The Maiden Bartender

You met one Iron Maiden fan, you met them all right? Iron Maiden fans wear out those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets, even into their late thirties to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge such diehard fanatic fans are incapable of generating on their own.  Granted, Bruce Dickenson the more exalted, replacement lead singer star of Iron Maiden, otherwise known as the human air raid siren, boasts a supernatural voice, which pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal heaven. Still, it’s impossible to not grow tired of his rapid fire, Spinal Tap conjuring caricature of what an English heavy metal howler should like in Samuel Johnson’s speed metal phonics dictionary under Game Of Thrones horse charging music. At least, that’s’ what the Cruise Comedian, Michael Rocker thought, as he entered a colonial constructed, seaside, shipbuilding town of Mystic, CT, where Julia Roberts shot the movie Mystic Pizza, and entertained the grips on the set by fisting her mouth in between takes to ensure they made it her look the most flattering in the face of such frigid, east coast winter light.  

Now, Michael Rocker, a tall, athletic looking, preppy casual comic orders a drink and says, “Hey, what local IPA’s do you recommend? The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline statuesque dirty blond, sporting an Iron Maiden tattoo on her defined, yet not overtly chiseled deltoid replies, “I don’t know, that all depends, on how much hardcore bitter bite you can take. I mean, are you interested in merely quenching your thirst with a session filler beer? Or would you prefer  to get your hardcore freak on for Karaoke night with something boozier and more funktastic like a Fat Orange Cat’s Trippel IPA, stud.” The Cruise Comic says, “I’ll take the Trippel IPA, hot stuff,” as he tries hard not to lick his lips, wanting to inhale her on the spot.

Sitting next to the Cruise Comic at the bar, is a hunched, tired, lanky, dirty blond, long-haired guy in his late thirties, sporting bad acne spots, from a poor diet full of too much beef Jerky and cheap vodka tonics, reeking of stale, Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody appeal after the 1st drag whatsoever.  The Cruise Comic get’s the impression, the Newport cigarette guy who’s sporting a black Iron Maiden shirt under his faded, torn jean jacket, is here solo as usual, so he decides to sample some new jokes on him in preparation for his upcoming cruise tour heading to Jamaica for spring break the following morning. Cruise Comic makes eye contact with the Iron Maiden fan and says, “Nice Maiden shirt. You must know the wrestler and Fozzy front man Chris Jericho then? Maiden dude replies, “Duh, who doesn’t? Immediately, the Cruise Comic becomes engulfed with extreme annoyance, regretting his attempt to bond with this local in his attempt to play it cool with the hot bad ass bartender and snaps back with, “Be honest, don’t you think Iron Maiden is a poor man’s Judas Priest, with far less sing along, radio friendly hits, being forced to rely on catchy, merchandising gimmickry to radiate a cooler, far less Dungeons and Dragons nerdy veneer instead? And who is the Eddie mascot on Iron Maiden shirts supposed to be anyway? He looks like a cyborg mummy and a virile Crypt Keeper in his prime had a baby?  Run For The Hills is a good running song, for Daniel Day Lewis to crank up when he trained for his role in the Last of the Mohicans.”

The bartender can’t help but chuckle, doing her best to not let Cruise Comedian know it. Still, she decides to interject, knowing fighting words were just thrown down in this normally peaceful waterfront town and says, “Hey, Eddie, don’t listen to him. He’s not sophisticated enough to understand the intricacies and sweeping historical, majestic sweep that went to Power Slave and the other 40 records of English speed metal mastery at it’s finest. Next vodka and tonic is on me babe, don’t sweat it.” Cruise Comedian is turned on by the bartender’s friendly infused fiery cheer, especially knowing this was her way of pleasing a local and flirting with him big time and says, “She’s right Eddie, that’s your name Eddie just like the Iron Maiden mascot, wow. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just putting Iron Maiden down to feel better about myself. That’s what hack cruise comics do.  I think Poison, Motely Crew and Cinderella rock out just as hard and boast infinitely catchier, kick as metal pop anthems, which ooze forceful, heartfelt personality versus sounding like systematic howling knights on horseback but what do I know Eddie. Didn’t mean to offend your hardcore fanatical Maiden sensibilities bud.”  Eddy’s face become ensnarled in acne scar shades of red as he clenches his callous hardened, burn laden hands and says, “Dude, I’m a dishwasher on a cruise ship, I don’t need to take this shit.” The Cruise Comedian says, “I’m a lowly Cruise Comedian hack comedian, so it’s a wash mate. Looking forward to docking in Jamaica though. This is my impression of Ziggy Marley being interviewed by High Times Magazine for their annual 4/20 issue.  “Ziggy, your dad had 11 kids, but I thought ganja drained your life blaster dry. Ziggy replies, “Fake news man.” Cruise comic finally scores a tension diffusing laugh. Eddie says, “That was a good one. Perhaps, I take my obsession with Iron Maiden a tad too seriously at times. Thing is, you get pretty cagy as a cruise ship dishwasher, all alone with Iron Maiden tunes of wanton destruction stuck in your head.” Cruise Comic says, “No problem dude, I was being a big dick prior, sometimes my riffing veers into full fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer to. Do you smoke your mind with the crystal specked bud? Eddie the dishwasher says, “Yeah, I mean, what loner burnout Maiden head in high school didn’t. You never outgrow the soothing lift the green gives a loner burnout at heart.  Cruise comic says, “Did you know 4/20 was Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” Eddie the Dishwasher says, “Oh, so you’re Jewish. That’s why you’re so annoying and pushy with your material. Well, nobody’s perfect except Beth the bartender.”

Beth the bartender commands the stage and clenches the mike to belt out Run for the Hills on the Karaoke stage with incredible, hardcore edge feeling to make a jaded, English metal resisting, cruise comic willing to give British speed metal another shot. All that was missing was a hardcore female touch and some added funktastic feeling with some sexy metal sass to match.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time there was a famous Jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more than Duke Ellington. Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra strength heroin one night, home alone, in his Queens apartment, in far Rockaway Beach, which would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience for a change and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his Jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window to.


Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes again, to make sure what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision on mind melding H, a so called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini tablet device of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell out the window into the frigid, February snow with absolute relished glee, to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing out his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before. Now, Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling and asks God in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my Jazz piano masterpiece? The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  And how dare this so called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks, I ever spent”, after his carefree son flings my Jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic, Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “Melancholy magic.”  

Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine, but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well guess what, you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me motherfucker. Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American Jazz songbook. So instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mother, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway like Cole Porter or those those fancy, schmancy Gershwin brothers for a change? At least, they dress nice and the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you got some brains cells left to use more wisely.”

Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door this time and bemoans, “Fight or flight Junky, what will your destiny be? I get it, you’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep, singing, “The Man I Love, whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  So, you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard, whoopty freaking do. I’m positive, you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter or get some sin on sin loving, behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room to.  Innovate or die a broke, boring Junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his Piano with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer on the spot. His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens alone and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone and says, “Jazz Rock is the new groove now Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you, when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative Jazz, or elevator music, on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in. Regardless, your sound, helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. Sorry about cutting out your work on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit Junky.”

Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing my new lease on life Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank, but boy could you play. And I am fucking Jazz. And Miles knows best, even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell, can see that.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time there was a famous Jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more than Duke Ellington. Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra strength heroin one night, home alone, in his Queens apartment, in far Rockaway Beach, which would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience for a change and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his Jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window to.


Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes again, to make sure what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision on mind melding H, a so called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini tablet device of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell out the window into the frigid, February snow with absolute relished glee, to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing out his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before. Now, Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling and asks God in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my Jazz piano masterpiece? The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  And how dare this so called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks, I ever spent”, after his carefree son flings my Jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic, Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “Melancholy magic.”  

Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine, but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well guess what, you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me motherfucker. Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American Jazz songbook. So instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mother, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway like Cole Porter or those those fancy, schmancy Gershwin brothers for a change? At least, they dress nice and the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you got some brains cells left to use more wisely.”

Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door this time and bemoans, “Fight or flight Junky, what will your destiny be? I get it, you’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep, singing, “The Man I Love, whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  So, you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard, whoopty freaking do. I’m positive, you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter or get some sin on sin loving, behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room to.  Innovate or die a broke, boring Junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his Piano with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer on the spot. His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens alone and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone and says, “Jazz Rock is the new groove now Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you, when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative Jazz, or elevator music, on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in. Regardless, your sound, helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. Sorry about cutting out your work on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit Junky.”

Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing my new lease on life Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank, but boy could you play. And I am fucking Jazz. And Miles knows best, even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell, can see that.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Magical Mini-Me Meatball Tour

I’m at a vintage bookstore that sells used records and CD’s to buy another last-minute gift add on for my son’s endless birthday party weekend, despite his big brother constantly pointing out, “It’s not your birthday anymore. I don’t care how much Daddy is loving you more than me.  I bought John Lennon’s greatest hits on CD for 4 bucks, just so I could sample some John Lennon material on the owner like I just paid my one drink minimum for a Pap’s Blue Ribbon to do 4 minutes at the Eastville Comedy Club before becoming a full-time Stay-At-Comedian, 3 kids later and say, “On my Do It All Dad Year Podcast I state, I’ve written 4 books and recorded 400 plus podcast since my lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years, after Paul McCartney shamed John Lennon into becoming a Stay-At-Home Dad from writing Hey Jude, to console his 1st abandoned son, he wanted nothing to do with before having his 2nd child Sean with Yoko, to give involved fatherhood another shot. Still, 2 minutes into a baby stroll throughout Central Park West, 1 day into playing the role of a loving, emotionally present, Stay-At-Home Dad, John Lennon screams up at the sky, “Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul.  All the Primal Scream Therapy isn’t helping.”

John Lennon experimented with being a vegetarian yet always found a way to sneak meat into his diet after realizing what havoc Yoko’s Bean Curd Smoothies did on his sex drive, exchanging his lost, druggy, groupie drilling years in LA in favor of snuggling Yoko on too much CIA secret stash strong ACID, delivered by Dr. Timothy Leary personally, to make it another merry free Christmas, and creepy conjuring new year. At the same time, John Lennon could’ve lived anywhere in the world, but chose Central Park West in the Dakota building instead, knowing any starving artist or not could afford a bowl of good spaghetti and meatballs at Carmines on Broadway after scrapping together enough bread.

I used to have lunch dates with a pretty girl from PA named Holly at Carmines and we’d split the meatball parm hero there, which was Big Pussy with bad back problems huge. The meatball hero was also served with a side of crispy yet light Cesar Salad with fresh baked croutons, tasting as polished distinguished as the sumptuous, moist throughout, ultra inhalatory, meatballs, begging to disappear in your belly within a NY minute.  Subway Meatballs these weren’t, because they were bigger, rounder, juicier balls of balling, big time pimping perfection. Now, sometimes softball size meatballs are a turnoff, if they remind of your putz prone dad staining his nice dress shirts again after work at hard 6:30 at the latest, during Kosher meatball and spaghetti night, only for your mom to blurt out again, “Steven, you stained your shirt again. Remind me again, why I converted to marry into this.” Only for my father to reply with, “Carol, if you never met me, you would’ve married some nerd, whose mother would’ve been intimated by your perfect MATH SAT score to.”

My ex-girlfriend who went to Columbia, introduced me to the meatball pie at Lombardi’s in SOHO when we visited my parents and friends back east during winter holiday break once after living together in West Hollywood for the past year. I was blown away, knowing no Turkey Meatball, drenched in delectable, never too syrupy rich, plum sauce from our nearby Gelson’s grocery store on Santa Monica Blvd. could ever match the vastly superior, air light might of these mini me meatballs ever.

When I lived in West Hollywood, I had my mom buy me the Soprano’s Cookbook and learned how real deal Italian meatballs, used a killer combination of ground pork, sirloin and veal while also using plum Roma Tomatoes to be later boiled and peeled after dropping them into a cold-water bath soon after to part the skins from their tender loving juiciness, itching to be unfurled with scatterings of peeled garlic and diced up fine shreds of Italian Parsley inside. I actually felt like a semi-functioning adult back then, going to the Farmer’s Market at the Grove to buy the different meats for Tony Soprano’s homemade meatballs versus splurging at the far pricier supermarket chain Bristol Farms, walking distance, not that anybody walks anywhere LA, from the 4 Seasons in Beverly Hills, because despite my rent controlled apartment on Harper Street in West Hollywood back then, my inner Jew couldn’t justify the more extravagant price point purchase just yet, despite shopping there more likely putting me in contact with George Plimpton loading up on more organic vanilla bean ice cream to serve Ronald Regan and Nancy after taking in a home screening documentary on Kurt Cobain triggering, Howdy Dowdy.  These meatballs, using the holy trinity of pork, veal and sirloin ground meat were so good, I shot off death stares at my ex-girlfriend, for offering my bountiful leftovers to her best friend from Bel Air, who was a member of the Nordstrom family, before they stopped selling Ivanka’s statuesque working girl shoes, because most yenta breaths in Manhattan failed to fill out her longer, shapely size lines, I guess.

I’ll still never forgive my dad, for dumping pounds of meatball heroes made for my Bar Mitzvah party by his close friend and famed chef of Bronx made fame, Carmine, who had nothing do with Carmines off Broadway outside of his artisan genius being lumped together with what native New Yorker’s considered a glamorized, middle America size catering, tourist trap, which is unfortunate because both restaurants make you proud to be a beneficiary of eastern standard, heartwarming, Italian American cooking again and again.  

Now, my daughter is taking weirded out bites from my homemade mini me reconstructionist meatballs to kickstart my son’s 4-year birthday weekend celebration in extra rollicking high gear, which used Rao’s Tomato Sauce to save me time, after sautéing these mini balled beauties in expensive, extra virgin olive oil, fresh chopped parsley and ample sprinklings of shaved garlic and red-hot chili pepper flakes, to take this Eastern standard spaghetti and meatball dish so much higher.  I can’t get mad at my daughter’s weirded out bites, despite me making them mini meatballs, so she wouldn’t be so freaked from staring down a fistful of cow at a time, knowing she’s only been eating Kosher meat, since my Koshertarian Comedian project to get my kids excited about giving the Koshtertarian Diet began.

I cooked the mini-me meatballs in the sauce under a low heat with the cover for a solid hour, which paid huge dividends, making it more than worth the weight, especially after I spot her younger brother, Arthur, hunched over in a perpetual, soul tantalizing, attack mode, uttering every other neat yet mountainous inhale, “This is really yummy daddy.”

Growing up, the Kosher Butcher store was always a turnoff because the Butchers there always seemed like they literally slept in raw pink meat. Now, that pubescent concern is a thing of the past, as I proceeded to finish off my mini me meatball birthday creation for breakfast and lunch the following the day to embrace reimaged eastern standard greatness and celebrate a newborn dad kind of love, offering the possibility of more success filled tomorrows, to make 2021 by most glorious year yet, back again, in a New York groove.  

Michael Kornbluth

The Eulogy Ghost Writer

Do It All Dad had a bit in his old standup comedy act called Wise Black Grandma, where he’d say, “If I could do it again, I would’ve subbed my no show whiny Jewish Grandma for a wise black Grandma to fill in her place at my wedding instead. Post an ad on Craigs List, “Wise Black Grandma need for a wedding in Woodstock. Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome, must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only.”  Growing up, Do It All Dad grew a fondness, teetering on full blown love for his substitute Grandpa Ed, who exuded the furry browed, warm hearted, wiser glint you’d expect from a retired Jewish estate tax lawyer from Queens, in his button up, neatly woven sweaters and whiff of well put together after shave.

Becoming a grandpa doesn’t make you into Santa Claus, yet Grandpa Ed, his substitute Grandpa, who his Jewish Grandma Ethel remarried soon after the death of her 1st husband Murray, would shell out an always, neat, crisp 5 dollar bill for the grandkid who found the Afikoman which is the half broken piece of Matzah little Jewish kids go looking for after dinner for Passover, which was a nice, cheer filled touch to celebrate the Jewish people’s liberation from slavery in honor of God’s hardcore divine intervention years, on the behalf of his chosen people, meant to become cosmic perfectionist lovers of TV, who lived to complain in restaurants about unrecognized, immediate service.

Now, Grandpa Ed had a grandson from his 1st marriage, yet you didn’t get that distinct impression based on the eulogy he delivered on his grandpa’s behalf and Roger was billed as the really smart one because he played chess and wore plenty of turtlenecks, which gives you 10 extra IQ points easy.  Grandpa Ed was dead now and Roger who later went to Harvard was supposed to be giving a heartfelt eulogy in honor of his biological grandfather, not his rebound one, yet merely reading some boring letter his original wife wrote to Grandpa Ed, devoid of any juicy details such as their sweaty sex period after World War  2, when she used to lick Ice Cream Bonbons off his bellybutton during those brutally hot summer Queens nights, before Grandpa passed the bar, become a family estate tax lawyer and could afford an AC unite of their own, failed to bring back any semblance of real deal connective feeling either.

Eulogies really do separate the men from the ungrateful twats such as Roger, who couldn’t muster up a single original, expressive remembrance of his dead biological grandfather, who treated him like the 2nd coming of Bobby Fisher.  Eulogies also reveal if Grandpa raised a cunt for brains daughter to. Now, there’s a good kind of gaul and a bad kind of gaul. Faye, Roger’s, clammy, insincere peppy, patronizing, style free, tad stumpy mother, showcased the worst kind of gaul, when during her eulogy, she went for the kishke’s, meaning the intestines in Yiddish by openly declaring permanent f you season on Do It All Dad’s grandma when she said with what felt like manufactured, dialed up invective, “I’m just glad that now Dad can join mom now in heaven”, which was a low blow on par with Mini Me trying to gnaw off Austin’s Power’s Nuts, In The Spy That Shagged Me.”  

Now, in the limo ride to the grave site, Faye asks Do It All Dad, a 20-year-old college junior at the time, “You didn’t write your eulogy did, you? He says, “No, my mom wrote it for me Faye.” Faye almost stutters and says, “Well, I just thought.”  The 20-year-old Do It All Dad adds, “You thought what Faye, I hired a eulogy ghost writer with my bus boy tip money this summer in Cape Cod. My eulogy was well received by the Rabbi because it sprang from my heart Faye. Regardless, if Grandpa Ed was my rebound grandpa or not, he still treated me like I was his own grandson worthy of his wisdom and love. I recall him telling me how to place my feet when using a 7 iron once, which is more than my own dad ever taught me besides a half-formed hook shot. Wasn’t there anything Roger could’ve mentioned to honor his legacy outside of reading an old letter his 1st wife wrote? Reality is, your son Roger, the genius, is the one guilty of plagiarizing, by stealing the memories contained in an old letter your mom wrote, to fill in the lapse of having any soul serenade sermon to deliver on his own. And where do you get the gaul to disrespect my grandmother at her dead husband’s funeral, regardless, if you feel her endlessly manic bi-polar art buying spree of southwest American Indian art, being responsible for draining his will to live one second more either. Also, Jews focus on more Mitzvah and doing good for the sake of doing good hear on Earth, without the intention of sole financial gain or promised hooked up afterlife in Heaven, where all sins are cleared, even if Grandpa Ed asked Jesus to forgive him for raising such a cunt for brains like yourself. Do I have way with words or what? But I’m positive Roger will make an excellent food coloring chemist for Johnson and Johnson to overcompensate for his color free personality, which he could thank you for inheriting at your funeral to.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth   

The Flipper Baby Side

On February 12th, Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born, compared to his grandmother Mimi who was born on February 13th, which finally offered undeniable, certifiable proof that God wasn’t picking on Do It All Dad’s wife anymore. February 12th is also Abe Lincoln’s birthday, which held special significance within the Kornbluth family, especially on the southern side, where Do It All Dad’s mom hailed from, because their great, great, great, great Grandfather Austin Gallagher saved his boyhood friend Abe Lincoln from drowning, which is the greatest presidential save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby.  The worst part about this story is how after Abe tripped on a log cabin while crossing Knob Creek in a rush to get home on time for Racoon Soup Night, he pressured his dear friend Austin to never tell anyone about saving him from drowning to death because he a had a vision while gasping for air within the limestone laced waters of Kentucky, how one day, he’d be the man responsible for helping liberate the black man from the chains of slavery and he wouldn’t be looked upon as a serious saver, knowing he was a worst swimmer than they. One time, Do It All Dad held an Astrology Off among his 3 kids after Chosen Curls was born between his older brother and sister, Art Show USA and Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, meaning they compared famous men and woman born on their birthdays. Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo had Abe on his list and Arsenio Hall from Coming To America. Matilda’s other younger brother Art Show USA, otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day, had Mini Me and Paul Revere on his list and all she had was Peter Sarsgaard, prompting her to blurt out in progressively pissed off disgust, “I don’t like this Astrology Off anymore. Nobody I love like Shakira or Mel Brooks was born on my birthday.” Do It All Dad gives her added unwelcome grief, and says, “Pisces are very competitive.”

Now, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was stuck in the wrong way within his mama’s womb, with his feet facing down toward his exit hole. Normally, Breach Babies, who are positioned to be yanked out of their mama’s fun box, feet first, are either flipped by a doctor to be pushed out headfirst or excavated from the womb through a stomach lacerating C section, which most woman would prefer to avoid, because if you’ve seen one Alien movie, you’ve seen enough.

Chosen Curls was chilling in the womb for 9 months in the wrong way with his toes tingling with delight closer to mama’s vagina versus the way around, which he didn’t mind one bit, knowing he had great looking, inhalatory baby feet, which looked better than most gross, bald baby heads to come out crying out of most vaginas, not nearly as snuggly as this. Mama’s womb housing vagina was so snuggly, Chosen Curls could take endless naps in there on Crystal Meth. Also, Chosen Curls liked being a wrong way baby because it would give him bragging rights one day, when he eventually performed his 1st reverse somersault in the womb, knowing his Do It All Dad was a knock-kneed putz, who got penalized in gym class back in the day for toppling over to the side whenever he tried to sit Indian style while sitting out another game of Kickball on the sidelines for getting eliminated almost immediately again. At the same time, Chosen Curls didn’t want his Mama’s stomach ripped apart, because he refused to flip for mama’s love, out of blatantly premature spite for Mama never encouraging his WWE wrestling career soon after, in his pursuit to become the dreamy child offspring of Andre The Giant and Bruce Lee, while being billed as Hardcore Hurting Hunga.  

Now, it was showtime, Mama was ready to burst, and this birth wasn’t a walk in the park compared to his older brother Art Show USA, who popped out easier than a tin of Altoids in 1 hour flat.  The nurse encouraged mama to push, yet Chosen Curls was taking his sweet ass time to transform himself into a real deal, choke free Flipper Baby after all. Then, Chosen Curls heard his Do It All Dad’s booming voice more so than usual, pierce through mama’s cervix as he barked, “You can do it Samuel. If Rodney could do the Triple Lindy in Back To School, then you can flip for mama’s love to, knowing she remained freak out free from giving up wine for 9 months straight again on your behalf. Also, mama’s vagina is fairly broken in at this point, 2 kids later, in addition to my Hebrew Hammer leaving a substantial dent prior. So let’s get moving, before mama flips you the bird and curses your existence forever, for you denying her the beauty of being yanked out into her arms in one semi seamless motion, versus the Alien stomach mauling coming out birth, pretty please, with extra booger sugar for Uncle Jon, AKA, Sir Snort A Lot on top.” As the delivery doctor grabs Samuel’s head from outside mama’s belly, Chosen Curls performs a seamless reverse baby flip to show his Dada he wasn’t born to be a tense baby like a pubescent Albert Brooks in the making, in Defending Your Life, only for him to grow up becoming a perpetually wound up stress ball on 2 legs, with decades of fear plagued tension embedded within his frozen in time neck.  

Do It All Dad spots his son’s head emerge from Mama’s blessed box , flush with endless life enriching charms and cranks up the volume, blaring, “Homestretch, Samuel, one more push, and Made In The Shade, will be made in the shade. Now, slide out of mama’s snuggle snatch hard, Ricky Henderson style.” Doc pulls Samuel out this time, who emerges into this wildly, unpredictable, God graced, awe inspiring beautifying world, with a full set of hair, which puts Do It All Dad at ease, knowing bald babies with indentations on their heads are gross, all looking like Nurse Jackie dropped them on top of an anvil one too many times after getting the shakes because she’s out of methadone again.

The nurse hands Chosen Curls to his dear Dada to hold tightly to his heart and with his back turned toward Mama he starts bonding with his lucky number 3 saying, “Your big sister, Singing Rose, recognized my voice out of the womb to. I’ve been in love with you since you were a blip of an alien baby on mama’s Ultrasound photograph report. Your brother and sister are the coolest. They’re going to love you so good.”

Eventually, mama interjects and says, “You weren’t housing Samuel for the past 9 months, I was. So, stop boxing me out from my baby and turn around, so I can see the face of my beautiful baby already. Do It All Dad turns around and says, “You handled that well babe. I got carried away hearing my own voice again. At least, for now, we know it has a calming influence unlike a 10-year marriage, which is bound to unleash anybody’s flip-out side.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Loud Man’s Disease

How loud was Do It All Dad? For starters, when seeing Aerosmith live in Las Vegas 2 summers ago with close seats to the stage before a mask muzzle was designed to kill freedom of speech forever, his incessant hollering and wooing, made lead singer Steven Tyler, shoot off retaliatory hate stares of disgust in his direction which screamed, “Somebody shut this loudmouth Jew up already. This is my showcase career retrospective, not his. I didn’t blow millions on blow and almost derail my stadium selling out career in the seventies to have this big-headed putz project louder than me without a microphone, Joe Perry and a state-of-the-art sound system working in his magnifying favor either.”

There was also the time Do It All Dad saw Dice in a casino in Arizona with his younger brother, only for the Dice Man to single out the loudmouth Jew and yell with exasperated force, “You’re an asshole”, and all he was doing was laughing longtime all the time prior while sporadically yelling, “Dice Lives, holla, thank very much.” Dice was so flummoxed by Do It All Dad’s laugh throaty roar, he beelined into his nursey rhymes prematurely way ahead of schedule to get the fuck out of dodge at a hard 45 minutes into his set.

Then, there was the time when Do It All Dad saw Bon Jovi at Mohegan Sun with his daughter Matilda, fairly up in the nose bleed seats this time behind the stage, yet his bombastic, rocket fueled voice, still managed to get under Zebra print’s skin, as the old school long cowboy from Jersey, projected a damning you ain’t shit thousand-yard stare toward Mr. Loud Man’s Disease general direction, as he sang along with rock star blasting authority, “Bad Medicine is all I need.”  

Do It All Dad didn’t only piss off living legendary comedians and hall of fame rock star front men with surefire, unintentional precision. His omnipresent Loud Man’s Disease enraged his normally English dour, future father-in-law over a dinner at his home in Delaware only 2 minutes after grace, compelling him to bark out in depleted, drained already disgust, “He’s more talkative than the other one.” The other one being the gentile mute from Indiana, his daughter was engaged to before his daughter found her real deal partner in love this time, at least for the time being.

The major issue now was Do It All Dad’s loud man disease causing his son Art Show USA to develop all-consuming migraine headaches, leading his son to sport a permanent PMS face, until he started to take up mainlining extra strength Tylenol again. And Do It All Dad’s son was tough. How tough you ask? Well, when Art Show USA required stiches for tripping on top of an empty IPA glass on the ground and had to wait 1000 lifetimes in the emergency room so the other doctors could serve all the 1st in line dreamers in attendance, the doc gave Do It All Dad 2 options, “Either A) Authorize the doc using an anesthesia which would take 20 minutes to kick in, or B) To stich up his son the spot as his gaping gash continued to open wider than Octomom after push 5000. Do It All Dad chose B, only for the doctor to say, “Your kid is tough.” Do It All Dad inquires, “Indulge me doc, how tough?” Doc says, “One time there was this black kid from Brooklyn.” Do It All Dad says, “Sold already Doc. Thanks for giving my son tough guy bragging rights for me to derive vicarious pride from till my last dying breath.”

But how was Do It All Dad going to solve his Loud Man’s Disease exactly? Would triple masking even get the job done, after getting his tonsils taken out for an extra safe precaution to? Would Do It All Dad become a eunuch monk, despite already feeling this way at times from being a Stay-At-Home Dad, bitchy underling until his comedy writing career achieved blast off already? Would Do It All Dad seek out a Voodoo Doctor in Washington Heights to cure his Loud Man’s Disease by changing his pigmentation to ESL Asian?

What could Do It All Dad do to prevent his son from receiving any more debilitating headaches in his presence again? Finally, Do It All Dad devised a cure all solution. He’d buy his son a pair of Bose noise canceling headphones to wear in his presence and teach him fucking sign language. Because native New Yorkers were made to be heard.

The End

Michael Kornbluth