Best Bud Sarah Silverman Never Had

You know God loves you when your kids play with your fungus covered feet. Seeing past your impurities. My 2 boys know to wear new flip flops every time they step foot in the men’s showers at LA Fitness in West Hollywood.

My 1st dad moment was yelling at my wife for tramp stamping my 5 year old daughter with fake tattoos seconds before our 1st Winter Ball Dance together. I yell. Take them off. My daughters adds. Yeah, now I can’t be buried in a fake Jewish Cemetery.

My 2nd dad moment was saying no fairy wings on Matilda after my wife’s best friend gave them to her for Christmas. Matilda looks like an overdose at the Lime Light waiting to happen. Especially, at the rate she pounds seltzer at home these days.

Dads are stronger cheerleaders than moms. My wife says it’s because we live in a Patriarchal society. I say. I thought it was because our kids cared more about my opinions. Plus, growing up don’t act like you cared more about impressing your knife chucking mother babe.

I still struggle with saying patriarchal society without stuttering it out. I’m convinced Virginia Wolf willed the word into popular culture so men would sound dumber Jersey like than usual.

Sarah Silverman doesn’t think the President is mature yet still takes bong hits in a hoodie way past 40. Plus, I don’t recall Sarah Silverman outgrowing her truly tasteless, alternative jokes phase either.

Life Is Worth Losing is worth revisiting for hard core George Carlin fans. Carlin is sober and sharper than ever. Plus, darker is funnier and George Carlin achieves stand-up nirvana on this HBO special with The Suicide Guy. He really was the best. Plus, George Carlin’s rape jokes were vastly superior to Sarah and felt far less forced rapey.

Opening line for my new book chapter “Puff, Puff, Pass”, about passing on being a pothead, only 3 kids later. I always wanted to be a functional pothead.

Option 2 for an opening line for my new book chapter “Puff, Puff, Pass”, about passing on being a pothead, only 3 kids later. Weed was my best bud till I had Matilda.

My 7-Year-Old Daughter on Adam Levine. He sounds like he stole Michael Jackson’s voice. In case you’re wondering, we were listening to the song Gotten on Slash’s debut album, Slash. You’re welcome. Fergie, Chris Cornell, Kid Rock all shine on it.

George Soros calling Roger Waters.

George Soros
Can you supply the caravan with free I Phones with 1 song on it each?
Roger Waters
Tear down the wall, got it.
I’m only doing this because you know how awful Israelis are to Palestinians.

Dad
Day 5, free from beer Matilda. It will sound weird when I say day 28.

Daughter

I know.  You’ve never even made it to double digits.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

My New American Dream

INT. HOME
4 Year Old Son
Is God happy?
Mom
God can be a she.
Dad
Mama’s feminist teen spirit post Meto eclipses any shot of Nirvana for God kid.

I got misty from the palpable love “The Fiz Kids” showered coach Fizdale with last night. And I’m still convulsing with roarish glee from Emmanuel Mudiay’s out of nowhere in your face, Mike Conley’s contract slam for the ages.

Eddie Vedder’s voice fluctuates between hushed, garbling, constipated tones and cathartic, overacted overtones like a darker, more masculine sounding Dave Mathews on better weed.

Lena Dunham is profiled by the Cut? But she got her own pad in the West Village without having to depend on her daddy for a handout. Lena cuts off her dad, not the other way around. Oh, I thought Cut was an indie glamour mag about suicide, my bad.

Did you know Lena Dunham was Hillary’s Social Media Community Manager? Only Lena Dunham could make Hillary Hammer Time Cankles less likable and relatable in 1 blubbery swoop.

When Trump won 2 years ago. I prayed for the Wall to be built around the strip clubs in Montreal. So Lena Dunham, wouldn’t scare away all the clientele. Amy Schumer is having a baby. Lena Dunham and Sarah Silverman are losing.

I hate stories about seeing Bruce live more than stories about seeing the Grateful Dead pre-Aids before Magic made HIV disappear. When you could bang any chesty Italian gal from Jersey in the parking lot at Giants for drum solo filler in between.

Wife
You haven’t given me any smiles today.
Husband
Stroke my ego and you know what else more. Then, talk dirty to me.
Because I want action tonight, satisfaction alright. And your PJ look with no make up on isn’t enough to make Thor go higher. I call my mighty pounder mallet Thor.

Foot Doctor Assistant
You didn’t show for your last appointment.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I have 3 kids and been blessed with useless, bare minimum, Facebook grandparents on both sides of the virtual fence babe. So don’t bust my balls babe.

INT. ZERO GRAVITY OFFICE
Elon Musk talks to his AI powered life coach computer.
Standing desks were so 2017 Tron Robbins.
If I move to Mars, I’ll be single longer because maintaining long distance relationships from mars are always a stretch.

INT. KITCHEN
Wife
I’m going to ask for work off Monday.
Husband
It’s your life.
Wife
That’s the meanest thing you can say.
Husband
You really think I’m a slacker, don’t you?

Shameless recycle of my gift letter opener for my part Turkish friend from college for Kwazna. He doesn’t celebrate Kwanza but some Turks must. Dear Dave,
Happy to hear about your path to sober, healthier, less destructive living.

Everything in Greenwich, CT is greener, brighter and prettier. My new dream is to buy a home there for my family as a well off writer performer entertainer. Westchester Country is like brownish, regular commercial weed in comparison. I can pass a drug test. I swear. My Weed Exit Interview Podcast was 3 months ago at least.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

My Move From Hermosa Hell

7:30 PM WST and my parents haven’t called yet to wish me a happy 28th birthday. I play a voicemail. My mom sings me happy birthday. And I cry out every ounce of beaten down in life sadness, my always ate alone in Junior High at Burger King clogged heart could bear. Apparently, my new diet of double cheese Turkey Burgers from Astro Burger didn’t do much to unclog the heavy heartedness of ineffectual loser-dom in my heart. Knowing at 28, I was an unemployed wannabe standup comedian in the Valley, porn capital of the world next to Warner Brother Studios, otherwise known as the land of dirty, money shot powered dreams.

 

My wife now and mother of my 3 kids hates me bringing up my lost year in Sherman Oaks. Where the crystal meth was still working its way out of my system. The unemployment checks were coming to an end. And at 28, I still didn’t have a best friend to call to emote to, ask for advice or pick me up when times were blue. Which depressed me more than having little to no money then. I was so broke, my Hebrew name was under Judicial Review at 28 years old.  Back then, I couldn’t even stare at an extra Actress with a SAG card on Melrose without being fined for insufficient funds.  Ok, so I had some decent material my 1st year of stand-up during my “lost year” in Sherman Oaks.  But I almost never made it to Sherman Oaks alive at all.

I lived in Hermosa Beach, for 9 months prior. It was my favorite beach in Southern California by far. The sand is pebble free and the waves for body surfing were consistently the best. My apartment was on Monteray Ave, overlooking the Pier and Brian Wilson’s favorite, money making muse, the misty, always majestic, mighty Pacific. Screw you Mark Twain it’s my story time now. Female hardbody volleyball players abounded. Specs of sand scattered within my shower always put me at Summer loving having a blast ease.

 

I stared to run by the water after working as an IT recruiter in Manhattan Beach nearby. I was no longer in a suffocating, sexless relationship with my ex. The only rich Irish girl of private Catholic school upbringing in Westwood, John Wooden country. Who couldn’t hold her liquor. But her father had a keg of Sierra Nevada Pale on tap always. So I wasn’t complaining. It’s the pale ale that never gets stale. Recycling lines from my advertising portfolio and 1st year of stand up has to materialize for me eventually.  I even had buds to hang out with down for happy hour at the Poop Deck before I hit on everything that moved. Had my recruiter bud Jay take some inspired trips to Tijuana with me. Growing up during Regan, before Magic had made HIV disappear. I had enough good sense so I thought not to bang any hookers there. Was called a faggot for it which was nice. Walked out of a brothel when they were all lined up also. I couldn’t have been a more indecisive Jew unless I had the munchies at the Bellagio buffet in Vegas for my last meal on earth but was only allotted 1 plate to fill.

I was paying rent on my own. Had to ask mom and dad for deposit, 1st month rent. It was my only way out my relationship with my ex. In retrospect, I should’ve kicked her out of our apartment in West Hollywood. Which I was living in prior. It was ten times cheaper and walking distance to the Improv on Melrose and the Comedy Store on Sunset. So much for thinking that move through.

Across the street from where I lived in Hermosa was a wine shop that sold beer. The owner there was young like me who used to live in NYC, so he was pretty cool in my book, so I thought. We start hanging out late night at this wine shop. He lures me with free wine samples and bottles of beer when I don’t have a bottle to piss in literally. Pretty soon, this leads to us doing bumps of what I thought were cocaine which were actually bumps of Crystal Meth. It looked the same, dripped at the back of my throat the same and snorted up my nostril the same. The only discernable difference after my 1st tiny snort, lasting what seemed like all summer.  Was me kissing this delicious blond gal at a dark, scarlet red hued lounge bar by the Strand moments later. Feeling like a coked out Tony the Tiger.  Thinking, telling myself, this is shit is great. It wasn’t.

The crash was in fact the opposite of great. Especially 24 hours later, when I found myself peeing on myself. Walking outside my apartment. Feeling my eyes roll toward the back of head. Never feeling more empty or devoid of hope in such a depressed, bleaked out state in my life. Staring at the Pacific Ocean from my 2nd story walk up apartment in Hermosa Beach, not seeing pure beauty or universal connectivity or boundless potential inside me. Not seeing me prancing on the sand with my ex girlfriend Summer Lam to summer loving having a blast after drinking Pyramid Peach Apricot beers on the beach or making Veal Marsala from Bristol Farms after watching a Sopranos together in our apartment, based on a recipe from the Sopranos cook book no less.

 

No, all I felt was imminent death coming to claim me if God didn’t throw me a lifeline of any kind. As I walked out of my apartment in a Crystal Meth mind, spirit meltdown stupor, no longer doing wine sales on commission only after I got fired from my IT recruiter job for not billing enough and looking for other jobs on the job. Forward thinking has never been my forte.

Already, using what money I had left on my new apartment deposit in Sherman Oaks in the Valley. From my stocks and 401K, nice to meet you Capital Gains. I had no security blanket left. But thank God my old recruiter bud Jay called me out of the blue to see if I wanted to be roommates. I consider it divine intervention. Because if Jay didn’t call me I would’ve stayed in southern California long enough to try writing another Curb spec again but on my own this time without my ex, Erica’s assistance. I wrote it in 3 days flat. I was clean now. Was attending bartending school in North Hollywood. Spent a fortune on a psychic in West Hollywood to clear my Chakras. Apparently, my Chakras were more clogged than my freshman college one hitter.

In Sherman Oaks, I was trying to write standalone jokes and get laughs from doing stand-up. Till this day, I don’t know what demon drove me to do it. Outside of my roommate Jay, Cedric, another old recruiter bud and Shakes, an IT security analyst who I placed with Raytheon in El Segundo, California, I had no Mikey pep talks from T in Swingers to rely on.

So I’m staring down the cold, unforgiving, gaze of the Pacific Ocean from the balcony of my apartment with pee drenched pants. Having no accomplishment of distinction under my belt yet. Which I can truly claim as my own. Billing almost 100K as an IT Recruiter in Westwood prior doesn’t really count because my Recruiting Manger would spoon feed me lines to negotiate fee and close candidates on salary with.  I can’t get over the vacant chill inside me starring out daybreak over Hermosa Beach with scattered, greyish overcast for a change. Thinking, my younger brother who went to boarding school for his cocaine troubles. He’s the one with hard drug issues, not me.

I worked my ass off from 22-28 years old cold calling my brains out as an IT recruiter in Westwood, Century City and now Manhattan Beach. From 7-7 I was at work. And I’d work on TV spec scripts with my ex at night when we lived in West Hollywood together for Curb, Malcolm, even did a Six Feet Under, got really strong encouragement from lit agents and professional readers to.

But since getting fired from my IT Recruiter job and making no money from wine sales and no longer having my ex-girlfriend help anchor me to bang out spec scripts after cold calling off  all index cards pre-LinkedIn, I was truly lost at sea. Now, I was no longer a mere Shmuck in a headset. Or even an aspiring TV scribe on the rise, just a spoiled, degenerate, mush brained, borderline friendless, borderline disowned 1st born with a useless Communication degree about to drop dead at 28 years old, 1 year after Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. But my magic 27 didn’t consist of banging out Bobby McGee on Pearl or shredding the Filmore East’s amps to pieces with Machine Gun on Band of Gypsies either. Shit, I wasn’t even a bloated Jim Morrison, who still squeezed out the majestic Indian Summer before my impending, not important enough to be tragic, dying of my light.

I make it across the street to Ming Dynasty’s wine shop. Which he needs to open so I can get some Alka Seltzer and water. Then, when I thought my dark thoughts couldn’t get any trying to sleep off Acid to Beethoven freshman year in college scarier worse. Ming Dynasty cryptically states in the most chillingly, been around a lot of overdoes man, says. Don’t OD in front of my store. I end up shaking it off at his parents place. And all I have to keep me going is forced sunny images of my summer in love with Katie in the Cape, holding hands, walking to town, no images of my pothead friends from high school, no images of dad bonding with me, nothing.

The worst part is me having to move out of my apartment in Hermosa to Sherman Oaks the day after I saw my non-glorious life fade out in front me. My move from Hermosa Hell to the valley is the move that almost killed me, literally.  I was so winded, the next day, I had to take 20 minute naps on the coach from merely, carrying boxed books down a single flight of stairs.  I had no medical insurance. How I made it to Sherman Oaks without dying from Dark angel’s crystal meth attack on what spark of divinity remained in my sad shrouded soul and borderline brain dead head is purely a direct result of God’s grace, nothing more, nothing less. God must have known ahead of time, what great kids I’d bang out once I got my act together.

Again, I didn’t even know I was doing Crystal Meth.  I only learned it was Crystal Meth months later, when Ming Dynasty rang. I said dude, I don’t know what was in that coke but I thought I was doing die in my own arms that night. Ming Dynasty replies. It wasn’t coke, it was Crystal Meth. I thought you knew the difference. But powdered coke looks like powdered Meth. So much for passing the Pepsi fucking challenge.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BE FUNNIER THAN WEIRD AL BY CHRISTMAS

Daddy, what’s confidence? Telling doubt, see ya, wouldn’t want to be yah. Or as Axl Rose sings in Mr. Brownstone, Worryin’s a waste of my time. And I’m not Heavy Metal’s answer to Richard Lewis.

Nationalist is a loaded word. The N bomb is a load word. ANTFA lives matter is an oxymoron.
Starting shit with my mother in law part 1
Enough with grace in our home Rosa.
None of my children including myself believe Jesus was the real Messiah. If so God would’ve started a Kickstarter campaign to pay for our moving costs to Israel already.

Starting shit with my mother in law part 2
Don’t force my kids to say Grace unless black Jesus Haile Selassie is included. He’s God incarnate, direct descent of David. His body disappeared to, just saying. You better recognize.

Starting shit with my mother in law part 3
Don’t force my kids to say Grace.
I love me some Jesus but don’t believe he’s the Messiah. Fake news Nazi smears, ANTIFA & CNN suing the White House doesn’t feel like the age of messianic peace within me.

Motley Crue ranks as the best brawling band ever because of the long reach of Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx alone. The Allman Brothers had black bassist Berry Oakley but Dwayne Allman is getting his ass whipped easy and looked like he was dying to begin with.

Yelling at my daughter is like yelling at the Grateful Dead for opening up with St. Stephen because Jon Mayer looks prettier than Trey playing it obviously.

How do you hate the movie Rudy? Dare I quote Ike on Veterans Day? “It’s not size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” F the underdog Rudy. Spoken like the last Jeb Bush fan on earth.

But really how do you hate the movie Rudy? That’s like hating Eric Stoltz for hooking up with Laura Dern in Mask or hating Lupus for snagging a grab in Bad News Bears.
Or hating Daniel Day’s Lewis’ club left foot.

Louie CK is right. Most kids can be annoying assholes. Mine are fuss free. But hipster husband talk of white nationalists turning America into an Aryan nation despite no Edward Norton, American History X knockoffs gracing the Oval Office is so tolerable.

Met Stan Lee in Beverly Hills. Told him, I loved him in Mallrats. Jagger and me, we had a running contest, last time I looked I was way ahead. What an inspired writer life he lived. Goodbye sweet prince of boyhood wonder and creatively jacked good guy delight.

Int. Home
Wife
You went to the new Stop & Shop in Mahopac?
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I’ve seen more sure footed tourists in Times Square.
I hear. Can you direct me to the canned goods and frozen food sections please? Yikes!

Racist Case Against Trump
He called the White Nationalist Protesters in Charlottesville, nice people. Did Trump name names & give shouts out to Schillinger from OZ and his kids Screaming Nazi and Hail Jager Goldschlager?

#FacebookDown was down on Monday but Farrakhan’s page was still up. Zit Face Zuck must label his anti-Jew tirades as fake news hate speech or inspired filler for Spike Lee’s new joint.

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. Like Melania planned on rocking the Kwanza themed decorations for Christmas. Or had to rely on Michelle for Fashion tips once Fashion Police got terminated.

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. I’m sure her perpetual, bitchy scowl during Trump’s inauguration had nothing to do with it. Or how Michelle didn’t bother doing her hair according to my barber.

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. Or inquire about Beyonce’s secret Lemonade recipe. Produce a documentary on yourself for Netflix already called “Ungracious 1st Lady.”

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. Last time I checked, Barron isn’t the one passing out at Lollapalooza on more than just Fun Dip. Nor is he interning for Miramax either.

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. On what, how to strip the Oval Office of all high class prestige but letting it all hang out on Ellen? In white slacks after Labor Day to top it off.

Bud
How about Melo?
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
Contrary to popular belief, I think he’s a poor excuse for a leader.
Who failed to live up to hype like Obama on Cheeseburgers.

Long Island City is so hot now because Amazon’s coming to town. No, it’s not. It’s still Queens. Compared to Manhattan and Brooklyn, Queens is still the sloppy 3rd Kardashian sister. Whose easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a lamb gyro in Astoria.

With Amazon moving to town, the 7 line will be tighter than Nas Ilmatic, represent, represent, represent.

INT. Car
Son
Be funnier than Weird AL by Christmas Dada. Or I’m killing you with our sharpest knife for real.
Stay At Home Dad
I better get sharper by writing funnier jokes then.

INT. Car
Son
Be funnier than Weird AL by Christmas Dada. Or I’m killing you with our sharpest knife for real.
Stay At Home Dad
How did you get so tough?
Son
My daddy’s a killer comedian.

INT. Car
Son
Be funnier than Weird AL by Christmas Dada. Or I’m killing you with our sharpest knife for real.
Stay At Home Dad
I’ll go for the jugular kid.
Forward force all the way.

INT. Car
Son
Be funnier than Weird AL by Christmas Dada. Or I’m killing you with our sharpest knife for real.
Daughter
Kill or be killed by political correctness Dada.
Don’t make Obama’s legacy the death of comedy to.

THE END

By,

Michael Kornbluth