out at the park. I’m normally topless playing basketball by myself. Dog darts in my direction whenever I launch another hook shot. Owner thinks, “That’s not even a real hook shot. Plus, she he doesn’t even go hard to the rack. He looks like the disowned gay palsy Walton if you ask me.”
Big Man Blundering, Challah. Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
Magic calling a time out on more hang out time with Lakers owner bus Dr. Buss.
“Dr. Buss, remember when Coop said how running the fast break was better than sex?” Well, that was some old G Nostradamus shit. HIV don’t want me playing around no more. Cookie said, “That’s how the cookie crumbles.” Dr. Bus says, “Don’t worry Magic. I’ll call in a favor to Jack. We can pump his body double for some fresh blood. How do you think Jack stayed alive after all these years? His dick should’ve caught gang green from gang banging fountain spewing hookers in Chinatown ages ago. How else could he bang more fabulous tight-coochie girls while standing up while smoking a joint to cheer you on in the playoffs during away games. Fabulous gang bangs live, Challah. Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
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
Let’s talk about how great St. Louis Cardinals fans are and why New York should be fly over country instead. Cardinals Nation gave Mark McGwire consistent standing ovations during his initial 0 for 28 hitting slump after they traded for him midseason, not knowing if he’d resign with them in the off season after his contract was up. Halfway into his hitting slump in Pinstripes, Yankee fans would’ve been raiding Mami’s closet for Energizer batteries to pelt at his Pez Despenser head while hyped up on shitty coke from Washington Heights. Plus, if I took HGH or any performance enhancing drugs at Sleepaway Camp at Kent, CT growing up, it would just make me strike out at a more accelerated speed. And fuck the Cubs organization for severing all ties with Sammy Sosa after bringing all of Wrigley off its feet during that long gone summer of love. It only marks the longest streak of Bill Murray remaining 80 percent smirk free, which beats out Tina Fey after pussy grabber beat Hillary Hammer Time Cankles fair and square. Fuck the Cubs for making Sammy Sosa feel less welcome than a resurgent herpes sore on the spot. I don’t care that he fucked up his face or not. Sosa was loaded with personality, who made Clemente come across as glaringly, self-conscious uppity in comparison, and made that Marris chase worth giving a shit about it, way more than Bonds and McGwire ever did. But the Cubs have no problem banishing a former shoeshine boy from Dominican Republic done good because the New York Times pre-fake news published the Mitchell Report because Bob Costas has smaller nuts than Juan Gonzalez did, that was based on hearsay and more unverified sources less reliable than Jared Kushner holding out more than 2 Mississippi after Ivanka talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again. Sweet summer’s gone, Challah. Thanks for the memories, Sammy, very, very much.
Michael Kornbluth
You want to learn how much your dad loves you?
Tell him an old friend from college got Cardinals tickets for when you’re in town for the weekend to see George Thorogood and the Destroyers destroy on Friday night with him the previous night.
Big Guy says, “When mom and I passed through St. Louis, we watched a bunch of people enter Bush Stadium.”
And I’m thinking, “You’re failing at selling a better St. Louis story in the making Dad. You watched a bunch of people enter the stadium. What are you a fucking pigeon? How about being excited for your 1st born who blessed you with 3 fuss free grandchildren knowing he leaves the house less than thank you notes to Google for making me a shadow banned Stay At Home Shemale Comedian? And if Google doesn’t manipulate search results, then why is it harder to find negative mentions of Dr. Gnocchi on Google than it is to find a film blogger on Rotten Tomatoes who called the Irishman underrated? My comedy records, all 124 of them should play on every radio station all the time Dad, especially Half Heeb Crazy, Challah. Thank you very much. So, I’m glad you saw Cardinals fans enter Bush Stadium Dad. Bob Gibson is in awe of your lighting fast comebacks designed to make me feel like a loser who missed out in comparison. Vince Coelman and Lou Brock feel like you’ve stolen their best fuck you to material around. And dad, why would you pitch me visiting the Courthouse in St. Louis where the Dredd Scott Decision was made in this instance? Do you want me to celebrate my weekend away from your 3 grandchildren with a friend for the 1st time in 2 years post COVID Damage done or not? So much for no brainer decisions, Challah. St. Louis, here I come, Stan the Man Lives, Challah. Thank you the very much.
Michael Kornbluth
Would Peloton instructor Jess King blame the clot shot if one of her tits froze during one of her summertime rides to get jiggy with it? After talking to her left tit, during a live ride of course.
“Why aren’t you moving Cabbage Patch Splat? Shit, this ride is live, I totally forgot. Yeah, so what Peloton, I call my left tit Cabbage Patch Splat. When you get paid 300 grand to pretend your comments about my bedazzled bicycle pants matter, I’ll give a shit about your designated Indian name pronouns used to address my lesbian rocker online like Strapped With Vape Cartridges, Dead Fish Flopping After 3 Hour Workdays or Doxes With Twitter Twat Wolves. Shit, Eric Clapton wasn’t really bullshitting us when he went on Instagram and claimed how his 2nd booster shot made his playing hands strung by the all mighty temporarily paralyzed almost immediately after. What, I used to bang an A&R rep for Island Records when I used to study Trance Gender Dance Studies at Borough Community College. My thesis was, “Libra Lesbians who adhere to a Pescatarian puss diet are finger licking good. Wait a minute, I can feel Cabbage Patch Splat get jiggy with it again. Thank God, I fake news believe in you again Lord. And FYI Peloton nation, my power couple lesbo baby is due in October. So, don’t expect me to me care about your upcoming training for the New York City Marathon while I’m too busy planning our 1st kid’s name together during my 2-week paid maternity time off, which is more than you make you in a year MAGA mom selling DeSantis Bobble Head Dolls on Etsy. And it’s don’t say gay, it’s happiest place on earth day, Deplorable Mom Bombing. The name Moderna is very modern, sheik sounding and full of social good, don’t you think? My Indy rock wife wants to go all in on high-end hipster cheek and name our foreign imported seed Polly Fume Blanc, she’s Frech Polynesian, in case you’re not following my killer clutch smoker flow. We’re going on a second honeymoon in Bora, Bora after I pump out this asinine Alabatros already. It was my wife’s idea, not mine. She doesn’t live in Austin Texas anymore because of the no abortion thing. Before it was Kosher living there, because the city of Austin still covers the cost health insurance for working musicians still living there like Gary Clark Junior who takes on the era of Trump Era Racism in the song, “This Land”, because prison reform for gang bangers and no bail laws, post-George Floyed riots, regardless of them resisting arrest or not or Lebron ever getting called for traveling is so oppressive. What, I was raised in a red state like Oklahoma, why else do you think I’m trying to piss off my Oil Rigger Manager Dad on purpose, now turned Solar Pannel Salesman/Caterer for Horse De Vores and Bugs on Bill Gate’s placenta Smoothie farm retreat next to a nearby military base that just housed a wrap up party for Tulsa King starring Sylvester Stallone this Fall, which reminds me. That A& R boyfriend for Island Records who turned me on to Jamaican Beef Patties for bit because he told me that all the pineapple smoothies he drank, would offset his greasy baster tip, also told me that 4/20, the national pot smoking holiday, because it grew wild around King Solomon’s grave man, is also on Hitler’s birthday. Tuff Gong Junior said, “Now, puffing to Bob on Tuff Gong, never felt so wrong. I was bummed to. I mean, the last time I felt this violently hosed was when I learned how Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson in Expendables 3. What, I’m half Jewish to. I thought my squeaky annoying voice, borderline okay-ness with working in New York and balloon size breast implants made in Miami were dead giveaways, you Jess Land hater hicks who call me a raver pig who stepped in glittered shit. I’ll dox your ass in a NY Minute if you make fun of my IVF kid like that, try me, homo hater nation. I’m a raver pig who stepped in glitter laced shit you say. I wouldn’t have been let near any aerobics instructor acceleration class in the eighties because it looks like my ass swallowed up Jane Fonda’s extended family down south on Ted Turner’s side. But Peloton is a judge free zone you, glitter hating motherfuckers. And I’m not married to giving a shit about your PowerPoint presentations any more than your hipster hobbit homo, Long Island hack breath husband is. Will you still love me tomorrow, Peloton? A red state reared Jewish Lesbo sooner from Oklahoma who identifies more with going down on premium, fast lane puss on Pelton Mats on top of Tapestries made in Paris, than housing those snooze feast fur balls in my rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side next door to Carole King. Because I’m a killer clutch smoker and you’re not.”
Who knew that off the list Jess had so much to get off her chest.
Killer Clutch Smoker lives, Challah.
Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
Stay At Home Comedian scores perfect swishes. #ComedyRecord118PerfectSwishes
College National Player of the Year or not, Duke grad Danny Ferry being drafted before Shawn Kemp, Glen Rice and Tim Hardaway is some racist ass shit. He was balding in college for Christ’s sake like a senior accountant for Arthur Anderson after they became top auditor shredders for Enron. I also recall Danny Ferry’s vertical jump being whiter than White Man’s Disease. And his last name is fucking Ferry, so what else did you expect flat-footed twinkle toes to achieve in the high-flying NBA post Jordan rules? Plus, I bet Danny Ferry’s singing bonus with Cleavland was more than Scottie Pippen made that year. When Scottie was still being paid less than BJ Armstrong’s nanny. Before MJ was intent on choking out Steve Kerr’s white privilege, for daring to launch an open jumper without a permission note from Michael despite shooting a higher shooting percentage from way downtown than his highness. Even Michael wouldn’t take that bet.
But seriously, what cracker ass GM for the Cleavland Cavaliers thought it was a good look drafting Danny Ferry over Shawn Kemp? Granted, Shawn Kemp was out of high school, but his rippling raw athleticism and ultra-funk filled finishes high above the rim made Clyde Drexler pull out what remaining hair he had. Overnight, he went from Clyde the Glide to Faye Dunaway maudlin nuts in Bonnie and Clyde. Fine, the Cavs had Mark Price already, who looked Michael J Fox and Emilio Estevez had a cross pollinated baby, made in the high hopping hoping institute in Malibu, CA, so they didn’t need Tim Hardaway, who never won a ring in the NBA anyway, despite inspiring Allen Iverson to break more ankles than Meghan Mccain on a booze cruise after going on carb free diet. But you don’t draft Danny Ferry over Glen Rice. He won a national championship at Michigan and was their all-time scorer. Plus, his follow through was smoother than Warren Beatty during his casting couch session with Madonna on the set of Dick Tracy. “Hop on my dick Material Girl. And fuck your demands, I’m only paying you scale.” But Jalen Rose thought Christian Laettner was an overrated pretty boy. Well, some might accuse your boy Chris Webber of the same thing. How many national championships did you win stocking socks? What’s the difference between Jalen Rose and Stephen Jackson? Jalen Rose is smart enough to admit he isn’t educating himself on Hitler into his mid-forties after graduating Michigan University. Perfects Swishes, Challah. Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
Why do I feel scuzzy for watching the Malice in the Palace doc on Netflix?
Outside, of realizing that I started chasing laughs 18 years ago on the open mike floor of the Rainbow Room on the Sunset Strip no less and have nothing to show for it outside of a bomb Faconnable leather jacket after getting my TV writing break with Vh1 Classic 7 years ago on America’s Hard 100.
I feel like I debased myself by chucking my moral stance on insisting I tell all modern NBA to go woke itself by listening to my brother’s recommendation to watch it, when he says. “Yoh, bro, the NBA isn’t political, they don’t take the knee anymore.” I say, “They painted Thugs Lives Matter Most on NBA hardwood courts throughout the nation for 2 years straight asshole, after Lebron yelled at his teammates for standing up for the national anthem since the league exists as a safe space for his rapidly punctured ego. I know, guaranteed money in the NBA despite 20 personal days off becoming the new normal these days despite never having to develop a reliable hook shot with your left is so oppressive.”
The fight only happened because a fan chucked a cup of beer on Ron Artest. He was chilling in the scorer’s table in a reclining position. Ron looked like he could use a frosty beverage after his scuffle with Ben Wallace that was a result of his semi-rough foul with 2 minutes left in a game and a 12-point lead in their favor. Fucking Stephen Jackson, the voice of reason, Mr. Ride or Die, I was defending my brother Ron. From what, a noogie headlock in the stands from an out of work mechanic who worked as extra in Gung Ho? Instead of throwing on his thinking cap while educating himself on Hitler after his boy Farrakhan, sprayed Elie Wiesel’s Twitter feed with Termite Emoji from dawn till night.
So, Reggie Miller didn’t win a championship, boo-hoo. Neither did Patrick Ewing and the only other semi-reliable scoring options on that team was a highly streaky, unproven John Starks who wasn’t a high school phenom drafted to play in the pros like the faultless Jermaine Oneil was. Reggie says, “If Jermanine didn’t slip, he would’ve killed that guy he sucker-slide-punched.” Because Jermanie O’Neil was on the right side of justice. That dude who just came off the floor before being sucker slided punched didn’t throw any 1st punches at Jermaine O’Neil. And stop acting like being sprayed with foamy beer is worse than being pelted by batteries by Bleacher Creatures in the old Yankee Stadium, before the house that Gentrification built was built. Well, if Bob Costas called us thugs, they’re really out to get my money. What did Jermaine Oneil want Bob Costas to say instead? Bob Cousey wouldn’t let his daughter date Stephen Jackson if his 6 rings depended on it. Ron Artest let his anxiety about beer pong spillage turn him into a raving, wronged lunatic like the rap video ho that’s get sprayed down with Old E in the video Gin and Juice. Ron Artest attacking fans in attendance is a punk ass, next level sketchy move like Nas and his boys stomping on Little Nas at the Source Awards after party for failing to give him lip service after exploiting his canonized rap name for all it was worth.
So, David Stern, suspended Ron Artest for the season. It forced Ron to dig deep, change his name and win a championship with the Lakers, good. Queensbridge represent. And how dare the original gangster David Stern, who made the NBA what it is today, suspend Stephen Jackson and Jermaine Oneil for 25 games without pay. But Hockey players fight all the time Jermaine. Yeah, amongst themselves. Plus, they don’t manage to slip while punching and they’re on the fucking ice player. And a sucker punch is a low class, next level sketchy behavior, which you’re guilty of Jermaine. You can spin it all you want, but next level sketchy behavior becomes thuggish, when you throw the 1st punch at a fan who comes up to your knee when he’s not looking, when you could’ve killed him if you didn’t slip on Ben Wallace’s headband sweat in the process. If that it isn’t excessively violent, uncalled for, behavior, then I’m just a sheltered suburban white boy who only supports Janice kicking the shit of any soccer mom who encourages her Stepford Wive seed to trip up Bobby’s daughter in the presence of Janice Soprano.
And what documentary is only an hour? It’s my fault for giving the doc a serious, contemplative look as if the unseen camera angle footage was going to reveal who the 3rd gunman was who killed Kennedy. I only wish David Stern was the District Attorney of any Democrat run hellhole these days such as Philly, New York, LA, Seattle, Portland, San Fran, Chicago, that’s closing freaking Starbucks and 7/11’s left and right because they can’t protect their employees from more thuggish attacks because looting Slurpee money is poetic justice. Hurry up and buy that line of bullshit, honky ass motherfuckers. Forget the violent crime committed against Asians on Subways on Fulton Street in Manhattan because Jeremy Lin hogged the bike lane all to himself, which pissed off JR Smith royally back in the day to. I don’t care about the tattoos, or shitty rap music in proliferation today. I just care about normalizing and accepting thuggish behavior, which is uncalled for, encouraged, enabled violence by so called activists that the media today gives a pass to, especially after the past summer of love 2 billion dollars’ worth of damage later, countless lives lost, over bullshit narratives such as Hands Up Don’t Shoot, and Thugs Lives matter most. Without consequence, laws, and rules, thuggish behavior is not only encouraged and accepted but proliferated to the point of complete anarchy, which is why gun violence especially among inner city youth and innocence bystanders is more out of control than Jill Biden’s hair on any given day. Shit, I’d look 24/7 disheveled, frazzled if was on 24/7 pill wet nurse detail for President Poppy Pants.
But Lebron, King of the Persecution complex says, “Boston is the most racist city.” Doesn’t Boston have the most affirmative action programs in place of higher education? Doesn’t Boston have a host successful charter schools in place? Hasn’t Boston completely decriminalized weed? Doesn’t Boston have Pronvincetown nearby, which has been a money in the bank, gay haven for all colors, sizes and shapes of dick since the dawn of time? Who never dared charge James Baldwin for the crime of boring everybody to sleep despite all the poppers in the universe jammed up your rectum to keep you up for more punch free, pontificating prose otherwise? Isn’t Big Papi, being a Dominican Republic legend, revered in Boston? Which makes him black enough to brush up against Joe Biden’s leg hair back in the day in Mr. Groper’s yes. Manny Rameriz, Pedro Martinez all loved playing in such a racist city Lebron. Shit, even Johnny Damon looks borderline Asian. Robert Parish was blacker than Dee Brown’s 45-inch vertical jump. If a black dude played for the Boston Bruins and broke Cam Neely’s single season, Hat Trick record, I’m sure the locals wouldn’t be running him out of town with pitchforks in hand. Nick Dipaolo, standup up great, is always referencing his black comedian friends, total racist I know, for making fun of Seinfeld for being clueless about Cosby being a druggy planting rapist for 4 decades straight. Where were your powers of observation then Jerry? Next level sketchy, Challah. Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
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
Do It All Dad Year Podcast Blog 