Promise lives. Set List for 1/27/22
Hounding Down Happiness
Promise lives. Set List for 1/27/22
Hounding Down Happiness
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.
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.
“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.
Did you know that Paul McCartney’s most romantic song is about weed? Got to get you into my life, was about running out of weed again. Fuck Linda’s avocado toast. Bean curd wasn’t getting Yellow Submarine finished. The 1st side of the Beatles Record Revolver is a total bummer because Paul’s out of weed again. Why else would they open their 6th album with a song about a tax man when they already had more money than God? Paul was just pissed at his accountant because he refused to write off his extra wide rolling papers as an office expense. He had the same accountant as George Harrison. That’s why Paul told John to let George sing his song Taxman to open Revolver with. Channeling the ebullient joy derived from falling in love with Linda’s tofu scramble was the furthest thing from Paul’s bummer mind at the start of Revolver man. Second song on Revolver, Eleanor Rigby, makes Pet Sounds feel like a feel good movie of the week on the Hallmark Channell or Poison’s greatest hits like Nothing But A Good Time on Prozac. I don’t think the song Eleanor Rigby is a song about all the lonely people and where they all come from. Paul isn’t talking about lonely cat ladies on the Upper West Side. He’s talking about all the friendless potheads who consider pot and rock and roll, their best friends till the very end. Jim Morrison rises again, Challah. Thank you very much.
Finally, on side 2, Paul is popping boners again on the song Gooday Sunshine because his Dealer just delivered him 5 ounces of Maui Wowie to his flat in Notting Hill. And he can tune out Linda’s wailing on about how they don’t dry hump enough trees anymore. Since they stopped touring and shacked up in Abby Road Studios from 1962 to 1970. But at the start of the Revolver on side 2, the entire band were in high spirits again with Linda not around to hock any of her mock meat meat pies. And it was goodbye Linda. Gooday sunshine, especially after John forced Yoko to hand over her last brick hash from Nepal for a merry Christmas and happy new year.
Maui Wowie mania shines on, Challah. Thank you very much.
Michael, thanks so much for allowing me to have a look at your book.
I really appreciate it. Unfortunately, it’s too similar to a project
that I’m already handling, so I’m going to pass
Sure, being a Christian book Lit agent, a book called The Koshertarian Comedians is too similar to project your already handling.
Yeah, and Evangelical Christians are auctioning off signed Trump bibles on Ebay to keep their coffers full.
What project are you handling that’s too similar Christian Lit Agent at large, ANTIFA eats Ben Shapiro’s Matzah Balls for Breakfast?
You don’t want to represent a writer who talks about election fraud and operation death speed through the clot shot, fine.
Although, I can’t wait for Biden to cut off Baby Boomers from their social security checks to reduce our deficit and redistribute the rest of their remaining wealth for the endless stream of illegal immigrant dreamers in full.
Then, we’d have a 70 million baby boomer march.
Spike Lee dies from more than blood clots too.
Breitbart does a film about it with Gina Carano, who plays the female Braveheart called, “Invasion Of The Social Security Card Snatchers”.
While yelling, “I told you they could take away your earned entitlements too, you smug elitist, ANTIFA excusing pieces of shit.”
Stepford Wives and MAGA moms will unite in D.C and show what a real insurrection looks like,
Fuck the hippie dippy chants of the 60’s.
Take away social security checks and redistribute them to their hired help on the cheap.
The ghost of JFK emerges from the flames and eggs them to burn baby burn like BLM’s spurned love child that just got booted off the Standard and Poor’s Index.
And the 2nd Woodstock resembles an innocuous warm up act.
JFK says, “Ask not, what your country can do for you. But what you, can do for Lennon and King who gave a peace chance.
It didn’t work out to well for them.
So, what the fuck are you going to do about it?
Besides, burn your draft card again and spit on Vietnam vets when they returned, you unpatriotic pussies.
You want to eclipse, the greatest generation, now’s the chance.
Or die a soul sellout fake news hippie like rest.”
Because when you live in Arizona for 10 years away from your 3 grandchildren to work on yourself, and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon.
You’re a fake news hippy.
Burn Baby Boomer Burn, Challah.
Thank you very much.
President Poopy Pants cuts off Boomers from Social Security.
Busted Beauty, otherwise known as Becca Kornbluth, was in no singing mood on Saint Patrick’s Day today, especially during the chanting portion of her Bat Mitzvah without a Torah Scroll to hide her nose behind, which she inherited from her mom’s black Irish side. Still, Becca wasn’t too green with envy on her 13th birthday compared to Ivanka Trump’s daughter, who most likely chanted her Haftorah portion in Mandarin. In fact, Becca was feeling a tad luckier than most since she struck up a platonic relationship with her best and only real friend, Joshua Prize, who turned her on to Phil Lynott’s soul man and a half’s stylings as the lead bassist and head front man singer songwriter behind Thin Lizzy, who actually looked black Irish from head to toe in real life, sporting the super-size, fly guy 70’s afro to match. Getting Becca into the Thin Lizzy wasn’t the easiest sell despite Phil Lynott being considered Dublin’s answer to the biracial Bruce Springsteen of his day because she associated everything Irish with her busted looking nose with a bump on top, that no amount of Irish Spring when applied to it, could smooth her ruptured soul, after the time she was forced to feel excluded because of it during a game of spin the Guiness bottle on Saint Patrick’s Day on her birthday no less, which is the double whammy of in your face shame.
It was one year ago when Becca was forced to hide in the closet at Joshua’s birthday party, who was born on Saint Patrick’s Day top, so maybe there was some truth behind there being a thing called luck of the black Irish after all. Normally, Becca didn’t attend many birthday parties, instead spending her free time at home listening to Neil Diamond’s record Hot August Nights while reading Cracked Magazines as her black Irish mom who possessed a piss poor tolerance for even low alcohol lagers like Killian’s Red yelled at her dad, Michael Kornbluth for not “touching” her anymore, which made her feel like the busted, broken beauty inside. But tonight, was different because Joshua Prize was a transfer student from Park Slope, Brooklyn, and not having any friends in this new suburban hamlet otherwise known as Croton Falls, 45 minutes north of New York City, home of the ultimate Saint Patrick Day’s parade, he struck up a friendly conversation with Becca after the teacher announced the classroom birthdays, despite both of them refusing to wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day. Joshua Prize’s excuse was that he didn’t think green was the most flattering color on him. Plus, his Jewish father, who married an Irish lassie also, was beat up by Irish kids non-stop growing up in Brooklyn, who called him a Christ killer ad nauseum, insisting his ancestors 9 degrees separated from Don Rickles ancestry were responsible for heckling the indecisive Romans into crucifying Jesus to death. So, sporting green on Saint Patrick’s Day didn’t make Joshua Prize feel so money mighty on beat up on the Jew day for being associated with alien blood colonizing blood suckers who controlled the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. So, when Joshua Prize was given the opportunity to make an impression when introducing himself to the class, he did. Joshua says, “You’re probably wondering, why am I not wearing green today? A classmate yells, “Because you’re a dirty gay Jew bastard.” Joshua says “I was going to say, Celtics shirts darken my inner light and look too regular drab for my taste, but close enough. Anyway, I’m having a Saint Patrick’s Day Birthday at my parent’s house tonight, which also happens to be my birthday. We dyed the pool green, hired House of Pain to DJ and imported a brick oven pizza hand tiled in Italy that will be serving all the pesto pizza pies you can eat. The party starts at 7, hope to see you all there, especially Becca. She’s an extra loosey-goosey live wire one, I can tell.” The entire class laughs with surging derision despite Joshua letting off a winkish smile at Becca from afar while looking directly through her soul which screamed, new love is in town.
2 seconds into the party, the class bully Liam O’Reilly, insists they play game of Spin the Bottle, but only if Joshua and Becca hide in the closet, because they refused to wear a shirt that says, “Kiss me I’m Irish.” Becca and Joshua oblige. Becca hunches over in a rather spacious closet while fighting off hanging minks and leather jackets to get a clearer view of Joshua, whose father Steven Kornbluth, was a big time TV development executive in Manhattan for FX who greenlit It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Rescue Me. Finally, Becca fights through the endless jackets and her eyes meet Joshua’s piercing hazel lit eyes. She goes in for a kiss but Joshua backs away from it. Becca says, “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” Joshua says, “I’m just nervous about kissing you Becca because I’ve never kissed a girl before.” Becca says, “That makes 2 of us for now.” Joshua can sense he’ll wreck Becca’s surge of self-esteem for the foreseeable future if he doesn’t try to get into kissing her immediately. Joshua leans in to kiss Beca with his eyes closed and they clank their teeth together, almost shattering them into the smithereens. Becca says, “So I wasn’t born to be your main squeeze, Joshua. We can still be friends, right?” Joshua says, “I snuck in a bottle of Guiness, why don’t we split it together and play truth or dare.” Becca says, “Fine, but you to have to pick truth 1st.” Joshua says, “Truth, Becca is pretty with no makeup on. And I get along with girls better than boys, my mother excluded.”
Now, Becca stands tall over the bema, which is the elevated stage in Synagogue where she performs her speech to commemorate the completion of her Bat Mitzvah and says, “One time a dear friend told me, “Rejection toughens you up for more rejection”, yet I stopped feeling excluded from a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day since Joshua Prize came into my life. All of a sudden, my birthday felt pregnant with feel good possibility again. Now, I no longer wanted to bury my nose in AP chemistry books till science camp to hide my mark of shame. I’ve wanted a nose job for the longest time. Originally, it was the only reason I decided to study for my Bat Mitzvah, after my father bribed me with future Bat Mitzvah money to pay for it. But I don’t mind my nose anymore since my friend Joshua gave it a positive spin after we were forced to sit out a game of Spin The Bottle in the closet at his parent’s house on his birthday no less. Joshua said, “Don’t blame your mom for your busted nose, Busted Beauty. Blame your gay closeted dad for getting too drunk to pull out again. But seriously, who cares if you inherited your mom’s busted nose or not? Your dad’s the one you should be pissed off at, especially knowing how’s he pushing you to use your own Bat Mitzvah money to pay for corrective nose surgery that was his glaring production oversight in the 1st place. At the same time, you can’t be too mad at pops, because he gave me you. Granted, our kissing chemistry is non-existent. But new love was in town the day we met in chemistry class, and we could always produce a test tube baby together if you’d like. Like the late great Phil Lynott said, “If you’ve got nothing but a sense of humor, you will survive.” And we’ve got each other’s back, no matter what. Who cares if you’re into kissing girls more, more than I am. Pervs stick together. Hey, we just outed ourselves while still stuck in the closet. Regardless, you’ll always be my favorite busted beauty Becca.” I said, “Joshua, stop being such a drama queen already. Your gayer than Allen Ginsburg during Fleet Week. Oscar Wilde wants his quilted pen used to ball tickle the ghost of Lord Byron back. Moments later, we emerge from the closet while the game of Spin The Bottle during party continues. Then, I go into kiss Joshua on the lips, but he arches his back away from me this time, before cracking his head onto the sharp corner of the wall, which required 13 stiches soon after. So, what’s the takeaway of this story ladies and gentlemen? He’s only a fag hag if you end up marrying the fruitcake. And sometimes, a gay boyfriend is a girl’s best friend.”
It was 1986. Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with a badass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life. Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the fourth grade, spending more time now stargazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid, because she saw how tweaky and sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did.
Her younger brother Arthur would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later-discontinued Jolt Cola, which was the equivalent of six cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep-deprived first-grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store.
But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage, because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss because she had to write a paper about it for class.
Actually, Matilda’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, goody two-shoes square.”
Now Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Ways from Halloween that she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again ’till 2061.
By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous astrophysicist who would eventually go viral (despite the Internet not having been invented yet), where she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt, too.”
Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt, and in a frenzied spurt, she darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite her inner square telling her that she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice-in-a-lifetime event (if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow up bigger than you-know-what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads.
As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur, still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister; yet, unfortunately, she inherited her dear dada’s clunky, heavy feet (which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon, either).
Arthur turns his head, spots Matilda, and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt—on a school night, too.”
Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arthur. I’m not Matilda—you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation. I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind, like Han Solo after Leia unfreezes him from carbonite in Jabba’s place.”
Arthur adds, “Don’t BS, me ‘Tilda. Wait a minute. I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.” Now Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green force field-enclosing, brain-eating alien bug. Arthur freaks out, as expected, yelling, “I got killed, ‘Tilda! I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m gonna get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”
Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching it, Arthur. I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet.”
Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins.
As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each other, landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with the discarded Milk Way wrappers on it.
Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over, baby.”
Matilda, who has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain-drilling noogie, looks up to her Dad and asks, in perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet, Dad?”
Dad says, “But, then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grow on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need.”
Once upon a time, in 1903, there was a Stay-At-Home dad, Bukowski Kornbluth, who lived in the derided Mustard House within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, forty miles north of the original Yankee stadium known as Hilltop Park in Washington Heights. This was before it became a cocaine pickup haven for suburban kids in the eighties throughout Westchester Country, who required more stimulation that what the leafy suburbs and colonial house-populated streets offered, knowing that the only thing getting blown on a regular basis, there, were leaves.
Every day, Bukowski Kornbluth would stare at his newborn son Arthur and bemoan, “I can’t believe Hasbro rejected my game Condiment Land and chose Candy Land, those anti-Semite bastards.”
Before, Bukowski Kornbluth had worked as a shoeshine boy outside of Grand Central, making enough to live off Hebrew National dogs. But that was it. Now he was developing a stomach ulcer at ripe old age of 25, and was married to an Irish nurse, Chloe Duffy, whom he got pregnant by mistake (because pulling out on time was physically impossible, knowing that Bukowski Kornbluth blew his load in 1.1 seconds flat).
After Chole Duffy’s prominent fireman lieutenant dad died, she inherited some money and made a down payment on the Mustard House, while using her collection of rare Irish whiskies that her father collected (tracing all the way back to Rob Roy times) for collateral because Bukowski Kornbluth was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under judicial review.
Even during his shoe-shining days, Bukowski had dreams of becoming a professional songwriter, because growing up in a cramped tenement on the Lower East Side with nine other siblings, it was the radio which filled him with dreamy, big city success wonder. This made going to sleep still hungry again a tad more tolerable, knowing that his dad’s career as a pickle sales rep for Kosher Dill Delights wasn’t getting them a townhouse on Park Avenue anytime soon, either.
Now, more than anything, Bukowski Kornbluth wanted to write a better song than ‘The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous’, to take him out of his Mustard House jail so he could finally enjoy some bright lights and big city success for himself.
But one day, things changed when Bukowski had the radio on at home to hear the Yankees play, after he started throwing Cracker Jacks at his newborn son Arthur because he was hungover from drinking too many Rob Roys alone; because his nurse wife worked nights and he was stuck at home with his son again on Shabbat, with nowhere else to go but down self-pity lane (which was getting tiresome and beyond boring at this point in his life).
Growing up in the Lower East Side, Bukowski Kornbluth was a solid stick ball hitter, which earned him the nickname Yard Blaster (which certainly beat the nickname his putz prone, younger brother earned on those same streets, Trips on Curbs).
What if, instead of writing songs about ex-loves and depleted dreams, Bukowski Kornbluth could refocus his attention on baseball and dreams of being a big shot at the ball game for a much cheerier, less depressingly dreary change of pace?
Bukowski Kornbluth continues to pelt his son with more Cracker Jacks, yelling, “Duck! Cracker Jack attack!” Then an idea ẻmerges, and Bukowski Kornbluth says, “I finally got it this time, kid. I’ll write a song about going to the ballgame for anything except more fucking hotdogs, to remind me of this damn Mustard House.
“But what if the object of universal interest I focus my song on is Cracker Jacks?
“Old Bet, the famous circus elephant, was buried ín nearby Sommers outside the famed Elephant Hotel, so I’ll write about grabbing some peanuts at the ball game in his honor, too. There’s no reason why I can’t write a hit song about America’s favorite pastime and pigging out at the ball game. It’s a home run, kid.
“Where can I find a pencil? Arthur, give me those crayons, if you haven’t eaten them up already.
“Despite me being miserable about being an unemployed Stay At Home Dad out in the sticks, it doesn’t mean I love you any less, Arthur. But Stay At Home Dads can’t survive unless they have something grander to aim for in life besides being a loving, proud dad; and this is my last shot to hit one out of the park, kid.
“Never stop swinging hard for the fences, Arthur. You’re an all-American slugger like Daddy. I can feel it in you just by the way you made me partially deaf from smacking me in the ear with your rattle, once.”
Bukowski Kornbluth wrote ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game’ as his son Arthur finally got to sleep in a pool of his own Cracker Jack vomit. One year later, Bukowski Kornbluth got introduced at Yankee Stadium (then known as Hilltop Stadium) and waved his Yankee hat to all the adoring fans in attendance, raining down hollering praise for the man who wrote the official father/son bonding anthem for baseball games in America.
Now his son Arthur pulls on his dad’s leg as the cheers grow even more vociferous for the Do It All Dad done good, and says, “I got a Honus Wagner rookie card, Dad.”
Bukowski Kornbluth says, “Stop ruining the moment, kid. They just sell you the cards for free gum.”
Arthur says, “I think it will be worth something someday, Dad. Also, can you remind me why I can’t stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack, again?”
“Daddy, Jews for Mormonism doesn’t make any sense. So why are you converting to Mormonism again? Is it because you hate your people since you got fired from your intern blogger position for The Times of Israel for insisting China has resisted Wuhan lab investigations more than AquaFresh?, Little Samuel says. Do It All Dad takes his right hand off the steering wheel of his giant rig renamed Misinformation Machine and rubs his son’s head and says, “Your mother has a younger brother in Utah who’s a high ranking, Generation Z preacher of the Mormon Church, who with a little convincing, can grant me a religious exemption for the COVID vaccination after I convert. Then, I won’t have to worry about the fake news vaccine shot killing me more than the prospect of receiving a career consultation from LinkedIn ever again, my chest. This is an impersonation of Dr. Dre telling Eminem about Microsoft paying 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says,” Worrddddddddd, LinkedIn, is lamer than ever yoh!” Thank God, I trusted my gut, cut myself off from Mimi and Papa and got my trucker License instead.”
Little Samuel says, “I’ll always be on your team to make more comedy records daddy, because more comedy records for you is more comedy records for me, moron Son. When will you record comedy record 91, putzy moron butt carrots?” You’re taking forever already. Mama wouldn’t want you to put the brakes on your comedian career on my behalf, not that it hasn’t stopped you before, but you get the gist Boozy Beer Daddy.” Do It All Dad gets a tad misty, overwhelmed with a surge of heart aching emotion and says, “Her dreamy blond looks live through you kid, which should help bolster our case when we ask her Mormon brother Blair Rittenhouse Square The 3rd to give us that religious exemption after he converts me to Mormonism. How can you not get big love in Utah kid? One time, a MILF bum rushed you at the supermarket when you were only 2 and says, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I said, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”
Little Samuel says, “Do most mommies die of heart attacks at 42 Daddy?” Do It All Dad says, “Not unless they’re employed by the WWE kid. Mama died from the COVID clot shot and she didn’t have the strained heart I had from all the cocaine I did in my twenties throughout my thirties, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall while yelling, “Where’s Hunter?” Who is else is going to pay for this shit? Shit, we’re running low on gas. You know the routine Samuel. Money equals freedom and we can’t make it to Utah if we don’t sell some bumper stickers fast. The GPS says there’s a Shell station in 1.2 miles, we should have enough to make it. Still not banking on Obama Be Good lickers like Dave Chapelle getting his cousins Trump voiced GPS systems for Kwanza. On your far left, is Mohegan Sun, Elizabeth Warren’s home away from home. Now, grab the COVID Damage Done bumper stickers and get ready to sell with divine powered authority like Kevin Hart’s agent in convincing Universal Studio’s anyone who calls him a poor man’s Eddie isn’t a jealous hater, just a short on laughs spectator.”
Little Samuel approaches a Karen type going to the bathroom at the Shell station and says, “Hi, can I interest you in a bumper sticker to support the Freedom Trucker Convoy, called COVID Damage Done?” Karen says, “Is that supposed to be a stupid Neil Young reference kid?” As far as I’m concerned you can’t vaccinate kids young enough. Thank God New York state doesn’t allow you to attend Pre-K without wearing a mask on. Wear the damn mask kid, they still work. Do It All Dad interjects, “Hey Karen, why don’t you suck the hate speech and white privilege out of my chosen person schlong first. Consider it elongated love. Pretend Justin Trudeau ordered you to leak it.” A group of truckers overhear the commotion and crack up in unison. One of the truckers raises his voice among the deafening shriek of laughter and says, “I’ll take 100 bumper stickers kid.”
Do It All Dad and Little Samuel arrive at Zion National Park to have a moment with God before plowing forward with the Do It All Dad Does Mormonism pitch to his dead wife’s brother preacher. Do It All Dad says, “God, I’m half a fag, so the polygamy thing isn’t that much of a driving force behind my decision to forsake my Jewish side for Mormonism. Plus, most Mormons voted for Mitt Romney, so their judge of good character is questionable at best. The exalted, all-knowing Mitt called Trump the Anti-Christ for Christ’s sake. But in the Bible part 2, Jesus returns from heaven to defeat the Anti-Christ. So have some faith, in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you, people?” Little Samuel says, “Does this mean you’re not converting to Mormonism now Dad?” Do It All Dad beams with divine powered light and says, “Looks like it doesn’t kid. How many more bumper stickers do we have left?” Samuel says, “We got 52” and one hardcore hilarious joker.” Do It All Dad says, “That should be enough gas money to get us to Vegas. There’s a new Stand-Up Comedy Festival there called, “Seriously Clowning”, the winning comedian gets 25 grand and a co-hosting audition for the Russell Brand’s podcast. I’ll take those odds kid.” Little Samuel looks up to his cherished, Dear Dada and says “You’re going to kill them Daddy, you’re going to kill them. Don’t forget to open with your bit about me confusing Grandma for Kurt Cobain on the TV, which isn’t the most flattering look.” Do It All Dad says, “Nirvana didn’t kill Hair Metal, Aids did, before Magic Made HIV disappear. Courtney Love is Mia Farrow with better husband selection. If Kurt Cobain killed himself at the height of his popularity, then Woody Allen just got a book advance from Random House on a book about hands off parenting, called Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years. I miss Trump’s relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship. If Trump was stabbed with the deep state needle used to take out Easy E, he’d tweet the next morning on whatever hate speech platform he’s allowed to rumble on next, “Do I have HIV? Yes, but my t-cell count numbers have never been stronger. Can I get a holla for some Challah? Mongoloid Moron lives, running on schtick till the end of the time and I feel fine, Challah. Thank you very much.”