Servicing Boring

A candidate recently emailed me, “I’ve never had such a fun conversation about work.”

And this was through LinkedIn Recruiter, which isn’t synonymous with fun.

The LL Bean Catalog is fun.

Buying Houses of The Holy on Vinyl at Newbury Comics on a Friday afternoon after work at the Westchester Mall for only 30 bucks, it’s a steal trust me, is fun.

Your son admitting in the bubble that Led Zeppelin is his new favorite band over Motley Crue at 5 years old is fun.

Son says, “Daddy, Shout At That Devil was my favorite, but my new favorite is the one with the naked mermaids on the cover.”

Helping your daughter overcome her sleeping issues at 11 years old is fun.

“Matilda, I’ve got the perfect solution for your sleeping troubles. Have you ever heard of a channel called the BBC? Ted Talks might get the job done too.”

Later my daughter says, “Daddy, I saw one of the Ted Talks. Did you know that more people die from falling asleep at the wheel than from drunk driving”?

I say, “But Vince Mcmahon who only averages 3 hours a night for the past 4 decades and counting doesn’t care. Because he can afford to take the company limo instead.”

Presenting my daughter, a Squish-Mallow that resembles a sleeping Unicorn pig from Newbury Comics is fun.

I say, “This is only the sleep aid you need Matilda, but nice try Ted tries.”

Tonight, I spoke with a candidate about his interest in competitive weightlifting.

He laughed when I said, “Ok, so you’re not oiling yourself down at work.”

My youngest son asked his older brother, Arthur, “Who’s your favorite YouTuber?”

I felt a combination of cringy embarrassment and sucks to be you pity for his generation. But he’s only 5.

Plus, he’s way funnier than I’ll ever be.

Also, despite my assertions of every YouTuber sounding like a spurned intern for Reddit.

They’re still stimulating my son’s imagination, and making him laugh, which is more than Saved By The Bell ever did for my Gen X Generation.

Your Favorite YouTuber Personality is like your favorite Recruiter.

Neither take themselves too seriously.

Plus, they entertain, enlighten, and sell with fun filled relish.

I don’t know any of these Youtuber Personalities by name.

I’d like to think I’m still cooler than my kids.

Maya Angelou says, “People will always remember the way you make them feel.”

So, service fun I say.

I’d rather be remembered that way.

Servicing boring has a time and place.

But even accountants laugh.

I make them laugh all the time in my office.

I rest my case.

Ted tries.

But flashing subtitles on LinkedIn don’t make you laugh or rattle your insides.

Service fun over boring.

Be gratefully different.

Be overwhelmingly fun.

Like Jim Morrison on Morrison Hotel amongst the scattered sun.

Servicing fun is money honey.

I’m a knockout artist like Gene Tunney.

I swear your honor.

My next swing is a goner.

Just stop telling me how Brian Cranston is must-see TV Boomer.

Your cred is shot.

I’d rather jerk off to Laura Loomer.

Michael Kornbluth

Hatching Happenings

Fire sets urgency apart.

From non-essential, pussy footing, gun shy lonely hearts.

Urgency earns.

Ask perpetually bitchy Christopher in the Sopranos after he gets his button and becomes his turn.

Fires fade when urgency doesn’t get laid.

Fire and urgency go hand in hand.

Like our band of brothers on D-Day.

Who refused to bury their heads in the sand.

Urgency gets you up at 5am.

Fired up to get a head start on your competition.

Fuck Zen.

Urgency is value creation.

Or else you’re begging for more disinvitations.

Anything less than urgent, is below blah.

Think, the opposite of Poison, on their album, Open Up and Say Ah.

Urgency creates action.

There’s plenty of time for relaxin.

What’s urgent is hot new.

What’s not is leftover stew.

Lack of urgency is an emergency.

Winner killers like MJ show no mercy.

Urgency is taking matters into your own hands.

The opposite is waiting to die way up high in the stands.

Urgency is rage against dying of the light.

It’s only the remedy against lifelong stage freight.

Urgency provides us with real time highs.

Say goodbye to time release Adderall and bags under your eyes.

Urgency gets emails read.

When others have checked out prematurely and gone to bed.

Urgency alerts us to changes needed.

When everything in your life feels empty and depleted.

Urgency motivates you to change your ways.

So, you don’t end up, so mentally crippled and hazed.

Urgency makes reality very clear.

Drinking is only fun when you’re skinny in front of a mirror.

Urgency throws caution into the sea.

Who else would you rather be besides a sex beam blaster she he?

By she, he, I mean hot and bright.

Who knows only to chill after giving their best fight.

What’s attractive about settling anyway?

When you know you’re medium happy on a good day.

Urgency is passing concealed & carry laws in Texas.

Because our Founding Fathers knew anarchy would reign by disabling the defenseless.

Texas Rep. Kevin Brady says, “Urgency creates action.”

Which is fine and dandy.

If you’re a funny man actor from Canada who refuses his booster shot in the name of John Candy.

Urgency is God listening to chirpy birds hatching happenings.

Michael Kornbluth

Not Working LinkedIn 

I hate the #OPENTOWORK hashtag badge on LinkedIn.

It feels like white-collar panhandling.

It’s the worst networking innovation since Meetups for out-of-work Cup Scout leaders.

And who chose that puke moss green color?

It’s not an inviting sea foam green or handsome conjuring IVY.

It looks like some target sign that appears in Predator’s headset.

Plus, the dark olive-green badge drains your profile pic of all-electric edge.  

Slap that #OPENTOWORK badge on Gweneth Paltrow’s pic and still evokes stained Avocado pits.

Mug shots offer more color contrast.

It looks like a sign you wear around your head in Game of Thrones while having apple pits thrown at your head. Shame on you, LinkedIn, shame. 

Badges should scream earned respectability like one on a racehorse for winning the Derby.

Does the #OPENTOWORK badge feel like a prominent brand plug to you?

For me, it screams, please wait to swipe past my profile.

Good recruiters don’t need permission to make the 1st move on candidates. They’re not sweating the prospect of being charged with unwanted aggression through LinkedIn Recruiter. 

Also, if the candidate is out of work due to recent layoffs in the tech space, isn’t the #OPENTOWORK badge option rubbing it in?

If my future wife wore an #OPENTONEWLOVE badge on her shirt when I approached her on Barry Diller’s balcony, it would’ve stripped the moment of all spontaneous charged lift.

“Hi, I’m Joshua; I work for CitySearch. I couldn’t help but notice your #OPENTONEWLOVE badge on your shirt. In other words, yes to flirty.”

Yes, to flirty, Challah. Thank you very much.

Your Favorite Headhunter Writer, 

Joshua Kornbluth 

Radioactive Resume Theories

Son says, “Daddy, don’t leave me for New Jersey.” I say, “But desperate times call for desperate actions, when you’re 46 years old with a marriage to hold together and have 3 kids to feed after a 9-year vacation from life to work on finding your voice as a Stay At Home She Male Comedian Podcast Host Author Blogger who’s been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot.”

Son says, “Why, can’t you get a job again moron son? And when can we start selling your comedy records this summer? I get to sell Flipper Bird Baby and Not Kosher Baby because I’m on the cover licking Finn’s butt Daddy, deal? But seriously Daddy, do you have 10,000 morons stuck in your head, Ancient Moron?

I say, “I don’t need a resume coach or a climate scientist to tell me why my writing career is colder than Harvey Weinstein’s casting couch at the 4 Seasons. In fact, I’m capable of formulating some radioactive resume theories of my own Scientific American, for starters, 9 Gap Years +No Proof of Vaccination =Twice fucked at getting a job in Mr. Groper’s America Jack.

Others culture clash fit theories that come to mind are. You’re too full of yourself to judge your talent assessment skills objectively. In other words, you’re blinded by narcissistic right, like the rest.

Outsiders don’t see daddy as a real man or as dependable provider of any kind, especially when mama’s smart phone sends her an alert whenever I make another questionable purchase. Mommy calls, “Hey babe, so how was bride of Chucky?”

What else makes my resume lack all form of gravitational pull kid? The glaring expanse of gap years on my resume is bigger than when Sandra Bernhardt says cheese.

HR won’t even download my resume on to their desktops out of fear of it eroding their belief in the common good after learning through one of my podcasts how I’m another domestic terrorist dad who protested against the masking of our children like Michael’s Jackon’s kids on holiday in Bahrain during the July 4th release of my Burning Mask Party Record.

Wendy in HR almost chokes up her Shroom Burger from Shake Shack after reading my desired salary preference of 85K per year when I haven’t had any form of steady taxable income to report since hate speech was invented to silence anyone who questioned whether the Russian collusion tale used to spy on Trump while running for office had less legs than Lieutenant Dan.

Listing Allah as a character reference, only to accuse a prospective employer of being Islamophobic, if they don’t respect my religion of peace knowing my last name is Kornbluth is a new low like Baby Face Omar Gona Work It Out describing the death of Amy Winehouse on the anniversary of her death on Twitter as something happened to a devil horn concealing, beehive sporting, colonial imperialist who exploited the Great Palestinian Song Book for all it was worth.  

It’s hard to engage in foreplay with a new lover of me on the open market as a stay-at-home dad when your wife can’t even get excited about kinky foreplay of any kind anymore because you’re already choking her too hard financially.

Talking about yourself in the 3rd person in your resume bio for a copywriter role in South Carolina is crossing the ego mania gone wild line even in Kenny’s Powers eyes.

Big Bang Theory, Do It All Dad Does Jokes is no Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman regardless of it being gay about celebrating my Do It All Dad Tree Trunk that claims to blow crystal-clear streams of beautiful mind spewing hilarity, come rain or shine. Sinatra lives. Challah, thank you very much.

The universe didn’t take a collective breath after you post on your WordPress blog how Guaranteed Greatness, would be your last comedy you’d give to the deprived masses away for free.

Force feeding schtick on your resume is more off putting than laughing at your own jokes in person or texting one to an employer with an emoji clown horn that follows.

You can’t win over HR by conserving your best work in the service of making MAGA country laugh over us.

So, I’ll rebrand myself as a scene stealing supporting player and aim to win the 6th Man of Year Award like Anthony Mason on the Knicks before you’re good enough to be deemed trade worthy, only to be voted by your news fans and old as a 1st all-time star the following year, which beats wasting away in some dumpy ad agency in Union, New Jersey away from you kid.

Son says, “Does that mean you’re not leaving me for New Jersey?”

I say, “Not unless I’m calling my next comedy record, “Do It All Dad Does Martha Dump Truck. Can I get holla for some Challah?”

Son says, “Thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Mustard House

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 why can’t I stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack, again?”

Michael Kornbluth

Alliance Defending Freedom Jew

Charles Snow

Senior Copywriter  

Alliance Defending Freedom

15100 N 90th St.

Scottsdale, AZ 85260

February 17, 2022

Dear Charles Snow,

Freedom of speech is deader than Yiddish. But thanks to religious organizations such as Alliance Defending Freedom, it’s only mostly dead.  Being a fierce freedom of speech advocate and proud father of 3, who authored Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, I would love to be considered as your next Fundraising Writer for hire. I excel at writing persuasive, high personalized prose or else I wouldn’t have impressed Joel Osten’s Literary Agent, Shannon Marven enough to declare how “my pitch letter alone made her 1st day back from vacation a little lighter”, after sending her an inquiry earlier about my interest in securing a faith-based agent to represent my new book The Koshertarian Comedians, which is a story about growing closer to God and my children through the more laughs and yummy dances I get.  

Look, I know that a stay-at-home comedian podcast host who created comedy records such as the Koshertarian Offensive isn’t the first candidate that comes to mind for a Fundraiser Writer position at the Alliance Defending Freedom. But I was born on Easter day on April 18, 1976. Plus, I was named after the arch angel Michael who kicked the Devil out of Heaven last time checked. At the same time, I am also a featured guest blogger on The Times Of Israel which has republished a plethora of pertinent thought pieces on assuming ownership of my children’s religious education such as Growing Up Koshertarian and Back To Hebrew School.

Alliance Defending Freedom is a Godsend, needed more than ever, especially when our neighbors up north are having their bank accounts seized for donating through Christian based organization such as Give Send Go in support of the Freedom Convoy. I do not worship the house of COVID and know Alliance Defending Freedom does not either.  Helping advance First Amendment freedoms is a cause I can rally support around with divine powered authority and would be a mitzvot I’d relish performing on your God blessed organization’s behalf.

My Very Best,

Michael Kornbluth