Category: storytelling

Hell’s Gate Lives

by doitalldadyear, posted in Parenting, politics, storytelling

According to the Koran, Buraq is the winged horse that flew the honorable prophet Muhammad into Heaven after ascending past the steps of Mount Sinai. Did the ghost of Moses give the winged horse a lift on his magic carpet, signed by the Steve Miller Band?

In Farsi, Buraq also means “blessed”, with conquering the curse of white man’s disease, which is why Obama is a fake news blessed one, because I’ve never seen him slam anything, except alt-right dirt rags like Breitbart, that dared to point out how his social security card is from Connecticut, which is whiter than White Man’s Disease.

When Obama talks about race, everything changes. Then, why hasn’t Obama Be Good talked Netflix into making a black remake of Caddyshack yet? Biden plays the Van Wilder of Lifeguards. Hunter plays the burnout Groundskeeper who has found Zen in blow painting. Obama snorts up Chevy’s stash of white privilege and writes it off as a master’s estate tax. The My Pillow guy plays Rodney because Jackie Mason is too overtly annoying Jewy for Obama’s tastes. The My Pillow guy dies after Obama orders John Fetterman to smother him out with an oversized hoodie in exchange for a free Slurpee card from 711 for life. The movie ends with Obama running a go-cart over John Kerry’s bare feet on the back nine, playing golf with Matthew McConaughey. Obama yells, “I know; watch the pedicure, man. John is playing footsie with Saudi royals since his wife cut his weekly allowance in half for losing a kite surfing match to Fetterman; the only thing that moves slower than Fetterman is John Durham. So, I was born in Hell’s Gate in Keyna; what will you do about it America? MAGA country is dumb for thinking Bruce Springsteen will ever stop kissing my ass. But in Kenya, they know better than my kiss ass team at MSNBC. Gates tried putting me on a 500-dollar bill in Kenya, but the government declined. I’m so not money, and my fellow Kenyans know it.”

Hell’s Gate lives with a swingers twist, challah, thank you very much.

What’s the least politically incorrect reply to learning that someone you knew was friends with a pedophile?

Don’t act so surprised. Isn’t he a registered Democrat?

Who supports illegal entry no matter the cost.

And supporting open borders is supporting getaway rape speed, andele, andele, arriba, arriba.

Hair Plugs Sniffer in the White House is the demented, perverted umpire waiving all of MS-13 to steal home.

Only Frank Drummond from Police Squad would call them safe in an attempt to save the Queen.


But the Old G Queen is deader than claims of Prince Harry trying to kill himself over mental health issues.

Scruffy Archie hasn’t shaved in years.

Hell’s Gates lives, Challah, thank you very much.


Michael Kornbluth

When America Winces

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, politics, storytelling

At a parent-teacher conference for my son’s Kindergarten class, his Spanish Teacher implores us to bring Spanish to our home. I raise my hand and ask, “Isn’t one home invasion enough?” 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

Self-Defense is deader than Kyle Rittenhouse’s prospects during pledge week at the University of Arizona. 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

I wish toothpaste tasted more like Bud Light. So, I wouldn’t taste anything afterwards except Kid’s Rocks spurned tears. 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

Now Kid Rock can’t play beer pong with groupies on Spring Break in Daytona Beach without his gag reflex kicking in, to the image of a Dylan Hepburn finger popping American Badass from behind to Devil Without Cause?

When American winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

10.8 million Tik Tock followers are ten times platinum. So, I’d lose my zest for pounding Bud Light on the front leg of my F Hair Plugs Sniffer Tour, Born free, my balls.

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much.

I’m guilty of wincing after asking Alexa how many followers Dylan Hepburn Mulvaney has on Tik Tok before
finishing that joke. 

I didn’t wince because Dylan Mulvaney is trans. I winced because she’s hackier than John Mullaney’s act in Jerry Seinfeld’s Bar Mitzvah suit. 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

I also winced at the thought of how Dylan is the best American-made Trans talent Tik Tok offers these days. Our Chinese Overlords wouldn’t consider Dylan Hepburn Lady Boy gold material of any kind, especially since the price of the US dollar is more depressed than Trumpy Poo’s tits knowing that Operation Death Speed continues to cause more cases of cardiac arrest than torn condoms on Bill Maher’s party bus tour of Rio De Janeiro during Marti Gras, sponsored by Third Legged Beauties.com. 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much.

I bet Dylan Mulvaney isn’t even real, just a CIA-made, augmented reality version of what a trans influencer spokesperson for Bud Light would look like based on John Mulaney’s stool sample alone.

How is Dylan’s sex appeal alone generating 10 million followers on Tik Tok? It sounds more prosperous than John Mulaney selling out Madison Garden because he had the balls to after Seinfeld for a change. Cosby was a rapist for 4 decades in a row. Where happened to your powers of observation then Jerry?

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much.

Click Farms in India wince at padding Dylan’s numbers more than they did for the creep Swede in Succession.

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

Michael Kornbluth 

 

 

 

Stage Names for Only Fans

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

Michael Flamer

Michael Rocker

Michael Lifer

Killerset Kornbluth

Michael Spewer

Off The List Kornbluth

Unfocused Kornbluth

Bud Man Kornbluth

Loudman Disease Kornbluth

Sustained Stiffage Kornbluth

Half Heeb Crazy Kornbluth

Edgeless Comedy Blows Kornbluth

Joshua Higher

Heavenly Toppers Kornbluth

Adderall Conqueror Kornbluth

Year Without Edibles Kornbluth

Far From Korny Kornbluth

Laugh Yanker Kornbluth, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Aw Sucks

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

Honestly, fellas, how much do you hate a dumpy older woman who uses the word Aw concerning your heartfelt expressive emotion?

Aw sucks my asshole after suicide sprints with Mineral Ice creeping up my balls.

Aw sucks limp dick around varicose veins with the lights on again.

Aw, sucks, putrid pussy. Think Stormy Daniels cleaning tuna cans out of her snatch.

Aw sucks the cocaine cobwebs out of Zelensky’s nose on Good Friday.

Aw sucks worse than watching the floral print dry out Jill Biden’s long-lost sex appeal of yesteryear, small-town townie ho fishnet stockings on or not.

Aw, it makes the do-good meaning behind the cancel hate hashtag yucking up my LinkedIn feed inconceivable.

Aw is a dumb fuck default for an emotionally retarded expressionist who speaks in empty platitudes like do what you love because that option in Corporate America is so readily available on tap, you blah breathed hack for hire.

Aw, is code for thanks but no thanks for the compliment faggot.

Aw, that means you’re desperate for compliments today, aren’t you, Lord Bryon light in the loafer light?

Aw is a passive-aggressive alternative to the unverbalized directive; get a fucking life, alright, I’m not even a 5/.9 by old school My Space standards. You still put woman on a pedestal as if your mother cares about your love life outside of pushing a premature marriage to conceal your default faggot pushover position.

Aw screams it’s springtime for fruitcakes.

And I’m old enough to be your mother and past my fag hag years prime, thanks.

Springtime For Fruitcakes, aw sucks lives, Challah!

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Funny Man Flash Fiction Collection

by doitalldadyear, posted in business, storytelling, writing

April 3, 2023

Dear Eric Smith,

I can’t pull off the hats you do. And in 2008, my girlfriend, now wife, agreed for us to dress like the couple from Juno for Halloween, which prompted me to write Juno Does Williamsburg before my stab at writing the funniest softcore porn parody, lampooning the hipster acceleration of Williamsburg after the movie released. So I’ve never relied on predictive analytics to know what will be the next big thing like Williamsburg 15 years ago or when I told my dad 18 years ago to invest in Google when it made its initial public offering priced at 85 dollars a share. That’s why I predict with rock solid authority that you’re the right man to help get Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories the publishing glory it deserves, which will make my Do It All Dad Year come true.

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories, my debut funny man flash fiction collection is unique because it’s loaded with heart while treating every other line like a punchline sprint from start to finish; the total word count is 74,959 words. The only comparable book is Horse Feathers by Woody Allen, or the one BJ Novak did that has some horseshit title that I don’t want to Google anymore. The point is, you’re the perfect audience for my book because it’s a fantastic discovery like the Doors in college for me, except I spin endless sheets of comedy gold while maximizing the most out of my half-heeb crazy, funny Jew bone in the process.

United We Laugh; I prove it every day. The three sections of Waste Of Height are Do It All Dad Time, Sloppy Second Stories, and Do It All Dad Does Kid Stories, which are mini star vehicles for my children that aren’t pedo-friendly tales about sexually confused Hipster spawn reared on Lou Reed records, profiled in Groomers Are Us Magazine either. Although Waste Of Height does include flash fiction tales that unmask my queer learnings in Slut In A Straight Jacket and in Greatest Story Never Told, for starters.

Controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again; my three fuss-free kids, 99 percent of the time, are living proof of it. Per your instructions, I’ve included a 10-page sample for your review. Thanks for your lit agent consideration and for making publishing dreams come true.

Best,

Michael Kornbluth

Man Meat Mojo Rising

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

I fell in love with a rosy-cheeked Irish Lassie last night. Any gay-leaning thoughts went poof in her presence. I never wanted to kiss a girl more in life than I did last night. I bet her box tastes like pinkoliscious-haired weed. She was saintly by tolerating this drunk, rambling older Irish Granny, who admitted to being part Irish and part Jewish. After pounding a Jack on the Rocks at an Irish bar outside Grand Central on a Sunday night with some time to spare before my train left, I say, “Part Irish and Part Jewish, that means she’s got the gift of gab on both sides. And if she has schizophrenia, she’d hit the trifecta.” Her entire Irish posse laughs long time. Almost immediately later, my rosy-cheeked Irish Lassie, bursting with poetic pouncing, juicing flavor, says, “You should be joining us.” And I declare my love out loud, “I want to marry you, which I was saying to myself after we crossed eyes prior.” I don’t call myself a slut in a strait jacket for nothing.

My year without beer is coming up with a miraculously strong finish, with only 15 days to go. Breaking free from the chains of addiction to Adderall for the past two months is kicking my flirty forward personality into perpetual rock-solid motion with fetching older gals into my man meat mojo rising in their presence too.

Man Meat Mojo Rising, Challah. Thank you very much.


Would Charles Bukowski drink alcoholic seltzers if his drying-out years in San Pedro extended till today? Or would all mighty Bukowski deride White Claw Seltzers as a too girly man for his tastes? Who toiled away at the Post Office too long to identify with a non-essential Betty Draper?

After a recruitment training seminar today, I got borderline flirty with my pretty, MILFY blond, role-playing partner from Jacksonville, Florida, by imploring her to practice her lines on me after work. She calls and says, “Lying to a candidate about having a meeting about them before calling them is next-level sketchy, don’t you think?”


I say, “Totally; only Hillary has a meeting about a candidate with the DNC about how they’d steal the nomination from Bernie.”

Florida MILF laughs long time.

Florida got to love it.

Bernie Bro Tugs live.

Man Meat Mojo rising, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Bullish On Visine

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, storytelling, writing

Has Brittney Griner scored an endorsement deal for Visine yet? Because those bifocals aren’t hiding shit.

But seriously why should I kiss Brittney Griner’s ass again Ernie? She’s got zero court vision for starters.

In court, Britney says, “It’s only hashish oil, your honor. Moderate Muslims today wouldn’t cause a pussy riot over it.”

Russian Judge says, “At least tell me the vape pen found in your carryon bag was eyeliner. Because you identify with Ben Franklin’s tomboy Trans sister. According to my records, you’re not even a top 25 player after you bleach bit all those white bitches from the University of Connecticut? So, you’re going to jail. But chances are you’ll score an endorsement deal from Visine, Trans Topping Nation. Bullish on Visine Brittney? Your country writes blank checks to fund Azov Nazi’s in the Ukraine. You think we give a shit about charges of insider trading? Hillary sold us half of your Uranium and destroyed all the evidence linking her to the sales under subpoena. We don’t call her Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, for nothing.”

Bullish on Visine, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Happy Birthday Israel

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, storytelling, writing

Yesterday, I got a cake for the last night of Hanukkah. On it I had them write Happy Birthday Israel.

God appreciates the gesture, especially on Jesus Christ’s birthday. It’s not fair that God gets lop-sided love on Jesus’s birthday. Doesn’t the Old Testament guilt us to death into honoring thy father and mother? And all money shot good stems from God’s do it all tree trunk. Happy Birthday Israel, Challah. Thank you very much.

I don’t want God to feel like the sloppy second son on Jesus’s birthday. Nobody takes a week off from work for God’s birthday. And on Hannukah, practicing Jews left, honor Jewish pride in honor of God being on their side. I tell my kids, “The last night of Hanukkah celebrates faith in Hashem the Most-High for inspiring his band of Maccabees to fight for every inch of their great Temple defiled by those Greco Roman Polytheistic whores. King David’s line of cosmic perfectionists have more of a booty call relationship with God, who only call him up for some hook up love whenever they’re in the mood to pray. Assuming they have some bitcoin to short before the next crypto kid gives Bernie Madoff a good run for his money.” Happy Birthday Israel, Challah. Thank you very much.

God. the original old G prevails in my heart and in our Jewish loving home, which makes every day Hannukah Day. Happy Birthday Israel, Challah. Thank you much.

Gloomy in the corner is cheapness on Christmas. “Thanks for the socks, Bell. Now, I can postpone laundry for another week. And you wonder why my son wants to punch Santa hard in the stomach.”

Son confronts Santa at the mall.

“Where are my ice skates Santa? You don’t have my size in the North Pole? But I’m not any bigger than your average Elf. Plus, Biden would never pull this shit with Zelensky. Zelensky gets a blank check from Uncle Sam for Christmas. And all I get is half baked truths about you running out of my size due to supply chain issues. Now, I know why Hanukkah Harry calls Santa the real cheapskate. But thanks for the Fisher Price toy chest with no toys in it. I’ll fill it up with my eight thousand Hannukah gifts.”

Happy Birthday Israel, Challah. Thank you very much.

I don’t like kids in Steph Curry jersey’s, unless they’re mom won Miss Washington Heights.

Or was hot enough 5 years ago to charge the price of Hamilton Tickets for some high-end Chlamydia.

I only want kids from the Bay area sporting Steph Curry Jersey’s, because chances are; they’re not bandwagon fans.

And those mini ballers on the rise, know what’s it’s like to high step over shit throughout the streets for San Francisco.

When will Penn State Alumni realize how sporting their school colors in public is in poor taste?

There’s nothing vague about taking showers with disadvantaged black kids in the shower on Penn State grounds.

Paterno and crew failed to call cock block interference with the school’s integrity on the line.

So, to still wear your Penn State hoodie in public means you’re siding with the rape enablement, open borders party. It’s like whipping around a ladle on Halloween used from a spirt cooking class taught at 92 street Y, signed by Hillary Hammer Time Cankles.

Is wearing a Penn State Windbreaker to Cracker Barrel after Church on a lazy Sunday afternoon equivalent to blitzing Fat Albert from behind? After he’s already weak in the knees from wind sprints for Kit, Kat’s, no.

I hate to be excessively judgmental on Jesus’s birthday. But I’d chuck the Penn State hoodie already. Would you wear a priest collar in public if you didn’t have to?

Fuck the MAGA hat, the Penn State hat is the real symbol of white supremacy. Those poor black kids who got felt up in the shower by Sandusky didn’t get paid like the Neverland kids. The judge awarded 52 million to those victim’s families. And that was after the parents got paid hush money with green cards, houses and diamond encrusted bracelets. Those Neverland white kids got a splashy doc on HBO with big billboards on Times Square throughout Fake News Black History Month. What did Sandusky’s victims get? Stiff arm talk from Al Pacino while playing Joe Paterno on HBO?

“Those kids never had so it good. At least those kids had a strong male role model around who took an interest them for change.”

Then, during one take Pacino slips into his coach character from Any Given Sunday after having one too many spritzers in trailer between takes.

Pacino screams.

“You want to climb out of hell, then fight off that inchworm kid. But Joe Pa don’t preach.”

Happy Birthday Israel, Challah!

Thanks for a glorious Hanukkah year Lord, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth