Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical, pitch perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?” Do It Dad get’s a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”  Reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his 1st born in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born, way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out on hearing about his youngest non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and happily married, allegedly, when other family run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother forte. For example, after his 2nd child was born Art Show USA, his younger brother calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey bro, congrats, figured I’d call you while taking a piss.” Do It All Dad always quick with a snappy one liner replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall.”  Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug free monk, even after becoming a father of 3, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedian on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green, knowing it made his material come more alive in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah. Still, Do It All Dad knew cocaine was the most overrated, soul sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his Father addicted to Ambien knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to Boarding School for it, going to rehab, fucking up every new golden Restaurant Manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore either.

Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes, however whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention, despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played out land again.  Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than 2 decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most, about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause families, which never ceases to tear the trusting binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams. So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing Melatonin Gummies on his precious, Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep inducing vitamin, despite it being all natural, whatever the fuck that meant because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep, knowing his dear Matilda’s effortless warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come or rain shine and she wasn’t some dead weight conversationalist snooze, who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family prematurely in the process.

Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon either.  Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks and fired off this email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this, “I’m a great fit for his role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the NeverEnding Bedtime Hour. Plus, I hate my wife pushing Melatonin gummies on my daughter, because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about Daddy? I can only say dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever.  Last, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, “Can we talk?”

Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter didn’t enjoy mommy pushing Melatonin Gummies on her or her younger brothers either, knowing she didn’t see her Mama nearly as much at night compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams, leave me alone already than the automatic pushing of Melatonin Gummies at hard 7 every night. Little did mama know, Matilda similar to lip syncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for Melatonin Gummies was at an all time low, which got freaky for her fast one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of Melatonin Gummy, dipped in Eucalyptus Oil, from the far away hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over my Chinse big pharma companies, looking to expand past the market for muscle soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football cool down lotion of choice. Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these Melatonin Gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick into far later after Dada tucked in her 2 younger brothers to sleep.

Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff, while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from Upstate New York, triggering a pleasant stroll down memory lane, when Dada said to his daughter resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in Upstate New York, outside of Cooperstown, NY in a cornfield to be exact. It was 4th of July weekend, mama and I were there to see a Further show, which was the new version of the Grateful Dead. The show was only 12 miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame, in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American made beauty from the start.” Daddy get’s inspired and asks Alexa to play American Girl by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

Once Matilda renters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?” Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing, I’ve never found Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean. American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll in comparison. Then again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced, real deal feeling. Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad Matilda. which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin, got it. Now, mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before mama texts me, “Hey babe, so how was Bride of Chucky.”

Matilda says, “I have a confession to make Daddy. I took one of mama’s new Melatonin Gummies by mistake tonight, meaning I forget to spit it out later than usual and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin, which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness last I checked on Google.” Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle but no guided mediation music please.” Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the Acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony Freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with in here. Just know, you’ll always be the light of my life and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?” Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of Melatonin Gummies before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring to many holla for challah chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast whenever Mama is home.” Matilda says, “I love the loud you Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of Diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills instead, not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at midnight showing of Higher Learning or not.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical, pitch perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?” Do It Dad get’s a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”  Reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his 1st born in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born, way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out on hearing about his youngest non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and happily married, allegedly, when other family run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother forte. For example, after his 2nd child was born Art Show USA, his younger brother calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey bro, congrats, figured I’d call you while taking a piss.” Do It All Dad always quick with a snappy one liner replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall.”  Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug free monk, even after becoming a father of 3, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedian on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green, knowing it made his material come more alive in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah. Still, Do It All Dad knew cocaine was the most overrated, soul sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his Father addicted to Ambien knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to Boarding School for it, going to rehab, fucking up every new golden Restaurant Manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore either.

Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes, however whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention, despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played out land again.  Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than 2 decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most, about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause families, which never ceases to tear the trusting binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams. So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing Melatonin Gummies on his precious, Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep inducing vitamin, despite it being all natural, whatever the fuck that meant because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep, knowing his dear Matilda’s effortless warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come or rain shine and she wasn’t some dead weight conversationalist snooze, who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family prematurely in the process.

Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon either.  Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks and fired off this email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this, “I’m a great fit for his role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the NeverEnding Bedtime Hour. Plus, I hate my wife pushing Melatonin gummies on my daughter, because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about Daddy? I can only say dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever.  Last, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, “Can we talk?”

Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter didn’t enjoy mommy pushing Melatonin Gummies on her or her younger brothers either, knowing she didn’t see her Mama nearly as much at night compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams, leave me alone already than the automatic pushing of Melatonin Gummies at hard 7 every night. Little did mama know, Matilda similar to lip syncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for Melatonin Gummies was at an all time low, which got freaky for her fast one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of Melatonin Gummy, dipped in Eucalyptus Oil, from the far away hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over my Chinse big pharma companies, looking to expand past the market for muscle soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football cool down lotion of choice. Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these Melatonin Gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick into far later after Dada tucked in her 2 younger brothers to sleep.

Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff, while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from Upstate New York, triggering a pleasant stroll down memory lane, when Dada said to his daughter resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in Upstate New York, outside of Cooperstown, NY in a cornfield to be exact. It was 4th of July weekend, mama and I were there to see a Further show, which was the new version of the Grateful Dead. The show was only 12 miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame, in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American made beauty from the start.” Daddy get’s inspired and asks Alexa to play American Girl by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

Once Matilda renters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?” Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing, I’ve never found Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean. American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll in comparison. Then again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced, real deal feeling. Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad Matilda. which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin, got it. Now, mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before mama texts me, “Hey babe, so how was Bride of Chucky.”

Matilda says, “I have a confession to make Daddy. I took one of mama’s new Melatonin Gummies by mistake tonight, meaning I forget to spit it out later than usual and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin, which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness last I checked on Google.” Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle but no guided mediation music please.” Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the Acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony Freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with in here. Just know, you’ll always be the light of my life and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?” Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of Melatonin Gummies before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring to many holla for challah chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast whenever Mama is home.” Matilda says, “I love the loud you Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of Diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills instead, not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at midnight showing of Higher Learning or not.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Uncomfortably Queasy

Weekend memories of my mom’s Kraft Mac and Cheese don’t fill me with comforting ease. For some reason, the mere image of a half-eaten bowl in the sink gives me imminent deathly chills inside, like the time I started pissing on myself after snorting Crystal Meth prior, thinking it was just exceptionally pure, uncut Cocaine, because after only 1 line, 5 hours later, I kept pronouncing out loud to myself, “This shit is great”, like a coked-out Tony Tiger used to bad coke which tastes like chalky AJAX.  In my mom’s defense, she worked full time as a Loan Officer for JP Morgan in Manhattan, so I can’t blame her for mailing it in on Saturdays by throwing together some Kraft Mac and Cheese, knowing my dad’s half ass, serially undersalted, sickly looking, off yellow, scrambled eggs made before Basketball practice on Saturdays weren’t filling me with unconditional lovely cheer either. Again, I can’t totally shit on my parents half-hearted weekend creations in the kitchen throughout the eighties and early nineties, because Brunch wasn’t a thing yet, nor was any craft put into making mac and cheese from scratch yet, using a plethora of fancy foreign, pricy cheeses such as specs of imported Parm, always sultry smooth Italian Fontina or rind free French brie.  Lobster Mac and Cheese wasn’t conceived yet by some fabulous, brunch visionary hot spot restaurant owner in West Hollywood who longed for something dreamier to sink his teeth into at noon on a Saturday hungover, basking in the gorgeous LA patio sun after being burnt out on being reared on fried egg topped cheeseburgers from Fat Burger in Van Nuys as a kid, who shared less in common with Adam Carolla growing up, than the Wheatgrass bartender for Jamba Juice.

So, for Super Bowl Sunday this year, this old G, decided to make my own Mac Daddy version of Mac and Cheese, to make my 3 Koshertarian kids yell with unmatched glee, “Party time, excellent, I feel the funk.” Not, “Who’s that black chick with Austin Powers in that commercial Daddy? Is she a mini me version of Queen Latifah? I don’t get it.” My plan of attack was to create a Mac Daddy and Cheese that wasn’t to cheesy like the Phantom of The Opera halftime show, because nothing screams half time entertainment more than a bunch of jilted, creepy looking dancers in masks putting on a zero thrills production of Phantom Of the Opera meets Friday The 13th during the year of COVID 19, which has unmasked all the propagandists in the media, who prop up fakes news working class heroes such as Bruce Springsteen who blames his manager for never paying taxes till he got on the cover of Times Magazine after Born To Run blew up but I digress. Bruce pretended he was on Acid to avoid being drafted yelling, “War, what’s it good for? Besides fodder for my upcoming Born In The USA album, about my fake news brother who dies in Vietnam. Does your office look like Salvador Dali took a giant kaleidoscope shit on your desk? And why does Uncle Sam keep pointing at me? It’s not my fault Sandy is a miserable, knocked up diner waitress, who was born to cry in the dark and die alone in the Swamp Thing State.”

Still, the Super Bowl is an American tradition, so I based my Mac Daddy and Cheese dish around the east coast standard, always unifying, pretentious free, yellow Landa Lakes American Cheese. Understand, my wife openly detests American Cheese because she’s a more evolved hick who grew up in the hinterlands of Brisbane Australia, who grew up playing with mud in the yard, knowing she only grew up with 2 TV stations in the outback and if you’ve seen one episode of Astro Boy, you’ve seen them all.  So, making my star standalone dish for Super Bowl Sunday based on yellow Landa Lakes American cheese required some level of American made balls, knowing what potential, all knowing resistor fury, lurked in the nearby distance as Tom Brady continued the greatest winning streak in life ever recorded, which helps when you’re reunited with the always reliable Gronk, as your go to, money in the bank, tight friend.  At the same time, I didn’t want the American cheese to be the sole attraction, similar to The Weekend surrounding himself with the most unattractive, peaceful protestors against the savagery of self-esteem enhancing plastic surgery within the Sunshine scurrying state.

My kids love Broccoli, like myself, assuming you make it with love, destem all the florets, blanch them in a bucket of ice water you’d pour on Bill Parcels if it was made of Gatorade back in the day, before I sautéed them in a butter, high end olive oil, sliced shallots and peeled off bits of garlic, to ensure the gorgeous flowers of green, matched the intensity of hop forward wonderfulness of my pounded 90 Minute Dog Fish IPA prior, which took me only 9 minutes to finish my second.

I used pasta macaroni shells from some Italian pasta maker, which cost 3 buck max in addition, made a basic bechamel, including, butter, flour, milk and spicy brown mustard to help the green goodness stick together with the torn-up bits of American Cheese and olive oil massaged Mac Daddy shells, which looked like glistening tubes of inhalatory perfection.  The only complaint I received was Daddy using a tad too much fresh ground pepper to spice things up, beyond memories of boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese, which are too uncomfortably queasy to replicate for the mere ease of convenience sake for my taste.

I’m not going to call my Mac Daddy and Cheese the Tom Brady of Mac and Cheeses, although my 4-year-old son continuing to polish off his bowl even after his mac and cheese cooled is still sustained excellence in my book to.

Michael Kornbluth

Hot For Hummus

Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review.   Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.

Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahini flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for Hummus but only after I started making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese’s Pieces Peanut Butter Cups, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.

If you never tried Hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought Hummus or homemade Hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.  

Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing.  So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day.  At the very least, your kids will love you more putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Plus, your kids won’t become instantly tubby and resent your existence for it later. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.

Michael Kornbluth

Chicken Cutlet Hunters

The Chicken Cutlet from the Edgemont Deli on Central Avenue next to Danny’s Cycle in southern Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan was always the best.  My old school dear friend Ari, now a Kidney doctor who part owns his own practice in CT, a graduate of Washington University, no dummy, would agree with me, we became fixated on hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet sandwich ever since. I remember inhaling down this chicken cutlet thinking, I was in the presence of greatness, just based on the crispy enough, herbed spice breading on it alone. Back then, I didn’t know the difference between sage or rosemary. I wasn’t aware of how cilantro was used as an herb in salsa. Shit, an underclassman fooled me into buying oregano for weed senior year in high school, so I wasn’t obsessing over the herb installation componentry embedded in my bomb chicken cutlet from the Edgemont Deli at the time, that wasn’t Calista Flockhart skinny but more Jo plump like from Facts of Life, which gave you something more excitable to chomp into again and again. The perfectly shredded lettuce, semi-thin, actual fleshy red tomato on top,  nestled between the banging Kaiser roll, which was never drowning for dear life in an amorphous plop of mayo goo didn’t hurt the chicken cutlet sandwich’s overall appeal one bit either. Ah, those were the days, pre-Yelp, where you actually had to rely on your own intuition and New York bred sense of adventure to try and consume it all, like a less hyper articulate, perpetually suave, mini Anthony Bourdain in the making, minus the French royal rocker look working in your favor either.

Now, that I’m getting my 3 kids more courageous about trying different Kosher meat creations because they know I’m writing a book about it and unlike others, they still believe me in pounding my dreams of comedic superstardom into freaking reality already, especially when I involve them in the act of pulverizing the homemade Kosher chicken cutlets I made tonight with real deal Hebrew Hammer fury.  I told my son Arthur to choke up on the mighty mallet before pounding the chicken cutlets for round 2 with the intention of smooshing those cutlets into barely recognizable form like when Mitch Blood Green came up with the bright idea to start a street fight with Iron Mike in Harlem during his prime time domination years, where he knocked out legendary heavy weights by the time you banged another one out to Taste Of Amber again.  

My wife had to Nazify my dream chicken cutlet recreation tonight, using a combination of panko breadcrumbs and homemade ones while also using a mishmash of chopped parsley, sage and rosemary, by insisting on calling it the meal “Schnitzel”, saying, “I haven’t had Schnitzel since Oktoberfest in Germany.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Chances are you had pork schnitzel for starters, which is fine, but don’t lump my dish into your non-eating Kosher past in Germany before the open borders invite to invade and resist assimilation lead to no-go zones, proving too much for Angela Merkel’s hunched shoulders to bear alone. Where is W to give Angela Lansbury’s, more homely, less talented, dour dumpy clone to give an unsolicited back rub, when you need him?  Also, I didn’t  know what the hell Schnitzel was in high school, I just knew how to order a chicken cutlet at the deli, with shredded lettuce, tomato, mayo, Russian dressing or getting some melted provolone on it if I was feeling particularly eccentric for lunch, that day, that’s it. Granted, tonight, I did fry up gargantuan flatted breasts which looked like Pauly from Rocky passed out on Bridget Nielson’s tits. But I wouldn’t call a schnitzel dish using Panko breadcrumbs and Kosher certified chicken as a sterling example of keeping it real Arian like either.  Actually, for those food nerd historians at home, schnitzel was actually invented in Austria before famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal helped track down Adolf Eichman’s Nazi footsteps in Buenos Aries pleasuring himself to more Malbec and Nazi trading cards bound for the ashbins of truly deplorable history. Before shiny shoes got hanged in Israel for being Farrakhan’s dreamboat exterminator against you know who Gervais, and it wasn’t your mole infested British commoners working as Bank Tellers for Barclay’s Bank either.

I’m most impressed with my how kids continue to embrace and try any new meat creation I make for them, because they know it’s made with love and kids always love you back twice as much, when you make them like feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Last, your kids can’t help but look up to daddy a little bit in the kitchen knowing he’s doing his best to please God  and obey his dietary laws in exchange for blessing him with the greatest home team imaginable, which grows closer every day, yeah, yeah.

I’m about to put my 3-year old son Samuel in the car today on our way to pick up a couple of last minute, improvised inspired ingredients and he says with a wink and brightened smile, “I hate your jokes and your books to.” I laughed long time. The fact my 3-year-old son already understands the full spectrum of silly minded, sarcastic fueled ball busting while also comprehending what work I’ve been pounding away at since he was born is a sign that God really is looking after my back through this miracle wonderkid. Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo really is the pubescent, Total Package, Lex Luger after all.

Michael Kornbluth

Death Of A Bose Salesman

Once upon a time there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease.  He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin   and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song Hells Bells. Michael Yeller always believed louder is better until now because he was longer ablet to sing Search and Destroy by Iggy Pop and Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss anymore.   

Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders throughout the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding, the steel guitar slaying, Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop CC Deville from Poison. Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah but he already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.

After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA but IT Directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and non-descript, low key bars on random, zero foot traffic streets, unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl once. Eventually, Michael moved back to NY and did digital ad sales for Citysearch and started to try open mike stand up comedy. When working for Citysearch he’d say on stage, “Citysearch is city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.” But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rock star on stage, because if his 1st joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggy back off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any new inspired direction of hilarity he choose.  

At the Christmas party for CitySearch Michael sang his best rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting black out drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to Oh What A Feeling.

Knowing Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of Fallen Angel in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job, where his loud man disease could be neutralized, where it wouldn’t become such a career hindering liability and got a job in suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY selling state of the art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system all together. Michael would be selling noise cancelation headphones, “Yenta Silencers”, is what he’d call them specifically before sampling new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know Google fired 25 software engineers for sexual harassment? But software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”  

But one day during a demo presentation for AC/DC Back In Black on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell Church bell clang to Hells Bells. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, losing all semblance of voice control now whatsoever?

Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most bad ass metal rock records of all time, which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally. Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse and Van Halen with divine powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard non-stop-all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kick ass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again. In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore but he was still able to sell his love of loud, metal music through his blogs, and also had the kick ass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Death Of A Bose Salesman

Once upon a time there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease.  He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin   and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song Hells Bells. Michael Yeller always believed louder is better until now because he was longer ablet to sing Search and Destroy by Iggy Pop and Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss anymore.   

Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders throughout the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding, the steel guitar slaying, Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop CC Deville from Poison. Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah but he already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.

After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA but IT Directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and non-descript, low key bars on random, zero foot traffic streets, unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl once. Eventually, Michael moved back to NY and did digital ad sales for Citysearch and started to try open mike stand up comedy. When working for Citysearch he’d say on stage, “Citysearch is city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.” But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rock star on stage, because if his 1st joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggy back off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any new inspired direction of hilarity he choose.  

At the Christmas party for CitySearch Michael sang his best rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting black out drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to Oh What A Feeling.

Knowing Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of Fallen Angel in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job, where his loud man disease could be neutralized, where it wouldn’t become such a career hindering liability and got a job in suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY selling state of the art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system all together. Michael would be selling noise cancelation headphones, “Yenta Silencers”, is what he’d call them specifically before sampling new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know Google fired 25 software engineers for sexual harassment? But software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”  

But one day during a demo presentation for AC/DC Back In Black on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell Church bell clang to Hells Bells. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, losing all semblance of voice control now whatsoever?

Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most bad ass metal rock records of all time, which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally. Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse and Van Halen with divine powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard non-stop-all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kick ass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again. In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore but he was still able to sell his love of loud, metal music through his blogs, and also had the kick ass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Regrettable Road Traveled

I thought making brownies with my kids for the 1st time would be a dose of old school American fun. It wasn’t.  Domestic bliss is a lie when a semi straight man tries to make brownies with his kids. Now I know why I occasionally watch The Great British Bakeoff with my wife to feel a tad more snug secure in my drooping masculinity. I’ll never get into the domestic science of experimenting in the kitchen with my 3 kids hovering around me wanting to get involved in making brownies again because caring about perfecting a homemade desert is too fussy sweet for my taste. Also, did you know most brownie recipes, require an entire stick of butter? I’d rather stick to pounding more Sierra Nevada Pale Ale’s, the pale ale that never gets stale, thanks. And microwaving down an entire stick of butter in a measuring cup is gross. It’s like watching what happens to Martha Dumptruck after a whopping minute on the Peloton.  

So, what does raising my kids Koshertarian have to do with my brownie bust experiments? Did I use Kosher salt over Pinko Himalayan Salt?  No, I stuck with Kosher salt because using Pink Himalayan salt didn’t feel Kosher to me because whenever I think of Nepal I think of mind melting hash I got baked with in Amsterdam, which would’ve stripped the old school, this land is your land, American vibe I was trying to tap into for my brownie bust experiment regret of 2020 man.  Still, trying to make brownies with my kids was important to me at the time, because I wanted to instill a sense of American community and a dash of do it all dad bliss, so I could prove to mama, whatever you don’t do, I can do a smidgen better.  The ghost of Robert Frost can go pound Kosher salt, because I took the road less traveled to please my kids and do a group of activity that didn’t involve me wrestling with my kids on our yoga mat, throwing them around our blown up pool this summer from China or playing blackjack with our fancy poker chip set, and regretting every second of it. Our 1st batch of brownies was too cakey, the other batch was too sugary, and I don’t have a spare third testicle, so doubling down on my shot at becoming Betty fucking Draper tweaked on Adderall to feel like a more essential domesticated homemaker hearth warmer failed to fill me with good intended cheer, leaving me with nothing but morning after disgust generated from doing Martha Dumptruck more than twice.

So, what is the magical recipe for domestic brownie bliss. Easy ,use flower, egg, coco powder, sugar, butter and your wife to do it, unless you want to feel like those permanent eunuchs in Empire Of the Sun. Do I sound like a bitter clinger to my non-baker bust past? Yes, but I’ve lost all interest in acting like an American sweetheart when I don’t want to be. Gen X Dads understand. We grew up in the age of Aids, 9/11, multiple recessions and now have massive mask shaming hysteria to contend with from our NPR worshiping wives. So, don’t expect us to do cartwheels over the prospect of relishing the campy, airy, non-divisive feel of The Great American British Bakeoff. No, our tastes in sweets and coffee is like our preferred taste in comedy, dark and bitter, with a dash of some fun filled, foam party conjuring foam on top. Gen X dads are the Macchiato generation, hyper focused, around the clock hustlers obsessed with American made success and teaching our kids more than Different Strokes did such as how a Macchiato is a circumcised Cappuccino, which makes you feel like a less empty, blowhard baby boomer inside.

Michael Kornbluth

Tofu The Terrible Slayer

Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth, was in no singing mood today. Every day, she’d wake up singing,” Good day sunshine” by the Beatles even if she got up at the crack of dawn again or decided to work in Norway away from her mom and dad throughout an entire darkened 5 month winter as a 9-year ski model for Northface, knowing in a post-corona universe, she was used to doing remote learning away from school anyway. But this drab Thanksgiving morning was different, because she had to act thankful for eating Tofurky Roast again, despite the spirit of Tofu The Terrible terrorizing her dreams since she described soy dogs in her school lunch cafeteria blog as “Rubber dog link nosh toys.”

But how could Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth act grateful for eating a Tofurky Roast, since her 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Right, made it clear how the native American Indians weren’t responsible for teaching the Pilgrims how to turn soy milk into white blocks of semi-firm bricks of soy with higher levels of estrogen to feminize John Smith’s sturdy stock of sailors with. Also, Thanksgiving this year post-Corona wasn’t feeling particularly festive, knowing Matilda was suffering from PTSD from wearing all of those Corona masks to death. Matilda was now having nightmares of being terrorized by the masked man, Tofu The Terrible who ruined every favorite meal she’d dream of. For example, if Matilda had just won the Gold Medal in the Hardcore X Games for Equestrian Riders within the Under 10 Years age bracket, having to complete jumps through rings of fire with an occasional baby dragon on her tail. She’d normally celebrate with her best friend Shannon in her dream over their favorite treat Jellybeans for a sleepover party soon after. But now all that appeared in her dream were pasty, slimy soybeans in the place of jellybeans because Tofu The Terrible was punishing her for calling soy dogs on her cafeteria food blog, “Not good enough to pass for rubber dog toys.” And Matilda hated pet dogs because they ate dog food with minced horse meat inside. Matilda had always been a hardcore vegetarian loyalist, yet she greatly offended the spirt of Tofu The Terrible, a ferocious Chinese vegetarian warrior from the Ming Dynasty, who even got Genghis Khan into Mapo Tofu over Jasmine Rice, a fiery, dish loaded with super scary Sichuan spice. The smell from the grounded up Sichuan peppercorns would make most grown men cry, making their lips tremble in fear at the prospect of having to try one more bite, knowing Genghis Khan would be hoarding all the Sake rice wine for any temporary relief for themselves soon afterwards.

Matilda was convinced she’d never enjoy the food she loved in real life again such as her Dad’s fried Icelandic cod in a barbeque aioli without tasting anything but mushy, dog drool instead.  

Now, it was time for everyone at the table to give thanks for Thanksgiving, which Matilda had been dreading from the start, because she was consumed with nightmarish visions of Tofu The Terrible ruining all her favorite foods in her dreams and in real life, such as her Dad’s star side dish creation, caramelized cauliflower potato  gratin, combining cave aged Gruyere and Raclette cheese from the Swiss Alps, which  injected the dish with an extra scrumptious, creamy fresh finish.

Matilda’s Dad, a Stay At Home Comedian Author, Podcast Host and self-taught semi gourmand Chef could tell his daughter was dreading her turn to participate and says, “Matilda, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is Tofu The Terrible ruining the taste of your Jellybeans again?” Matilda perks up, shaken out of her petrified, frozen comatose and says, “How did you know about Tofu The Terrible Daddy?” Matilda’s dad says, “I helped you launch your own lunch cafeteria blog on WordPress remember? Your last piece Tofu Brownie Blues, was about how Tofu The Terrible threated to shred everyone’s masks at school, unless the Brownie Girls started selling his special batch of Tofu Brownies at the next school bookfair instead.” Matilda says, “Do we have to eat the Tofurky Roast this year?” Dad says, “No, try this veggie Barbeque Pita instead.” Matilda takes a reluctant bite but is moved by her Dad’s gesture of goodwill. She says, “Yummy daddy. Her Dad says, “I fried up cubes of semi-firm soy inside that bad boy. The sautéed onions and peppers keep the memories of mushy dog toy food at bay. Tofu The Terrible was dead in Matilda’s head and she started singing again while giving thanks and praises at Thanksgiving, singing, “Soy Dogs still suck, Tofu The Terrible to, but you’re no longer so bad, since my daddy came to my rescue.”

The End

Michal Kornbluth

Sexualizing Book Review Requests

Dear Fans,

The Great American Jew Novel is finally available in old school book form.  I trimmed the fat, which detracted from the thrust of my plot long time.  You can consume the book in one inhaling easy.  I’d love reviews in exchange for a signed a copy, which will be worth big bucks someday. The meatier offering version of The Great American Jew Novel, loaded with more mouthfuls of hilarity is available on Audible, for those who require an occasional breather from time to time.  Have I sexualized my books enough for your tastes yet?

Email me anytime for a complimentary book request on the house at doitalldadyear@outlook.com.  I blogged the Great American Jew Novel into existence under the Corona lockdown of 2020 through the grace of God and his sustained belief in me rising to the occasion.  I also wouldn’t haven written this book with such extreme gusto without the sustained interest of all you hardcore WordPress fans throughout every new chapter post I made. My daughter Matilda, inspiring me to write a mini star vehicle in her honor and entertaining her 2 younger brothers with creative play while I banged out my 1st semi-autobiographical novel on the cusp of my 44th birthday helped long time to, despite the last thing my wife wanted to hear was that I was writing another book again.

Thanks for making me a big dreamer doer again, WordPress fans at large. My Do It All Dad Year Podcast, this blog and past 4 books wouldn’t have possible without you being the best open mike audience God has blessed with me outside of my 3 biggest fans in the universe on the stay at home comedian front, no offense.  Also, thanks again to my old school Twitter peeps, for all your past retweet joke love, which helped give me the confidence to take down all the big dogs in comedy throughout my pre-election comedy special Resist This book. You’re the best to.

Last, on Yelp they don’t call me Michael the Emoter Kornbluth for nothing. So, I’d have zero problem reviewing any of your books in exchange for a review of The Great American Jew Novel or for Resist This, only 60 plus pages, available in print form now to.

My Very Best,

Michael Kornbluth