Legends of the Small

Nolan Ryan, the most consistently dominant pitcher in MLB history, otherwise known as The Ryan Express or Big Tex, depending on whether he was barebacking a barely broken-in Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, pitched seven no-hitters, which is three more than his idol Sandy Kofax did. Unlike Sandy Kofax, I don’t think Big Tex skipped any prime rib dinners throughout his 27-year playing career, even when George W. Bush tried to talk him into taking media pitching lessons from Dick Cheney, which is a yucky conversation for anybody to stomach. An overly anxious young W tries to break the ice with Big Tex in the locker room after the reporters for the Texas Bugle have left. “When the Rangers don’t make it to the World Series this year, just blame it on Tanner from the Bad News Bears, who planted choking anthrax in the old Astrodome for shits and giggles.”

What else did I learn about Big Tex in the documentary Facing Ryan?

Nolan Ryan’s wife is prettier than the Texas sprawl sky.

Nolan’s Ryan wife of 56 years, Ruth Ryan, is too pretty to cheat on ever.

Ruth Ryan is a prettier, tanner version of Debbie Harry in her prime.

Plus, Ruth Ryan raised three good-looking, rock-solid kids in Texas, where third-term abortions are considered too late, unlike in New York state.


George W. Bush is still a twitchy bitch in an armchair.


George W. Bush, former Managing Director of the Texas Rangers, still sounds like Dick Cheney is nudging him to play the constipated version of Dirty Harry while grunting in the distance, “More twang, Mr. President, more twang.”

Big Tex and Little W Bush don’t mix.


It’s like Beto interviewing MMA fighters over Joe Rogan.


But seriously, Big Tex and Little Bush don’t belong in the same documentary together.

One is in the Headlock Hall of Fame.


The other is in the President Hall of Shame, for giving us 9/11, the surveillance state, and Obama Be Meh, which sent race relations back farther than banning the dunk or bringing back no sneaker policies to the China Club during the summer of 89 when Air Jordan’s flew off the shelves in a NY minute.


Peaceful protestors from January 6th, have gag orders on them while still in jail with no transparent trial ahead. Yet I’m supposed to be pleased with W getting to provide color commentary on a documentary about Nolan Ryan while getting to feed off his sterling integrity as a competitor and Texan legend who has nothing in common with this stumpy piece of shit? And you’re straining for star power voltage, when you’re calling W’s people for an appearance on the doc about Nolan Ryan for Amazon Prime. George W. Bush attended Greenwich Country Day in Greenwich, CT and went to an elite boarding school in Mass soon after before going to Yale. The only thing less Texan than W’s upbringing is Southern Republicans getting their panties in a bunch over the Dixie Chicks. Papa Bush worked for the CIA under Hoover when Kennedy got killed because of his plans to dismantle the Deep State and “Scatter them to the wind.” But I’m supposed to trust the morally bankrupt leadership of the Washington elite after letting four sketchy Arabs take flight lessons in Florida before 9/11 without batting an eye? And Ellen isn’t a sell-out new world order hack breath for hire, who’s only friends with W because she’s pro-bush all the way.

If the Hit King, AKA Charlie Hustle, can’t get voted in Cooperstown because of his gambling problem. Then, I want W banned from documentaries about the creation of great family men like Big Tex. Who didn’t authorize the murdering of our troops and own citizens while pressuring Collin Powell to push the weapons of mass destruction lie with less legs than Lieutenant Dan. Or else the 23 Emmy awards the Daily Show won were for nothing. Legends of the Small live; Challah, 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

Moonshots Galore

Saddest bumper sticker ever: My Cat Votes Democrat. Yeah, I don’t see the FBI doing a panty raid on her behalf either. But just to reminisce a little. This is Trump and Melania handing out candy outside the White House, versus Obama hanging up ISIS flags to scare away trick or treaters. You want to know what Melania tastes like? Try some rocky candy kid. All Obama did was rebrand ISIS, ISIL, so they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times. Start spreading the news kid. Elon Musk in high school equals net zero bush. Without government subsidies, he’d be designing an organ harvesting app for China, called Fuck Mickey Mantle’s Liver, I’ve got a Uyghur one, total deplorable in the CCP’s eyes for half off. It’s in mint condition, because Turkish Muslims in China only drink tea anyway. Does Musk get his ball gags made in China to? If Musk stands up to Chinese censors, then I’m allergic to high end trim, the Clinton Foundation is a charitable foundation for others and Booger Nose Behar is the new Chief Happiness for Breitbart. Moonshots Galore, Mickey Mantle lives, Challah. Thank you very much. 

Michael Kornbluth

Sweet Summer’s Gone

Let’s talk about how great St. Louis Cardinals fans are and why New York should be fly over country instead. Cardinals Nation gave Mark McGwire consistent standing ovations during his initial 0 for 28 hitting slump after they traded for him midseason, not knowing if he’d resign with them in the off season after his contract was up. Halfway into his hitting slump in Pinstripes, Yankee fans would’ve been raiding Mami’s closet for Energizer batteries to pelt at his Pez Despenser head while hyped up on shitty coke from Washington Heights.  Plus, if I took HGH or any performance enhancing drugs at Sleepaway Camp at Kent, CT growing up, it would just make me strike out at a more accelerated speed. And fuck the Cubs organization for severing all ties with Sammy Sosa after bringing all of Wrigley off its feet during that long gone summer of love. It only marks the longest streak of Bill Murray remaining 80 percent smirk free, which beats out Tina Fey after pussy grabber beat Hillary Hammer Time Cankles fair and square. Fuck the Cubs for making Sammy Sosa feel less welcome than a resurgent herpes sore on the spot. I don’t care that he fucked up his face or not. Sosa was loaded with personality, who made Clemente come across as glaringly, self-conscious uppity in comparison, and made that Marris chase worth giving a shit about it, way more than Bonds and McGwire ever did. But the Cubs have no problem banishing a former shoeshine boy from Dominican Republic done good because the New York Times pre-fake news published the Mitchell Report because Bob Costas has smaller nuts than Juan Gonzalez did, that was based on hearsay and more unverified sources less reliable than Jared Kushner holding out more than 2 Mississippi after Ivanka talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again. Sweet summer’s gone, Challah. Thanks for the memories, Sammy, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Gateway To Deflation

You want to learn how much your dad loves you?

Tell him an old friend from college got Cardinals tickets for when you’re in town for the weekend to see George Thorogood and the Destroyers destroy on Friday night with him the previous night.

Big Guy says, “When mom and I passed through St. Louis, we watched a bunch of people enter Bush Stadium.”

And I’m thinking, “You’re failing at selling a better St. Louis story in the making Dad. You watched a bunch of people enter the stadium. What are you a fucking pigeon? How about being excited for your 1st born who blessed you with 3 fuss free grandchildren knowing he leaves the house less than thank you notes to Google for making me a shadow banned Stay At Home Shemale Comedian? And if Google doesn’t manipulate search results, then why is it harder to find negative mentions of Dr. Gnocchi on Google than it is to find a film blogger on Rotten Tomatoes who called the Irishman underrated? My comedy records, all 124 of them should play on every radio station all the time Dad, especially Half Heeb Crazy, Challah. Thank you very much. So, I’m glad you saw Cardinals fans enter Bush Stadium Dad. Bob Gibson is in awe of your lighting fast comebacks designed to make me feel like a loser who missed out in comparison. Vince Coelman and Lou Brock feel like you’ve stolen their best fuck you to material around. And dad, why would you pitch me visiting the Courthouse in St. Louis where the Dredd Scott Decision was made in this instance? Do you want me to celebrate my weekend away from your 3 grandchildren with a friend for the 1st time in 2 years post COVID Damage done or not? So much for no brainer decisions, Challah. St. Louis, here I come, Stan the Man Lives, Challah. Thank you the very much.

Michael Kornbluth

10 Homer Daily

I promised my daughter we’d write a song together this morning. She sang it beautifully. I don’t call her Singing Rose for nothing, here we go.

10 Homer Daily

10 Homer Daily calls out home run blasts in her sleep while other mere mortals kill the time by counting sheep.

10 Homer Daily squeezes pitchers dry, of any juice left to even pick up a piece of pie.

10 Homer Daily is the bard of going yard. The thought of keeping up with her killer blast flow is so hard.

10 Homer Daily whacks endless balls into the clouds while the Baseball Gods look down below upon more thunderous crowds.

10 Homer Daily loves high fast balls the best, pitch her outside or in, she’ll win any homer contest.

10 Homer Daily can smash a ball out of it’s seams, so move over Robert Redford for the new El captain of your team.  

10 Homer Daily is quite a sight. Her is swing is prettier than Aphrodite’s reflection under the moonlight.

10 Homer Daily was born for these times, while others retire she’s thrives in a perpetual prime.

10 Homer Daily makes the ball disappear in the clouds, inspiring the millions of fans to chant take me out the ball game really, really loud.

10 Homer Daily hits moonshots with ease. She’ll do it again no problem despite the pitcher from the Dominican Republic pleading no mas please.

10 Homer Daily stats don’t require graphs, as her stock continues to rise, as she rounds home to use her bat to sign her signature home trot autograph.

Michael and Matilda Kornbluth

Mr. San Diego

Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break?  Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead?  If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.

Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.

Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup  with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.

The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer.  For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.

Michael Kornbluth

The Mustard House Is For Sale

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, 40 miles north of the original Yankee stadium known as Hilltop Park in Washington Heights, before it became a cocaine pick up 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 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 over Candy Land, those Anti-Semite, bastards.”  Prior, Bukowski Kornbluth 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, who he got pregnant by mistake because pulling out on time was physically impossible, knowing 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 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 9 other siblings, it was the radio, which filled him with dreamy, big city success wonder, which made going to sleep still hungry again a tad more tolerable knowing 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, 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 Roy’s 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, earning 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 ballgame 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 ẻmerged 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 Jack. Old Bet, the famous circus elephant was buried ín Sommers outside the famed Elephant Hotel in nearby Sommers, so I’ll write about grabbing some peanuts at the ball game in his honor to. 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 in the sticks, it doesn’t mean I love you any less Arthur. But Stay At Home Dads can’t survive unless they got 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 TheBall 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 I’m can’t stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack again?

The End

Michael Kornbluth