Hounding Down Happiness

You ever watch a Truvada commercial on Hulu. And say out loud, “Holy fuck, I’m older than Aids kids. When I grew up, Aids was a death sentence like Kurt Cobain’s shotgun marriage to Courntney Love. And Kurt Cobain didn’t kill Hair Metal, Aids did. Before Magic made HIV disappear.”

New plan to make money from home. Perform thick, meaty jokes on Only Fans topless, while sporting fancy pink Hermes ties like a gender fluid Rodney Dangerfield. Instead of I get no respect being my catchphrase as a stay-at-home shemale comedian. My modernized catchphrase is, “I get no ball tickle Emoji love.” What, it beats waiving my dick around on Only Fans like I’ve got so much free time on my hands 3 unplanned kids later because I never mastered the art of the pump fake. The Trans community could support my new Reisling drinking bills alone for my Shabbat Shalom Friday night specials. What’s gayer? Buying a Kirby Pucket jersey when you’re 12 because Minnesota was Jason Priestely’s fictious hometown before moving to Beverly Hills with Heather to Beverly Hills, in Beverly Hills 90210. Or developing a surging stiffy at the thought of pleasuring myself in front of the mirror after each set? Because my rapidly devolving core exercises on the Pelton app have gotten me horn dog horny after basking in my reflection from my half naked Only Fans performance. After delivering more mouthful streams of hardcore hilarity for my rapidly expanding Only Fans base, long time, all the time, Challah. Thank you very much.

I love the idea of hounding happiness from home. I can afford to buy myself a new Polo hoodie from my new fan base on Only Fans. Because you know the Pedo label doesn’t stick, when you can’t wear your favorite Polo hoodie after your daughter wears it in an unintentionally provocative way. Daughter exposes her shoulder, wearing only a skimpy tube top underneath, with short shorts on no less at 11 years old. Understand, my daughter has legs that go for miles and miles already at 11. Plus, her hips already hit the ceiling. In other words, my fancy Fagala, deep blue Polo hoodie is officially ruined now. If Pricsila Pressly was wearing my long sleeves button down polo like she does in the Naked Gun, it would be different. Come to think, Elvis romanced Priscilla a day after her Baptism. I think the King’s pickup line was, “Mama tried, but Hound Dogs hound baby. My lip only furls for pubescent, dent free trim baby. And making me regular peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, aren’t going to cut it bitch. Are you ready for my banana in your tail pipe because I love you too much baby, to deny you so much houndog love on tap. Hounding down happiness, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Hatching Happenings

Fire sets urgency apart.

From non-essential, pussy footing, gun shy lonely hearts.

Urgency earns.

Ask perpetually bitchy Christopher in the Sopranos after he gets his button and becomes his turn.

Fires fade when urgency doesn’t get laid.

Fire and urgency go hand in hand.

Like our band of brothers on D-Day.

Who refused to bury their heads in the sand.

Urgency gets you up at 5am.

Fired up to get a head start on your competition.

Fuck Zen.

Urgency is value creation.

Or else you’re begging for more disinvitations.

Anything less than urgent, is below blah.

Think, the opposite of Poison, on their album, Open Up and Say Ah.

Urgency creates action.

There’s plenty of time for relaxin.

What’s urgent is hot new.

What’s not is leftover stew.

Lack of urgency is an emergency.

Winner killers like MJ show no mercy.

Urgency is taking matters into your own hands.

The opposite is waiting to die way up high in the stands.

Urgency is rage against dying of the light.

It’s only the remedy against lifelong stage freight.

Urgency provides us with real time highs.

Say goodbye to time release Adderall and bags under your eyes.

Urgency gets emails read.

When others have checked out prematurely and gone to bed.

Urgency alerts us to changes needed.

When everything in your life feels empty and depleted.

Urgency motivates you to change your ways.

So, you don’t end up, so mentally crippled and hazed.

Urgency makes reality very clear.

Drinking is only fun when you’re skinny in front of a mirror.

Urgency throws caution into the sea.

Who else would you rather be besides a sex beam blaster she he?

By she, he, I mean hot and bright.

Who knows only to chill after giving their best fight.

What’s attractive about settling anyway?

When you know you’re medium happy on a good day.

Urgency is passing concealed & carry laws in Texas.

Because our Founding Fathers knew anarchy would reign by disabling the defenseless.

Texas Rep. Kevin Brady says, “Urgency creates action.”

Which is fine and dandy.

If you’re a funny man actor from Canada who refuses his booster shot in the name of John Candy.

Urgency is God listening to chirpy birds hatching happenings.

Michael Kornbluth

Helplessly Boosting

What were David Crosby’s last words?

I shouldn’t have given the 4th Booster a chance?

It’s Deja Vu for Bob Saget all over again?

Pfizer, Moderna and AstraZeneca are a fake news super group.

My turn was 5 decades ago after Jimi, Janis and Jim Morrison.

Woodstock, Ohio, I’m the Ken Burns of folk rock motherfuckers.

In our house, Snopes knows best.

Helpless is trying to get it up around Joni Mitchell with no makeup on high grade blow.

Teach your children well.

Fuck your Pfizer stock, sell, sell, sell.

Helplessly boosting, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Maui Wowie Mania

Did you know that Paul McCartney’s most romantic song is about weed? Got to get you into my life, was about running out of weed again. Fuck Linda’s avocado toast. Bean curd wasn’t getting Yellow Submarine finished. The 1st side of the Beatles Record Revolver is a total bummer because Paul’s out of weed again. Why else would they open their 6th album with a song about a tax man when they already had more money than God? Paul was just pissed at his accountant because he refused to write off his extra wide rolling papers as an office expense. He had the same accountant as George Harrison. That’s why Paul told John to let George sing his song Taxman to open Revolver with. Channeling the ebullient joy derived from falling in love with Linda’s tofu scramble was the furthest thing from Paul’s bummer mind at the start of Revolver man. Second song on Revolver, Eleanor Rigby, makes Pet Sounds feel like a feel good movie of the week on the Hallmark Channell or Poison’s greatest hits like Nothing But A Good Time on Prozac. I don’t think the song Eleanor Rigby is a song about all the lonely people and where they all come from. Paul isn’t talking about lonely cat ladies on the Upper West Side. He’s talking about all the friendless potheads who consider pot and rock and roll, their best friends till the very end. Jim Morrison rises again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Finally, on side 2, Paul is popping boners again on the song Gooday Sunshine because his Dealer just delivered him 5 ounces of Maui Wowie to his flat in Notting Hill. And he can tune out Linda’s wailing on about how they don’t dry hump enough trees anymore. Since they stopped touring and shacked up in Abby Road Studios from 1962 to 1970. But at the start of the Revolver on side 2, the entire band were in high spirits again with Linda not around to hock any of her mock meat meat pies. And it was goodbye Linda. Gooday sunshine, especially after John forced Yoko to hand over her last brick hash from Nepal for a merry Christmas and happy new year.

Maui Wowie mania shines on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Selectively Suspicious

Harboring more screenplay fantasies is off the list.

Halfway into Tarantino’s book Cinema Speculation, Tarantino pauses to point out what a foaming racist Dinero’s character is in Taxi Driver, before he started popping off at the mouth on the View, looking like Betsy Ross falling apart at the seams.

If Travis Bickle was such a lone nut racist, then why stop halfway with the Mohawk Quentin?

Doesn’t Travis invite a black chick out for a date who works in a porn theater in Times Square?

“So, if your Great, Great Grandmother was good enough for Thomas Jefferson. I wouldn’t mind pursing happiness through titty blasting bliss with you sis.”

In the book, Tarantino even goes out of his way to tell us how Harvey Keitel couldn’t find a white pimp throughout New York City to study under, yet Travis Bickle doesn’t hesitate to blow away this wannabe wigger. It’s not as if Travis Bickle gets cold feet at the last second and thinks, “Wiil this kill be applied to my quota when I apply for the Grand Dragon’s new opening in Hell’s Kitchen next month? That’s being advertised in the back pages of the Village Voice under the classified section ad for Ethnic Cleanser Cleaners needed, that reads, “Colorblind Vigilantes and Shaft wannabes aren’t allowed.”

Travis Bickle even admits to taking black riders in his taxi, while most of his fellow taxi drivers don’t.

And don’t you think Taxi Drivers of all colors have earned the right to be selectively racist? Meaning taxi drivers of all creeds, are allowed to be more selectively suspicious than others.

“Wow, this is a pretty big tip. I don’t do drug run drop offs for Frank Lucas, just because I’m dropping you off in Harlem dude. I actually prefer the bigger hipped sisters. What, only Lou Reed gets to cruise for some brown sugar around these parts like a Midnight Cowboy from Long Island.”

Just because Travis Bickle shoots a black guy robbing a liquor store, I wouldn’t call him the second coming of Ed Buck. You know, piece of shit, Democratic fundraiser who’d cruise for black homeless dudes in West Hollywood only to drug them to death with Crystal Meth while trying to get some drugged out love in the process, forget about it.

Countless lives lost, 2 billion dollars of damage later, post summer of love, in honor of George Floyd Appreciation Century. God forbid you be selectively suspicious of those who shout racist. When they don’t charge elitist white cucks in positions of power in the media and big tech and government for being selectively racist when they broadly brush MAGA country as a whole as racist, mongoloid morons who refused to get blood clots from vax shots that work less than Russel Westbrook running the Triangle Offense.

I’ll reserve the right to be selectively suspicious of more woke tard bullshit, whenever I want Quentin thanks. Like how on Joe Rogan, you played dumb about your film patron Harvey being a serial rapist. Look, I get it, Quentin, Disney wasn’t financing your next project. But at least, fess up and say, “I wanted to make more films and looked the other way. And close with a hard-hitting slashing joke.

“But at least Harvey’s wife finally left him after 12 years, to focus on her lifetime battle with Amnesia.”

Selectively Suspicious, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Big Pharma Blues

1st word today kids.

Corrupt, something that rots from within.

Think of ancient hipster hacks like Patrick the musician.

Who thinks blowing off mama’s birthday early for band practice in his late forties is a jealous inducing hook.

Who thinks doing Enya cover songs on riverboats along the Hudson makes us in touch with the beautifying divine and dream alive hip hearts in us all.

Who thinks being in a band with a bunch of pharma tech developers and designers gives him the anti-authortorian edge to break on through to the cover of Rolling Stone in the sixties in no time. Then again, Steph Curry is on the cover of Rolling Stone these days, which is less rollicking than a young Cameron Crow being on the cover of Rolling Stone.

If you had a conflict with what drugs you were pimping big pharma websites for, you’d quite your job.

Yeah, and Dice would go soft on Neil Young on his podcast.

You ever want choke Joni Mitchell with one of her hippie haggard shawls to shut up long face Horse tooth for good?

Leaving your wife who survived cancer for Daryl Hannah is in poor taste, don’t you think Young? You going through a post midlife never banged a mermaid crisis or what?

You were scared during the height of Covid, Young? Didn’t you used to share heroin needles with Harvey Millk? You were scared of getting an itchy esphogus from Covid Young? I’ve been puffing Marbalo Reds since my twenties and my lungs feel great, since my bud Ari Shaffir turned me on to edibles and the weed pen; but you get the gist.

Not one big pharma company has spoken out against the clot shot.

Not one big pharma company has condemned the pushing of opiods in our coutry that have killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking it with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

Not one big pharma company has come to the defense of Eric Clapton confessing to experiencing temporary paralysis in his playing arm strung by the All Mighty by taking the Covid vax shot.

Not one big pharma company has commented on Justin Bieber’s frozen face or Katy Perry’s droopy eye twitch in Vegas or how the craziest thing about soccer is how my fellow Ameeicans still expect me to give a shit about soccer, World Cup or not.

The LA, Philly title game was the craziest thing that ever happened in soccer. I thought midfielders dropping dead midfield at a hard 30 from blood clot induced cardiac arrest through the operation death speed did the trick, my bad.

Flourish, to kick ass and take names, think Kari Lake once she teams up with Linda Hamilton and takes down The Dominion Machines, that being the new Skynet for good.

Fluky, think any hired hack replacement on Comedy Cental to replace Trevor Noah on the Daily Show, assuming he remains Bruce Springsteen’s gimpy bitch message boy for life. Insisting how all his blue collar fans 3 decades ago were n bomb dropping hicks, who only tolerated Clarence Clemon’s operatic, spine tingly sax work on Jungleland because jungle is in it and the song is West Side Story meets American Me meets New Jack City.

Just don’t call voter ID fair and inclusive. How else are you going to tell MS13 apart with all that shit on their face?

Practicing conflict resolution.

Samuel, don’t hit your brother in the spine when he’s not looking or you’ll paralyze him like Van Damne’s brother get’s paralyzed by the braided pony punk in Kickbocker. And when your paralyzed from the waist down, you can’t derive any prolonged merriment from futzing around with your schmeckel spot anymore. If you’re lucky your brother would feel a whiff of butt wind after going butt liquid in his pants but that’s it. You don’t want you brother in a wheelchair because he intentionally scared you in the morning by pretending to be a raccoon on the loose again, do you? Last, stuffing you in the trash and duck taping you in there with raccoons and your butt liquid nappies would be times worse, don’t you think?

Son says, “Stop stealing my butt wind, butt liquid jokes, Moron Jewish Son. Eat my butt rice, Challah. Thank you very much. And Patrick’s son is more boring than Patrick. Is that why you accuse his mother of micro dosing to make her kid more interesting because he takes after the father?

Big Pharma blues, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Headhunter Writer

Your LinkedIn connects are very sexy. I plan on pumping the Fin Tech ones for all their worth, assuming there’s any money left.

So my LinkedIn bio is written in the 3rd person like Kenny Powers. All men can’t be created equal, Challah. Thank you very much.

You have to check out the pilot for Tulsa King, Sly Stallone at 75 is better than ever in it. His performance makes up for sneaking Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. And for chucking more mango gummies at his suckalicious wife on a lazy Sunday afternoon in Beverly Hills.

“Hey Model Tits, it’s not about how hard you get hit, its about how much you can take and keep moving forward away from the gummy edibles store on Rodeo Drive that only sells high end Hawaiian, that’s how winning is done. You know the new edible store on Rodeo called, Sticky Icky Rich Bitch. That has a paywall made out of JR Smith’s abs in your wildest pot powered dreams. How can you expect our model daughters to follow your lead if you have less munchie control than JR Smith? The Cavs banned Blunted from conducting anymore topless interviews after games because he was high enough already. Glad we had this chat. Now let’s pose for a pic on Instagram holding hands, pretending I never chucked mango gummies at your head like your the second coming of Rebel Wilson before giving Harry Styles some pegtastic love from behind during Coachella. What, that fat bitch had to shred her fat suit one way or another.”

Hitting with my best shots, Pat Benatar lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Lopsided Love Remedy

What’s my lopsided love remedy?

Text my brother on his birthday with this.

Happy Birthday bro, despite you not acknowledging my birthday since I came out as a Stay At Home Shemale Comedian outside of texting happy birthday bro once in 7 years.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot, don’t do heroin on your birthday.

And get Hanukkah gifts for all 3 of my kids if you want to rekindle any semblance of a relationship with them ever again.

You’re getting the entire inheritance anyway, once you share this text with mom soon after.

And when you give thanks for Thanksgiving with mom and dad in Arizona without me, my wife or 3 kids, thank your demons for convincing mom and dad that your ex-wife was the driving force behind your decision to add heroin to your resume into your early forties as if doing blow for 4 decades straight, after only hearing last call from the bathroom stall wasn’t enough.

I don’t care about being the sloppy second son anymore.

I don’t care about mom and dad betting against my capacity to achieve full blown independence again.

I don’t care about you being a sketchy, sniveling, drug addict bitch who can’t even muster the class to wish me good luck at my new job on Monday, which is the 1st full time opportunity I’ve had to feed my family in 7 years.

I don’t care about your life always being deemed more important in mom and dad’s eyes because of your innermost need to feel special, compared to the other mere spoiled, dumb son over here.

I don’t care about your opinions on anything, including mom and dad’s judgement of my talents, direction or beliefs anymore.

I don’t care that mom and dad would do dick for me if I wanted to get divorced.

I don’t care that mom and dad don’t treat you like the regrettable dumb fuck one.

I don’t care that you talk shit behind my back in the service of preserving your drug money from mom and dad.

I don’t care that dad gets an extra glint in his eyes when trying to upsell your endless fuckitude again.

I don’t care that mom made Yom Kippur all about whether I’d help you move.

I don’t care that mom wasn’t feeling the need to wish me a happy Jewish New Year in return because she was all over your morose dick again.

I don’t care about how you’re the sorry excuse for why and mom and dad, never spend more than a week or 2 back here every summer to see the kids.

I don’t care that your legal fees and divorce lawyer fees are the reason they reneged on taking the kids to California for Spring Break allegedly.

I don’t care about you not being a conspiracy theorist.

I don’t care about you playing the forced intermediary on mom and dad’s behalf anymore, whenever they want to meddle in my life again.

I don’t care about mom breaking into cankers sores on your behalf anymore.

I don’t care about mom only focusing on the center of your existence whenever she visits back east to see the grandkids allegedly.

I don’t care about lopsided love anymore because God put me on this earth to ensure I don’t make the same mistake with my 3 Pescatarian Comedian friends, that being my children, Matilda, Arthur, and Samuel.

That’s right, like mom and dad you refuse to acknowledge the fruits of my labor, in this case being my book The Koshertarian Comedians, which will sell huge, mark my words, no thanks to any emotive encouragement from you, mom and dad, that’s for damn sure. The follow up sequel hit book will be the Pescatarian Comedians, forget about it.

I don’t care about trying to impress you, making you laugh, or making you feel special anymore, because you’re just going to focus on you and not my kids.

Mom says, you’re making money now. I say, “Take the boys out to a baseball game.” And all I get is more bullshit promises in return.

I don’t care that you, mom and dad are A plus narcissists times infinity compared to me anymore.

I don’t care that lying, deceiving, downplaying, and minimizing has become second nature to you all.

I don’t care because I’m the star parenting genius and your enablers aren’t.

I don’t care because come Monday at my new job, will mark the greatest recruiter winning streak of all time.

I don’t care because I’m taking my family to fucking Jamaica man for Spring Break and you’re not, because you don’t have a family, but I do despite mom yearning for versions of you the most inside.

I don’t care because all of my kid’s teachers want to clone future versions of them.

I don’t care because I’ve got 3 masterful books to self-publish or sell.

I don’t care because I get to work for an older Jewish woman with style, class and a sense of humor now, who’s a loving, local, involved Grandma no less.

I don’t care because I’ve got 136 comedy records to convert into 99 cent E books for sales while having my genius artist son design all the covers after his 3rd grade teacher last night described him as the best art student she’s ever had. Especially, after she laughed long time when I said. That’s why, I call him Millionaire By 10 for a reason, Challah. Thank you very much.

I don’t care about lopsided love from mom and dad anymore because I’ve endless sheets of comedy gold, endless a plus, laugh yanker nicknames for my 3-fuss free, pitch perfect children and Dad doesn’t it, Waste Of Height, because it’s a term of affection but a great title lead for my all-star collection of funny man flash fiction stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories. I like getting milage about my dad’s endless assholishness on my behalf.

I don’t care because I’ve got one more final comedy record special to record from home on Sundy called Spoiled Dumb Son before I start cashing checks 20K commission checks on the regular while you’re hooked up to a weed pen on a forklift.

I don’t care because my Shabbat Shalom Ramble is going to kick into extra fucking high rollicking gear tonight.

I don’t care because before my birthday in April, I’ll have a screenplay Gum King Of New York to blow Tarantino away with.

I don’t care about your hurt feelings of dejection in the face of my towering genius anymore because now I live for watching hacks cry.

I don’t care about lop sided love because this is the winter, I don’t drink a drop of alcoholic, even hard fucking Kombucha, so I can finally achieve Do It All Dad Dunking out glory on my lucky 47th to make Dragon’s Lung’s year finish on fire.

I don’t care about lopsided love anymore because it only illuminates what beautifying magic the opposite can be.

Like Ayn Rand said, “New love is always waiting around the corner. And I plan on being its biggest spreader as I become the Relo King Recruiter of North White Plains as I scurry to score jobs and monster commission rips for any remaining in demand tech talent who hasn’t gotten the fuck out of New York, yet. As Jimi sang on Jimi Hendrix Blues, “I hear my train coming, and pretty soon I’m going to buy this town and put it all in my shoes. That’s what I’m going to do.” Jimmy lives, Challah. I might even pretend to give a shit about my freedom buying success that will allow me to kill on stage eventually down the line too.

Lopsided Love woes in my bruised heart are the off the fucking list, starting now, forevermore.

Thank you, sweet Lord, for my lopsided love remedy blog post very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Stumped On Blockers

Why do kids today want puberty blockers again?

Growing up, puberty couldn’t come soon enough.

Especially when younger brother of 3 years hits puberty before you do, in addition to banging the 3 hottest girls in his class. That I tried to jerk off to at the time but couldn’t. One year for Hanukkah I get a book from my mother called the 12 Stages Of Puberty. I freak out immediately.

“Mom,why would you present me this book in front of my younger brother? Jonathan can play with himself whenever he wants?”

Mom says, “But you do that all the time upstairs with your GI-Joe figures.”

If I caught my son playing with his big sister’s Barbie Dolls, I’d think banging my GI Joe figure way past the acceptable age was incredibly gayer, especially while I had Gung Ho manhandle Cobra Commander like his gimpy bitch in Pulp Fiction.

“Welcome to my Terror Dome dick, Major Blood.”

“It’s Cobra Commander.”

“You wish bitch, bottoms away. Yoh Joe! Hasbro lives up your gaping anus hole.”

Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Parenting Genius

Parent Teacher conference was last night.  I open with, “You know Frank’s Pizzeria in town? Well, Frank just called Samuel our future President. What do you got?” Kindergarten Teacher, Mrs. Rudolph laughs long time. She adds, “He’s such a happy child.” I say, “Funnier dad, happier baby. You want a photo off old man? My son has more happy muscle memory to flex from than a young Leo on the set Growing Pains with Alan Thicke. Controlling our kids with comedy can make our kids great again, my 3 fuss free kids’ 90 percent of time are living proof of it.”

Mrs. Rudolph’s titillated esophagus secretes more laughter to fill the air, which feels like long lasting Lock Jaw Love in return.

Lock Jaw Love lasting, Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth