Hardcore Beauty Queens

Fuck China. Chinese made Fentanyl has killed more crackers in this county than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram. Lena Dunham was Hillary’s Social Media Campaign Manager when she ran against Trumpy Poo. Only Lena Dunham could make Hillary less likeable and relatable in one blubbery swoop.

Older woman with grey hair give me old school erections like I’m 21 again. I’m hot for old school maids sucking out my white priveledge like a battery drained Dust Buster on its last legs in 1999. Plus, you know they’ve been married for long stretches of time at some point resulting in them being open to try anything new like facial cream specials by a formidable meaty mallet, before washing up for a Zoom call at noon.

I still can’t get turned on by older woman talk at the pool about five month waiting periods for private school. Mainly because I doubt those schools resemble the Girl School video by Briteny Fox. Plus, talk of private school waiting list, just reminds me how long my wife has been waiting for me make it as comedian already because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under Judicial review. I still can’t stare down an actress on Melrose without being fined for insufficient funds.

Tom Petty died from Fentanyl. They say he used Fentanyl for his back problems. Why couldn’t Tom Petty sit his ass on a piano bench which was more than sufficient whenever Jerry Lee would pound the keys with his cock with resounding, reverberating authority instead. How else do you think he came up the lyrics, Great Balls of Fire?”

I think more shrinks should prescribe edibles over anti-depressants. One, gives you a mentally tingly lift. The other turns you into a school shooter on the FBI’s Most Neglected List.

I still can’t believe recreational weed shops actually exist in our country. It makes me proud to be an American again, in a place where I know I’m free to take edibles behind my kid’s backs before they unmask my pot head eyes.

Weed edibles don’t make me feel like a total moron around my daughter whenever she asks me a super hard question on them like, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God?” I say, “God went back in time in a time machine made by Elon Musk. ” Daughter says, “That’s a really convincing theory Dad. Thanks for turning me to an atheist at 4.” David Cross lives, holla, thank you very much.

Moms who obsess over suntan protection are the same ones who insist on their kids wearing masks inside like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain. Wearing a mask in your car is like the God of War Aries wearing a tunic dress into a Greek Spa to conceal what a raging homo he is underneath.

Suntan protection shaming today is another shining example virtue signaling. Look at me, I’m willing to blind my own kid before that bitchy old sun get’s gives my kid some extra soul glow 1st.

I’m reaching out to Christian Lit agents, pitching my book, The Koshertarian Comedian, stating, “You’re my only option left because I’m the last God fearing, self-loving Jewish New Yorker left. Who doesn’t shy away from pro Trump material either like Trump’s the anti-Christ? But doesn’t Jesus’ return from Heaven to defeat the Anti-Christ in the Bible part 2? So have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you people? I actually had to Google Anti-Christ to figure out what it meant. That’s what Pig Vomit calls Howard Stern in Private Parts before he came out as weird, weak, woke Howard. So at the time, I thought how bad could the Anti-Christ be? Then again, I don’t think Howard lost any sleep over Artie turning his nose into a piece of fucking folded Capicola. After he got remarried to Beth, who’s a 6.9 by ghoulish tranny standards, who has zero feel for measured makeup application whatsoever. Weird, Weak Howard also insists all Trump supporters drop dead. Whatever it takes Howard, to ensure you still get invited over to Jimmy Kimmel’s house for more 2 bite chicken parm dinners. It’s not Trump’s fault, you’re no longer the King of All Media or Social Media ever. If you haven’t been kicked off Twitter, you’re no longer hardcore hilarious enough sorry Perm Head. Can I get a holla, for mo money mint weird weak Howard blast for the ages, Challah? Thank you very much.

Daughter sports a new tang top this morning that says, “Grateful” on it. Wife says, “Doesn’t she look like hardcore hippie in it?” I say, “I prefer to call her a hardcore beauty queen in the making babe. She doesn’t care for the Fleet Foxes, Bjork or that other band you like the Mask Miserable Seals.

The other day, my son says, “I jammed this lime up my butt.” I said, “Don’t jam limes up your butt.” He says, “Why not? I rubbed it against my penis to and it felt good.” I reply, “I better keep you away from dad’s Key Lime pie for dessert.”

Perfect father son, bonding moment. Son says, “Are you picking us up from camp today?” I said, “Yes.” He says, “That’s good, because I get to see more of you then. And we get to listen to bad ass music on the car ride home. And my wife thinks Hair Metal is rock and roll pollution. But Bjork having a band member pouring cups of water into a koi pond for a watered down drum of solo doesn’t stink.



The other night I’m tucking my daughter in and say “Hardcore Hilarious Rocks” is one of my strongest comedy records yet. My act outs of Joy Behar in Muslim virgin heaven and as Kay announcing to Michael about being pregnant with a hermaphrodite son in my bit the Gender Fluid Godfather are some of my strongest act out bits yet. Daughter says, “So you’re better at playing at girls daddy?” I say, “I don’t call myself a stay-at home shemale comedian for nothing.”

Wife pulls a dildo out of her panty drawer and says, “Do you want it?” I say, “Save for it for Samuel. He’s already jamming limes up his butt. So, at this point, what difference does it make.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives, holla, thank you very much.

Weed dealer bud calls and says he’s going to Mexico for vacation this summer. I say, “Last time I went to Tijuana, a hooker called me faggot after I declined to fuck her which was an uplifting moment at the time. Later, a woman who I thought was a regular customer gave me a 2 second lap dance and I exploded in my sweats 2 seconds later. So, I no longer felt like a full-fledged faggot, which was a pleasant change of my pace. Once, I went to a strip club in Montreal and tipped the DJ fifty bucks to play the 22- minute Whipping Post version from the Allman Brothers record, live at The Filmore East. I’m a craftier, greedier Jew than I give myself credit for actually.   

Wife can’t get enough of the new soft core porn series on Netflix Sex/Life. She showed me the picture of this Aussie hunk naked who could’ve gone jump roping with it flaccid. All this time at home has given has given stuck at home, remote learning monitoring suburban moms never-ending schlocky schlong fever.

Told my weed dealer bud about getting up on stage again recently and how I started bombing once I went after Hillary Hammer Time Cankles. On stage I say, “Hillary says she lost because of Russian collusion. I thought she lost because she’s an unhuggable cunt, my bad. She must have deleted that memo to. My wife had a Hillary spotting for lunch during restaurant week in this garden patio spot in Westchester. Wife says, “Hillary was nice. She smiled at baby. I said, “Of course she smiled at baby. Hillary was getting warmed for up for dessert.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Eunuch Sentimentalist

Listening to Steve Perry’s new album on Spotify this morning made feel like the eunuch sentimentalist in Game of Thrones. But why am I so hurried desperate to relink with my age of innocence again?  Granted, anyone who remains a stay-at-home dad on purpose wants to remain a eunuch for the time being. At the same time, why do cocksure heterosexual men or gender fluid shemale comedians like me feel compelled to deride some sappy sad downer power ballad songs as eunuch sentimentalist music at all? I think it’s because as we get older and get a tad more jaded around the edges of a broken heart, we don’t buy into the irrefutable, absolute truisms behind certain famous sing along lyrics by Chicago such as, “How can I go on?” How can I go on? Find a fresher, tighter snatch to fall in love with for starters, who doesn’t deride the workshopped over, comedic genius behind iconic, FX shows such as Rescue Me as being merely sexist. Just because a bunch of hot chicks throw themselves at Dennis Leary’s fireman character, which isn’t a radical departure from reality considering the post 9/11 times it was made in. Understand, before 9/11, Firemen as a whole in New York were derided by the NYPD as mere cat tree snatchers, burnt out line cooks or Magic Mike wannabes. 9/11 changed all that. That’s why DeBlasio shooting down the Freedom Tower tribute ceremony this past year over alleged COVID concerns was ridiculously stupid. Because out of the blue, I don’t think 9/11 1st responders were sweating the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus. Now, regardless of the NYPD being defunded or not, they’ve lost the moral high ground over New York City Fireman, since every day now for the cops is standing down day. Cops in NY have so much free time on their hands now, they’re the ones taking how to make ravioli from scratch classes at the 92 St. Y. Cops who insist on taking a knee today proves how undercover cops who haven’t retired yet prematurely from the force are still down with wearing Nike sweats no matter what.

But momentous, hair standing on the back of your neck tingly songs like the Flame by Cheap Trick still sway my heart toward more promise filled tomorrows than any shitty, melodic free rap song by Nipsey Hussle ever could, which is a testament to the timeless appeal behind emotive, heartfelt, male articulated lyrics man. Versus most radio friendly rap songs both old and new, which deride woman interested in riding a rapper’s joystick out of its socket as mere money grubbing, stupid ass, over the hill hos. Sebastian Bach, original lead singer of Skid Row claims only teenage girls bought their debut record because of their monster rock ballad hit, I Remember you. So, you’re a twinkle toe bitch boy for pretending you bought the debut record Skid Row to hear Big Guns and Rattle Snake Shake again and again, otherwise. Reality is though, the soaring guitar solo in I Remember You, is exalted high end heartfelt rock at its finest.  That sounds even more kick ass melodic special over time, because it’s my eunuch sentimentalist music, that came out in my time, when I didn’t even hit puberty yet, let alone have a clue on how to exert my manhood if it finally bloomed under my Fruit of the Looms after feeling like the last kid to enter the puberty party in school.  But that’s ok, because I grew a sack eventually, and some hair on it to or else I never would’ve dared to make it through my never ending pain period as a cold calling IT agency headhunter at 22 in LA, a long, long, way from home nor would’ve I ever contemplated trying open mike standup at the Rainbow Lounge on Sunset, where Hair Metal sleaze incarnate Ratt once reigned supreme, getting endless perfect tens to let their bodies do their talking for them. I also wouldn’t have hit on my future wife and mother of my 3 pitch perfect sounding kids after hitting on 3 other girls prior with relentless, horn dog crazed, wheel and deal zeal without the power ballad soundtrack of my youth pulsating through my on with the show heart.

 

So why are underlying hopeful power ballads that prove men are capable of being deeper than the eighteenth hole considered soft core girly again? Men in long hair and makeup back in the seventies and eighties singing songs starting with Barry Manilow didn’t counterbalance that perception one bit. Meanwhile, Ronnie Van Zandt sang Free Bird, which was considered an original power ballad of its day and he’d make Neil Young his Canadian cunt in the can without breaking a sweat while yelling, “More shriekish wailing Young. I’m not buying you being whipped on a southern man being all free and up in your jail bird ass just yet.”

Power Ballads are considered soft girly because most men are too chicken shit to spill their innards out to a woman in person let alone on wax after a record company fronts them 200,000 thousand dollars to make it for millions to hear. Power Ballads will always woo because they burst with romantic longing for more hopeful filled tomorrows, which hold out the promise of soothing the tissue torn teen hearts in us all, especially among us gun shy dudes plagued by our frozen with fear pasts. But I don’t buy for minute the horseshit premise which insists that the era of Internet porn on demand, flush with tatted out white girls on Crystal meth has completely stripped our need for the comforting lift, that great power ballads provide us all.  Hair Metal Nation on Sirus Radio doesn’t exist without the power ballad hits, that never lost the pull they have on Gen X guys and gals because it’s Eunuch sentimentalist music that hit big in our hearts in our time, it belongs to us, and nobody can ever take that away from WE. Also, when we all fell in love with the soft, soothing sounds of 9pm clock radio music by REO Speedwagon, we weren’t fixated on the singer or image from the video but on our aching, incomplete hearts, longing for a willing recipient of our love bursts already. Big tits are great, but they don’t overcompensate for an ok face or an even worse bitch laden, one note heart that fluctuates from softcore bitch to full-fledged, scowly cunt in a NY Minute.

What makes power ballads so powerful? Featherly light finger tapping by CC on Every Rose Has Its Thorn is great, no doubt. For me though, what makes power ballads so powerful, is the rousing, never say die attitude for giving love another shot with all you got like the late great Jani Lane from Warrant sings with such soul stirring feeling on Sometimes She Cries. Holding out the hope of more pregnant filled tomorrows is what makes power ballads pack some extra exalted, it’s not over yet asshole, oomph for me. Is it time to move past 14 yet? Not even close, because like the serially underrated Britney Foxx screeched back in the day with ultra throaty, soul metal verve, “It’s a long way to love.” So don’t give up on your storybook romance life just yet. You dream the fuck on, until you make your new dreams to remember come true, or else love really does bite if you allow it to get into last lacerating lick and stop believing in your right to live a fulfilling life, flush with your own fair share of Heavy Metal highs to cherish forever.  Save the week like Britney Foxx did. Hound down your innermost love. And never allow anyone the power to damper your special spark shine inside, that gives you more than a feeling. Boston lives. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Flinch Club

We need to knock on doors to get people vaccinated. And Trumpy Poo was the fascist dictator in charge who launched biological warfare on his own precious economy. I hate the Biden administration more than Jen Psaki’s Strawberry Shortcake White House, house-warming gift for Mr. Groper, like it was nicotine gum to quell his cravings around inhaling her whole in the Oval Office with the lights turned down low. Bob Marley lives, holla, thank you very much.

The Tokyo Olympics will be held without spectators like the NBA Finals, without Drama Queen Diaries.

My 4-year-old son hits me in the stomach as I encourage him to do so, until I have zero beer belly protrude-age left to hit. My father sitting next to us on the lawn chair says, “Don’t hit your daddy.” I say, “It’s ok Dad, I’m teaching him to be a fighter, not a flincher.” My dad says, “Fine, but don’t hit me Samuel or I’ll hit back.” Typical, Democrat reply, “Threaten and attempt to intimidate those deemed smaller in stature than you. Personally, I think my 4-year-old son could break pop’s glasses in 2 if he tried. The kid flicks 5-pound free weights with ease like they were pistachio nut shells flicked at Andy Dick’s head at the Viper Room passed out 2 hours before the ball drop on New Year’s Eve.”  Heaven for my 4-year-old son is watching Rocky training montage sequences on YouTube with Daddy on the big screen TV. Next time my dad, tries to disparage good news about Christian lit agents sucking off my pitch letter or “very funny” sample chapter samples from The Koshterian Comedian by saying, “Who cares?” My little fighter will say to Gramps, “You tried knocking Daddy down, why don’t you try knocking me down. Daddy, calls me Hardcore Hunga for a reason, go for it.” Rocky 5 lives. Can I get a holla for more some more primo Gen X references Gen X Dads understand, challah? Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth