Tag: CBD

Woody Killers

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, poetry, writing

The decline feature on LinkedIn-In Mail is designed to convey a semi-aggressive f off vibe, don’t you think?  

It’s the closest an IT nerd from a hedge fund in Greenwich, CT can get to hitting you over the head with NO.  

VP Of Product Engineering rumbles to his wife at night.

My team programs trading strategies for masters of the universe.

This Headhunter Writer couldn’t get into Hillsdale College early acceptance.

He’s a God damn disgrace.

You bet your ass, I declined his LinkedIn, In-Mail.

I’ve got no room in my life for another parasitical putz face.

We manage big Pharmas bankroll for Christ stake.

But seriously, the decline feature on LinkedIn Mail screams passive aggressiveness that’s out of breath.

How did this glamorized indentured servant who works on a draw, get the balls to hit on me?

I piss Benjamin’s as far as the eye can see, after my team polished off 2 kegs of Dog Fish 90 minute at our Company Retreat in Capri.

The decline feature on LinkedIn In-Mail is designed to rub in your short sighted loserness in your face.

Yeah, smart move hitting on me through a keyboard lame o breath.

Why don’t you cold call me like a man, so I could tell you to f off in real time with more resounding Shazam?

When someone takes the time to click on Delcine after you blow your load on a LinkedIn In-Mail.

It means, you got under their skin a bit.

So, it’s their turn to make you feel like shit.

If someone actually takes the time to click on decline after receiving a LinkedIn In-Mail in means.

Either A) I want to take a shower

B) Your confidence is off putting

C) You’re not hot enough to hit on me.

D) You’re too dumb to do what I do.

E) Everything you spat in my direction; I can articulate better.

F) Frankly, I don’t normally read LinkedIn Mails because most Recruiters are illiterate burnouts, but I don’t want to you feel sneeringly superior around your pathetic plagued peers.

G) My day just went from good to great, by putting you in your place.

H) Hacks are us, not interested. If I had an ugly stick, I’d beat you over the head with it, till you scurried off to cave underground with nobody else around, where you belong.

I) Idiot, nobody writes in complete sentences anymore. What makes you so special? #RookieRecruitersneverknowwhentothrowinthetowel

J) Jump off a bridge already. You hit on nerds for a living. If were still in high school, Alpha males in school, wouldn’t even waste their time acknowledging your bottom feeding, sexless existence.

K) Kill yourself. I went to the University of Chicago. You went to Ithaca, which is Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor, I win again.

L) Love yourself less. You’re desperate, delusional, dunz face for thinking this attempt to connect would impress.

M) You have no business feeling cooler than any millennial mousketeers who made twice what you make since they raised minimum wage their senior year in college.

N) Nudge your boss into firing you by wearing a xeroxed copy of your latest COVID test at work, so you can make more money collecting unemployment.

O) How do you feel outstanding doing what you do? You badger companies into hiring software engineers who are going to get a new job anyway. Regardless of you emailing their resume, which is your only way to sway.

P) Piss off, you predatory peon scrub. You’re only good at taking well enough to get another recruiter job, you’ve haven’t gotten fired from yet bud.

Q) Quit your recruitment agency career already. You obviously care more about entertaining yourself than your intended audience within the IT sphere, who aren’t known for their rolling senses of humor in the 1st place.

Y) Yuck it up Headhunter Writer. Have fun telling yourself that writing inspires the next time you get fired.

Z) Give your brain a rest and take some Z’s. I bet your sneezes are annoying too. So, f off already please. Do I have to get on my knees?

But Headhunter Writer inspires. So how you can decline further chats with me?  

Oh, yeah, you’re a deadweight conversationalist.

That’s what I get for pissing up the wrong tree.

Woody Killers live, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Bullish On Visine

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, storytelling, writing

Has Brittney Griner scored an endorsement deal for Visine yet? Because those bifocals aren’t hiding shit.

But seriously why should I kiss Brittney Griner’s ass again Ernie? She’s got zero court vision for starters.

In court, Britney says, “It’s only hashish oil, your honor. Moderate Muslims today wouldn’t cause a pussy riot over it.”

Russian Judge says, “At least tell me the vape pen found in your carryon bag was eyeliner. Because you identify with Ben Franklin’s tomboy Trans sister. According to my records, you’re not even a top 25 player after you bleach bit all those white bitches from the University of Connecticut? So, you’re going to jail. But chances are you’ll score an endorsement deal from Visine, Trans Topping Nation. Bullish on Visine Brittney? Your country writes blank checks to fund Azov Nazi’s in the Ukraine. You think we give a shit about charges of insider trading? Hillary sold us half of your Uranium and destroyed all the evidence linking her to the sales under subpoena. We don’t call her Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, for nothing.”

Bullish on Visine, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Master Set Record

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, poetry, writing

Do It All Dad kills. #ComedyRecord136MasterSet

Master Set

Sounds of Dronish Cuntry

Over Faking Happiness

Chosen Curls

Vaccinated Buzz Kills

Antioxidant Kids

Danish Dicks

Hardcore Hilarity

Placation Nation

Fame Whore Ho

A Plus Alter Ego

Master Set Sample

Rape Enablement Party

Lesbian Licking Losers

Cock Blocking Party

Racist Alien Attacks

by doitalldadyear, posted in books, comedy, culture

“Nobody ever wrote the song ‘Waiting for A Fallen Angel Alien Like You’, tweets a frenzied 10-foot-tall alien, RH Negative 5000, from a Mars espresso bar with excellent WiFi as he looks down on Earth with a mix of surging envy and desperate urgency, knowing that if he can’t find a virgin Earthling with RH negative blood to get him pregnant by midnight tonight, then his race of Fallen Angels Aliens from Mars will disintegrate into the cosmos, as would’ve been superangel contenders, forever.

            This secret race of fallen angels on Mars aren’t allowed to abduct and rape any old Earthling into getting them pregnant, either, despite Andy Dick’s repeated offers on dating sites such as Intergalactic Beams Up My Anus Hole.com.            Finding a virgin Earthing with RH negative blood is hard enough, knowing that those creatures are normally emotionally evolved and blessed with superior physical prowess in the sack, compared to their medium-length Earthlings, including stars such as Leonardo DiCaprio, Jim, MOJO Rising, Morrison, and Bob Marley, for starters.

            “Bob Marley banged out twelve kids, but isn’t ganja supposed to drain your life shooter dry?  It’s fake news, man,” RH Negative 5000 tweets in a race against time to save his race of fallen angels of imminent ruin. He knows all the weed in the world won’t get Seth Rogan’s kid brother to knock up RH Negative 5000, even though he could transform his body into any dream physique he wanted, despite looking like an erect serpent and guitar god Steve Vai had a baby, when he didn’t have to change his appearance to get a virgin Earthling into sticking it into his alien procreation hole.

            The other problem for RH Negative 5000 is how only ten percent of the Earth’s population was RH Negative. Due the advent of the Internet, dick-pick swiping sites, and online porn, virgins are pickier and more selective than ever before, and I don’t recall ‘alien porn’ being a popular hashtag category on Youporn.com. Nor was Pete Townsend ever caught clicking on Soapy Alien Bottom Boys.com in the name of new song research about a pinball wizard who gets probed by a race of white, pureblood, RH-negative aliens for his out-of-this world, old-school arcade game prowess because playing guitar hero on the XBOX gets played out fast when you can do mind-blowing Pete Townsend solos from Live At Leeds, with five arms doing non-stop windmills out of your ass.

            Little did RH Negative 5000 know that one his followers on Twitter was a nine-year-old girl from horse country in North Salem, NY, who believed in fallen angels; especially since her father was conspiracy theorist comedian Michael Kornbluth, named after the archangel who applied the final smackdown kick on Loose Lipped Lucifer, which kicked him out of heaven to his new liar in the Hollywood Hills behind Bill Cosby’s house, for good.

            Actually, Matilda had just got her family tree report from Ancestry.com and confirmed ancestry with RH Negative. He lived in Boswell, New Mexico (otherwise known as the Mecca for UFO landings on Earth because Fallen Angels aliens from Mars knew that Val Kilmer owned a ranch nearby—which was cool enough for them, knowing that he played one of their kind in the Doors with such believable, otherworldly authority.

            Now, Matilda was always intrigued by the Twitter handle RH Negative 5000; especially the profile shot of what looked like an extra scaly, greenish guitar god Steve Vai after puking his brains from breaking his one month fast with In and Out Burgers, animal style, in his attempt to pen a sequel to his masterful magnum opus guitar swansong for the ages ‘For The Love Of God’.            Stop letting Twitter teach your kids. Dr. Seuss is racist—he’s not.

            Matilda loved that her father read Dr. Seuss books to her, especially when he’d make up his own rhymes if Dr. Seuss got a tad repetitive again (because he’s guilty of peaking early).

            The other night, actually, her Do It All Comedian Dad did some riffing, to her extreme delight, to unearth some comedy gold material after the latest and greatest Dr. Seuss cancellation movement from the side of tolerance, unity, and joy, spreading peace, saying, “Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist, then: that’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion, yet.”

            What Matilda loved most about her daddy reading her Dr. Seuss books was how he adopted his infectious love of rhyme, always pointing out how Walt Clyde Frazier, NBA broadcaster for the Knicks, was in the fact the slickest tongue-twisting cat of his time.  

            More importantly, Matilda loved how her school was celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday this week for national reading appreciation month. He was born in March, like herself, which, in her book, was extra cool.

            This coming Friday was ‘silly switch day’ in honor of Dr. Seuss, which Matilda found extra comical because’ despite having two working parents and being on all the Adderall in the world, she could never find a pair of matching socks for school, ever, which made every day, for her, Mismatched Socks Day.  

            Matilda’s comedian father encouraged Matilda to open a Twitter account for her tenth birthday, to use as a humongous open mike to test out her poems because she wanted to become the female Dr. Seuss, with a PHD in Counseling Psychology.             In her final paper, she’d argue how time-release Adderall is actually legalized cocaine, in addition to being a gateway drug to weed and to high-octane IPAs to chill out your aggravated, easily-avoidable added noise, in their minds. She would do this while also making the argument on how a time-release dark chocolate smoothie can help maintain these kids’ inner, sparkly essence while helping increase their powers of concentration (in addition to being much lighter on the heart, compared to big-pharma-cranked-out speed, too).

            Now, the moment Matilda got a Twitter account, Twitter suggested she start following RH Negative 5000. So she did.  RH Negative 5000 was already on his 5,000th cup of espresso, without any clue as how to audition, let alone recruit, virgins for RH Negative, to impregnate him to keep his race of Alien Fallen Angels alive.

            So, in a desperate Hail Mary attempt, he sends a direct message to Matilda on Twitter and says, “Do you have any virgin cousins who are RH negative in Roswell, New Mexico, who are interested in knowing what Fallen Angel Alien Love is?”

            Matilda, being a huge Foreigner fan (because her Daddy pushed the band on her early and often, in his pursuit to be a podcast comedian hero of his own) replies to the DM and says, “I have a Cousin Jonathan, who’s still a virgin at age fifteen. He’s very picky. Plus, his Dad homeschooled him through the ME Too movement, and only sent him packing for junior high with his Kiss backpack, flush with pre-poundage release forms. My cousin Jonathan is also really into Joe Satriani, and played ‘Surfing With An Alien’ for his Bar Mitzvah party from start to finish, so it’s worth a shot. “

            RG 5000 replies, “I have to get pregnant with a virgin Earthling with a RH negative blood, or my fallen angel race will never be given our wings again to swoop down to the Kennedy compound to seduce the next Marilyn Monroe impersonator they hire for another July 4th annual barbeque retreat.           “Marilyn had RH negative blood, which makes sense because her slamming bod is impossible to clone, let alone replicate. But we’re not too picky, and are used to sloppy seconds on Mars (for the past 5000 years, actually).

            “Also, I have the power to turn into any female form your cousin desires, if he isn’t into having sex with an alien Steve Vai drag queen look-alike.”

            Matilda ponders this big ask request and replies back, “I’ll make the call, but you have to do me a favor first.”

            RG 5000 says, “Whatever you want, just name it.”

            Matilda says, “Abduct Spike Lee and threaten to anally probe him before giving him an intergalactic tossed salad if he doesn’t stick up for Dr. Seuss and buy the movie rights to ‘And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St’ starring Chazz Palminteri playing some second-generation pizza maker in the early eighties in the Bronx. He gave Grandmaster Flash the freedom to play his demo tapes in the pizzeria on his boombox on Frank Sinatra’s birthday, to make every day feel like Black Appreciation Day. Deal?”

            RG 5000 replies, “I better morph into Pam Grier from the seventies, snag Richard Pryor’s old strap-on from eBay, and tap Bill Cosby’s old quaalude dealer in the Hills to make Spike loosen up to the idea before he pens the screenplay ‘Racist Alien Attacks Boy’, instead.

            “I’m in no rush to get canceled and kicked off Twitter before my planet implodes.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Eulogy Ghost Writer

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, death, writing

Do It All Dad had a bit in his old standup comedy act called Wise Black Grandma, where he’d say, “If I could do it again, I would’ve subbed my no-show whiny Jewish grandma for a wise black grandma, to fill in her place at my wedding, instead. Post an ad on Craigslist: ‘Wise Black Grandma need for a wedding in Woodstock. Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome. Must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only.’”  

            Growing up, Do It All Dad grew a fondness, teetering on full blown love, for his substitute Grandpa Ed, who exuded the furry-browed, warm-hearted, wiser glint you’d expect from a retired Jewish estate tax lawyer from Queens in his button-up, neatly woven sweaters and whiff of well-put-together aftershave.

            Becoming a grandpa doesn’t make you into Santa Claus, yet Grandpa Ed (his substitute Grandpa, whom his Jewish Grandma Ethel had remarried soon after the death of her first husband Murray) would shell out an always-neat, crisp five-dollar bill for the grandkid who found the Afikoman (which is the half-broken piece of matzah that little Jewish kids go looking for after dinner for Passover.

            It was a nice, cheer-filled touch to celebrate the Jewish people’s liberation from slavery in honor of God’s hardcore divine intervention years on the behalf of his chosen people. Who were meant to become cosmic perfectionist lovers of TV, who lived to complain in restaurants about unrecognized, immediate service.

            Now, Grandpa Ed had a grandson from his first marriage, yet you didn’t get that distinct impression, based on the eulogy he delivered on his grandpa’s behalf, and Roger was billed as the really smart one because he played chess and wore plenty of turtlenecks (which gives you ten extra IQ points, easy). 

            Grandpa Ed was dead now, and Roger (who later went to Harvard) was supposed to be giving a heartfelt eulogy in honor of his biological grandfather (not his rebound one). This involved merely reading some boring letter that his original wife wrote to Grandpa Ed, devoid of any juicy details such as their sweaty sex period after World War II, when she used to lick ice cream bonbons off his bellybutton during those brutally hot summer Queens nights before Grandpa passed the bar, became a family estate tax lawyer, and they could afford an AC unit of their own.

            This failed to bring back any semblance of a real-deal connective feeling, either.

            Eulogies really do separate the men from the ungrateful twats such as Roger, who couldn’t muster up a single original, expressive remembrance of his dead biological grandfather, who’d treated him like the second coming of Bobby Fisher.  Eulogies would also reveal if Grandpa had raised a cunt-for-brains daughter, too.

            Now, there’s a good kind of gall and a bad kind of gall. Faye, Roger’s clammy, insincere, peppy, patronizing, style-free, a tad stumpy mother, showcased the worst kind of gall when, during her eulogy, she went for the kishkes (meaning the intestines, in Yiddish) by openly declaring permanent f-you season on Do It All Dad’s grandma when she said, with what felt like manufactured, dialed-up invective, “I’m just glad that now Dad can join Mom in heaven,” which was a low blow on par with Mini Me trying to gnaw off Austin’s Power’s nuts in The Spy That Shagged Me.  

            Now, in the limo ride to the gravesite, Faye asks Do It All Dad, a 20-year-old college junior at the time, “You didn’t write your eulogy did, you?”            He says, “No, my mom wrote it for me, Faye.”           Faye almost stutters and says, “Well, I just thought.”  

            The twenty-year-old Do It All Dad adds, “You thought what, Faye? That I hired a eulogy ghostwriter with the bus boy tip money I earned this summer in Cape Cod?

            “My eulogy was well received by the Rabbi because it sprang from my heart, Faye. Regardless if Grandpa Ed was my rebound grandpa or not, he still treated me like I was his own grandson, worthy of his wisdom and love. I recall him telling me how to place my feet when using a 7-iron once, which is more than my own dad ever taught me (besides a half-formed hook shot).

            “Wasn’t there anything Roger could’ve mentioned to honor his legacy, outside of reading an old letter that his first wife wrote? Reality is, your son Roger, the genius, is the one guilty of plagiarizing, by stealing the memories contained in an old letter your mom wrote to fill in the lapse of having any soul serenade sermon to deliver on his own.

            “And where do you get the gall to disrespect my grandmother at her dead husband’s funeral, regardless if you feel that her endlessly manic bi-polar art buying spree of southwest American Indian art was responsible for draining his will to live one second more, either.

            “Also, Jews focus on more Mitzvah and doing good for the sake of doing good here on Earth without the intention of sole financial gain or promised hooked-up afterlife in Heaven, where all sins are cleared even if Grandpa Ed asked Jesus to forgive him for raising such a cunt-for-brains like yourself.

            “Do I have way with words or what? But I’m positive Roger will make an excellent food coloring chemist for Johnson and Johnson to overcompensate for his color-free personality, which he could thank you for inheriting at your funeral, too.”

Michael Kornbluth

Beyond Personal

by doitalldadyear, posted in career, culture, education

More hardcore edge is funnier.

Governor Cuomo getting paid to write about leadership is like R Kelly getting early release to babysit the latest Kardashian out of the womb, Woody Allen writing a book on hands off parenting or Kevin Durant, Mr. Millennial Mouseketeer himself, getting picked to do a Ted Talk on how to defend yourself against Cyberbullying.

Celebrity couples who can’t keep their hands off each other are stuck in a perpetual sweaty sex period. That’s the secret sauce ingredient that makes any sexually charged relationship stick.

Russell Simmons addressing rape allegations with Gayle King. Gayle, read my lisp. I didn’t rape any of those vengeful, over the hill ho’s.

New marketing idea for my book Do It All Dad Does Jokes. Donate them to the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility where Martha Stewart stayed. Sample some Snoop Dog jokes on the Corrections Officer in charge of accepting donations for the Prison Library. “Have you tried Snoop Dog’s new red wine yet? Wine Spectator says it tastes like mouthwash used in Porn Hood Hell. Can I donate some Dr. Seuss books or are they not woke enough for the Warden’s tastes? Did you hear? Dr. Seuss is racist for drawing a pic of an African wearing a grass skirt. I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.” Correction Officer laughs long time.

Dad giving you parenting advice 3 grandchildren later over the phone again from Arizona is annoying. Oh, you don’t like the idea of your granddaughter attending Cornell University eventually because of sudden mental health concerns post COVID pops? I think all the outsourced, invisible suicide nets used in factories for Nike and Apple in China got the 13 Reasons Why class covered pops. I bet Cornell made a Suicide Prevention App that has the Skulls and Bones logo on the button to make their snowflake prone students feel extra protected inside. Like Cornell alum Bill Maher for getting away with naming his production company Kid Love Productions, with no media inquiry into its pedo friendly name whatsoever.  If W’s kids weren’t such airheads, they’d download that app at Yale, knowing the Skulls and Bones logo makes you immune to fucking up again consequences like W after 9/11 for doing dick to prevent the inside job on his watch. Plus, whenever you press the Suicide Prevention App button, Bang Your Head by Quiet Riot plays pops, which gets you out of your head after you try to headbutt Joe Rogan through your laptop for promoting how much his brand of CBD oil matters man, despite it giving you no mental lift worth giving a shit about whatsoever like any heady rush takeaways from the Dax Sheppard podcast. That’s right, another interchangeable boorish, CBD disciple comic on The Joe Rogan Podcast sprinkles his killer sets with jokes about how Deadheads only attend Dead Shows for the drugs. Yeah, Dicks Picks Volume 1 through 9000 documents nothing but scattered tracers dude. But seriously pops, once you press that Suicide Prevention App and hear Bang Your Head by Quiet Riot, your anxiety level drops lower than Al Gore’s balls at the sight of finding one more Klondike bar left in his sub-zero freezer on the 4th of July.  

Imagine a kid trying to jump off a bridge at Cornell only to bump into the invisible net. Kid says, “I can’t even ace a perfect landing to end my endless shit show of a life.”

This is my impression of a Tour Guide at Cornell downplaying mental health concerns for the incoming class of 2021. “Freshman don’t even have time to squeeze in a 20-minute Peloton ride between classes. White Pelton Privilege doesn’t exist behind these Ivy draped walls. So, what makes you think, Cornell freshman can afford to spend their down time attending pill parties, listening to 13 Reason Why on Vinyl backwards? While looking for secret hidden messages like, “Sell your soul to Apple Music like Trent Reznor did. And you’ll look less tormented menacing in 700-dollar leather jackets in no time.” Also kids today post COVID can’t enough of social distancing, especially after their ears get raped to death from all the yenta breath sorority sisters during rush week in the school cafeteria, chanting, “Gama Roe, were so hot. We rock the Keto diet. So, we don’t become fat feminist Karen bots.”

Don’t go there question on Thanksgiving. So, dad, what brings you more shame, your son getting addicted to opioids or your eldest trying to wean himself off the comment section of the Gateway Pundit? You never heard of it? Its’ another alt right, dirt rag like the rest, according to Uni Brow Maddow at MSNBC. Hey dad, tell me if you think this impression is funny. This is Chris Matthews sexually harassing a new chesty, yenta breath intern from Long Island on MSNBC. Eating out Maddow, counts as your lunch break babe.”

Waiting for my car appointment to get a new key and some old guy starts asking questions about login codes for the internet. I said, “What are you really missing out on, besides the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and Do It All Dad Year Blog? Personally, I want to kick it old school and get a flip phone again if I’m honest about only wanting to hear my own opinions most of the time.  Describe the Internet in 3 words Twitter, “I’m smart stupid.”  Also, I want to start using my imagination for jerking off again, so I don’t feel like a slacker jerkoff at the same time in real time. Are you feeling me yet old timer? Old timer says, “I like using the Internet to read articles from the New York Times and Washington Post. I say, “Nobody’s perfect. Billy Wilder lives. I don’t do unnamed sources like you know who.” Holla, thank you very much.

At the library trying to donate some books and getting endless laughs by pitching all the book titles of my books to donate to a local prison in Bedford after receiving the suggestion from the Librarian like Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, Do It All Dad Does Jokes, etc. Then, the librarian says, “You remind me of my nephew. He’s a comedian.” I say, “Your warm-hearted embrace of my funny man identity doesn’t remind me of my mother one bit.”

Why should I care about the Swiss beating the French in soccer? The Swiss are guilty of cultural appropriation by storing Mark Chagal designer lamps for their Nazi rulers to sell at Sotheby’s whenever they needed to stock up on more Malbec and crystal meth during their golden years, living it up in the Andes mountains, while writing more glowing reviews of Mein Kampf on Amazon under Nazi Scientist Protection Programs Rule.

New agent seduction plan. Only purse female lit agents, that give me sustained stiffage, which is extended arousal derived from their money shot loaded manuscript sales list. Playing with the idea of making mama jealous with a new potential Jewish Godmother fill in lover embracer regarding the totality of me wouldn’t hurt my increased motivation factor to woo them with more than my pulsating prose either.

Getting a new key at the Toyota dealership and start flirting with the slightly chesty, pretty faced enough, raven black haired, Latino gal who helped reorder the key for me prior in painless, super-fast fashion. I made her laugh long time prior the day before, when I said, “I don’t mind waiting. My unhuggable C Word of a mother-in-law is being forced to play fake news involved grandma for the week, so I’m whistling dixie regardless. Today, I say, the name Vilma is growing more on me every day. It’s more cinematic sounding than Penelope Cruz. In fact, I think Pedro Almodovar should make you his new muse and kick that uppity lisp to the curb.  Everyone working there laughs long time. I add,” I’m glad that my Philosophy and Film Class that my parents paid 50 thousand dollars for just materialized there.” The entire Toyota worker crew laughs long time again. United we laugh, oh, what a feeling.

Michael Kornbluth

Burning Burnouts

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, writing

I stopped taking weed edibles because I got tired of feeling like a moron while trying to answer my daughter’s questions that were keeping her up, after I thought she was asleep already. Edibles kick in, Daughter asks, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? I say, “God went back in time, in a Time Machine, made by Elon Musk. Daughter says, “Keep on doing edibles daddy. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.”

Pothead dad texts, “You got to see Jurassic Park 3, Jeff Goldblum.” I text back, “Why, because your wife told you to follow fake news scientists on Twitter like Dr. Gnocchi. After you gave your kid clot shots to prevent them from catching an itchy esophagus. Let me guess, you got your wife pregnant because you got stoned and forgot to ask her if she was on the morning after pill? Join the club. Actually, had a pothead friend in college who had a Production Assistant job on the Universal lot. So, we’d sneak into Universal Studios through the parking lot into the Jurassic Park ride all the time. At the same time, this was before California became a giant tent city sponsored by REI. We didn’t have to show ID or a wrist band to enter the park once we snuck in through the Jurassic Park ride through the parking lot. Today, we wouldn’t have to show proof of vaccination if we had a good tan holmes. It’s not as if Universal Studio’s was giving away free parking passes so anybody under the sun could enjoy all the rides for free. California Democrats didn’t have to steal elections and woo new voters in broad daylight just yet, those were the days. When Spielberg’s daughter didn’t do porn to keep up with Kim Kardashian. I know, she’s studying to become a social justice lawyer now. Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now. Hot enough to snag Pete Davidson in his prime who looks like Annie Leibowitz and Barney from the Simpsons had a baby. The voice of Generation Z, the boy toy king of Staten Island shouldn’t get burnt out on pimping for Big Pharma by shaming clot shot resistors on SNL for a living. So, what difference does burning burnouts make? Burning Burnouts, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Edgy Energy Electric

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, humor, poetry

Book a hair appointment at Kids Style for my 2 sons, AKA, Stud Alerts On the Loose. Over the phone I say,” “Get ready for guaranteed gorgeousness galore. I refuse to send them off to Junior High without a lawyer on their person at all times to hand out pre-poundage consent forms since jerking off post Zoom became our last safety rail left. Older woman can’t help but flirt with my son at the grocery store, which is flattering knowing how my star powered seed emanates from my Do It All Dad Year Tree Trunk. One said, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” I said, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” His older brother, the Sun Butter King of Croton Falls is a dreamy crossbreed between River Phoenix and Kevin Costner despite his Grandfather’s Indian name back on the streets of the Bronx being Trips on Curbs. So, in essence, my son Millionaire By 10, AKA Feather Foot, AKA Art Show USA would be the ideal pin up for Aryan Teen Beat in 4 years, if this picturesque pure blood clone wasn’t contaminated by dad’s dirty jew blood to fuck up the party for Swastika nation. And how stupid looking is the Swastika symbol? I don’t care if it’s a photo shopped Hindu symbol, it still looks like 2 Stick Figures doing a 69 on a see saw, on government grade crystal meth, who made the Nazi’s think they could conquer all of Europe on it, until Eisenhower’s army helped demolish their Master Race theory into the ground, after Jesse Owen’s made those Kraut breath bastards choke on his star dust from afar, like Denzel Washington on the set of Empire. Because deplorable is anyone whose glad Jussie Smollett took a shot. But on the lighter side of things, this is me instructing my son Kosher Klaus Sushi on how to avoid antisemitic backlash at school while teaching his friends how to play to Dreidel at school. “Arthur, when the Dreidel lands on Gimmel, don’t say, “Give me all your money. Because the chosen people control the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to.” Challah, thank you very much.

Later, the kid stylist says, “Does your son want a booster seat?” I say, “Does he look like Dr. Gnocchi?” Latino stylist laughs long time, the times are more receptive to edgy energy electric, thank God, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Sloppy Second Son

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, film

If you laugh at the idea of your dad ever learning sign language to speak with his son, then you might be a sloppy second son.

If your mom gets the humpty dance on to a slow song at your brother’s wedding with her idealized partner in love to prove Freud still maters, then chances are you’re the sloppy second son.

If you brother remains the focal point of your parent’s existence, who continues to encapsulate all their best hopes and desires, despite making Hunter Biden look like a slacker, underachiever in comparison, then you’re mostly likely the sloppy second son.

If your mother insists you become a garbage man, because you’ve been on shit detail as a Stay At Home Dad for the past 4 years after writing for TV twice, then you’re the sloppy second son. Especially when mom’s attitude is, “At least my son has on the job experience to cite for a steady, six figure salary. It would finally mean he had his shit together for a change versus being another burnt out IT agency recruiter whose been fired than a Palestinian Sling Shot.”

Postponing the dildo talk with my 10-year-old daughter after discovering’s mom’s dildo stickers for an upcoming bachelorette party. Daddy, “What’s this sticker supposed to be?” I say, “Look, you already know about the Holocaust and 9/11, but I’m still not prepared to have this conversation now. For now, let’s just agree to call them, symbols of self-sufficient love, when your partner loses all interest in pleasing you without being guilted it into first because that same person supports kids being forced to wear masks, which kills off any chance of sustainable stiffage in their presence, naked or not over the long run.” Eagle’s lives, Challah, thank you very much.

UPenn Swimmers getting uncomfortable with Trans Phelps in the locker room.

“If he’s really a girl, then why does he flaunt his man meat in front of us? And are you sure Joe Rogan didn’t slip him boner pills laced with CBD? Because those estrogen pills aren’t working. Plus, I thought trans between middle leg mutilation, had a hard time keeping it up without being pumped with enough DNC fundraiser crystal path to keep the party going. Last, why is Trans Phelps immune to the gravitational pull of post pool shrinkage? How does that even work, you identify as being a girl yet pop boners around a bunch of flat-chested nerds? If Trans Phelps is really a big, backed lesbo in the making, shouldn’t he she be more turned on by four eyed slobs in hand me down wool sweaters on Chestnut Street who have less interest in scented bathing salts than dieting during finals week on Adderall, avocado balls and fish oils alone? Assuming, Trans Phelps is bisexual, what kind of girl does he fashion himself to be? A cross between Suge Knight and the Showrunner from Orange Is The New Black? I don’t get it. You’d think Trans Phelps would have a Go Fund Me Page to complete the gender reassignment surgery already yet he’s dragging more than his balls in our girl’s locker room floor. I’d tell Trans Phelps to cut out the act and just admit he’s undecided on cutting off his link to manhood but I’m not holding my breath like Joe Rogan taking a gravity hit for old time’s sake either.” Old school weed references rule, Challah, thank you very much.

It’s hard to bring up an article about fellow UPENN swimmers complaining about the Trans Swimmer from UPENN showing off his dick in the locker girl’s locker room without injecting your kids into the conversation one bit. I say to my wife, “Babe, I don’t want any dick, straight, bi, or Trans around my daughter when she didn’t ask to see it or actively seek it out in the 1st place, do you? Besides, aren’t you the one who told our daughter about artificial insemination? Trust me, I love the idea of no penis ever entering the gravitational pull our daughter but look how Hillary turned out. At the same time, our daughter as a lesbian doesn’t have to worry about getting Aids because she can take a licking and keep on ticking. I’m not enthralled with what limited options she has for celebrity role models either. Ellen admitted on her show that she’s actually friends with George Bush after being caught palling around with him at a Cowboys game because regardless of political affiliation, Ellen is pro Bush all the way. And how patriotic is Meghan Rapone for siding with fake news Collin Kaepernick who made every day in the NFL kicking Nazi Destroyers in the nuts by taking a knee day. What, Collin Kaepernick sports a fake news fro? Have you ever seen a bi-racial afro that large before? Slash tried to grow it out and it was a total flop. Lenny Kravitz, my favorite bi-racial Hebrew could never make his fro bounce that way. And do you really see Meghan Rapino running for President babe? What’s going to be her campaign slogan? “Penetration is overrated.” That’s the same line she used on her prom date at the Enchantment Under The Sea Dance. Or will her campaign slogan be, “Fuck Spotify Obama, and bring back the L Word to Netflix. Your our only hope. I can make a cameo in a new TV show starring Michelle Obama about a Drag Queen Tina Turner tribute act in Martha’s Vineyard called, “What’s Talent Got To Do With It? Just don’t expect me to be chill about our son’s wanting to get their dicks chopped off because pee hard-on blues in elementary school are more embarrassing to shoulder than pic pen spills into their progressively ripping Bugle Boy jeans. At the same time, I don’t see baby samuel wanting to part with his dick anytime soon, when he says to his big brother, “Arthur, sit on my penis.” Before I say, “Not Kosher Baby.” Challah, thank you very much. Just don’t expect me to buy any Meghan Rapino endorsed products at Victoria Secrets since she became their new spokesperson babe as tempting as it is to blow 80 bucks on pair of edible shin guards that taste like hair fish sticks.” Sloppy Second Son shoots and scores, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Crime Stalling Solution

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, humor, writing

Instead of giving criminals get out of jail free cards, which is what no bail laws do.  We should institute a recess pass system that my teachers used on us to discourage bad behavior growing up except these Recess Passes are used for Cannabis shops in New York City. Latrel Sprewell’s kid chokes out a cop’s white privilege and he gets his recess pass to the cannabis shop taken away. Thugs Lives Matter Most, start having panic attacks on the Subway. Where am I going to get my gummies now? Stink free plus ash free equals zero regrets homey. Plus, I don’t want to share a blunt with your ass just out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.”  Recess Passes Matter, Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth