Children Are Better Than You

Children Are Better Than You
Because I don’t have to get stoned or drunk to make them more interesting, as opposed to you.

Children Are Better Than You
Because they don’t have a breakdown, if you say, “I’m surprised you didn’t levitate after you just farted on the stairwell.” Instead, they say, with relaxed, good humored glee back to daddy. “You monster.”

Children Are Better Than You
Because when the children laugh, it sounds like tingly love rather than your dumb, hyena cackle.

Children Are Better Than You
Because no dream is big enough for them. And they never try to trip up your MOJO with life accomplishment limiting labels such as learning disabled or too ambitious.

Children Are Better Than You
Because whenever I’m forced to hang out with you. I never think, I’m a poor unfortunate soul. Who misses out on the best of you.

Children are Better Than You
When you tell them about positive happenings in your writing career, they don’t turn into tone deaf mutes instantaneously, on cue every time.

Children Are Better Than You
Because you never inspire me to write poetry in your honor.

Children Are Better Than You
Because their eyes actively search for magical delight in all, rather than seek out imperfections to shred to pieces.

Children Are Better Than You
Because they’ll instruct you to pee standing up. Instead of calling you a homo for taking a 1, plopped down on the toilet if they’re in room with you at the time.

Children Are Better Than You
Because their love makes me feel like a winner inside and yours doesn’t ever.

Children Are Better Than You
Because they would never refuse to call on their kids birthday out of mean spirited, she male stay at home dad shaming spite alone.

Children Are Better Than You
Because they’d be the first call out your bare minimum grand-parenting as pathetic, if I really nudged the confession out of my children while comparing you to more active grandparents if I wanted to.

Children Are Better Than You
They do mini- musicals for me. All you do is yell at Alexa for playing the Grateful Dead over your precious Bob Dylan. Dylan asked to play in their band and the Dead refused for the record.

Children Are Better Than You
They push you to become the best version of you. Rather than normalize, apologize or enable your degenerate, lushy, druggy dependent destructive behavior.

Children Are Better Than You
Because when you say I’m sorry, they let it go. And don’t become a passive aggressive bitch for the remainder of their slighted, perpetual, panties in a bunch lives.

Children Are Better Than You
Because their idea of cooler talk isn’t despite those white supremacists in the White House, or he’s made our country so much worse. Wrong your, sour puss 2 year tantrum has.

Children Are Better Than You
They never take your emotionally present company for granted. Giving back ten times love back, for showing an interest in getting closer to them.

Children Are Better Than You
They instinctively know you’re a boring, bossy stiff before you do.

Children Are Better Than You
They look at the world with infinite wonder. You look at the Drudge Report to be enlightened. Apparently, Michael Savage does for every broadcast also.

Children Are Better Than You
Because when then say yum from your homemade hummus. They say it with pure, holy shit this is the best batch ever, keep up the good work, dada joy.

Children Are Better Than You
Because giving them shoulder rides makes feel like I’m on top of the world. With you around, I just want to ruminate on how much I can’t stand your company on Twitter.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

What’s In Fatherhood For Me?

My wife says, “No man is ever ready for fatherhood.” I rely. “You should be the next the Chief Marketing Officer for Planned Parenthood.” But seriously, I didn’t plan for fatherhood. I’ll never forget my girlfriend, now wife sitting me down on our bed in our one-bedroom apartment in Astoria, NY. She says. “I’m pregnant” with a hint of subdued joyous, teary trepidation. Because we hadn’t even gotten married yet. I compose myself and think. “Be firm, tell Natalia, it’s her own choice but then push for the abortion and don’t be a pussy about it.” I couldn’t order the premature hit on my own flesh and blood. It felt wrong on every level. And God has showered me with endless love filled blessings in the form of 3 out of this world, can’t believe their real, too good to be true children ever since.

 
Reality is, I explored the issue of abortion in a screenplay I wrote in Park Slope prior, Brooklyn Blogger, previously called Juno Does Williamsburg. I wanted to write the funniest, independent, NC17 parody ever made. But the intended playful romp about Juno moving to Williamsburg and banging every hipster in sight to recapture her lost fountain of youth after giving her baby up for adoption developed into a tale of regret, emptiness and longing I never in a million years anticipated prior. There’s one scene.  Where Juno, now known as Maya the Blogger, has a conversation about abortion with her sultry, oversexed, bi-sexual bud, Titiana, at a Polish sausage shop she works at in Greenpoint, NY. Titiana says “A Fetus can’t sing, dance, laugh or kill at the Comedy Cellar, so what  kind of life is that?” Also understand, Titiana was able to sound more cavalier about abortion than most because she’s already had 7 abortions prior, only to get pregnant again. Which prompts a line by her caustic, firebrand mother to blurt with extreme disdain “Isn’t eight enough Titiana?”

 

 

I dated a girl in LA, when I 1st moved out there, who had major issues as my father would say. She looked like a paler, Loraine Bracco, you know Dr. Melfie from the Sopranos, minus the luscious, mountable melons on top and darker, Sicilian, super inviting, inhalable legs below. I’m a sexually repressed, slut in a straight jacket father of 3, I know. But the character Maya, the Blogger, who gave her kid up for adoption, has all the sex in the world, and it never fulfills her empty void inside. So, when my girlfriend, now wife, told me out of nowhere, she was pregnant. I was still a wannabe headlining standup comedian. Obviously, not too much has changed in my life. But it has, because when my book Stay at Home Comedian becomes a hit, snags me an agent and books me for a worldwide promotion tour, with some accompanying standup gigs. Where I no longer have to be a signer upper open miker, thank God. I’ll be doing it to profit from all my hard work for the overall betterment of my family, not for pure show off ego enlargement, purposes alone. And to pay back my wife, my partner in adversity and prosperity. For tripling down in her faith in me becoming the big time me, I always believed and promised to be.

 

Most wives would’ve cut their losses with me ages ago. Despite whatever long term yields, my girlfriend now wife envisioned in me when we used to live in Park Slope, 12 years ago after my 30 Rock spec made me a Recommended Writer on TV Writer.com. Which was ages ago, back when Lena Dunham had much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself. Hey, Lena, I got your next book idea for you. It’s a teen graphic novel serious called, Bi-Curious George. It’s for sexually confused, hipster spawn, reared in Brooklyn on Lou Reed Records. You don’t like me making fun of Lena Dunham, do you hipster hack book sales clerk in Cold Springs, NY, do you? Move on, you’re not my target demographic. My 20-month-old son exudes more sophisticated grace in his avocado dumps than you do. Especially, when you strain to come off as anything more than a witless, furry browed, millennial mouskeeter hobbit baby resister, loser of the most unenviable, untweetable order. Obviously, fathering 3 fuss free, pitch perfect children doesn’t eradicate your depths of rage. Still, directed at any zero personality fuck, who just because he wears glasses, works at a book store, or comes up to my hip, thinks his quizzical, beady, Marcon Marcon cat update swooning eyes will trip my hard earned, surging MOJO in any form whatsoever. Knowing none of these putz faces like this blah brained jerkoff, could make a living an as IT headhunter past week 1. Let alone sell their way into secure employment throughout a post 911 recession because being a professional new biz development cold caller for a living, doesn’t engender, holier than now, my shit doesn’t stink, supreme entitlement issues but I digress.

 
So, fatherhood will make me a bigger prick than ever? But now, I’ll have no freedom to jet off to Vegas whenever or roll on E in Manhattan all weekend for the fun of it. You better start getting to the sizzling steak fajita part. Before I lose interest all together in giving 2 shits what a no name comedian to me has to say about the wonders of fatherhood. Enlighten me fast on what I’m missing out on so bad that makes my life in comparison a  meaningless, empty jumble of friendship deepening relationships in Manhattan from people of all walks of life. Who are too busy having fun and closing deals and making the big bucks to support a dreamy, freedom maximizing lifestyle to even bother with giving up my weekends for the next 20 years for children in the 1st place.

 

 

Last time I checked, I’m not a loser with no friends left because I’m an arrogant, bitter, no represented, comedian writer who never made it in Hollywood as a staff writer of any kind. Who you like to decry and reduce to calling mere rape wood as a mere cop out for not making it out there and for having your dad pay for the airfare as you flew back east a dejected loser from the city of angels with your head in between your legs. Who from what I hear almost died from doing crystal meth, confusing it for cocaine. Who even some dumb fuck extra on Breaking Bad would the know the difference. So please, in the name of God, stop raping my ears with more dated Lena Dunham, hipster jokes, that come off more dated than Yiddish and more sour than Michelle Obama’s Sour Lemonade Book Tour, please. Why is my life such an impact-less, meaningless, starless, empty hearted house of horrors without children in my life to light up my world like no other? What’s in Fatherhood for me, that I can’t get nursing a six pack of IPA’s on a Thursday night with my Asian, Tightcoochie twins 1 and 2? Who I swiped over to my pad 2 seconds ago to watch Crazy, Rich, Asians with. Before I get me so horny with the Tightcoochie twins. As they walk out stress knots in my back at the same time because their combined weight is still less than your wife? Well if you phrase it that way.
But seriously, I can’t tell you they serve beer in hell, neg loving, condom pack tearing through Tucker Max disciple, what’s in fatherhood for you? But I can tell with outsized feeling what fatherhood’s had in store for me.

3 best friends, I never had outside of their mother of course. Sure, I had party buds, groomsmen, work associates, who came to my bringer shows when I did standup in Manhattan. But I define a true friend like my wife as a loving, generous, giving soul. Who starts working nights to spend more time at home with the kids in order for her husband to exercise his demons on the keyboard.  So he can become the writer, funny man, comedian provider, he’s always wanted to be.

 

3 kids later, only 1 being planned, obviously, this drive for success has become more ferocious and unstoppable than ever. I just got 3 posts republished on the Good Men Project. Got 17 more pieces accepted for future release. And for all the  good guy posturing, of so called, caring, heart of gold dudes from my past. Who I used to consider friends from either work or college, are engulfed now with self-pitying jealousy. Swallowing up their inflamed pussy selves whole. Knowing they’ve lost the high moral ground to look down on me any longer, since my extended stretch of becoming of an unemployed stay at home dad began 3 years ago. After I got fired from the man after Robert Half now that I’m in the midst of hot streak again. You all know who you are. Your silence speaks volumes about your biter pussy, artless, delusional hack selves. Deal with it. One more thing, you’re the crazy idiot for thinking you’re smarter than a President. Who wouldn’t even deem you good enough to clean his gold platted shitters in Trump Tower.

 

My old sales boss owner in Manhattan Beach, California, would constantly pound in our craniums, the mantra, “Innovate or die.” Now I’m more obsessed than ever with beating the man, by writing my family out of poverty into the big time. With my future bestselling book, Stay At Home Comedian.  Changing the way Gen X men view fatherhood today while also helping teach new time dads how controlling our kids through comedy can make our kids great again. Because of the socialization, give and take, ball busting approach minus the Baby Boomer outright sheer malice undercurrent to it.

 

David Ogilvy famous ad man, who bought a freaking castle in France, said “Creativity can solve any problem.” So, gap years for white men of privilege isn’t a good look in today’s times. Plus, before I suck up my pride again and contend with comments from HR like: “I hear testosterone amounts are lower for stay at home dads. Before I reply with “, But we haven’t discussed hard numbers yet.” Before we go down that passionless, road, I must be finish strong with my book Stay at Home Comedian and go for the knockout kill. Make the most of what’s around while making more clear sense than Dave Matthews in the process on my office desk day dreaming.

I don’t have grandparents next door on either side. I don’t have uncles who live close by. Who would lift a finger to help with my 3 kids anyway. So called friends, can’t even congratulate my recent success accomplishment on the Good Men Project website because they hate how my own self-belief materialized into good in spite of their bitchy, petty, starless, lives in comparison.  Fuck them. Either you care about me making it big time for me and my family or you don’t. Harlem’s favorite son, James Baldwin was correct. Pursuing your passion no matter the cost, truly gives you an “intimate knowledge of the ugliness in us, lurking from within.”

 
Still, interested in what’s in store for Fatherhood? Learning older, new friends in life, more comfortable in their own skin. Not pretending to be something they aren’t because actions speak louder than words showcase what real class and kindness is. By offering you sincere, heartfelt, responsive praise flowered in your direction. Who give off the impression they’re are genuinely excited for the trajectory of your future moving forward.

 

So what’s in fatherhood for me you, say? How about the opportunity to outshine your father for starters? Who questions in flippant disgust after the birth of your 1st child “I don’t know how we’re even related.” How about the opportunity to get published again and snag a lit agent. So in Arizona this February  over dinner you can say, “Hey dad, you know who doesn’t mind hearing my fucking opinions on politics. How about Penguin books and 200,000 thousand advance for starters?”

 

Dream bigger, daddy. Those are words from my 1st born Singing Rose Matilda Kornbluth. She’s my deltoids dawn consigliere, Small Wonder and Punky Brewster all wrapped into one. “Matilda, Grandparent Bad Manners, is a strong tile, right? Total winner, dada, all the way”, she says with grace loaded charm.

 
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity, to have your son wake up in the morning, and say “Daddy where are you? And end up feeling like the most cherished center of this perfect boy’s universe. Who calls for you and only you 1st thing in the morning, knowing your 1st thing on his precious, genius mind. Not sold yet?

 
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity for your 20-month-old son to play with your keys while you pump the gas. Only for him to unlock the door with the remote attached to the key chain. So, you can open the door and take in his love supreme gaze. Which screams I can’t get enough of you Dada. Thanks for playing a big part, in me hitting the genetic lotto. And for whenever we go to Stop and Shop, Trader Joes, the local farm, Staples or bakery, to always make sweet laughter fill the air.

 
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity for your daughter to hug you at the dinner table with mama at work, proclaiming? “Daddy, I never want this hug to end.” Only after she sets the mood prior, with “Daddy, I know you really want to be a comedian, but can’t you be a pizza maker in heaven instead.”

 
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about reading your published piece in the Good Men Project about your son Arthur Morison Kornbluth, detailing, all of his killer nickname creations like Art Show, and Gimmel Be Good. Declaring with extreme, absolute glee” They’re on the Internet forever now kid.”

 
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity to take play hooky as an adult on a work week Friday and take all 3 of your kids to Manhattan for a big city adventure? To give thanks and praises to  God in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral despite raising my kids Jewish. How about the opportunity to teach your kids the importance of addressing God and showcasing your gratitude, especially in my 3 kids’ case, because they got looks, humor and physical ability. I state. “You 3 were born to be leader’s kids and to turn others into ones also, So don’t be an abusive, bullying asshole in the process like an overrated, yuck personified, bitchy Jim Acosta clone for a living. Please, I implore you. I will have failed as a father if you regress into such a worthless, piece of ANTIFA poo otherwise.”

 
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about getting all 3 of your kids out of Rockefeller Plaza alive in one piece with sure footed ease. Navigating your 3 kids to calmer ground through midtown traffic 1 week before Christmas, in a big foot stroller no less. Only for your daughter to sip on a Gatorade and then compliment you with, “Daddy, you’re really good at being a New Yorker.”
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity to make seltzer-based Shirley Temples with your kids on a Friday night? Blasting Van Halen on Vinyl. Reliving your age of innocence in far superior, hit puberty by now, Thank God glory.

 

What’s in Fatherhood for me? How about the opportunity to pitch whiffle ball to your daughter outside your house? And watch her crush 10 homers against the front of your home sweet home. As she rides the bull on top of an old school yellow whiffle bat in a blaze of glory.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about taking your daughter to see Billy Joel at the Garden? Only for your mom to reveal her lameness in the process. Stating, “Make sure my granddaughter wears ear plugs for the show. You’d think I was taking her to see Metallica compared to Billy Joel. Who sounds more like eighties lullaby music for Long Island Republicans in comparison.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about making your 20-month son release pure shrieks of unmatched, wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in this world joy? Whenever your head comes crashing down on to his midsection. As you declare with ultra playful authority, “Falling Putzy Apple Tree, part threeee.”

 

What’s in fatherhood for me? How about my kids getting a bunch of random inanimate objects to give this do it all dad over here a massage on a Saturday night out of the blue?  Giving daddy a shin rub with a motorized rubber ducky I got for comedic material to be mined later.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about watching the Knicks on your phone show some promise for the future for once? With your 20-month-old son lying next to you in bed. As your buoyant son states, with eye dancing, emphatic glee, “ball, ball.”
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about your daughter singing Ring of Fire on cue by Johnny Cash in front of your in laws? Knowing, your snooty, English mother in law despite growing up in Manchester, sharing a bucket for number two’s. Can’t front in her typical, pouty, passive aggressive manner and state. “Well at 7, mommy sang Kyle Minogue in Australia. No, she didn’t. She was slopping it up in the mud with her imaginary Andy Pandey Tree in the back of your house in Australia. When she wasn’t ducking for cover, the next time you threw knives at your husbands head again. Because you couldn’t deal with being a stay at home, wobbly mom in Australia with a pool, prawns the size of whales and avocadoes the size of hand grenades.

 
What’s in fatherhood for me? Your son hugging you out of nowhere, because he feels you ache inside from a huge emotional disconnect you feel from your own father after another horror show visit back east. Where he refused to take his fucking shoes off at your daughter’s 6th birthday party. Making it all about his lackluster, overestimated sense of esteem presence again.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Calls for more shoulder rides, shoulder rides, more waives from the window, more requests for games of MadLibs, more Goldberg episodes on Hulu. Showing your kids how Nintendo raised daddy more than Papa did.

What’s in fatherhood for me? Getting up earlier to do work most important to you.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Revealing the sulky bitch your younger sibling is whenever he’s forced to celebrate a holiday with your child rich family.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Your 1st born daughter sticking up for you, like Drago’s son does for his Dad in Creed 2. At 4, my daughter says, “Daddy, I’ll kill Uncle John if he doesn’t show up to your funeral.”

What’s in Fatherhood for me? How about the shot to go from Hendrix to Mahler and become reincarnated in the mold of a classically trained baby like Randy Rhodes and Eddie Van Halen wrapped into one. As you use your air guitar appendage, 20-month-old son as an air guitar to Running with The Devil again and again.

What’s in Fatherhood for me? How about your children hugging American flags in the street out of pure love for their country without dad forcing them to do it? Only to illuminate the real deplorable being the grandparents who don’t even acknowledge those texted photos in return because retired in Arizona in a gated community. So they’re obviously anti-borders in the 1st place.
What’s in Fatherhood for me? Your children stroking your beard at night and loving you so much to the point where they act like smelling your arm pits with your shirt on is the greatest thing since commercial free Cloud TV.
What’s in fatherhood for me? How about getting your TV writing break. Which was 12 years in the making with VH1 Classic in Manhattan. While looking after your daughter as a stay at home dad with no support network in sight. Only to whip your 3-year daughter at home in your apartment. Whizzing her around in soul tantalizing delight to Lita Ford’s Kiss Me Deadly video. Playing on the America’s Hard 100 marathon which you wrote all the host intros for. Performing the role of Hair Metal Comedian Historian for the ages.
What’s in fatherhood for me? The golden opportunity to raise, better, sweeter, funnier, kinder, more compassionate kick ass soul rebels with far less duppy, evil spirits to conquer in the process.
What’s in fatherhood for me? Daddy, how do you spell I love you?
The End
By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

It’s On The Internet Forever

EXT. SAKS FIFTH AVENUE
Dad
Matilda, if a guy gets you a gift
from Saks Fifth Avenue when you get older, it means he’s passed the
give a shit qualifier test.

Do It All Dad Tip:
Fake friends who work in sales for a living. Who fashion themselves as responsible witty creatives. Will die a thousands deaths when you tell them you got 17 more pieces in the can for future release from the Good Men Project.

Real CIO Talk, Behind My Wet Bar Office and My CIO Family Tree, Mentoring Leaders is personal. Are A Plus titles I gave you for free as your ghostwriter for hire. So why haven’t you sucked off my existence yet longtime? Enlighten me.

East Coast Elitist Baby Boomers, Trump obsessed Twitter Twats and artless, sales hacks for hire. Regardless if they make six figures or not. Make awful caregivers because they’re all about propping up their lackluster, bore selves.

My kids don’t have a close Uncle to love them as their own.
So I’ve made a new friend resolution to befriend a black godfather editor in Harlem. Who’s liberated from the chains of mental slavery like Kayne. Who isn’t a modern Invisible Man.

Pressuring Trump to lay off Twitter really means. Stop exposing the American traitors for the lying, disgraceful hit man that they are.

Calling the Obama’s a unifying force is like calling the Clinton Foundation a charitable foundation for others.

Michelle Obama’s Book Tour should be called Sour Lemonade For Sale.

Do It All Dad Tip:
When artificial intelligent fake friends. Lose the moral high ground to pity you after you get published 3 times in one week with 3 kids to feed and a marriage to keep together. Their jealousy consumes their pussy selves whole.

Hosting the Oscars has become a more thankless task than candidate recruiter reach out. When tech unicorns tell you to stop sending In-Mail invitations to be interviewed for better paying jobs closer to their lofts in SOHO.

Let me rephrase for more hardcore impact. Hosting the Oscars is a less thankless task than being Hillary’s Social Media Community Manager, Hillary’s debate question prepper or the last head in charge of new voter registration for the DNC before Bernie got shafted.

Unemployed Comedian/Father of 3 vs. Malcolm Gladwell
Malcolm Gladwell wants to write your story. Bad idea, he’s a total snooze. He won’t capture the gravitas your voice deserves. My business book for you will break the Internet.

Congratulations on your published blogs means I view myself as an intellectual superior to you because I teach kids the meaning of John Steinbeck novels to AP Students for a living.

EXT. MANHATTAN-AFTER I GET MY 3 KIDS THE HELL OUT OF ROCKEFELLER CENTER.

7 Year Old Daughter

You’re really good at being a New Yorker, daddy.

Do It All Dad laughs long time and beams with pride all at the same time.

My 20 month old son always takes his cloths off. So yesterday I nickname him Chippendale Charlie. Daughter asks? What’s does that mean? You know how you have female strippers? Daughter says. You’re cray-cray, Dada?

ME

Matilda, if I ghost write this business book and end out beating Malcolm Gladwell for the job. Mimi will hate my guts forever guaranteed.

7 Year Old Daughter

Mimi’s just uncomfortable with your comedy Dada.

Fake News Friend

Michael Cohen got 3 years.

Me

That must mean Trump’s going to get impeached next for banging a poor woman’s Savannah. Too bad, Obama doesn’t have that tape.

 

INT. COFFEE SHOP
Me
If I found my son playing with dolls. I’d say son. Wrap pecker-wood with seaweed next time you make a move on Polynesian Barbie. Good Men Project published that. It’s on the Internet Forever.

My barista boys LOL longtime.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

Party Animal DNA

This is Ziggy Marely being interviewed by a reporter for High Times for their 420 issue.  “Ziggy, your dad had 12 kids. But the Crazy Baldheads taught us Ganja destroyed our life shooter’s fire power for good.” Ziggy Marley replies, “Fake News man.”

Trevor Noah just admitted on a radio show the reason he sucked up the joint as a Knick was because he was constantly lit. His exact words were “Athletics and partying don’t go hand and hand.”  3 kids later, I know for a fact hangovers and kids don’t mix. But can middle age usher in a gentler, less destructive form of partying for working parents? Similar to what Bukowski pulled off during his late in life, married, prostitute free San Pedro years.

Is addiction to partying nature based or more an offshoot of normalized enabler nurturing ? Or does addiction to partying really come down to disposable income, free time and making the choice to live it up like Lizard King. Distorting all windows of perception like any shot still fitting into your leather pants again after exchanging your acid only Atkins diet for cases of beer and whiskey shakes, rattling  bones.

Legendary Stand Up Comedian Doug Stanhope says AA is great for the stories. Plus, he refers to all addiction as a “controlled decision.” So according to Doug Stanhope my younger brother choses to be a sketchy speed freak, regardless of what collateral damage it’s caused to his ex fiancé’s bank account and my parents in the past.

Once, an old fake news friend asks me. “What’s the difference between 1 kid versus 3?” I say. “Drinking alone is no longer an issue. Plus, having 3 kids versus 1 is a headier rush of coolness empowerment because each kid of  mine has become an automatic, unabashed fan of me. The rub is making sure they continue to admire and look up to me past their 1st love, gaga phase.” How will I ensure this love connection lasts post puberty? By raising my kids drug free by becoming drug free to. And stop doing all drugs. At least around them or never be on them in their presence ever period.

 

The best teacher is doing, not preaching. I’m almost there. Pothead daddy is dead. So is bourbon in the house ever dad because if I have it, I drink it at night in generous, you’d  think I’m on an eight ball of blow pours. Plus, my cherished Kentucky Bourbons and spicy Rye Whiskies aged me 1000 years in a day when I thought I could pull off the William Faulkner, writer sophisticate lifestyle on it. “Knowledge is power” kids.

 

Doug Stanhope can say addiction boils down to choice, not genetics. But this argument still doesn’t disguise the fact that some of us hailing from a long line of party animals lack self-regulated cut off point capabilities, especially those who have crazy hick, party animal DNA embedded in their liver spotted family tree.  I have a high tolerance for booze and beer in general. My younger brother not so much, yet he’s a lifelong enthusiast of the nose candy. So he’ll end up drinking way more than his normal brain can compute off it. Which is a recipe for disaster, especially when you add dad’s Ambian into the mix.  Never got that move. Could my younger brother be anymore of a degenerate, crazy hick, indecisive Jew? Do you want to be up or go to sleep? Make your mind up already, my chest.  Like I said, some posses greater control over their party animal DNA than others.

I still take Adderall, but I only take 1 time release a pill a day and nothing else these days. I know the Bible says sometimes we judge what we’re most guilty of.  But I never stole money from my parents’ ATM machine for cocaine runs to Washington Heights either. My own cousin who turned his life around, as a tax accountant, used to be a homeless crackhead. He’s a smart kid also. Will always love my cousin with all my heart. He truly turned his life around. Couldn’t be happier for him. Still, at one point, his pangs of addiction were so deep, he took my grandmother to the ATM when she had Alzheimer’s. I don’t know what’s lower, him doing this or me sharing the story to the Internet at large. Obviously, it’s not me bringing up the story again because in order to raise a drug free family, my 3 kids need to know that A) It’s never to late for redemption and to turn your life around and B) Party Animal DNA, especially, from Mimi’s crazy hick southern side, has a killer appetite for destruction lurking from within.

My kids already know about drinking and driving, heroin, pills, cocaine overdoses and how they’re all illegal. Plus, they fully know real jail is hell on earth and they’ll all be eaten up alive in there. I didn’t watch every single episode of OZ for nothing. So when it comes down to taking it or leaving it, they must leave it. It’s also easier said than done. They say evil happens in the place of idleness. That’s why I’m pushing my 3 kids into sports, theatre, art, creation, all forms of competition, both creative and physical. So, they don’t have the free time available to indulge in being a blah brained, empty souled consumerist like I was growing up.

 

I don’t want my kids to be playing catch up in life like me at 42. The rich get richer, and the poorer pothead, feels poorer the more he puffs one hitters into his early forties because ripping hits from an expensive glass bubbler is deemed too wasteful for his weed, spendthrift addiction.  I tell my kids, nothing will get them higher than winning and creating something new. For me it’s writing new jokes and writing new pieces, or performing on stage to kill but life is so much more than that. My view is limited to show business, but life is your stage like Shakespeare says, so either you want to shine like Denzel as Othello on Broadway or fade into the sunset like a has been, never great in the 1st place Andy Dick.  Plus, partying doesn’t solve your financial problems. It only creates more. Just ask Jimmy Leyritz on the New York Yankees how his life materialized. After his legend cementing homerun against Atlanta in 96. When we were down 6 runs to win Game 6 away from home. Before winning the World Series in the boogie down Bronx against the dominant, unhittable Maddox in game 7 for it all.

Reality is, I don’t even remember one funny line I uttered from all my Christmas Breaks I drank away with my buds from high school. I do remember one local townie, telling me.  “You should run for politics office one day.” Have no idea where that came from. Still, I always viewed his kind reach out of him as meaning, you got a brain, save some  brain cells for the greater good. Plus, you’re destroying your looks with this stuff kid.

In the end, we’re judged by what fruit we bear in the form of our kids. And I refuse to raise victim card playing drug addicts, fuck that. Party animal friends fade kid.  Miserable pricks, love to feel better about themselves around other struggling pricks. Partying can motivate kids, but partying doesn’t have to involve drugs and alcohol. You want to celebrate your wins. Go out dancing, Ice Skating, Duck Pinning. Sushi Dinners conquest feasts await. Knick games at MSG and seeing Ziggy Marley live in Central Park. Getting high on the music and on the company of those you love. Inhaling nothing but positive vibrations, blowing through the air.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

Failing To Be a Provider Bites

Stay At Home Dads can’t survive. Unless, they find a way to cope with not bringing home bread of any kind for the time being. Some dad will ask me. “So, what do you do?” I say. “Dishes but I make Focaccia Bread to.” I cope with jokes.

 
I wasn’t always a stay at home dad. Still, reality is I’m used to working for almost nothing as either a non-union TV writer, waiter or as an IT recruiter on draw. So being looked down as an indentured servant isn’t a new reality at 42 for me either.

 
Meanwhile, my saintly wife works as a nurse for newborns checking vital signs on blue faced babies. Which makes me feel like a self-absorbed narcissist in comparison because I all check for is for retweets.

 
In Oklahoma the state motto is “labor conquers all.” Which is true if the labor involved produces pesticide free fruit you can buy at Whole Foods for your labors. Daughter says. “Dada, tell Alexa to add Avocados to your shopping list.” I reply. “You do know Avocados don’t grow on trees back east?” My daughter replies. “Then, start bringing home some bacon already. And I’m not talking about the veggie bacon either.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking great, retweets are all I got. My daughter makes sure I’ll won’t blank on that.

 

Trump says he never changed his kid diapers. I wish I can make this claim. It would mean I had my shit together for a change. Who isn’t a Stay at Home Comedian Dad/Father of 3 whose been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot.
Wilderness bound, I used to wreck my Everlast Punching Bag to Hole’s “Miss World” before busting the chains more than twice from such rageful rocketed propelled upward motion.  Screaming with unmatched, she male rocker rage, “I’ve made my bed, I’ll die in it. I’ve made my bed, I’ll die in it.” Courtney Love is a super-charismatic bad ass. She’s like Mia Farrow with better husband selection.
Behind every good man is a better woman. Alright, not so much in Kurt Cobain’s case. That is until he blew his brains out knowing Courtney was going to be mothering his only child during her prime smack years.

 

Apparently, everyone called her daughter a Crack Baby because she still couldn’t read at 9. How much fun was Courtney Love having without ever reading Allen Ginsburg’s Howl to scare her daughter to sleep at night? I don’t know anything about Eddie Veeder’s wife from Pearl Jam besides her being a smoking hot, rock star mama babe. I think it’s safe to say, Eddie Vedder didn’t hit on her at coffee shop in Seattle. Sean Penn just wrote a book about a presidential assination. I bet he celebrated with Bill Maher in Maui at the Four Seasons, as Eddie Vedder played Alive naked on the Ukulele.

 

Def Leppard just got into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Def Leppard having to wait this long to be inducted in the Rock and Hall of Fame, lumped in with the Cure bites. It’s like learning Elvira slept with Kurt Loder during his moody goth phase in college before you did.
For the past 5 years, I’ve haven’t missed adult interaction too much. Mom asks. “Don’t you miss cooler talk?” I say “Mom, I’ve got Twitter and WordPress for that.” But seriously, adult interaction is overrated, especially when your 3 super sweet, hilarious kids are superior company than most. Who let daddy get his write on because God give kids to only the lonely.

 
Stay At Home Dads are treated like Welfare Moms. For example, my dad would never use the term Stay At Home Dad in my honor. In his eyes, I’m a sheltered bum, thinking my son’s entire life is a learning disability.
Fulltime dad wanderers have to deal with huffs of looked down disgust at the playground, whenever you infringe on Stay At Home Mom’s turf. But I was an IT recruiter for Robert Half in Manhattan, so I’m used to being frowned on like a fellow IT recruiter who insists on wearing his Penn State tie to work for casual Friday. The weekend after the Joe Paterno movie is released on HBO. Let me summarize the movie for you. Joe Paterno dropped the ball, never called pass interference, fucking butter fingers, the end.
My manhood under siege at the Deli is nothing new since birth of this pescatarian comedian/father of 3. “No bacon?” I reply. “Is my egg and cheese on a roll sandwich, not a manly enough order for you, Dominick I ain’t no fag, Scholanti?”

 
Baby Treatment at 42 from my parents is old hat. But I don’t care because I’m not the one still throwing a 2 year long hissy fit because Hillary Hammer Time Cankles struck out again at bat. Last, I just got word about my blog, Wishing My Son’s Birthday Never Blows, being published on the Good Men Project today. 19 previous posts of mine will be on the Good Men Project soon after. Hard work does pay off kids. I’m living proof of it. Couldn’t have done it without you and mama’s support. Behind this do it all dad, is superior, sweeter seed. Who make this do it dad, feel more blessed than the rest.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

Homers, Dunks and TKO’s

My father gave the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me.
Jim Valvano

If I took PED’s at Sleepaway Camp. I would’ve struck out with more accelerated speed. PED’s make you stronger but they don’t come with a no choker guarantee. Nor do PED’s automatically deliver Kate Hudson on top of your lap, to tap for an overdue power surge against the Phillies in 2009 World Series.

 

So, what does A Rod coming to life after banging Kate Hudson in her prime have to do with Homers, Dunks and TKO’s? Or Kate Hudson trying to make her ex-husband Chris Robinson, lead singer songwriter of the Black Crows jealous again? Which is hard to do when you’re good enough to make a record from your sold out shows at the Greek Theatre, playing nothing but Led Zeppelin covers with Jimmy Page.  It comes down to confidence. And what I’ve learned in life is the only way to develop confidence is from the forward propelled thrust of momentum powered winning.
Growing up, I never had conversations with my dad about how Larry Bird was a Gym Rat who lived in the gym, or how Michael Jordan kept his work out routines top secret to maintain his competitive edge. All I recall hearing from my dad who did coach me in basketball throughout elementary school if you want to call it coaching, is to get out of the way for Carmine to take the last shot.

 

Carmine was a way better ballhandler and shooter than me and one year older, but he also wasn’t my son. It wouldn’t have been nice to have a dad who pushed me to take the last shot, instead of defining me as a soft choker. Incapable of becoming a true Alpha Male on the court due to my tendency to prance down the court on my tippy toes. Looking like I was rocking high heels instead of high tops.
If LaVar Ball was my coach dad growing up, he’d offer Rihanna future profit participation points in exchange for hooking up my knock-kneed ass, so I’d feel like a bigger baller inside. He’d throw a spin the bottle house party in my honor. And only invite stuck up Jenny from the Block. 2 minutes into the party, Lavar Ball, my substitute, coach dad, barks at Jenny. “The Yahoo bottle, doesn’t spin itself bitch.” I never had the opportunity to perform that bit at the Apollo Theatre for its amateur showcase audition because I showed up later than the 300 Michael Jackson impersonators before me. Had no idea there was a number cut off for the open call auditions. I would’ve showed up earlier but my wife needed to sleep because she worked the night before at the hospital. And 3 kids aren’t old enough to babysit themselves yet. My 1st moral parenting stance was insisting my daughter only watch Woody Allen films which were made pre-Soon-Yi and only listen to Michael Jackson songs released pre-Jackson 5. Then, my pedophile neutralized playlist rule was more black and white.
Carmine’s father coached his 1st born son in football and turned him into a beast on the football field and hardwood floor. Carmine never hesitated or questioned his ability to drive to the hoop into heavy traffic, draw contact and score with resounding, Raging Bull authority. And on the football field nobody hit harder with more technically sound, wrap both arms around the hip’s proficiency, as he drove you into the ground like a welter weight Dick Butkus more than Carmine did. Thing is, Carmine was a sweet, Italian kid off the sports battlefield who wasn’t a bully Guido at all. Guido’s don’t get enough credit for being the 1st Metrosexuals of their time but I digress.
I haven’t thought about Carmine in ages, especially his dad, who was the closest thing to a cigar chomping, clone of Vince Lombardi mixed with the bravado panache of a more imposing, barrel chested Pat Cooper. He’s an old school Italian Catskills comic who still appears on the Howard Stern show. He’s the Italian Don Rickles minus the career but a living legend, worth seeing before he chokes on his Pasta Fungoo, nonetheless. I’m a Jewish New Yorker so it’s my birthright to bust balls. Plus, according to my wife I’m a shitty actor and a wise ass Jewish New Yorker doing a wise ass Italian New Yorker isn’t a stretch, nor does it require much reconfigured, accent accentuation to pull it off  the limited  character transformation either.

 
Back to Carmine’s coach Dad, who was very intense on the sidelines of football games. Basketball wasn’t his real love because I don’t remember his dad attending any games at all, despite Carmine being the best clutch baller on our Rec basketball team by far. Football was his father’s love, so Carmine’s father poured his heart and soul into turning his 1st born and only son into a pounding, winning machine. Who left all his blood sweat and tears on the field.

 

Carmine oozed a passion for winning which was more palpable than most. The hunger and drive to exert his will and dominate anyone who got in his way was a thing of beauty to behold. I want my 3 kid’s to be in the game, not so it will look good on their college resume. I want them to be in the game because they live for taking the game winner. I want them to shoulder the responsibility of winning and push others to become clutch leaders in big moments themselves. I want my kids to believe in their ability to will a way to win, regardless of what ailment plagues them like when Jordan beat the Utah Jazz for his 6th NBA ring despite playing with a debilitating, draining case of the flu. Hillary couldn’t even make it to a campaign rally in Wisconsin because of her nervous coughing fits of despair. I want my kids to get addicted to winning. So, they become hungrier for bigger, meatier conquests to conquer with all their fighting might.

 
I tend to be very hard on myself for not doing standup comedy earlier or not getting involved in my radio station at Ithaca College because I had a radio show my sophomore year when I attended Lake Forest College, on the North Shore of Illinois prior. Reality is, I was a major stoner at Lake Forest whose roommate was an even bigger stoner from the Big Island of Hawaii. Kowal was Chinese American and cousins with Bette Midler. Which makes sense, because he’d get a tad hysterical yentaish Freshman year of college. Bitching non-stop about the low quality of commercial Midwest weed, he was blowing a mini-fortune on at college compared to the higher quality, cleaner tasting, longer lasting, Maui Wowie dreaming. Sophomore year, Kowal had his kid brother mail him the primo 70 dollar an eighth-crystal specked green delight in peanut butter jars from home. Which Kowal later mixed with Moroccan Hash, courtesy of Bora and Kappa. Who smuggled in their hash from Turkey in swallowed up plastic bags, forgoing the price of paying a drug mule for the handling cost of delivery. In short, my brain was fried constantly, sophomore year in college. As a direct result, of playing perpetual catch up from both spending one more extra day in Mardi Gras than I should in addition to mixing, the strongest strains of THC on this planet on a daily basis for the entire school year. Plus, I did zero preparation for my radio show, thinking playing a 22-minute Whipping Post by the Allman’s at Filmore East was a wonderful use of my time there to work on my craft knowing I only had 30 minutes of air time for myself on the campus radio station mike in the 1st place.
As I explain to my kids, I half-assed my radio show at Lake Forrest College. I should’ve shown more pride in my work but add that to the list of things my dad never talked to me about growing up. But you only take pride in your work when you care about doing the job good. And that’s hard to accomplish, when you’re smoking 70 dollar an eighth weed on school nights where after only 1 hit. The entire movie Pink Floyd Wall, flies by like that and you feel like you comprehended everything and all its meanings but not really.

 
Still, one day at Lake Forest College on my radio show, I did try something different with a vein of humor, involving the Gamma Roe Sorority and shaving cream. Which was a pretty ballsy move on my part in retrospect because it’s not as if I was face deep in high grade Gamma Roe puss. Sure, I hooked up with a striking looking Ecuadorian gal Edna in addition to a real cute, hippie pothead Nicole who was friends with those sorierty sisters but this was the extent of me putting my MOJO imprint on top of the Lake Forrest College map. Before I finally lost my virginity, but not really at 1st because I couldn’t squeeze into the traditional hole of choice, which never felt lubricated enough, nor would I dare to watch my surging manhood disintegrate in my own hands, from putting a condom on the wrong way again. Unfortunately, this upper classman musician as cool as she was with her Rocket Queen pierced nipples, wasn’t the one known for putting condoms on by the skin of her teeth.

 

Look, I understand most boys to men fumble with a condom for the 1st time in the process of losing their virginity. Still, having some semblance of a winning streak with any girls in high school prior would’ve provided much needed momentous might in this instance. Or if my dad pushed me to sign up for Kung Fu lessons in Junior High. I’d be a more centered, less fretful putzy of a Jew at 20 years old. And at the time, not feel like such a stupid, useless jerkoff in the presence of a willing, busty, giving upperclassman, ready to pounce and make my wet dreams come true.

 
I’m not drinking beer until I achieve my target weight of 195 pounds, JJ Reddick’s playing weight in college for Kansas. I’m 6’4 like him and now down to 205 at 42 years of age. And I would get asked for ID when I was still drinking beer, out with my 3 kids, no less. Which made me feel like a teen mom dropout from Tallahassee. Recruiters find me on LinkedIn under Crystal Meth Homemaker. Come to think of I should go back to school like Rodney after all.
When I got married eight years ago, I weighed 230. How did I become a such a bloated, pasty, over the hill hipster conjuring hack in the making? Thinking I was deep enough to handle drinking fine Kentucky Bourbon in my late thirties on top of sucking down endless double IPA’s for aperitif topers didn’t help. My reason for losing the remainder of my past binge drinking weight is to show my kids the importance of taking pride in your appearance. Which is taking pride in your brain also, because the 2 are interconnected. I saw a camcorder video at a friend’s house with me in the outfield for Pee Wee league picking my nose, looking like the most ineffectual, lost boy loser on the planet. How my parents allowed me to develop into such a useless sloth is beyond me.

 
Now, I’m abstaining from my cherished IPA’s till I get down to my target launch weight, so I can dunk out in front of my 3 kids like an old school Tom Chambers with resounding, divine powered, authority. Dunking on the hoop this summer at the park with a kid’s ball that isn’t regulation size doesn’t count. I’m losing this remaining weight, so I can reclaim and reassert my manhood on a far bigger scale than ever before. Proving to my children’s it’s never too late to shine. Proving to them, prides on my side. Proving how it’s never too late drop-dead weight from your life in order to fly.
Watching my 7-year-old daughter launch another whiffle ball long and hard against the back of our humble abode as she rides the bull on our yellow whiffle bat is a thing of beauty to behold. Watching my 4-year-old son Art Show USA whiz catchable Johnnie U tight spirals down from the stairwell from a mini football into my arms again and again this morning, was a better feeling than pure E kicking in. My 20-month-old Samuel mimicking pushups downstairs on our new Rocky Rug, resembling more of a Downward Dog dry hump will soften the most hardened of hearts, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles excluded.

 
Both of my son’s said ball for their 1st words because they spent so much time at the park with their stay at home comedian dad. For Matilda it was dada. The role of Life Coach for my 3 kids is by far the most empowering role of a lifetime like Robert Downey Junior as Iron Man before he started acting funnier than he actually is in real life.
All 3 of my kids listen to me because they respect me. They listen to me because they see the positive results of my tutelage. Matilda conquers every new set of Monkey Bars with relentless, making them her bitch every time ease. Arthur is now doing the same nor was he threading tight spirals of any kind prior. Samuel is already doing 5-pound Kettle Bell raises at 20 months old, freaking multitasking as we’re watching the Goldberg’s, on Hulu, reliving my age of innocence as family together as one.
In the past episode of the Goldberg’s, Wonder Years for Gen X, basically my pitch for my pilot trilogy Heavy Metal High that I pitched to VH1 Classic, except Dice plays my imaginary life coach whenever my manhood is under siege again. So, in the Goldberg’s, great show by the way, tremendous writing in it, the father pushes his son to get into shape, so he can do a pull-up for the new national fitness test instituted by Ronald Regan. At first, his mom gets a letter from the President excusing him. In the end, the nerd kid in love with movies like Red Dawn, does the chin-up and gets commended by the coach for a job well done. The father watches this all go down from the door of the gym, pumping his hands up in triumphant victory. He gave his son the gift of believing in him. Plus, he gave his son the gift of getting him addicted to winning so he’d become hungry for more. Homer’s, Dunks, and TKO’s won’t be in the kid’s future, but greater confidence in himself to overcome past paralyzing obstacles built up in his head will.

 

John Wooden, hall of fame coach of UCLA Bruins says, “Failing to prepare, is preparing to fail.” And that job is on me, being the involved do it dad that I am. As a father, if you can’t get excited about your role as life coach over your kid’s education to ensure they become more big time than you. Then, you’re self-serving, miserable cunt who I want nothing to do with ever. I’m making sure my kids are prepared to know what hard work and self-belief is necessary to become winners and bigger, bolder, better dream maker, shot callers than the rest.
The End
By,
Michael Kornbluth

Politically Incorrect Prisoner of The Year

Daddy, why do Goldfish die young? Because they’re not holding their breath at the shot of skinny dipping with Christie Brinkley.

Christine Blasey Ford was a runner up for Time Person of the Year. Michelle Obama didn’t even make honorable mention. I think it’s time for a new publicist.

Why wasn’t Anthony Bourdain Time Person of the Year? He was a writer journalist who died for what he believed in. That’s right, he trolled Hillary on Twitter for taking campaign donations from known rapists like Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein, duh.
And where’s my nomination for Time Person of the Year? Corporate America has insisted on keeping me imprisoned under house arrest as a Stay at Home Comedian/Father of 3 because I’m a pro Trump truther prisoner of political correctness.
A Vasectomy is like playing God or a Bartender who refuses to serve you after you’ve had too many.
A Vasectomy screams I’ve got enough knots in my back already. One more in my groin won’t make much of a difference.
A Vasectomy screams after this, I’m done tying knots with either sex period.

Old Bud
I dreamed of you owning a vacation home in New Mexico.

Me
Georgia O’Keefe did good work there. Personally, I prefer her labia looking flower paintings because they burst with more eye fucking sensuality.

If the CEO of Google called me at Robert Half, I’d assume he was an H1-B, claim our connection was bad and hang up on him next. Thinking, I’d have an easier time penning a Bollywood musical than making a fee off this guy.
My son tires from over-exposure to my wife like me. He wines. “Why does mommy always have to drop me off at Pre-K?” She does this twice a week max. NPR & Indy Rock drive him nuts strapped into his car seat minus my father figure veto powers in times of war.

Why do my people, elitist Jews hate Trump so much? Either A) They’re hack writers who can’t stand his far greater Twitter following or B) They’re no names Sales Directors. Who might make enough to live in a building Trump owns.
INT. HOME
Wife
You’re hanging out with Dave on Christmas Eve?
Me
I never see him. Plus, he’s listened to 1 more podcast than you have out of 57 so far. Last, I can play socket puppets with the kids with your mom’s gift when I get back. Plus, babe, I’m Jewish. So, Mass isn’t a Holiday Event to be checked off in my Outlook Calendar, no offense.

Divorcing my parents was a good deal for them. They pay child support in the form of Pre-K for only 1 out of their 3 grandchildren. Which is cheaper than minimum child support payments in Texas. Plus, they save money on gas because they never visit.
Daddy laying his foot down. Get away from my 40 of Grapefruit Seltzer. I’m not drinking IPA’s, wine or bourbon till your birthday kid. It’s all Daddy’s got left. Daddy, what’s a 40? Snoop Dog’s ho sprayer of choice.

 
All the talking heads on Fox sound the same when defending their belief in God. I’m better off believing. Who else who could’ve created all this majesty? My answer is simple. I believe in God because my 3 kids worship me like the All Mighty himself. Plus, they love to caress my holy, wise beard. And deep down I know God didn’t give me 3 kids to have a panic attack over it. Last, I’m a true believer because my mother sulks as my 3 kids blanket with me love in her presence and my son hugged me after my dad sulked from me reading my DM from Richard Lewis.
The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

Twitter, Google, It’s All Chinese To Me

Old Bud
I dreamed of you owning a vacation home in New Mexico.
Me
Georgia O’Keefe did good work there. Personally, I prefer her labia looking flower paintings because they burst with more eye fucking sensuality.

If the CEO of Google called me at Robert Half, I’d assume he was an H1-B, claim our connection was bad and hang up on him next. Thinking, I’d have an easier time penning a Bollywood musical than making a fee off this guy.

My son tires from over-exposure to my wife like me. He wines. “Why does mommy always have to drop me off at Pre-K?” She does this twice a week max. NPR & Indy Rock drive him nuts strapped into his car seat minus my father figure veto powers in times of war.

Christine Blasey Ford was a runner up for Time Person of the Year. Michelle Obama didn’t even make honorable mention. I think its time for a new publicist.

Why wasn’t Anthony Bourdain Time Person of the Year? He was a writer journalist who died for what he believed in. That’s right, he trolled Hillary on Twitter for taking campaign donations from known rapists like Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein, duh.

And where’s my nomination for Time Person of the Year? Corporate America has insisted on keeping me imprisoned under house arrest as a Stay At Home Comedian/Father of 3 because I’m a pro Trump truther prisoner of political correctness.

Why do my people, elitist Jews hate Trump so much? Either A) They’re hack writers who can’t stand his far greater Twitter following or B) They’re no names Sales Directors. Who might make enough to live in a building Trump owns.

INT. HOME

Wife

You’re hanging out with Dave on Christmas Eve?

Me
I never see him. Plus, he’s listened to 1 more podcast than you have out of 57 so far. Last, I can play socket puppets with the kids with your mom’s gift when I get back. Plus, babe, I’m Jewish. So Mass isn’t a Holiday Event to be checked off in my Outlook Calendar, no offense.

Divorcing my parents was a good deal for them. They pay child support in the form of Pre-K for only 1 out of their 3 grandchildren. Which is cheaper than minimum child support payments in Texas. Plus, they save money on gas because they almost never visit.

Daddy laying his foot down. Get away from my 40 of Grapefruit Seltzer. I’m not drinking IPA’s, wine or bourbon till your birthday kid. It’s all Daddy’s got left. Daddy, what’s a 40? Snoop Dog’s ho sprayer of choice.

All the talking heads on Fox sound the same when defending their belief in God. I’m better off believing. Who else who could’ve created all this majesty? My answer is simple. I believe in God because my 3 kids worship me like the All Mighty himself. Plus, they love to caress my holy, wise beard. And deep down I know God didn’t give me 3 kids to have a panic attack over it. Last I’m a true believer because my mother sulks as my 3 kids blanket with me love in her presence and my son hugged me after my dad sulked from me reading my DM from Richard Lewis.

Me

Too bad the Macaroon has peppermint. Peppermint is a total boner killer for me. Although, if I was still single without 3 kids. I’d slam some shots of Black Haus for old school times sake.

A Vasectomy is like playing God or a Bartender who refuses to serve you after you’ve had too many.

A Vasectomy screams I’ve got enough knots in my back already. One more in my groin won’t make much of a difference.

A Vasectomy screams after this, I’m done tying knots with either sex period.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

My Gap Years

“Daddy, what are your Gap Years? I say. “The best times and worst of times.” Daughter replies. “Was the worst time, when Baba called you pathetic? Papa not calling you on your 40th birthday or Mama minimizing your comedy appeal to Baptist fundamentalists on Twitter and WordPress?”

Unlike mothers on maternity leave. I didn’t have a stable career waiting for me to return. So I decided to assume ownership of my writing career and author a book about falling for fatherhood, working remote and controlling my kids through comedy. Which I promote in my Do It All Dad Year Podcast as a means to make our kids great again.  Does controlling our kids through comedy sound too aggressively nationalistic for you? Then, you’re a humorless twat and your dad failed you miserably. Join the club.

I’ll admit. It’s pretty depressing to hear constant updates about how unemployment in America is at a 45 year low. Knowing, I’ve graduated from a top communication school in the country. Written for Viacom twice, had food fiction published in England and amassed more than 5000 connections on LinkedIn from 15 plus years of new business development centric jobs mostly within the IT staffing industry with the Creative Group at Robert Half most recently. I used to get jobs for UX Designers and Social Media Community  at twice their previous salary yet I can’t even score an interview for myself these days. Because gap years aren’t a good look on white privileged men, especially in these times. I don’t care how desperate companies are for qualified help these days. Mom was just in town. She says. I didn’t think Trump would boost the economy. But I read in the NY Times how they’re not even conducting background checks on ex-cons anymore. So why the fuck can’t you get a job again?  I hate to make excuses. So I won’t. But being deemed a bearded stay at home shemale freak of the most deplorable order, especially considering my professed support of President Trump, hasn’t persuaded any Creative Directors to look at my 8 year old copywriting portfolio just yet.

But seriously, during my gap years I’ve learned how much I hate sore losers. Who remain hostage to past slights. Who are total strangers to self-awareness necessary for self-improvement. Like Tony Robbins says, either you A) Play a victim and think poor, poor, pitiful me. Or B) Move forward in life with the attitude of, setbacks are temporary, it doesn’t define me and sometimes the biggest setbacks can serve to be the greatest kick in the butt to kick your real love based career obsession into hyperspeed. Not his exact words but you get the gist. I don’t think Tony Robbins is one to obsess over the exact quoting of others either. Have you seen his doc on Netflix? I thought I dropped F Bombs for emphasis. Now, I’m thinking of the scene from Entourage when Dice scores the pilot with Johnny Drama for Johnny’s Banana’s and says. “Now Johnny, we do the fucking.” Dice still rules.

So being honest with my gap year repellent resume. And considering the fact Charles Bukowski is my role model, being no stranger to his fair share of gaps years between paying factory jobs before getting settled at the Post Office.  I’ve decided to bet it all on the muse and myself. The bullpens of various IT agency sales offices were my post office and now it’s time to put my comedic stamp on the world of parenting books or die a corporate, unoriginal, contented, unimaginative, stiff for hire forever.

Bukowski was correct, writing is the only good fight. And most men are finished at 26 with kids, a mortgage and settled in profession to keep a roof over the head of their family’s American dream. Who must sell their boss on the impression they exist to please them, maximize profit and have their time exploited for all it’s worth. At 42, I’ve survived my pain period of exclusion only to emerge stronger, tougher and funnier than ever. Hellbent on being heard despite Twitter’s attempt to censor my off the cuff personality. But I won’t bitch about it. That’s why I’ve decided to write my book because only my book editor can censor me now. Thinking small never would’ve got me to where am I now. To the point where my younger brothers sulks every holiday, whenever I bring up a story about Paul Mooney telling me “I hear you’re funny” after introducing myself for a callback audition for his sketch comedy show in Harlem.

My gap years has broken my pothead addicted binge mentality for good. My gap years have brought morning prayer into my life. Where I give thanks and praises. Despite me straining to emote about my wife more than I’d like because my gap years have tested her patience in bankrolling my dreams of making it as a writer provider podcaster for our family of 5. I get it.  My gaps years have lead to me getting published again on someplace besides my own blog. Breaking my self-publishing streak, which is a pleasant change of pace. My gap years have shown who my fake news friends are. Who get off from kicking you when you’re down but not out.

My gap years have given birth to a real life practicing pescatarian comedian. My gap years have shown what little regard my younger brother and parents have for do it all dads like myself. Who’ve bet it all on my God given ability to excel in the language art of comedy better than most. My gap years have shown what I’m fighting for is self-respect.  My gap years have shown I’m fighting not for another cubicle job, but for freedom to be a stay at home comedian dad podcast host author bigwig. That my best selling parenting book Stay At Comedian will afford me the opportunity to do.

My gaps years have shown me how I hate those who don’t respect salesmanship, showmanship, the close, our cops, military, law and order and good old fashioned hustle.

My gap years have shown me I hate my liberal secular Jewish brethren who deride President Trump because they’re no name hacks in the bosom of life at large. And not nearly prestigious enough to afford a home in a building President Trump owns or score a retweet if their life depended on it. Let alone, work for free for the betterment and advancement of his fellow Americans.

God bless my gap years. It’s put me in touch with the man I’m destined to be. Not some belittling, critic cynic, mush brained, boring hack who think’s he’s cool because he listens to Rakim. Who thinks drinking Grey Goose bottle service is a pathway to empowered, fun filled enlightenment.

 

No, my gaps years have told me I want to be a book author podcast giant. Who can teach Gen X Dads how to control their kids with comedy. So we can make our kids great again. Who won’t suffer from a psychotic breakdown even as they turn 70 and start cashing in their Social Security Checks.  Who were dumb enough to side with her on the wrong side of history.

My gap years have proved to me I will not be raising whiners, complainers, drug addict dependent, hysterical, brainwashed, flesh obsessed, mock outrage addicted, fake news hypocritical no friends of color losers. No, my gap years have shown me how I’ll succeed in raising strong, self-reliant, drug free, petty free leaders. Who value loyalty, hard work, sacrifice and assuming ownership of their happiness and destiny through following my lead. Refusing to beg for interviews with fake feminist HR Humpback dwellers relegated to dreamless boiler rooms below Penn Station because you triple down on yourself to make a living without their crummy, paltry handouts is a great place to start.

The End,

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not My Daughter’s Role Model

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
2 time loser, alcoholic deplorable. Who stole China from the White House on her way out the door. Am I close yet?

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
Do you know who Tony Podesta is?
He has enough painting with kids in bondage to make Marilyn Manson blush.

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
Rapist enabler, Russian Dossier Financier, best selling Voodoo Doll in Haiti year after year.

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
Do you know what spirit cooking is? Hillary’s campaign adviser John Podesta does. What, blame WikiLeaks, not me.

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
The real bully who stole the Democratic nomination from fake news socialist Bernie Sanders. I know who Seth Rich was. Do you?

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
I know you can’t name one good thing she accomplished.
And stealing the DNC nomination from Bernie Sanders doesn’t count.

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
I don’t look up to cheaters. Ever heard of Jeffrey Epstein? He’s like the Jewish Sandusky. Well, Epstein is tight will Bill alright.

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
A slacker Presidential candidate. Who got out hustled, outclassed and out-messaged by Donald J. Trump. Am I close yet?

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
She’d said we’d all hang if Trump wins. But don’t stop believing in impeachment miracles on my behalf.

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
The Anti-Christ. Don’t worry, Jesus defeats the Anti-Christ. So, keep the faith in the Jesus comeback story resistor.

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
You mean the wicked witch of the east? Who cheated at the debate with Trump by getting the questions in advance.

INT. HOME
Daughter stares at her Chanukah book gift titled Rebel Girls.
Fiance
Do you know who Hillary is?
Daughter
You mean Hillary Hammer Time Cankles?
The treacherous bitch who sold our uranium to Russia.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth