Category: travel

Hanukkah Cockblockers

by doitalldadyear, posted in faith, religion, travel

It’s your fault if you don’t make Hanukkah more festive than Christmas. I get it. Most likely Jesus himself who celebrated Hanukkah with his apostles, even invented Christmas to make the holiday season feel more festive. When the strongest drink offered was Manischewitz before eggnog was invented. Spinning Beastie Boys records while blaring Intergalactic planetary to honor the Aliens in helping his fellow Hebrews build the Great Pyramids wasn’t a thing yet. Can’t all the Jews, Muslims and Christians unite on the 1st night of Hanukkah on the premise behind Home Depot never being erected in the Israelites’ honor? Growing up, I’d push my dad to honor my mom’s Christian side after she converted. I say, “Dad, mom dumped Jesus to marry into your putzy DNA. The least you can do is let mom throw up a tree. Dad says, “The only time a Jew from the Bronx would get a Christmas Tree is if he planned to convert it into a tricked-out Treehouse and flip it for a profit.”

Finally, one year, my year my dad budges and allows my mom this pathetic, sorry excuse for a bonsai tree relegated to the side patio covered in cobwebs that got less touches than a St. James Bible at a bath house colony in Pronvincetown. But seriously, can’t you see Jesus recognizing the festive limitations of Hannukah after receiving one carved dreidel too many? Jesus says, “Thanks for the Dreidel, Judas. I’m glad that my carpentry session on dreidel building 101 at The 92 Street Y paid off so handsomely. But why don’t we make Channukah a more drawn-out celebration that’s ten times festive by celebrating my birthday for the entire month of December after Hannukah.”

Matthew says, “Yeah, but Jesus wouldn’t Hannukah then be considered a forgettable warm act, that gives you ball balls just thinking about it.  You were born my immaculate conception, right? Yet by the time your 4 brothers James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon were born, the magic was gone baby, baby gone.”

Jesus replies, “Yeah, but I had a vision in desert last night about a future comedian named Billy Crystal bemoaning in his autobiography, Baby Boomer Arrogance Never Dies, about how Jews bend over backwards to adopt Christmas traditions, so they don’t feel so old world clingy Jewy. Nobody cares anymore about the rocking band of Maccabees reclaiming the Great Temple of Solomon because they’re not the polytheistic whores like the rest. Taylor Swift is the number recording artists in the future, and she grew up on a Christmas Tree farm for Christ’s sake.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Matthew asks, “What’s a Christmas Tree Jesus? “Jesus says, “A camouflaged cross, but it’s going to be tricked out in lights that run on electricity, which will outshine any burn a mile of minute candles on a Menorah.  Any Jewish record executive would jam a pinecone up their ass if they promised Taylor Swift more inclusiveness gayness spirit to be produced on her next Christmas album.

Now, I used to get very tense about the mention of Jesus, but not anymore, since my invention of a new tradition, Jesus Fridays, which allows me to break my Koshertarian diet of the past 2 years and counting. Understand, I’ve been following the Koshertarian Diet for 2 years now. Finally, I’ve allowed myself the inclusion of shellfish for a special occasion because who cares about eating soulless shellfish? Plus, Jesus, the original super Jew rocked the Pescatarian diet. So, if it’s good enough for Jesus, then it’s good enough for me. I also like the idea of acting less like an all-knowing exalted prick. And celebrating Jesus Fridays inspires me to connect with my fellow Gentile like a retired fireman who runs the best deli in Westchester in North White Plains. Outside my new office, after just resurrecting my IT Headhunter Writer career. Where I’m getting paid to creatively sell job opportunities for Software Engineers, digital designers, and Information Technology workers in general, whose job prospects have more legs than Lieutenant Dan. I like Jesus Fridays because it divorces me from perpetuating any messianic complex of my own, which screams, the original version of the Bible is better than second part that I’ve barely dabbled in for the most part. And I’m tired of being that old timer Gen X guy that just bemoans new age Simpsons episodes as woke filler compared to season 1 through 7 without even dabbling in the newer versions to make any ultra judgy informed decisions of my own. Like when I saw Juno, ages ago and got angry about how everyone was hailing the hardcore hilarity of it, when I saw Juno as nothing more than a poor girls’ Jeanne Garafalo. I wrote a blog about the movie being overhyped, yet I told myself afterwards, don’t be a critic, hack breath like the rest. It’s way better to originate, then merely pontificate. So, I wrote mini porn parody that I turned into my 1st screenplay, Juno Does Williamsburg, later named Brooklyn Blogger. Edgeless titles suck pinecone dick, Challah. Thank you very much.

At the same time, I’ve worn Jewish pride on my sleave for the past 5 years and change as host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, responsible for banging out comedy records such as Big Mouth Moses, Koshertarian Offensive, and the Pig-Headed Jew, Challah. Thank you very much. I’ve also written and published The Great American Jew Novel, which Diane Sullivan from the Midwest Book Review described as a “Hilarious exploration of New York Comedy and Culture.” Which proves that my material wasn’t too overtly Jewy pushy annoying for the Heartland’s tastes. And for the past 2 months, I’ve renamed my Do It All Dad Year Podcast, the Shabat Shalom Ramble, in honor of my dad accusing me of never being on point, despite him proclaiming 5 years ago before I launched my podcast, how nobody cares about my political opinions anyway, 45 thousand page views on my Do It All Dad Year blog later.

 Well, I haven’t read the news since Dominion Machines won. And I don’t see Kari Lake recruiting Linda Hamilton as her VP to take down the new Sky Net For good. Plus, how much more can we stomach talk of Alex Jones being bad Santa versus John Fetterman being a burnt out offering of the Democratic party who looks like the Good Will Grinch who showers in Bong Water. So, more than ever 3 million Jews in the US, according to Alexa, which is most likely an inflated claim, like Antifa still being nothing more than an idea in Patton Oswalt graphic novels, about a gang of wannabe Punisher vigilantes, in hoodies, could use some miraculous ways to modernize Hannukah and make it more festive than Christmas than Google ever would. Because I want other Jewish American Dads to derive extended Nachas from pronounced Jewish pride from their offspring when they proclaim to Daddy how they get butterflies in their stomach every day before each night of Hanukah begins, which was the opposite of my experience growing up. Getting a Pinball Machine one tear one year for Hannukah was unbelievable, despite being woken up every night prior to Hannukah because dad couldn’t resist the urge to play with it himself and break it in personally. Which made my younger brother and I believe that Aliens from Space Invaders were raining Gama Rays on top of our house eight nights prior to Hannukah because my dad was making his best Hannukah gift all about his own self-enrichment over ours. Still, my dad was raised an only child, so you can’t blame him for occupying his inner loneliness in his forties the week before Hanukah, because playing Dreidel by himself, gets played out faster than trying jerk off with your left in honor of shortest-lived New Year’s resolution yet. Which only leads to more played out blue ball’s devastation. So, here’s 8 ways to start making Hannukah more festive than Christmas. There are 14 million Jews worldwide. So, if this post goes viral, my Hannukah wish of 8 million butterflies can come true. And you can’t knock the miracle of mitzvah moves, Challah. Thank you very much.

  1. Understand, I haven’t collected paychecks in 8 whole years till this past December after resuming my IT Headhunter Career, where I can drop lines like, “Michael Kornbluth here, Recruiting Manager for Digital Unicorns USA. With a last name like Kornbluth, I specialize in mind control, in Kayne’s mind. So, when my wife tells me, “Don’t get carried away with getting the kids gifts this year for Hannukah.” I fire back with, “New tradition kids, when you get 3 Big Kahuna gifts on the 1st night of Hannukah. You each declare loud and proud, “Hannukah Hatrick, Challah” I add, “So, in this instance, go woke yourself babe, Gentile Grinch.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  2. 2nd way to make Hanukkah more festive is to start the tradition of Hannukah Halloween. And force your son to dress up like Van Halen with a pack of candy cigarettes in hand. Who cares if your mini air guitar appendage looks like an overdose at the limelight waiting to happen. Party Monster spirits live, Challah. Thank you very much.
  3. 3rd way to make Channukah more festive is to play Dreidel for Bitcoin versus more fake news Gelt. But explain the rules in humorous ways. For example, when the dreidel lands on Hey, you sing, “Hey, hey Paula, I want to marry you. Now give me half and full custody of the kids. I don’t want you coughing your natural immunity all our kids anymore, you anti-vaxer piece of shit.” Challah, thank you very much. Shin, means put it in, think Cardi B on a slow Tuesday. Nun, means nothing, goonish. Remember our routine at the Deli Matilda, when you could only put 2 words together? What did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks Daddy? And you’d say,” Bookpus, Boopku. And Gimmel means, give me everything because we control all the blockchain technology, Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole too. Son says, “Samuel, don’t even think of stealing my bitcoin, or I’ll sell your pure blood on the Dark Web along with your vintage Cobra Commander with the blue mask and eyes holes in it that looks like Gung Ho’s bottom bitch in Robot Chicken remake of Pulp Fiction.” 8 million butterflies Challah, thank you very much.
  4. 4th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to play the Adam Sandler Channukah song on Vinyl backwards only to hear the latest and greatest chorus addition, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. 5th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to Jewish guilt Software Engineers at Amazon into seriously questioning the state of their moral compass by sending them LinkedIn Inn-Mail messages through LinkedIn Recruiter that read, “Tell Bezos to make the Hebrew Hammer available on Amazon prime already despite Florida and antisemitism being so hot right now.” 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  6. 6th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to sign your kids up for art classes that teach your kids how make masked morons made out of clay for fuck the CDC day. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  7. 7th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas, permit your kids the freedom to pile drive mommy’s white Guido, non-denominational tree while dressed as Mr. Wonderful for Channukah Halloween instead. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  8. 8th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to launch your Burning Mask Party already, for eight glorious nights while throwing some of mama’s Gnomes on top because they look like Santa’s burn out Trust Fund Babies on Social Security. What’s another burnout offering after making Goodwill Grinch Fetterman the new face of the Democratic Party. So, what difference does it make? 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Back To Hebrew School

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, travel, writing

Do It All Dad’s daughter, Matilda Kornbluth, his funnier, sweeter twin, who had his genetic makeup all over fer face hated how her friends used the word “loyal” to describe her at school. In other words, I like being able to get away with using my friend as a doormat whenever I want. “What am I some dumb dog?”, she’d fume to her dad on occasion. Do It All Dad could relate to his daughter’s feeling of resentment. You could argue that after ending a marriage of 11 years, 3 kids later, he began to question the strength of his past loyalties, which also included the Knicks, IPA’s and picking up the phone every other time his mother called. Was loyalty deader than Yiddish Theatre on the Lower East Side? But what did loyalty look like in 2022 post pandemic? Rapidly fading spotting’s of Biden, Harris bumper stickers, embedded colors of the Ukrainian Flag on Indeed.com, forsaking Twitter for Facebook because Good Will Hoodie in charge does more to silence COVID disinformation than Elon Musk?

Fact is, Do It All Dad was done with New York after finding it nearly impossible to get a job in corporate America there without getting a COVID vaccination shot, which turned him off from ever wanting to sell his precious time and soul to those worker bee killers at large within the rotten Apple anymore. Now, it was time to move outside his comfort zone, accept more responsibility for his destiny and make a daring decision not imposed on him by his ex-wife, parents or from a Book Coach, not even deemed quote worthy enough to be quoted Goodreads.com. Who after reading one his short stories Korny Kornbluth says, “Nothing happens in the story. The main character promises to get a real job that’s not hosting a comedy podcast for free yet never wills that promise into reality.” Problem was, Do It All Dad had to get out of the fucking house already and do so some real life living for a change, which wasn’t an issue now since his wife threw out his ass after his brother-in-law bitched to his wife about a story posted on his WordPress blog called, Countdown To Boredom, which was about his brother-in-law offering to take his kids to see a soccer game in Philly this coming summer. In the blog piece, there was also mention of another story brewing on the horizon called, Matzah Murder Mystery, about a Jewish son-in-law who employs his 3 kids in a detective training program to figure out who planted the box of Matzah in his Ukrainian mother-in-law’s Cupboard as an attempt to frame her as a lover of biblical Jewish tradition, despite her pushing Eucharist, which are the body wafers of Christ on her 3 grandchildren already. That same mother-in-law still didn’t know about their Jewish naming ceremonies, because Do It All Dad’s wife swore to never tell them until he got a real job. So naturally, Do It All Dad was tempted to find a job now that was Jewy as can be outside of being some busted, hack blog editor for the Times Of Israel, a clot shot pushing pediatrician who graduated from Tufts University with a major in biochemistry and psychology of wanting to terminate special needs kids through asking Alexa to do it if possible. “Alexa, abort Sarah Palin’s special needs child on demand. John Hopkins Hospital will force the kid on a ventilator and overprescribe it enough pills to extinguish its so-called life, if the unvaccinated kid got COVID anyway. Just so the Hospital can collect more ventilator hookup kickbacks from Uncle Sam and rake in bigger COVID death certificate dollars by chalking all deaths to COVID no matter what, regardless of a teen being another innocent bystander on the south side Chicago from another drive by shooting during George Floyd appreciation month. Those blood controlling kids don’t sell themselves. Mayor Lightfoot of Chicago has to prove there’s a viable market for those blood controlling kits, mostly made in China remember.”

When still married, Do It All Dad didn’t buy into his wife’s spiel about his mother-in-law being such a diehard, Matzah enthusiast all her life knowing she grew up in Manchester, England, surrounded by Pakistani neighbors no less. “Hey Samir, you haven’t lived until you tried a grape leave on a bed of matzah. It won’t taste like a depressed cracker, I promise.” But seriously, if you’re not an observant Jew, why the fuck would you ever have Matzah in your house ever? Unless the mom is hosting a political fundraiser for Hillary for a spirt cooking dinner serving the blood of Christian babies in them. Yeah, so hardcore hilarious lines like this proved to be too offensive for Do It All Dad’s wife tastes. And that was before she read the line about learning how his mother-in-law kept her kid’s teeth in a satchel like a Tooth Fairy for the SS, assuming there was an occasional gold filling in there to stash in a hidden Swiss bank account somewhere.

Growing up in a predominately Jewish suburb of New York, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, Do It All Dad, then known simply as Josh, or Bud Man, Bud Man, after he got into the weed senior year, was involved in an alternative school, that was a school within a school that encouraged individual expression and the fostering of intellectual curiosity by allowing students to choose their own humanity courses such as Holocaust History or American Short Story Writers while still taking the required math and science courses in the regular school. It’s there where his teacher for Government and Media wrote in his written evaluation, given to students over standardized grades that said, “Josh could be a leader one day if he was willing to accept the responsibility.” Now, Josh was willing to accept the responsibility more than ever, tired of being another pissy peon pawn in the game of life. He was successful at raising good eggs at home when he was still married. Now, he wanted to groom other mini menschs on the rise that weren’t his own because getting his wife pregnant by mistake wasn’t an option anymore anyhow.  At one point before they got divorced, Do It All Dad broached the hypothetical scenario of getting his wife pregnant by mistake again and naming the kid Solomon Kornbluth, only for his wife to reply, “No, Solomon sounds too much like sodomy to me.” Do It All Dad replied, “Whatever you say Mrs. Groomer. Disney kid subscribers know best.”  

But where could Do It All Dad groom future menschs on the rise? He’d have to go back to Hebrew School, not the Scarsdale Reform synagogue, where his friends would hurl Nerds at lispy lipped Danny Farber, and never expect any hardcore retaliation in return. No, Do It All Dad would set his sights on the south, Memphis Tennessee to be exact, which was not only the cradle of rock and roll but NWA southern wrestling. Did Do It All Dad have any teaching credentials outside of schooling his children on how hardcore hilarity rocks? No, but what he did have to sell a Jewish principal at a reformed Jewish academy right outside of Memphis, Tennessee was Jewish soul, which he had up the wazoo. His new mission was to groom a bunch of Jewish messiah evangelists by inspiring them to fall in love with the act of Mitzvah, which is doing good for the sake of doing good, without any promised, hooked up afterlife in return. He wanted to teach kids not to stop yearning for the Messiah, but to carry out his work for him as mini, Messiah trainee menschen on their own. What is the Jewish Messiah but a Jewish leader? Who ushers in an era of heightened spirituality and universal recognition of Jewish law. So, getting his students into asking their parents to start ordering from Grow and Beyond for Hanukkah to savor Kosher duck wings for Hanukkah was a promising start, striving in the upright, direction.

Do It All Dad was done being a stumbling, IPA drunk, intent on doing his best mensch impersonation possible and what better way to do that than becoming a star alternative Judea history teacher who brings the stories of major Jewish characters in the Old Testament Bible to life with a touch of funny man historical fiction to keep them coming back for more. But first he had to settle scores with the COVID crazed Jewish community at large and performed a slam mic for the ages at the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis Tennessee.

10 Reasons Why I Feel Bad About Yearning for The Messiah

  1. I feel bad about yearning for the Messiah because he’ll judge me for ascribing too much faith in Trump being above sheer ego preservation.
  2. I feel bad about yearning for the Messiah because 24 carrot crosses worn by rappers will depreciate in value and they’ll feel robbed.
  3. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because it’s against self-help, and I’d like to feed my family on my own again.
  4. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because of the nagging Jewish guilt that would ensue. My cousins get thrown in ovens, but I get off easy by noshing on God blessed Sponge Cake with ringside seats for the rebuilding of the Great Temple.
  5. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because I’ll feel like I’m cheating death when the Dead come back to life, to tell Christian nation, I told you so.
  6. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because it forces me to lie about wanting all Jews united under one roof, when I can’t stand any of my Jewish friends from High School anymore.
  7. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because no more wars, means Terrorists will be forced to drive more Uber cars in Tel Aviv, than I feel comfortable driving in, when I’m in town to watch my son, compete for Israel’s Next Top Temple Builder.
  8. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because wishing for no more famine, means I can regress into being a pampered, trust fund baby again.
  9. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah, because I don’t think Israel should be redeemed for forcing its citizens of God to take the clot shot to feed their families. Maybe, the 2nd booster made the COVID case less severe. And Booger Face Behar is the new Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.
  10. I feel bad about your yearning for the Jewish Messiah because my father will become more spiritual and finally visit the Grand Canyon after moving to Arizona 10 years later. So, I’ll lose my moral high ground and right to call him a fake news hippie anymore. Challah, thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why I Have Mixed Feelings About The Messiah Arriving In My Lifetime

  1. I’m not ready to give up hatred yet.  Without hatred, comedy ceases to exist, which translates to me making 95 comedy records for nothing.
  2. Tinges of jealousy are alright, if you use that surging sense of envy to fix your sour puss situation, so you feel less shitty about yourself than before.
  3. And the existence of greed is good, if it motivates you to work harder for brighter tomorrows, pregnant with more do good possibility man.
  4. I don’t need the Messiah to arrive in my lifetime to convince me of God’s divine presence in my 3 glorious, blemish free children for the time being. Cosmic perfection through my kids’ lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. I don’t want Trump to get involved in the next hit reality show, “Israel’s Next Great Temple Builder”, only for him to tweet on his new social media platform, “Not enough orange marble for my taste, personally.”
  6. Regardless of Twitter being bought by Elon Musk or not, the Twitter Twat home will be flush with real life hate speech from atheist cunts about the arrival of a real deal Jewish leader who can prove King David descent on Acenstry.com. Linda Sarsour will accuse the Messiah, of “Cultural apartheid”, moments after construction of the Great Temple begins because it’s not a Super Mosque for God’s fake news chosen people. Islam gave us math, I heard. Then, why aren’t Muslim ever getting charged for tax evasion due to creative accounting?
  7. Israel means, “To argue with God”, but once the Messiah arrives, you can’t pull off a convincing remake of Fidder in The Roof, starring Jack Black. The milk man Dad will come off as a short-sighted true believer.
  8. I won’t be able to jerk off to Third Legged Beauties.com again, without dreading the prospect of the great 3rd Temple, tumbling down due to my inability to let go off my death grip on sexual immorality.
  9. I’ll have to send my kids to Hebrew School then, despite the Rabbi using COVID in the same sentence as the Holocaust. Death camp victims don’t boast a 99 percent survival rate Rabbi, sorry.
  10. I’ll just get mad about my parents for refusing to use my future inheritance money to buy the Kosher meat store in Yonkers, NY on Central Avenue on the cheap. Because after the return of Jewish commanded law, Kosher butchers will make a killing, Challah. Thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why It’s Hard to Believe The Messiah Will Arrive In My Lifetime  

  1. Because who wants to see Trump rolled up in a ball behind closed doors after another interview expose with Piers Morgan on Fox Called, “The Day My Ego Died.”
  2. Because Florida and Anti-Semitism are so hot right now. If the real messiah did emerge, that being the new age promised Jewish leader self-picked to rebuild the Temple of David and teach Hebrew to a bunch of dreamers in South Bronx. I don’t see him descending from Mount Sinai, because he’ll be called a poor man’s Moses impersonator by the NY Times, who posts Hot Sauce Parm recipes on Pinterest to downplay his Jewish noble ties to King David out of fear being called Butt Bump Buddies with Trumpy Poo, God forbid.
  3. Because Lebron James has depreciated the Messiah brand name after inscribing the tat, “Chosen One”, on his holy temple bod. Forget the promised land, King of The Persecution Complex can’t even get the Lakers into the 1st round of the playoffs with all eyez on him in the Staples Center for year 2 of COVID this time around.
  4. Jews in charge of our precious news media need to repeat Hebrew School because they still refer to January 6 as an armed insurrection uprising.  Taking selfies in the atrium of the Capital Building is equal to the Maccabees jamming white roman priveledge up their ass in the form of spears shaped like Thunderbolts after reclaiming the Great Second Temple to prove God was on their side, I agree.
  5. Doesn’t China need to approve the Messiah’s social credit score before agreeing to sell Israel more masks made in China?
  6. Kareem Adul Jabbar will stay pray five times a day to play the horn better than Miles Davis regardless.
  7. Obama will go on hating the hick from French Lick regardless, because despite being half black, Obama Be Meh’s vertical jump is still whiter than White Man’s Disease.  
  8. All Lives Matter is the new N word and BLM don’t play that.
  9. George Soros will have to pay ANTIFA in shekels instead bitcoin, which will set fire to the Great 3rd Temple in a nanosecond.
  10.  Executives at Disney care more about grooming pool time entertainment at the Podesta’s summer house in Martha’s Vinyard.  It’s not as if those executives have any intention of going back to Hebrew school to teach Jewish pride and groom future mensch’s on the rise instead. Challah, thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why It Would Be Weird For The Messiah To Arrive In My Lifetime

  1. It’s weird because liberals will rally against all the reasons to hate drawn out Synagogue services after the 3rd Great Temple is built, compared to highly shortened Libs on Tik Tok summations of the services instead. Arcade Fire plays. Images of clouds appear and God’s voice pierces them, proclaiming, “Follow my commandments already motherfuckers. How much more proof do you need that I exist already? I’ve eradicated war, famine and all your college debut to study genital mutilation studies at Oberlin College, when Sharia Law for Mongoloid Morons, for only 72 shekels at the local farmer’s market in Damascus, would’ve been sufficient.
  2. It’s weird because I don’t see street meet vendors in New York City scrapping their cash cow by insisting their Muslim brotherhood butchers forsake giving shout outs to Allah’s gangster paradise before slicing the throats of lambs served for the killer price of $8.99 per plate with rice and white sauce either.
  3. It’s weird because my mother-in-law will still say, “God bless”, on every birthday card for her grandchildren without saying, “I’m still eating ham on Easter to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ, you, obstinate, all-knowing bastards.”
  4. It’s weird because the Catholic Church will be harder up for donations than the Clinton Foundation during the new Spirit Cooking Awareness Month.
  5. It’s weird because I still don’t see my Christian in-laws embracing the remake of Happy Days with Henry Winkler, who gives the Messiah a high five at Johnny Rockets for fixing the Jukebox by paying a mini homage to fellow Hebrew Andrew Dice Clay when he says, “Rub A Dub, Dub, Douche”, before thrusting his Chuck Berry loving playing pelvis toward the Juke Box that’s gets the sweet soul music machine playing again.
  6. It’s weird because I don’t see Joe Biden giving the Messiah a post Pandemic first bump without social distancing himself from Hunter’s Laptop from hell 1st. Icky Shuffle, AKA, Mr. Groper says, “Jill, we better tell God, the “Big Guy”, wasn’t me, but Jesus Christ, another fake news messiah like Obama Be Good. Do you think God will warm up to me again with that one liner? I better scrap my Easter Day speech at the White House when I claimed to speak to God through Jen Psaki’s Burning Bush after Hunter gave her the clap from the hooker in Cabo on his birthday. Remember Jill?  When you said, “Blow”, Hunter snorted the cake.”
  7. It’s weird because when The Jewish Messiah isn’t fake news, starts to trend on Twitter. Farrakhan will spray the Messiah’s twitter feed with termite emojis from dusk through night regardless. Elie Wiesel lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
  8. It’s weird because Scientist Atheists will become the new lepers.
  9. It’s weird because Woody Allen will have to explain why he kept naked pics of a 9 nine-year-old Soon-Yi in his top sock drawer when he married to Mia. The Messiah, says, “Woody, how do you explain your nude polaroid pics of a 9-year-old Soon Yi? The only pic missing from your collection was Soon Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine.”
  10. It would be weird if the Messiah was a hard laugh, who refused to acknowledge my free jokes posted on my WordPress blog as a charitable donation of any kind devoid of all striving up goodness whatsoever. Messiah says, “Yeah, Michael, man can’t live on punchlines alone, especially yours. But lucky for you, I’ll treat you as a desperately flailing charity case. So, what’s new? So just get a real job already outside of raging against the world on your Do It All Dad Year blog through more meh jokes because you’re the sloppy second son for a reason. It’s time to move on already. Maybe, you can help me sell Christian nation on why I’m not the sloppy second son compared to Jesus Christ, for Christ Sake, Challah. Thank you very much.” So never forget, keep on yearning, Challah. Thank you very much.

Do It All Dad strikes up a conversation after the slam mic with Rose Gold, a sexy, blond, middle-aged principal of a reformed synagogue charter school located in Memphis, Tennessee. She says, “Hi, Joshua, my name is Rose Gold, principal of Beth Israel Day School, the only reformed synagogue school in town. Delivering that speech down south in Jesus country took plenty of chutzpah Joshua. And I used to work as an air raid drill instructor in Israel who was responsible for gathering all the children and elderly whenever the bomb raid siren went off during Ramadan again.” Do It All Dad says, “Gotta love that Iron Dome. Still, I’ve always said, “NY Times, when Hamas fires 5000 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return, with a thank you note written in Farsi.” Rose Gold laughs as Joshua admires her sun spotted specked tits jiggle with sustained titillating delight.” Rose Gold says, “I got your In-Mail message on LinkedIn about asking for a teacher job, but I didn’t see any teaching experience on your resume. Although your book, Controlling My Kids With Comedy, a Love Story, intrigued me. Do It All Dad says, “But I got Jewish soul to sell Rose and that’s worth it’s weight in gold. Plus, I can ensure Hebrew School isn’t a countdown to boredom anymore. Minor Jewish prophets on Ranker who cares, Major Jewish prophet listings on Ranker, I’m interested. Better yet, you kids want to learn about Moses’s number one assistant Joshua, in the tale The Last Temptation of Temps? Good luck finding a temp back then capable of assisting Moses transcribe the bible in full onto stone.” Give me one year Rose and I’ll make sure Beth Israel Day School gets nothing but 5-star reviews on Yelp. I was thinking, we can attract new members through showing NWA matches on a movie screen this summer and get Jerry the King Lawler to teach an accelerated clinic on how to apply a figure four leg lock, with submission moves in MMA being the new craze, to ensure a new generation of Jewish leaders will remain pushover putzy no more, no more. Rose Gold says, “You’re too much Joshua. But I like your style plenty. How old are you again?” Do It All Dad says, “46.” Rose Gold says, “Could’ve fooled me. You look like the baby face hero dreams are made of. Why don’t we extend our chat at my place? I make the meanest batch of salt and pepper crusted Kosher ribs this side of the Mississippi. We can start mapping out a teaching itinerary for Alternative Judea History together. My homemade barbeque sauce using a pomegranate squirt syrup is the bomb.” Do It All Dad says, “I knew a change was going to come. Sam Cooke lives, Challah. Thank you very much. Thank God for dreams to reconsider.” Rose Gold says, “What do you mean by dreams to reconsider?” Do It All Dad says, “Well, my first dream was to write for TV, which I did, then it was to become a bestselling writer, which didn’t happen. Then, it was to become a world class, world renown comedian, which didn’t materialize either. Yet becoming a Hebrew School teacher showman star that my new southern neighbors can give a shit about and derive some regional pride from sounds like sweet soul music to me.  I brought some edibles down from New York on a midnight train to Memphis. Maybe, after were done braining storming itinerary plans, we can split one and play some Grateful Dead Europe 72 on at your place on Spotify. Rose Gold says, “I thought you’d never ask and sings, “Tennessee, Tennessee, there ain’t no place, I’d rather be, baby, won’t you carry me, back to Tennessee.” Do It All Dad kisses her on the spot, practically inhaling Rose Gold whole and says, “Keep on yearning baby”, and kisses her more passionately than before, with twice as much majestic might, infusing the night with sparkle shine delight as the 2 new soul shine mates collide. Keep on yearning baby. Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Metal Edge

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, travel

The mother responsible for her son’s developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at age two, called Torticollis (where the neck muscles contract, causing the head to twist to one side, as a result of too much newborn plopping time alone in the crib), summoned the gall to ask her son, who’s about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY, lounging on a monied polo lounge green Adirondack chair overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into fencing?”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, ‘Headbangers Baller’, is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed the Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their necks.

            “So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker, with the colossus wind power to match.  

            “Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden, is a championship fencer, yet his nerdy-hued Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge.

            “I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski, and Slash, all wrapped into one.

            “He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and will tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss-plowing play.

            “Force=Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indomitable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line (which will be recession-proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in a post-COVID universe gone wild ’till our last dying breaths, anyway).”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than basketball and baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old-school fencing decorum bullshit out the window.

            “Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, and you name it, so he could afford to pay any fines for inappropriate, hotdogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  

            “Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.            “Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before fencing matches, booming “Let’s get ready to rumble,” Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin” while ‘Kickstart My Heart’ by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surroundsound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair.

            “I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant; nor is he third-generation wrestling royalty like the Rock, nor has a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho.

            “So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible?

            “He also plays with collection of lightsabers now, more than he does with his cherished wrestling figures, and he owns the original rubber dog toy-size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat (among many others the with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off Ebay, to match).        “Kayne West is worth six billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for one grand and upwards; yet there’s no limited, in-demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all.

            “I envision a flashing middle F-You finger logo that sports the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred,” to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers and ripped jeans and shorts (obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red).  

            “He’ll have his own line of studded belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats, and tank tops to show off to his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise workout videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as ‘Moth Into Flame’ by Metallica plays at full blast is responsible for his shredded physique, once he steps into something more comfortable for post-fencing fight interviews.          “I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes, and Steve Vai for love-of-God, kickass metal guitar solos and for his metal-loving American Dad, who pushed him to shred for bread.

            “On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.    “I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale’s mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into fencing, Mom.”

            Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson; like football, for instance.

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “We’ll be sticking with Nerf football in yard, Ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, Mom—no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for nine years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once, yet. Case closed.

            “Also, Dad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock.

            “Because, if I bowed down to this belabored, weak-ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from boarding school, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody so Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt-right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a tiki torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in ’89.

            “And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all three of my kids, and my speedboat, Slashing Thunder.”

            Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?”            Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine-powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric-fueled comedy gold.

            “I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids; because they’re my kids, not yours. Especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis-correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time.

            “I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing the work I was good at, which made me feel the most kickass, happy, and alive.”

            Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer two fencing scholarships a year, max.”  

            Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing three times in a row, shredding every fencing record of the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords, now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion-dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops, and speed metal belts with his signature middle finger logo that sported a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred.”

            Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world, whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed-addicted seed or not. Shredders soar. Shredders fly high with the angels like ‘Three Guitar Attack’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird.

            Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip-strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

Better Than Everything

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, travel

You want your kids to stop bitching?

Then, authorize their brothers and sisters to bitch shame them with chants of Nitpicky Lame.

“Daddy, this Tofu is hard to eat because the pieces are stuck together.”

“Nitpicky Lame.”

“Is this Ranch or Tartar sauce?”

“Nitpicky Lame.”

“Daddy, the COVID vax shot fucked up Katy Perry’s face and gave her temporality paralysis during the last show of her Vegas residency.”

“Her tits weren’t feeling shit in the 1st place.”

“Nitpicky Lame.”

Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Year Without Beer

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, travel, writing

“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

                        –Toni Morrison

            Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of three, was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height, already.  He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him; yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be?  Do It All Dad had a gorgeous-looking jump shot; yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league, knowing that his ball handle was weak, and he could only dunk out with a mini-basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand, while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process.  

            One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie on the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain-punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY, and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters there.

            They mostly came from the boogie-down Bronx, versus his more snuggle-soft secure upbringing along the Tudor-housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked-over Hebrew National Dog from (assuming your uncontrollable, putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again, or you’d just dropped and spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer-pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed being puffed at an increasingly rapid rate.

            One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad (then known as simply Josh) was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages phone book, and launched high, with zero hesitation, for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority.

             He was the lost twenty-year-old college senior without a passion to latch a career onto yet; miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating from the top communications schools in the country (that being Ithaca College, which he’d call ‘Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor’ in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later).

            He thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So I scored ten points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor.

            “It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge, then, which consisted mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi-forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint. I knew that whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away, scared, from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla.

            Then, after Julio’s raise-the-roof, in-your-face, I’m-the-man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking himself, saying, “Your turn, Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it, player.”

            Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension, knowing that his less-than-lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his varsity-playing basketball days, when he used to run on his tippy toes instead of high tops, made him look like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model, instead.

            If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach! He’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did. He’d joked about this in an act, when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater, once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the greatest.

            “He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck-up Jenny from down the block. Two minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck-up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-Hoo bottle doesn’t spin itself, bitch.”

            Now Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline, who gives an encouraging fist pump,  signaling, You can do this, champ.

            Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he starts running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff. This stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim.

            It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing that fear prevented him from flying high again.

            Julio approaches Josh as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, ‘I’m such a worthless putz’, deflated state, and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly, B.”

            Now, at 45, what was keeping Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels?  Assuming ownership of his original birth name, Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua (knowing that Michael was considered partially Godlike, in the sense that he packed enough firepower to kick Lucifer’s ass out of heaven) wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.

            Do It All Dad loved his IPAs, yet, after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut (which most would say was done in extreme poor taste), he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPAs had to offer his rapidly-depleting, voided world without his three beamish wonder kids in his life, anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay-at-home comedian for years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match, after the next.  

            Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic, to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet, because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so-called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior.

            One quote which always weighed heavily on his guilt-plagued consciousness was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that weighs you down.”

            Now Josh was divorced from what had descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love or the patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life; yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly.

            On a less psychic mumbo jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini-beer belly which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking-out glory where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good.

            The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.  

            Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife like at two-drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC, for starters.

             After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or two, to enjoy the post-kill rush among a sea of new touchy-feely female fans?

            Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now that the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post-COVID-controlled universe gone wild.

            If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into an actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle by giving up his precious espresso pods and IPAs. He needed to focus on shedding the extra twenty pounds holding him back from flying with rock-powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks of amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself that he was capable of being a better man, after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet her at a Seattle coffee shop.
            But what would Josh do for money, to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute?

            Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again.

            No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification, this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which would make him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years.

            Josh was blessed with a booming motor mouth, too, and was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his second oldest in swimming, and his third into volleyball; all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each.

            So, how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate, and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child support payments up?  Because getting another 50K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at age 45 wasn’t going to get the job done, either.

            Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia, a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blonde mom in tight ripped jeans (normally, who was caught staring at his swollen package the first time he gave her the green light to give him his spikey-haired, lean, mean machine makeover, an idea emerged.

            Josh says to the chesty, sweat-drenched, perfect-feet-manicured Julie, in bed, “I can’t make a living as a working comedian or as an author, yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time-suck on my life (which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow).

            “So I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Peloton riding instructor, because they all bore me to freaking death.

            “I don’t care how tan, ripped, and solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leader board every time, without completely coughing out a lung, either.

            “Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison, in addition to becoming a star provider for my family (after all, this is what I pray to God for every morning, anyway).

            “The most popular Peloton instructors make 300K a year. No wonder they smiling so fucking much, because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning.

            “Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor who can look stylish and be cheeky and bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch, while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Peloton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home, too.

            “Plus, I wrote the entire script for VHL Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kickass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time.

            “And, I know enough about hard rock to know that Foreigner kicks way more ass than the fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”

            Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?”

            Josh says, “Mormon moms. They’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US—even more than Beverly Hills.

            “I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming that I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.”

            Julia says, “Look, Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks (which I’m not complaining about one iota, either), but let’s be honest. I’m your divorce rebound lay—nothing more, nothing less.

            “Although, sometimes, a divorce rebound lay can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”

            Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA, for the back cover pic.

            “I think I finally found a way to do it—on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion National Park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla; thank you very much.

            “Do It All Dad Does Mormonism can be sold as a self-help, midlife crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides that the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down—that being beer and a nagging ex-wife who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer (which is bullshit all the way).

            “This would prove her wrong, and I could become the star provider for my family after all.”          Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything for this part, like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?”

            Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink-free edibles, claiming PTSD after learning that my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my three kids behind my back.

            “The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello-wresting wife night.    “I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it.

            “I could throw in a line about how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to block the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the first place.

            “Ban ICE because homeland security was so weapons-of-mass-destruction-years, my chest.”        Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big-time, Peloton instructor, maybe I’ll fly to visit you.”

            Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay, career-revitalizing muse, of sorts, with steamy, inhalatory glee and says, “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers From Yonkers, NY.

            “Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition.

            “So, how about I pump up your box one more time for the road, instead.”

            Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and he says, “I’ll take that as a hard yes.”

Michael Kornbluth

Hop Farm Footsie Scare Of 1859

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, travel, writing

Once upon a time, there was a family man and hop farmer who gave the best foot massage in Upstate New York (like his father before him), named Farmer Todd. He sang for his local church choir, sounding like Neil Young and Al Green had a baby, and refused to sell his hops to West Coast breweries.

            He preferred to make IPAs from his own locally-sourced hops because of upstate New Yorker farmer pride (represent, represent, represent). Farmer Todd always told his five sons, “The way to unlock the gene glow in a gal is to rub her feet like a magical genie lamp, which is the most direct passageway to her heart-filled embrace of your slowed-down metabolism and all your warts, inside and out, too.”

            Farmer Todd, like Ben Franklin, believed that good people drank good beer, so he dedicated every day of his life to making the finest IPA beer, because just growing hops to sell them like another one-dimensional hop peddler pusher man with nothing else to sell was boring, and a not family business he could bequeath to his five gorgeous, hardworking, ultra-chiseled sons with as much innovative pride.

            Every day before the sun set over his hop stud farm, Farmer Todd would give his yoga instructor wife Crystal a foot massage, which turned her into orgasmic mush every time, opening her up to the prospect of banging out more kids to keep their hop stud farm open to tap for more non-stop business.

            Until one day, five days before Halloween, when The Whino Witch of Croton Falls ran through Farmer Todd’s hop fields of green with her orange and pumpkin foot rot fungus, which infected all the hop vines on his farm, wiping out any chance of their sole cash crop growing again.

            She did so because she got banned from a yoga class when she used to be a famous winemaker in Ithaca, NY (known for making ice wines) because her feet grossed out the clientele. So she was banned, which his yoga instructor wife, Crystal, enforced. The Wino Witch of Croton Falls had never gotten back on her feet again until now.

            Because of this widespread, accelerated, hop farm-plagued fungus foot pandemic caused by The Whino Of Witch of Croton Falls, Farmer Todd had no way of keeping a roof over his family’s head (which included five boys all named after his favorite hop’s varieties; being Angus, Apollo, Atlas, Bravo, and Flyer).

            So, during his morning run through the back trails of his former hop farm fantasy land, he’d taken notice of The Whino Witch of Croton Falls flashing her naked, gross, purple, green and orange feet on a tree swing.

            She says, “Farmer Todd, did you teach your five sons to give foot massages with the same orgasmic conjuring technique you use on your bitch yoga instructor wife every day before sunset?

            “If so, you just need to tell your five studly sons to massage my discolored pumpkin-sized bunions, one for each day of the week, during the week of Halloween, and I’ll bring your hop farm roaring back to life again, in no time.”

            Because of that, Farmer Todd told his five sons to make The Whino Witch of Croton Falls welcome in their hands, unless they wanted to starve to death or were willing to sell enough blood to buy an apple tree in the hope of turning that into a batch of hard cider to sell at the local Farmer’s Market, which was tad girly-sweet for their collective tastes.

            Because of that, each massage the five sons gave The Whino Witch of Croton Falls helped ignite her glow gene inside, which made her feet return to a beautiful, inviting form again as her transformation from The Whino Witch of Croton Falls to The Fairy Hop Queen of Croton Falls became complete.

            Later, Farmer Todd foots the bill for his five sons to open up their own hop brewery farms, knowing they’ll be able to keep growing toward profitability as long as they keep The Hop Fairy Queen’s feet happy during the hop farm footsie scare week of Halloween every year, when all her sordid past emerges through a disgusting outgrowth of fungus and warts on her feet as punishment from the Tree Spirits of Lake Oswego, for making her canoe sink into the water during one her drunken diatribes against the local Hophead Indians.

             Their buffalo burgers are too bloody for her taste, in addition to her being racist against Native American Indians for refusing to dry and cover her wet feet in moccasins whenever she hopped out of the waterfall for a midnight skinny dip, and for playing the ultimate Indian giver on Halloween. She used to give away blue cheese to little Indians trick or treating, to inject their Buffalo burgers with funkier, less gamey heft, only to demand they give back her mini-wheels of blue cheese if they didn’t tickle her feet with their headdress feathers in return. All this while lying about being a half-breed Indian, calling herself “Tickle Foot With Feathers.”

            The moral of the story is: don’t be an Indian giver, or you’ll be cursed with ugly feet which will turn you into a cold, whino witch queen, scaring away any potential suitor from ever trying to soften your bitter, angry, nasty heart again.

Michael Kornbluth

Exit Interview Day

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, travel, writing

Int. Bedroom-Day

Do It All Dad

Matilda, what do angels taste like according to Hillary Hammertime Cankles?

Blood Orange Mimosas or Sponge Cake?

Matilda

Blood Orange Mimosas.

Do It All Dad

What’s the big payoff from following the Koshertarian Diet?

Matilda

Growing closer to God and getting a dynamite book out of it.

Do It All Dad

What does the Koshertarian Diet mean to you?

Matilda

Being serious about pleasing God and following some of his laws for a change.

Do It All Dad

Would you be happier if Daddy became a part-time Pescatarian Comedian instead?

Matilda

Yes, because meat is murder and most meat is meh, unless it’s your Kosher chicken in your Walnut, Pecan pesto.

Do It All Dad

Would you ever take your girlfriends out to a Kosher style deli like Epstein’s when you get older?

Matilda

We’d rather go out for Sushi.

Do It All Dad

Why do think the top literary agent in Israel told me he didn’t see a market for my book, The Koshertarian Comedians, despite praising the wildly funny writing inside?

Matilda

He was lying, it’s too good for him Daddy. It’s unique because of the rare point of view expressed inside. I mean who else compares getting laughs and yummy dances to getting closer to God and your 3 children in the same breath?

Do It All Dad

I’ve raised a hot pitch monster folks. No wonder why you played by the self-appointed 9 year agent in The Great American Jew Novel.

Matilda

I’m 11 now Daddy.

Do It All Dad

I’m aware, resist this child services. What celebrity would you take out for lunch?

Matilda

Martha Stewart, because she has good taste and could tell me the best stuff to order.

Do It All Dad

What special ingredients make a great cook?

Matilda

Love and variety, making things with love and showcasing plenty of a variety like you do in the kitchen and with your all your comedy records Daddy, even less the hardcore hilarious ones.

Do It All Dad

Does eating fried shrimp from Stew Leonard’s make your heart less pure?

Matilda

No, kids shouldn’t be tortured and denied happiness on tap like that.

Do It All Dad

Do you consider cooking a major time suck not worth pursuing?

Matilda

No, I consider it a form of creativity that makes you less dependent.

Do It All Dad

Do Shrimps have souls? Would a shrimp sell it’s a soul to play the guitar like Paul Simon?

Matilda

I don’t know who Paul Simon is. Is he the guitar player for White Lion? But no, I don’t think shrimp have souls like the adorable goat we saw at Stew Leanord’s munching on grass this weekend Daddy.

Do It All Dad

The guitar player for White Lion is Vito Bratta. He inspired my flash fiction story, When the Shredder Frets, about a reclusive hair metal guitar God who used to kiss his guitar more than his ex-wife, forget it. What do your friends at school know about the Koshertarian Diet?

Matilda

Pork is off the list, or should I say a no-go zone in Germany these days Daddy?

Do It All Dad

I’ll write the jokes thanks.

Do It All Dad

Do I resist becoming a part time pescatarian comedian after being a full-time Koshertarian comedian out of fear of being labeled a poser?

Matilda

Yes, but you shouldn’t feel like a poser Daddy. Consider it the second act in your comedic evolution Daddy. And God wants us to be happy, assuming we refrain from eating Kosher slaughtered animals unless you’re feeling completely famished. God wants us to be happy, remember?

Do It All Dad

What sacrificial lamb, meaning, what’s one big thing you’d sacrifice eating by ditching the traditional Koshertarian diet for the Pescatarian one?

Matilda

Brownies, for you, it should be the other kind, Daddy. I’ve heard the jokes on your comedy records. Ziggy Marely, your dad had 7 kids, but I thought ganja drained your ball sack dry. Ziggy says, “Fake news-man.”

Do It All Dad

Are you saying that holiest, most idealized diet is the Pescatarian one after Daddy’s ate strictly Kosher for the past 2 years while writing my book?

Matilda

Yes Daddy, the Pescatarian Diet is the sweet spot in the middle.

Do It All Dad

Looks like we just conducted our exit interview from the Koshertarian diet then.

Matilda

Your blockbuster sequel to The Koshertarian Comedians, will be the The Pescatarian Comedians. Who could resist?

Do It All Dad

Even Hillary can get on board. But I don’t think it’s Kosher to have your spirit cooking dinners and your sponge cake too. Pescatarian Comedians live for now, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does COVID

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, health, travel

Fauci warns, means less than In Fuck Face Fauci We Trust.

If Dr. Fauci cares about saving lives, Hunter Biden cares about helping fund the new infrastructure bill with his art sales to China versus blowing the money to reconstruct his deviated septum.

The CDC recommends kids wear the mask regardless of their vaccination status because their kids go to private school in Switzerland. So what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again, holla. Thank you very much.

Only people not vaccinated are assholes, not the Karen who get’s up in your face at Costco and yells, “Wear a damn mask.” I’ll wear the mask KAREN, only after you suck all the hate speech and white privilege out of my super spreader 1st. But I’ll make it easier for you Karen. Pretend Obama ordered you to leak it.

I go to the Dry Cleaners this morning and they say, “Not ready yet.” I say, “I thought I’d take my chance, thinking, “Who leaves the house anymore anyway? While most most husbands insists my wife is better off wearing a mask in public or not.” The 2 Latino woman working there, laugh long time throughout.

Another heart breaking moment in the age of a parent post COVID. My son whose having a blast at day camp with no masks required asks me at home, “When do we get to have our burning mask party already? I say, “Not until, ANTIFA is designated as the real domestic insurrectionists terrorists by the DOJ or eventually outgrow their never ending pyro phase, so never.”

Did Bruce Springsteen get immunity from the Delta Variant after he sold to his soul to the CDC for free botox injections for life?

I’m so tired of the blame game. Non vaccinated people aren’t the super spreaders behind the made in Wuhan virus. Germs that infiltrate your shitty breathed nappy masks are.

Why should I give a shit about the Delta strain of COVID again when the survival rate is still 99 percent? Dave Chappelle survived his walkabout in Africa with no vaccinations, getting by on nothing but dirt weed, Oprah’s lentil stew recipe and fake news Ali worship in his mind.

Name one reason why Americans should think the US government cares about our collective safety, when open borders Biden had no problem rolling out the carpet for MS-13 at border because homeland security was so weapons of mass destruction years.

Why should Americans think the US government cares about our collective safety, when the demonic Democrats in charge support sanctuary cities, which is encouraged lawlessness on crack. Rapists are re-released back into the streets of NY by the time Bill DeBlasio wraps up another 2 rep 5 pound curl at the Park Slope Y.

Sanctuary Cities offers protection for rapists who can go to the cops for early release with ICE agents on their tail. But the US government cares about saving US lives from COVID? Then, why would Biden let 1million immigrants come throughout our border without checking them for COVID? Are they immune to catching the made in Wuhan virus because the US government social distances them from us by flying them away from the common population by segregating them in more spacious seats within 1st class on Virgin airlines in honor of their sin free, contamination free sparks of divinity.

Fuck your door to door vaccine information initiatives. What is the Willy Loman of vaccination sales going to tell me that I don’t know already? You’ll bribe my kids to get vaccinations when they’re old enough, with more Toca Boca add-on’s they can’t live without. People are still getting COVID after the stab. My kids will be forced to be masked permanently at school like Michael Jackson’s kids in Bahrain if the FDA actually approves a vaccine which works for a change regardless. The Delta strain is more dangerous than barebacking a bat that’s been sexually experimented on with Andy Dick in WUHAN. Delta, come fly the friendly skies was just a fake news bullshit ad campaign in eighties to never be taken seriously like Alan Dershowitz’s fear of guilt through association on Lolita Express 11 times throughout Hanukkah alone, the greedy heeb bastard. I’m a member of the tribe, so me calling Alan Dershowitz a greedy heeb, is all kosher Holmes.

Alan Dershowitz says, “He has a right to get on airplane and know that everybody is vaccinated. Didn’t Nicole Simpson have the right to know her husband’s co-counsel would squeeze the race card for all it’s justice juice and get away with brutally murdering her before all lives matter become the new n word?

The vaccine isn’t fully approved is a parroted talking point? How about I don’t trust any vaccine pushed by President Trump knowing how he pussy footed under the White House with his head between Melania’s legs for cover, while allowing Democracy to die under his watch. How about I don’t trust a vaccine pushed on the American public harder than ESPN pundits claiming Lebron is the new and improved MJ, minus the lone wolf, killer gene since the NBA became a safe space for Lebron’s ego. How about I don’t trust the crazed vaccine push used to justify more mail in voting to steal more elections when numerous truck drivers testified to hauling in ballots to throw in the Dominion tilting tabulation machines, because Biden campaign rallies weren’t enough to fill out the Little Mermaid’s b cup clam shells. How about I don’t trust doctors on MSNBC with Uni Brow Maddow, who sold their souls to China by refusing to be more outspoken about the high recovery rate of patients who were prescribed Hydroxychloroquine within the US, India and beyond the hate speech sphere of Twitter, which only introduced the word hate speech to eliminate pro Trump trash talk.

Why are the Knicks interested in brining Melo back? He doesn’t need to be near Madison Avenue to be the spokesperson for Tampax Tampons. Name another NBA player responsible for so much flowage.

Obama is expecting 700 people for his 60th birthday party bash. Dave Chappelle will MC. If Obama is good at basketball, then why did he ride the bench at an all Asian private school in Hawaii? Imagine Obama after Fox News claimed Biden got more votes than Obama did when he beat Mitt. Obama says, “There’s no way Mr. Groper got more votes than me Michelle. I’m the one who got the Nobel Peace Prize for rebranding ISIS, ISIL. So they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times, not Strawberry Shortcake sniffer.”

Chappelle is the biggest black supremacist of the bunch, way more than Lebron, king of the persecution complex. Lebron only wants to run for President just so he could tell Laura Ingraham on Fox News to stick to being a less ghoulish Ann Coulter for a living. Every Chappelle bit reeks these days especially, reeks of black entertainer supremacy trumping all flimsy charges of rape and physical assault whenever the edibles unmask his pot head eyes, “The Neverland kids wanted more than an autograph, Rihanna’s forehead got in the way of Chris Brown’s roundhouse right. R Kelly is the black Elvis with weaker bladder control.”

I’m a moron for sharing a baseball poem to my Aussie wife that I wrote this morning called Ten Homer Daily that my daughter Singing Rose Shoshana Kornbluth sang earlier for our planned early morning, in house date. I didn’t even get an “ah” this time from my wife, just a bewildered look, that screamed colossal cunt. She couldn’t even muster the energy to reply with, “But our daughter still loves me more. So don’t let your bonding time session go to your head. But my wife thinks all masks, even the ones made in Wuhan matter. So what difference does it make? Huma Licker breath strikes again. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Puking Up Nuke Talk

by doitalldadyear, posted in politics, travel, writing

Who does Putin respect less, Nuclear Weapons Experts on Yahoo News or Aids Specialists in Africia? The only difference is that Aids specialists get a blank check from George Soro’s open borders society. So, Gates and Fuck Face Fauci get to experiment Aids drugs on more black babies in the name of fake news love/planetary resource preservation. But shit on DeSantis more Yahoo News after Mother Earth washed away any veneer of good guy aiding facade that Mr. Gropers administration ever pretended to offer real life Americans since the day Democracy died.

Michael Kornbluth

Q