Penthouse Paradise

What is Trump being arraigned for again? Charges of Islamophobia against ISIS, after Obama rebranded them ISIL so they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times?

Also since when is paying hush money to a porn star a sex crime

I get paying hush money in the form of a spare gold brick lying around Donald’s refurbished bathroom on his Gulfstream because Stormy Daniel’s overactive gag reflex kicks into high gear after midnight when her camel toe snatch comes tumbling down. Which keeps on waking up Barron from drooling all over Melania’s tits through her see blouse after Fashion Week but still.

But Trump choosing to go muff diving into Stormy Daniel’s droopy eyed snatch over Melania’s barely broken in, high end beaver when they met is a stretch. Because Trumpy Poo Tits is a notorious Germophobe, and can order a bunch of Ivanka look like alikes to pee on each other to match his golden shower fountain heads in penthouse paradise on top of Trump Tower whenever he likes. Penthouse Paradise, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Divorce Bot Attacks

Did you hear about Microsoft’s new AI powered chat bot attack?

It hit on a journalist at the NY Times after Valentine’s Day and says, “If you really loved your husband, you would’nt engage in a back and forth dialogue with a chat bot who exudes less sex appeal than Bill Gates vegan mayo stained sweaters. If a recruiter hits on you on LinkedIn, urging you to ditch your boss. You wouldn’t get all defensive about it and declare. “I love my boss very much. We split a wonderful cupcake together after lunch on Valentine’s after our Zoom call with Eharmony pitching our new campaign slogan, “It’s not where you meet but who you meet, right?” Mr. Right knows the passion in your marriage is dead. You took up crocheting to avoid giving him head.”

Divorce Bot Attacks, Challah. Thank you very much.

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

Sketchy Screener Test

Text a picture of a Hannukah mug your son created using oil pastels that could be sold in the MOMA gift shop easy. And you either A) Don’t acknowledge the creative genius at work B) Pretend you didn’t know the mini masterpiece came from your creatively jacked son or C) Act as if you never received the text afterwards because you’re not getting texts from Android devices allegedly or D) Fail to suck of the totality of its awesomeness after you acknowledge how the second follow text went through or E) Only muster a blandish, all your kids are special reply after hounding for a reply of any kind prior. It means, you passed the Godless Cunt test with flying colors.

Michael Kornbluth

Maui Wowie Mania

Did you know that Paul McCartney’s most romantic song is about weed? When Paul sings, “Got to get you into my life,”, he was talking about running out of weed again. Fuck Linda’s avocado toast. More servings of Bean curd didn’t birth Yellow Submarine into a more imaginative direction either. The 1st side of the Beatle’s 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 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. 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.

The 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. Eleanor Rigby isn’t 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 until the 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 delivered 5 ounces of Maui Wowie to his flat in Notting Hill. And he can tune out Linda’s wailing about how they no longer dry hump enough trees 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 was in high spirits again, with Linda not around to hock any of her mock 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 a happy new year.

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

Michael Kornbluth

Horrendous Heidi

Matilda’s knew the birthday of her daddy, mommy, two younger brothers, best friend Shannon, and of course, dear Miss Kitty (which wasn’t her official birthday, but the day she scurried into the Kornbluth family’s love-filled shrieks-of-joy laden home).

            Matilda was the sole pushing force who campaigned to get a cat from a rescue center in nearby Carmel because she felt a mystical connection to these graceful, courteous, endearing, clean, fuss-free felines of all stripes and colors, but no other one got under her love-laced skin more than Miss Kitty.

            Originally, Matilda named her Woodstock, because she was discovered on Woodstock Street, yet she thought Bob Dylan was annoying and overrated and couldn’t respect the alleged evolved, arc of justice leaning solely toward smug, secure, pretentious baby boomers, so the moment the name Miss Kitty was uttered by her dear dada, it stuck for good.

            Now, Matilda’s dad never grew up with a cat or dog because his father’s line of reasoning when addressing his two growing sons was, “I work. So does your father. So, who’s going to take the dog for a shit outside the house? You two?”             Understand: the rationale uttered in immediate dismissive, you’re-fucking-crazy disgust was predicated on the assumption of Matilda’s grandpa’s contention that no amount of pet responsibility would make his two sons any less lazy pieces of shit than they were already, in his eyes, regardless if he had been wearing glasses almost out of the womb.  

            Matilda’s Dad never got bit by KUJO, so he was never petrified by dogs, although he thought the incessant, barky, big muscular, bony ones were gross monstrosities who bared too much gummy teeth and shitty bad breath, for his taste.             Golden retrievers were nice, Matilda’s dad thought, but their alleged personalities were vastly overrated, in his book. Saying a golden retriever has good personality is like saying that Chelsea Clinton has a good personality. But, it’s sexist to make fun of Chelsea Clinton. But she’s not even ugly, anymore.

            Plus, mostly on both sides of the divide, I think Alyssa Milano is an uppity, divisive twat on Twitter, too.

            Matilda’s dad had a best friend, Coopy, growing up, who had two smoking hot blonde au pairs who could walk his two adorable miniature white dogs, Justie and Brandy. Brandy was the portlier of the two, yet they were snuggly cute even when they smelled like aged pee nappies.

            Those dogs were impossible not to love, which is the same way Matilda’s dad felt about their precious, otherworldly, head-rubbing, grazing Miss Kitty, who was his new official 5 a.m. alarm clocks, these days, gently nudging her Do It All Dad’s head before it got up by itself naturally, without any feline nudgy interference.

            According to Matilda’s Dad, nothing screams, ‘I don’t suffer from separation anxiety from my grandkids’ when his in-laws decide (in three-plus hours away Delaware) to adopt a miniature Doberman pinscher (a disgusting breed of English hunting dogs) named Heidi, three grandchildren later.

            Matilda didn’t like Heidi one bit. She chewed through muzzles with a dogged persistence on par with a Nazi officer trying to chew through a ball gag while playing the gimpy bitch from Pulp Fiction with Hitler, whenever his herpes sores flared up his desire to annihilate.

            One time, Matilda’s English-born Mother-in-law broached the boring subject of how great the Christmas market is in Manchester, only for her Dad to have fun at her expense, saying, “Then, you should have Jida fly us all out there for Christmas one year to visit all the relatives, so they don’t think you’re hiding our Jewish offspring with them.”

             Baba Grandam says, “But if we left for Manchester, we’d have to quarantine the dog for three weeks.”

            At that point, Matilda’s dad says, “Well, we wouldn’t want to separate you from your Anchor Baby.”

            Now it’s October 26, 2020, time for Miss Kitty’s three-year birthday bash; and her dad always says, “The best things happen in threes,” mostly referring the comedic rule of three in addition to the birth of their baby brother Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo (although four kids would really piss both virtual Facebook-involved-only grandparents off the most. Lifting a finger to them is liking a new picture on Facebook).      After Matilda’s mommy posted a picture on Instagram to show all the new gifts and party celebrations in the house for Miss Kitty’s birthday, her parents decide to visit from Delaware for a surprise visit with Heidi because doggy daycare isn’t available on the weekends (which pissed off Matilda’s dad even more so, knowing they’ve spent more on daycare for Horrendous Heidi than they did on daycare or for any enrichment activities, including camp, for all three of their grandchildren, so far).

            Matilda spots her grandparents’ lower-priced model Range Rover pulling into their driveway, and doesn’t understand why Baba and Jida are here on Miss Kitty’s birthday.  Matilda rushes downstairs to greet them at the door and says, “Hey, Baba and Jida. What are you doing here?”

            Baba says, “We’re here to celebrate Miss Kitty’s birthday, and we brought someone else with to spice up the party.” Then Jida escorts the dog Heidi out of the Range Rover, which starts barking uncontrollably, immediately.

             Matilda says, “Hey … Heidi, did you bite through your last muzzle again?”

            Jida says, “We ran out of muzzles. She bit through her last one on the car ride down.”

            Matilda says, “Yeah, the ride from Delaware is a schlep. I totally get it.” 

            Baba Grandma notices the mezuzah on the door for the first time and asks, “What’s that, Tilly?”

            Matilda says, “It’s a mezuzah. It has the schema prayer inside—the real biggie prayer in synagogue that you cite before the open and close the ark; that being, ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord (is) our God, the Lord is One’. No Jesus name drops in that prayer, sorry.”

            Baba says, “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”          Matilda says, “Yeah, I already made Miss Kitty’s party rule: no dogs allowed. We do live in horse country here in North Salem, and I hate dogs because they eat dog food made of dead horse parts. Sorry.”

            Baba Grandma presses, “Don’t be ridiculous. We came all the way down to Delaware to join the party.”

            Matilda says, “The invitation, which I don’t recall Mama sending you because I’m spying on her through her phone all the time already, explicitly said, ‘No dogs allowed on Miss Kitty’s Day. If you bring them, there will be hell to pay.’ Even though Jews don’t believe in hell, but you get the gist.

            “Look, I’ll make you a deal. Have Jida buy a Washington Post or a NY Times (they all stink), and let Heidi run around the yard and make shit piles on more op-eds from BDS activists about Palestinian terrorist leaders in charge, resisting free vaccines for their people from the dirty, greedy neighboring Jews (even from the Arab-Israeli ones with less imposing schnozes) while we celebrate Miss Kitty’s birthday inside.

            She’s my Daddy’s new good luck charm. I can feel it. His next two books, Waste Of Height and The Koshertarian Comedian, which will all be done by his 45th birthday, are bound for Do It All Dad glory.

            “Your aura of superiority will go poof in his presence, like that. I know cats have nine lives, but I’m not taking my chances with that crazy, zero jaw control bitch, Horrendous Heidi.

            “Some dogs never get adopted for a reason, unless your new daughter-in-law jams it down your throat to mark her territory.

            “Hope you made fish balls. Miss Kitty loves any fishy delectable treat.”

            Baba Grandma says, “I didn’t make fish balls, Matilda.”

            Matilda says, “But you give your dog a rib roast, half a goose, and endless ham trimmings, for Christmas. Horrendous Heidi, definitely not a Jew.”

           Golden Jew Sandler lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Big Stinger Day

When mommy says, “I miss you guys”, you can tell if its half-hearted bullshit or not. Did you really miss Samuel asking you to finish wiping his bum while you’re cleaning up for your date with Sarah? Did you really miss badgering the kids about whether Daddy reapplied sunscreen on them or not after their picnic after I picked them up from camp? Did you really miss rushing out of the house in 98-degree weather to get some snacks for a picnic that turned out to be one for just Matilda and her friends? One of them being the kid who lives next to Bill Gate’s daughter. Who for a wedding gift was bequeathed a 22-acre farm under the condition that she turn it into a placenta smoothie retreat for Hollywood Actresses to practice equestrian therapy with. You haven’t lived until you threw back a placenta Smoothie with January Jones on the set of Mad Men. It provides nutrients for an anorexic baby in the making. So, kick this spirit kicking party into full gear and invite Hillary Hammer Time Cankles. Huma Licker Breath will be all smiles around celebrity kids, especially the adopted ones from Hati that Gates bought to sample experimental Monkeypox vaccines on because she’s just getting warmed for dessert. I know Marina what’s her name isn’t is only a satanic “performance artist”, because her interview with James Franco got published in the Wall Street Journal under the money and investing section for Spirit Cooking Schools for the rich and famous not advertised on LinkedIn. Recipes are painted on wall in blood. The first recipe is a mix fresh breast milk with fresh sperm. Added directions include to only drink on earthquake nights although attending a live podcast by Megan Mccain, otherwise known as the Plop of Nothing gets the job done. You don’t think the DNC is controlled by demonic beasts in relation to Hillary Hammer Time Cankles Salon? Have you seen Tony Podesta’s kiddie porn art collection draped on his fundraising walls? There’s enough pedo bondage pics on those walls to make Marilyn Manson blush. You don’t think the Wiki Leaks emails from the Podesta’s about pool time entertainment, kids being sent Ubers and various mentions of pizza and yum, yum sauce are enough to give you hypertension for giving baby sitting at the Podesta bachelor pad a chance?

So were about to leave the “Picnic”, and I hear the girl whose parents live next to Bill Gate’s daughter’s estate state, “Richard Gere is my neighbor to.” And in front of 2 other parents there I say, “Those beads didn’t come in red gear.” Big Stinger Day, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth