Drinking Material Filler

Gave up drinking beer last summer. I felt terrible about spending so much time hungover, RECYCLNG, endless, empty reminders of my lush littered past, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by.

I got asked for ID yesterday while getting some beer. I say, “I used to get malt liquor when I was 18. My favorite brand was Old English, Snoop Dog’s ho sprayer of choice to be exact. Have you tried Snoop Dog’s new wine? Wine Spectator says, “It tastes like mouthwash used in Porn Hood Hell.”

Mom just texts me from wine country in Virginia and asks, “Did you recommend me getting into white viognier wine ? I text back, “Yes, viogniers pack creamier heft, than most chardonnays. Not that Hillary would know the difference. Still, it would be Huma Licker’s Breath last option on Epstein Island, OK, Dennis Leary lives, if he came out as a Trump Truther Republican, holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

America Winning Again Soon

Vermont should change its state motto to CBD Oil only. Bernie Sanders couldn’t even make Vermont great for pot heads on vacation.

My 4-year-old son says to his older brother, “Arthur sit on my penis.” I say, “Not Kosher baby. But sit on my penis is a rock solid, bare bones line to use in a Russ Meyer’s film, Topless Tudors. After little Johnny scores an A+ in his pop quiz on geometry on top of a pentagram shaped bed the director bedded Jayne Mansfield in prior for Devilish Dicks.

All my kids talked about all weekend was a scene from Peter Rabbit 2, where a carrot gets jammed up some bloke’s butt. Turns out I need to get out of the house more often, because when I saw the scene, I yell out with dejected disgust, “Where’s the penetration? Is this film G rated or what? Then again, penetration is overrated. That’s what Meghan Rapinoe said to her date at The Enchantment Under the Sea Dance. Now, soccer star Meghan Rapinoe is a new fashion model for Victoria Secret. I can’t wait to blow 80 bucks on edible shin guards that taste like hairy fish sticks. Meghan might run for President one day. What’s going to be her campaign slogan besides, “Penetration is overrated? Bring back the L Word to Netflix Obama. You’re are only hope?”



Learning that my younger brother went weed shopping with my dad at a dispensary in Arizona that I texted my dad the address for after going there myself prior solo was weird. I don’t understand why you’d include dad for this 1st time experience since weed became legal there. We didn’t get high with our dad growing up. Still don’t. Our Dad has only puffed twice in the past 50 years. Still, the moment weed becomes legal in Arizona, it’s very fitting for my dad’s favorite son to have that communal shopping experience together, while Dad utters, “Don’t tell your brother, but this means I love your druggy degenerate side more. At least you still watch ESPN and don’t do a podcast defending Trump for free.”

All British standup comedians sound and look like nerdy, neurotic Jews minus the hardcore hilarious Jew bone. At the same time, all English actresses even the so, so pretty ones look dowdy dumpy with that makeup frosting caked on their faces to, Elizabeth Hurley excluded. Still, every time Elizabeth Hurley opens her mouth in Austin Powers, her measured annunciation rockets her sexiness factor into China where all the buried boners from the Ming Dynasty reside, next to all the cracking Geisha bones their master overlords are forced to hear in Commie Hell whenever they’re forced to take another bite out of their Scorpion lollipop for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Stephen A Smith has a blunt message for the US Olympic basketball team. Vince Carter should tea bag your whole squad, poker face Pop included, like when he dunked over the French center in the 2000 Olympics for losing your 1st Olympic game to those Froggers from France. Granted, America doesn’t exist without Ben Franklin convincing the French to give us their money, ships and troops to defeat those mole tainted British bastards. Still, I don’t care how much Damian Lillard downplays the loss to France, especially when he excuses us losing to France without Tony Parker as a “national pride” issue. Dude, you’re an uppity, glamorized, miniscule jump shooter, who instills less fear in NBA opposing players than maternity suits. Who still gets to dictate more favorable trade destinations and get PAID permanent f you Corporate America money for life, regardless if you become a go to choke artist number 3 option on the Los Angeles Lakers or not? So how is Damian Lillard struggling to drum up some more passionate national pride again, knowing Willis Reed in the seventies had to sell homeowners insurance for All State in the off season before Trump 2020 Banners sent ANTIFA attack home premiums through the roof?

How much do you hate the NBA players representing our US Basketball team today? They lose to France and try to philosophize why they lose with ironic detachment like Jean-Paul Sartre being interviewed by the Paris Review. “France is a very prideful country. Jim Morrison is buried there man. Dice hijacked his entire Buddy Love persona from Jerry Lewis’s Buddy Love character in the original Nutty Professor actually. Tenor saxophonist Chet Baker scored a new lease on life in Paris during his resurgent smack attack years, did you know that? Russ Meyer, famed writer director of B busty flicks such as Faster Pussy Cat, Kill lost his virginity to a French prostitute on the house as a gift from Ernest Hemingway after working as combat photographer documenting the US defeating those Nazi scum tweaked on Crystal Meth till the end, music is your only friend till the end. Jim Morrison lives, holla, thank you very much. Reporter for ESPN.com says, “Damian, you just mentioned all wildly successful Americans in the arts in relation to their embrace in France. Why not mention Miles Davis? Miles was actually all smiles in Paris for a change. He even faced the audience once when Bridget Bardot insisted, he’d spew his beautiful black pride over her busty brassiere that went on longer than John Coltrane jerky solos at Birdland, going cuckoo for more sheets of puffed-up sound in his honor.” A reporter from Breitbart interjects, “But Damian, your boy Obama Be Good got his presidential puppet in place, Dominion lawsuits and promises of more mask muzzle mandates working in his favor to overshadow the election stolen from Trump in the media and government. Your side got what it wanted, law and order is deader than Portlandia’s campy appeal of yesteryear on IFC reruns since your precious Democratic party let ANTIFA burn your jewel of a city into the ground. So shouldn’t you at least pretend to be more prideful than the French because at least we don’t have old ladies in the street slapping our fake news leader in the White House in the face just yet. Come to think of it, only an eight-year-old red head with pig tails would get that close for a clean shot, isn’t that right slick?

Did you know the Olympic athletes who win a gold today have to put the gold medal on themselves? If I’m an African American who killed myself for 8 years to finally win the gold, only to have myself put the Gold Medal around my own neck, I’d rather hang myself with it instead. Before hanging myself in my hotel room later with my Gold Medal, I’d yell up on the podium, “Couldn’t some disk thrower from Japan throw the Medal around my neck? Fuck CDC social distancing guidelines. I’m the new and improved Iron Mike, you fear mongering masked motherfuckers. The elusive image of my black glorious neck being draped in Olympic gold by some lowly white European beneath me who vacations 5 weeks a year sunbathing in Capri, kept me going through running up sand dunes in the dead of winter like Marvelous Marvin Haggler did. My driving vision to plow past all the pain, incessant loneliness and faded memories of grandma’s chicken fried steak was that Gold Medal draped around my neck like George Forman and Sugar Ray Leonard before me. It’s time to cash in on my well-earned gold medalist privilege already, you COVID crazed crackers. I fought myself out of South Central, a single parent home and rampant violence every step I took from sunrise to sunset. I’m not sweating an itchy esophagus at this round in the game. Vape Pens killed more of my people in South Central in their teens than the made in Wuhan virus did. That’s right, I said it, made in Wuhan. Biden can’t censor me up here on the podium. Pelosi can’t suck my blood like a bat out of hell from my spot at the top. Social distance yourself from these nuts, you raggedy old bitch. I voted for Trump motherfucker. My pops saw Tyson knock out Michael Spinks at the Atlantic City Convention Center before Tony Soprano made a large-scale seed investment into the Bada Bing. Dice lives, oh, I can’t take no more, thank you very much.

I’m so sick of hearing get the vaccine shot for the kids pitch, especially from my father because his alleged concern over my own increased fatality rate without the stab is glaringly secondary. My dad’s interior monologue reads like: Stay at Home Dads have no freedoms to begin with. So, what special life does my 1st son care about preserving exactly? The kid has been on shit removal detail for the past decade and counting. So how much shittier can his life get exactly? Although for some warped reason, my son gives his mother grief for encouraging him to become a garbage man for a living. “Shoot for shit”, my son says, is his mom’s motto for her least favored son. Like taking out other people’s trash is any different than on being nappy disposal detail for the past 10 years already and counting. At least in the Sanitation department, my 1st born, still don’t know how were related, will get paid to throw shit for for a living and can actually cite on the job experience to boast about for an attainable six figure job with benefits for a change.”

My wife isn’t any better with the get the vaccine pitch because if I give COVID to our kids, I’ll be out in the street with other mass murders who got early release from Riker’s Island because Thugs Lives Matter Most, even among those accused of double homicide with the intent to kill, again and again.

Get the vaccine shot for the kids. Marvin Haggler, an epitome of peak physical prowess died of a heart attack after getting his 2nd stab and went down harder than any flurry of one 2 punches Tommy The Hit Man Hearn’s ever unloaded on his face. I’ll take my chances. Stop acting like unvaccinated people are putting you at risk in your swinger’s club as if they just came back from a barebacking tour of She Males with Bill Maher in Marti Gas for the last mile of the three-legged tour of Mount Roraima.

This morning I negotiated a temporary cease fire agreement with my wife, before we take our kids for a little trip to Vermont later this summer, when we visit the Ben and Jerry’s factory tour. I tell my wife, “I’ll stockpile barbed one liners to unload after the tour is over. Then the gloves come off babe. Don’t Ben and Jerry know that a 2-state solution is impossible, if Hamas keeps fucking? The only thing occupying Palestinian territory is AP news for them do another hit piece on Israel refusing to be pushover putzy next time Hamas launches 5000 rockets in their backyard again, expecting nothing more in return than an edible arrangements gift basket in return with a thank you note written in Farsi. Personally, I can’t wait for the Graveyard factory Tour of Ben and Jerry ice cream flavors no longer in production like the Tonight Show one. Wait a minute, they still make the Tonight Show one, despite the stone-cold truth about how Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate, since he humanized Trump on TV by tussling his hair on TV, knowing a real-life skinhead never emerged. I wonder if Ben and Jerry discontinued the Aloha Macadamia line because Michelle Obama demanded they’d replace Obama’s favorite Samoan nuts with Almonds that grew on George Clooney’s Lake Cuomo estate instead. Where the ex-President is forcing to feel like second banana regardless. Because at least Clooney’s Oscar win didn’t feel like a participation trophy the way it did when Obama Be Meh won the Nobel Peace Prize for rebranding ISIS, ISIL. So, they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times already. And why did Ben and Jerry kill of Purple Passion Fruit? Did Prince threaten to sue them for copyright infringement while getting his ruffled tux bent all out of shape? Who ordered the hit on Holy Cannoli? Did Phil Rizzuto demand they change the name to Holy Cow, I think Meat Loaf is going to make it? Doesn’t Ben and Jerry realize Trump passed prison reform by the time Jared Kushner creams into Ivanka whenever she talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again? And if Ben and Jerry were so concerned with investing in communities of color, why would they keep their corporate headquarters in Vermont? Vermont is whiter than Larry Bird’s fake news basketball camp for higher hopping authority in French Lick Indiana. On their website it says, Ben and Jerry’s supports voting rights, assuming you think Dominion machines questionable accounting procedures are on the right side of history the day before Democracy died or not. Voter ID is racist. Does Julio from the Barrio have to pass a sudden height requirement in Georgia, that I don’t know about yet, Jerry? Now, that’s gold Jerry, holla. Seinfeld lives. Thank you very much. How do you Ben and Jerry define racial justice exactly? The USA basketball team lost to France because the NBA is down with supporting thug lives matter no matter what? I’m all for LBGT rights like Ben and Jerry yet do you think they’d agree that Drag Queen Reading Hour can be a tad freaky for our kids knowing how hard it is to look flattering fresh under fluorescent library lights? What’s climate justice according to Ben and Jerry? Greta Thunberg causing more eco anxiety to go viral again, because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon from taking out a Private Equity Director’s penthouse overlooking Central Park East. Twin daughters are popping Melatonin gummies up late on a school night again because they’re consumed with eco-anxiety. Dad comes home at 10 after a pricy client dinner at Eleven Madison Park and yells at his nanny, “Why are the kids still up? Let me guess Greta Thunberg again, that sweaty browed bitch. Sorry I didn’t take a Citi Bike to my 5-star client meal at the Eleven Madison Park. So, I could avoid smelling like shitty commercial weed from head to toe. Does Greta know Leo still uses plastic straws for blow at the Viper Room, only to hear last call from the bathroom stall? While yelling, where’s Hunter?” Plus, I hate those fucking straws made out of bamboo, avocado pits and pea protein enzymes used for Bill Gates Golden Retrievers as Four Eyes hogs up all the pricier, Tomahawk Ribeye cuts for himself. I don’t care how many sea turtles die because I don’t want to chip a tooth while sucking down an Arnold Palmer during Lent again, OK!” Dennis Leary lives. Holla, thank you very much.

What do refugee rights mean to Ben and Jerry? Squatting rights outside of Ben and Jerry’s corporate office for a staged photo op whenever the UN is scheduled for a VIP only tour? What sort of care package do Ben and Jerry offer refugees who flee to their stores for a taste of bloated smug served heaven? A Ben and Jerry coffee mug with no pristine, locally sourced aqua in it? Until they put in a 10-hour workday off the books, mopping up after fat white kids sloppier than Joe Biden after forgetting to wash down his Adderall with his extra Fierce bottle of Gatorade first.

My wife’s good friend from college has taken up micro-dosing magic mushrooms on a daily basis around her kid. But she’s also in the process of taking marriage therapy sessions to. So, doesn’t that make getting the giggles more difficult to achieve when you see in sweeping, heart pulsating detail how much her son inherited dad’s droopy defeated sense of disgust with life already? Especially since the Indie rock artist reinvented himself as a software engineer, which is a far cry from banging out more Gold Records and shrieks of joy from shrieking female fans because only ugly girls go to coding boot camp. Plus, the typical pearl command line isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”

I’m tired of my dad using the anti-semite excuse every time he isn’t embraced warmly by others. Perhaps, my dad would be embraced more warmly by strangers in Restaurants if he wasn’t so stingy with complimenting the chef for getting his Lobster Roll prepared by the time, he reminds his son how he hasn’t gotten an agent yet again.

It’s hard for me to get aroused by the Amazon show Man from The High Castle. It’s like getting excited about watching the reality show finale for the Amazing Master Race, knowing you’re bound to get blue balls regardless, assuming, you’re not a self-hating, sell out Jewish propogandist for the fakes news NY Times. I’m not comparing lamented vaccination cards to being forced to wear a gold star on my Ted Baker button shirt. But talk of mask mandates regardless if you’ve been vaccinated or not and lowering the eligible age for kids to get the jabs, door to door peddling of pandemic shots feels a tad fascist forced if you ask me. I won’t follow the Nazi experimental science that’s not even FDA approved, resulting in 6000 plus deaths, when I’ve been smoking weed out of a metal bat on and off till I discovered edibles from the Berkshires, only 45 minutes away and my lungs feel great. Dice lives again, holla, thank you very much.

I think most Americans are more painfully aware of the media’s COVID freak out scare tactics than ever before. For example, the other day, my wife had me watch Gordon Ramsey cook a bean and hash brown dish with some pork in it. I said, “Babe, I can use the fake news Pancetta you got from Whole Foods once, that stuff was delicious. She says, “Why do you have to describe everything as fake news every other 2 seconds?” I said, “What did we learn from the Mueller Report again babe? Oh yeah, Mueller only parts his hair with good old fashioned elbow grease. And anyone who voted for Trump has been declared a domestic terrorist by the FBI while the peaceful insurrectionist protestors at the Stop The Steal Rally remain beaten, bloodied and tortured within their hole of death for daring to protest against the lack of hard scientific data that would lead any American to believe Mr. Groper got more votes than Obama when his campaign rallies couldn’t even fill out the Little Mermaid’s claim shell bras.”

Fuck Disney owned Fox to. COVID scare tactics won out. So did systematic voter fraud. But Jesse Owens didn’t run Hitler’s master race theory into the ground for nothing. And my Jewish grandfather didn’t die from cancer radiation after World War 2 so Meghan Rapinoe can kick Nazi destroyers in the nuts by taking a knee for fake news fro Collin Kaepernick. Who still got the biggest unemployment check by the NFL ever recorded. What, he has a fake news fro? Have you ever seen a biracial afro that big before? Slash tried to grow it out and it was a total flop. No, we the people, know the score. Americans love winners, not cheaters. Americans love to champion the underdog. Americans ended slavery, Africa and China didn’t. Palestinian nationalists support terrorists in charge to bleed the UN for all it’s worth. Americans love American pride, almost as much as our kids’ futures. And there is zero future to be giddy about unless Dominion voting machines become kaput, fixing, worldwide election fraud once and for all. So, we the people, can pounce on our pursuit of happiness again with less jaded, weighed down gold dimmed hearts, USA, USA, USA!

Michael Kornbluth













America Winning Again Soon

Vermont should change it’s state motto to CBD Oil only. Bernie Sanders couldn’t even make Vermont great for pot heads on vacation.

My 4 year old son says to his older brother, “Arthur sit on my penis.” I say, “Not Kosher baby. But sit on my penis is a rock solid, bare bones line to use in a Russ Meyer’s film, Topless Tudors. After little Johnny scores an A+ in his pop quiz on geometry on top of a pentagram shaped bed the director bedded Jayne Mansfield in prior for Devilish Dicks.

All my kids talked about all weekend was a scene from Peter Rabbit 2, where a carrot get’s jammed up some bloke’s butt. Turns out I need to get out of the house more often, because when I saw the scene I yell out with dejected disgust, “Where’s the penetration? Is this film G rated or what? Then again, penetration is overrated. That’s what Meghan Rapinoe said to her date at The Enchantment Under The Sea Dance. Now, soccer star Meghan Rapinoe is a new fashion model for Victoria Secret. I can’t wait to blow 80 bucks on edible shin guards that taste like hairy fish sticks. Meghan might run for President one day. What’s going to be her campaign slogan besides, “Penetration is overrated? Bring back the L Word to Netflix Obama. You’re are only hope?”



Learning that my younger brother went weed shopping with my dad at a dispensary in Arizona that I texted my dad the address for after going there myself prior solo was weird. I don’t understand why you’d include dad for this 1st time experience since weed became legal there. We didn’t get high with our dad growing up. Still don’t. Our Dad has only puffed twice in the past 50 years. Still, the moment weed becomes legal in Arizona, it’s very fitting for my dad’s favorite son to have that communal shopping experience together, while Dad utters, “Don’t tell your brother, but this means I love your druggy degenerate side more. At least you still watch ESPN and don’t do a podcast defending Trump for free.”

All British standup comedians sound and look like nerdy, neurotic Jews minus the hardcore hilarious Jew bone. At the same time, all English actresses even the so, so pretty ones look dowdy dumpy with that makeup frosting caked on their faces to, Elizabeth Hurley excluded. Still, every time Elizabeth Hurley opens her mouth in Austin Powers, her measured annunciation rockets her sexiness factor into China where all the buried boners from the Ming Dynasty reside, next to all the cracking Geisha bones their master overlords are forced to hear in Commie Hell whenever they’re forced to take another bite out of their Scorpion lollipop for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Stephen A Smith has a blunt message for the US Olympic basketball team. Vince Carter should tea bag your whole squad, poker face Pop included, like when he dunked over the French center in the 2000 Olympics for losing your 1st Olympic game to those Froggers from France. Granted, America doesn’t exist without Ben Franklin convincing the French to give us their money, ships and troops to defeat those mole tainted British bastards. Still, I don’t care how much Damian Lillard downplays the loss to France, especially when he excuses us losing to France without Tony Parker as a “national pride” issue. Dude, you’re an uppity, glamorized, miniscule jump shooter, who instills less fear in NBA opposing players than maternity suits. Who still get’s to dictate more favorable trade destinations and get PAID permanent f you Corporate America money for life, regardless if you become a go to choke artist number 3 option on the Los Angles Lakers or not. So how is Damian Lillard struggling to drum up some more passionate national pride again, knowing Willis Reed in the seventies had to sell homeowners insurance for All State in the off season before Trump 2020 Banners sent ANTIFA attack home premiums through the roof?

How much do you hate the NBA players representing our US Basketball team today? They lose to France and try to philosophize why they lose with ironic detachment like Jean-Paul Sartre being interviewed by the Paris Review. “France is a very prideful country. Jim Morrison is buried there man. Dice hijacked his entire Buddy Love persona from Jerry Lewis’s Buddy Love character in the original Nutty Professor actually. Tenor saxophonist Chet Baker scored a new lease on life in Paris during his resurgent smack attack years, did you know that? Russ Meyer, famed writer director of B busty flicks such as Faster Pussy Cat, Kill lost his virginity to a French prostitute on the house as a gift from Ernest Hemingway after working as combat photographer documenting the US defeating those Nazi scum tweaked on Crystal Meth till the end, music is your only friend till the end. Jim Morrison lives, holla, thank you very much. Reporter for ESPN.com says, “Damian, you just mentioned all wildly successful Americans in the arts in relation to their embrace in France. Why not mention Miles Davis? Miles was actually all smiles in Paris for a change. He even faced the audience once when Bridget Bardot insisted he’d spew his beautiful black pride over her busty brassiere that went on longer than John Coltrane jerky solos at Birdland, going cuckoo for more sheets of puffed up sound in his honor.” A reporter from Brietbart interjects, “But Damian, your boy Obama Be Good got his presidential puppet in place, Dominion lawsuits and promises of more mask muzzle mandates working in his favor to overshadow the election stolen from Trump in the media and government. Your side got what it wanted, law and order is deader than Portlandia’s campy appeal of yesteryear on IFC reruns since your precious Democratic party let ANTIFA burn your jewel of a city into the ground. So shouldn’t you at least pretend to be more prideful than the French because at least we don’t have old ladies in the street slapping our fake news leader in the White House in the face just yet. Come to think of it, only an eight year old red head with pig tails would get that close for a clean shot, isn’t that right slick?

Did you know the Olympic athletes who win a gold today have to put the gold medal on themselves? If I’m an African American who killed myself for 8 years to finally win the gold, only to have myself put the Gold Medal around my own neck, I’d rather hang myself with it instead. Before hanging myself in my hotel room later with my Gold Medal, I’d yell up on the podium, “Couldn’t some disk thrower from Japan throw the Medal around my neck? Fuck CDC social distancing guidelines. I’m the new and improved Iron Mike, you fear mongering masked motherfuckers. The elusive image of my black glorious neck being draped in Olympic gold by some lowly white European beneath me who vacations 5 weeks a year sunbathing in Capri, kept me going through running up sand dunes in the dead of winter like Marvelous Marvin Haggler did. My driving vision to plow past all the pain, incessant loneliness and faded memories of grandma’s chicken fried steak was that Gold Medal draped around my neck like George Forman and Sugar Ray Leonard before me. It’s time to cash in on my well earned gold medalist privilege already, you COVID crazed crackers. I fought myself out of South Central, a single parent home and rampant violence every step I took from sunrise to sunset. I’m not sweating an itchy esophagus at this round in the game. Vape Pens killed more of my people in South Central in their teens than the made in Wuhan virus did. That’s right, I said it, made in Wuhan. Biden can’t censor me up here on the podium. Pelosi can’t suck my blood like a bat out of hell from my spot at the top. Social distance yourself from these nuts, you raggedy old bitch. I voted for Trump motherfucker. My pops saw Tyson knock out Michael Spinks at the Atlantic City Convention Center before Tony Soprano made a large scale seed investment into the Bada Bing. Dice lives, oh, I can’t take no more, thank you very much.

I’m so sick of hearing get the vaccine shot for the kids pitch, especially from my father because his alleged concern over my own increased fatality rate without the stab is glaringly secondary. My dad’s interior monologue reads like: Stay At Home Dads have no freedoms to begin with. So what special life does my 1st son care about preserving exactly? The kid has been on shit removal detail for the past decade and counting. So how much shittier can his life get exactly? Although for some warped reason, my son gives his mother grief for encouraging him to become a garbage man for a living. “Shoot for shit”, my son says, is his mom’s motto for her least favored son. Like taking out other people’s trash is any different than on being nappy disposal detail for the past 10 years already and counting. At least in the Sanitation department, my 1st born, still don’t know how were related, will get paid to throw shit for for a living and can actually cite on the job experience to boast about for an attainable six figure job with benefits for a change.”

My wife isn’t any better with the get the vaccine pitch because if I give COVID to our kids, I’ll be out in the street with other mass murders who got early release from Riker’s Island because Thugs Lives Matter Most, even among those accused of double homicide with the intent to kill, again and again.

Get the vaccine shot for the kids. Marvin Haggler, an epitome of peak physical prowess died of a heart attack after getting his 2nd stab and went down harder than any flurry of one 2 punches Tommy The Hit Man Hearn’s ever unloaded on his face. I’ll take my chances. Stop acting like unvaccinated people are putting you at risk in your swingers club as if they just came back from a barebacking tour of She Males with Bill Maher in Marti Gas for the last mile of the three legged tour of Mount Roraima.

This morning I negotiated a temporary cease fire agreement with my wife, before we take our kids for a little trip to Vermont later this summer, when we visit the Ben and Jerry’s factory tour. I tell my wife, “I’ll stock pile barbed one liners to unload after the tour is over. Then the gloves come off babe. Don’t Ben and Jerry know that a 2 state solution is impossible, if Hamas keeps fucking? The only thing occupying Palestinian territory is AP news for them do another hit piece on Israel refusing to be pushover putzy next time Hamas launches 5000 rockets in their backyard again, expecting nothing more in return than an edible arrangements gift basket in return with a thank you note written in Farsi. Personally, I can’t wait for the Graveyard factory Tour of Ben and Jerry ice cream flavors no longer in production like the Tonight Show one. Wait a minute, they still make the Tonight Show one, despite the stone cold truth about how Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate, since he humanized Trump on TV by tussling his hair on TV, knowing a real life skinhead never emerged. I wonder if Ben and Jerry discontinued the Aloha Macadamia line because Michelle Obama demanded they’d replace Obama’s favorite Samoan nuts with Almonds that grew on George Clooney’s Lake Cuomo estate instead. Where the ex President is forcing to feel like second banana regardless. Because at least Clooney’s Oscar win didn’t feel like a participation trophy the way it did when Obama Be Meh won the Nobel Peace Prize for rebranding ISIS, ISIL. So they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times already. And why did Ben and Jerry kill of Purple Passion Fruit? Did Prince threaten to sue them for copyright infringement while getting his ruffled tux bent all out of shape? Who ordered the hit on Holy Cannoli? Did Phil Rizzuto demand they change the name to Holy Cow, I think Meat Loaf is going to make it? Doesn’t Ben and Jerry realize Trump passed prison reform by the time Jared Kushner creams into Ivanka whenever she talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again? And if Ben and Jerry were so concerned with investing in communities of color, why would they keep their corporate headquarters in Vermont? Vermont is whiter than Larry Bird’s fake news basketball camp for higher hopping authority in French Lick Indiana. On their website it says, Ben and Jerry’s supports voting rights, assuming you think Dominion machines questionable accounting procedures are on the right side of history the day before Democracy died or not. Voter ID is racist. Does Julio from the Barrio have to pass a sudden height requirement in Georgia, that I don’t know about yet, Jerry? Now, that’s gold Jerry, holla. Seinfeld lives. Thank you very much. How do you Ben and Jerry define racial justice exactly? The USA basketball team lost to France because the NBA is down with supporting thug lives matter no matter what? I’m all for LBGT rights like Ben and Jerry yet do you think they’d agree that Drag Queen Reading Hour can be a tad freaky for our kids knowing how hard it is to look flattering fresh under fluorescent library lights? What’s climate justice according to Ben and Jerry? Greta Thunberg causing more eco anxiety to go viral again, because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon from taking out a Private Equity Director’s penthouse overlooking Central Park East. Twin daughter’s are popping Melatonin gummies up late on a school night again because they’re consumed with eco-anxiety. Dad comes home at 10 after a pricy client dinner at Eleven Madison Park and yells at his nanny, “Why are the kids still up? Let me guess Greta Thunberg again, that sweaty browed bitch. Sorry I didn’t take a Citi Bike to my 5 star client meal at the Eleven Madison Park. So I could avoid smelling like shitty commercial weed from head to toe. Does Greta know Leo still uses plastic straws for blow at the Viper Room, only to hear last call from the bathroom stall? While yelling, where’s Hunter?” Plus, I hate those fucking straws made out of bamboo, avocado pits and pea protein enzymes used for Bill Gates Golden Retrievers as Four Eyes hogs up all the pricier, Tomahawk Ribeye cuts for himself. I don’t care how many sea turtles die because I don’t want to chip a tooth while sucking down an Arnold Palmer during Lent again, OK!” Dennis Leary lives. Holla, thank you very much.

What do refugee rights mean to Ben and Jerry? Squatting rights outside of Ben and Jerry’s corporate office for a staged photo op whenever the UN is scheduled for a VIP only tour? What sort of care package do Ben and Jerry offer refugees who flee to their stores for a taste of bloated smug served heaven? A Ben and Jerry coffee mug with no pristine, locally sourced aqua in it? Until they put in a 10 hour work day off the books, mopping up after fat white kids sloppier than Joe Biden after forgetting to wash down his adderall with his extra Fierce bottle of Gatorade first.

My wife’s good friend from college has taken up micro-dosing magic mushrooms on a daily basis around her kid. But she’s also in the process of taking marriage therapy sessions to. So doesn’t that make getting the giggles more difficult to achieve when you see in sweeping, heart pulsating detail how much her son inherited dad’s droopy defeated sense of disgust with life already? Especially since the Indie rock artist reinvented himself as a software engineer, which is a far cry from banging out more Gold Records and shrieks of joy from shrieking female fans because only ugly girls go to coding boot camp. Plus, the typical pearl command line isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”

I’m tired of my dad using the anti-semite excuse every time he isn’t embraced warmly by others. Perhaps, my dad would be embraced more warmly by strangers in Restaurants if he wasn’t so stingy with complimenting the chef for getting his Lobster Roll prepared by the time he reminds his son how he hasn’t gotten an agent yet again.

It’s hard for me to get aroused by the Amazon show Man From The High Castle. It’s like getting excited about watching the reality show finale for the Amazing Master Race, knowing you’re bound to get blue balls regardless, assuming, you’re not a self-hating, sell out Jewish propogandist for the fakes news NY Times. I’m not comparing lamented vaccination cards to being forced to wear a gold star on my Ted Baker button shirt. But talk of mask mandates regardless if you’ve been vaccinated or not and lowering the eligible age for kids to get the jabs, door to door peddling of pandemic shots feels a tad fascist forced if you ask me. I won’t follow the Nazi experimental science that’s not even FDA approved, resulting in 6000 plus deaths, when I’ve been smoking weed out of a metal bat on and off till I discovered edibles from the Berkshires, only 45 minutes away and my lungs feel great. Dice lives again, holla, thank you very much.

I think most Americans are more painfully aware of the media’s COVID freak out scare tactics than ever before. For example, the other day, my wife had me watch Gordon Ramsey cook a bean and hash brown dish with some pork in it. I said, “Babe, I can use the fake news Pancetta you got from Whole Foods once, that stuff was delicious. She says, “Why do you have to describe everything as fake news every other 2 seconds?” I said, “What did we learn from the Mueller Report again babe? Oh yeah, Mueller only parts his hair with good old fashioned elbow grease. And anyone who voted for Trump has been declared a domestic terrorist by the FBI while the peaceful insurrectionist protestors at the Stop The Steal Rally remain beaten, bloodied and tortured within their hole of death for daring to protest against the lack of hard scientific data that would lead any American to believe Mr. Groper got more votes than Obama when his campaign rallies couldn’t even fill out the Little Mermaid’s claim shell bras.”

Fuck Disney owned Fox to. COVID scare tactics won out. So did systematic voter fraud. But Jesse Owens didn’t run Hitler’s master race theory into the ground for nothing. And my Jewish grandfather didn’t die from cancer radiation after World War 2 so Meghan Rapinoe can kick Nazi destroyers in the nuts by taking a knee for fake news fro Collin Kaepernick. Who still got the biggest unemployment check by the NFL ever recorded. What, he has a fake news fro? Have you ever seen a bi racial afro that big before? Slash tried to grow it out and it was a total flop. No, we the people, know the score. Americans love winners, not cheaters. Americans love to champion the underdog. Americans ended slavery, Africa and China didn’t. Palestinians nationalists support terrorists in charge to bleed the UN for all it’s worth. Americans love American pride, almost as much as our kids futures. And there is zero future to be giddy about unless Dominion voting machines become kaput, fixing, worldwide election fraud once and for all. So we the people, can pounce on our pursuit of happiness again with less jaded, weighed down gold dimmed hearts, USA, USA, USA!

Michael Kornbluth













Flinch Club

We need to knock on doors to get people vaccinated. And Trumpy Poo was the fascist dictator in charge who launched biological warfare on his own precious economy. I hate the Biden administration more than Jen Psaki’s Strawberry Shortcake White House, house-warming gift for Mr. Groper, like it was nicotine gum to quell his cravings around inhaling her whole in the Oval Office with the lights turned down low. Bob Marley lives, holla, thank you very much.

The Tokyo Olympics will be held without spectators like the NBA Finals, without Drama Queen Diaries.

My 4-year-old son hits me in the stomach as I encourage him to do so, until I have zero beer belly protrude-age left to hit. My father sitting next to us on the lawn chair says, “Don’t hit your daddy.” I say, “It’s ok Dad, I’m teaching him to be a fighter, not a flincher.” My dad says, “Fine, but don’t hit me Samuel or I’ll hit back.” Typical, Democrat reply, “Threaten and attempt to intimidate those deemed smaller in stature than you. Personally, I think my 4-year-old son could break pop’s glasses in 2 if he tried. The kid flicks 5-pound free weights with ease like they were pistachio nut shells flicked at Andy Dick’s head at the Viper Room passed out 2 hours before the ball drop on New Year’s Eve.”  Heaven for my 4-year-old son is watching Rocky training montage sequences on YouTube with Daddy on the big screen TV. Next time my dad, tries to disparage good news about Christian lit agents sucking off my pitch letter or “very funny” sample chapter samples from The Koshterian Comedian by saying, “Who cares?” My little fighter will say to Gramps, “You tried knocking Daddy down, why don’t you try knocking me down. Daddy, calls me Hardcore Hunga for a reason, go for it.” Rocky 5 lives. Can I get a holla for more some more primo Gen X references Gen X Dads understand, challah? Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Beyond Personal

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

Visions Of Hamas Social Workers

If Biden condemns the surge in hate crimes against the American Jewish community, then why doesn’t he stick Kamala Harris on it? She’s married to a rich Jew. Tell her hubby to redistribute his wealth to moderate social workers in Hamas. Social Workers for Hamas can deprogram Jihadists in Gaza through exposing them to LinkedIn thought leadership posts by Marc Cuban on how to design high definition video portals to sell Hashish Hookah’s Made in Gaza, not controlled by those blood sucking Jews for a change.

Social workers for Hamas can push a hate filled Jihadist into attending coding boot camp, if they don’t wanna waste their lives digging death tunnels for terrorist groups like Hamas for a living. Only to get denied entry into Hebrew University prior because they described their experience digging tunnels used to kidnap, kill and maim in the name of you know, as a rewarding, lived experience to emulate for Hamas’s version of Habitat for Humanity. Holla, thank you very much.

Imagine a Social Worker for Hamas from Berkeley, urging a teen Palestinian to give up dirty bomb making for designing killer virgin dating apps such as “Blood On The Burka” instead?

Social Worker tries to break the ice by quoting Bob Dylan 1st and says, “Look Samir, it’ ok to rely on government assistance when you’re optionless otherwise. Like Bob Dylan said, “Show me someone that’s a not a parasite, and I’ll go out and say a prayer for him. But I won’t draw a cartoon of Muhammed riding his underage slave wives after dark like a MAGA hat sporting Dr. Seuss, alright. I’m being deadly serious Samir. Designing killer dating apps such as “Cherry Bomb Popping” can change your corner of the Arab world, which you’re terrorist leadership has destroyed willingly to score more international aid from the UN to ensure you remain dependent, genocidal terrorists for hire forever. Virgin dating apps can usher in an era of calm to Palestine not seen since the Second Tower went down faster than Obama did at a Chicago Bathhouse during Arafat Appreciation Month. The advent of killer virgin dating apps such as, “701 Virgins Now, You Sand Ho Bitch”, will bring death to jerking off and give birth to a less hate filled generation of Palestinians. Who won’t be so sore about nearly sandpapering their dicks into shawarma shreds, mangled up and blue.

Michael Kornbluth

The Gender Fluid Godfather

I don’t like older Deadheads because they got to experience free flowing love with busty Italian girls in the parking lot of Giants Stadium before Magic made HIV disappear. I had to settle for either dry humping induced zipper burn in college or feel nothing condom sex, which is the equivalent of having to exchange silky smooth lining for plastic covered seats. A guy knows when a condom breaks because he immediately starts to coo, “Wee, wee, sex is fun again.”

I especially don’t like older Deadheads wearing Grateful Dead masks at the grocery store because they’re not dropping acid in those dancing bear masks for 3 hour drum solos on ACID at MSG Square to see Grateful Dead and Friends. I don’t care how much masked deadhead woman bat their eyes to John Mayer with a mask on looking like a longhaired Lone Ranger in Tie-Dye in disguise.

Imagine a Masked Deadheads who suffers from anxiety, being slipped ACID by a new age Merry Prankster at MSG, requiring you to wear the mask at all times, except between more puffs of increasingly necessary calming green. Once the double of dose of ACID kicks in, the Masked Deadhead says, “Fuck CDC guidelines. If I could survive Altamont and the Hell’s Angel’s nearly beating my skull into the middle earth, I can handle an itchy esophagus no problem. Besides, I’ve been spoking weed out of out a metal bat at Dead Shows for five decades straight and my lungs feel great, holla, thank you very much. “

It’s hard to remain calm when I see a Baby Boomer in a Grateful Dead mask today. They never had to greet their kids off the bus wearing masks, looking like Michael Jackson’s adopted ones on holiday in Bahrain. All these Masked Deadheads did was use their cushy positions in the media, government and academia to push lawless policies, which turned LA and San Francisco and now Manhattan into overrated, overpriced ten cities sponsored by REI.

Masked Deadheads are fake news hippies like my retired father who hasn’t visited the Grand Canyon in 9 years since retiring to Scottsdale, Arizona, to take up jerking off to the Weather Channel every winter and playing tennis with Dr. Ken, who claims my father’s forehand has never been stronger.

Took my daughter to her 1st Dead show and she says, “Daddy, why are your eyes red? I said, “The THC content in these edibles have unmasked my pothead eyes.”

My daughter’s 1st Dead Show was days after her 2nd Birthday. She points at dinged up looking hippie sucking down a nitrous balloon and inquires, “Birthday”? I say, “No Matilda, Burnout Day.”

It’s hard to plan for kids, when you’re pothead who forgets to ask your girlfriend if she’s on the pill. Although when my wife told me about being pregnant with our 1st child Matilda, my response in my mind was. First, stress how it’s her decision but then push for the abortion and don’t be a pussy about it. Still, at the time it was impossible for me to write off my daughter in the making as a zombie zygote whose spirit could be brought back from the dead by getting my girlfriend now wife, accidently pregnant again in a NY Minute again, no problem. The moment my wife announced she was pregnant with our 1st of 3 kids, I couldn’t be blase about pushing the Unplanned Parenthood, family man, extermination plan.

Do you think Michael Corleone would push Kay to get an abortion if the ultra sound revealed their kid in the making was a gender fluid hermaphrodite? Kay says, “It’s a hermaphrodite Michael. I know you really wanted a boy to carry on your scared Sicilian seed. I’ll just book a contract hit with Planned Parenthood tomorrow. Don’t bother sending a car for me. I’ve seen how that movie ends before. You had no problem ordering your goons to blow up helpless Fredo, so stop acting like giving me the green light to take out a hit on your own flesh and blood doesn’t sit well with your soul anymore. Besides, how does a hermaphrodite as the head of the five families even work? Do all the other thuggish killers in Armani come into The Gender Fluid Godfather’s office to kiss her cock ring or just suck off her latest wallpaper collections of gender fluid pink zit recipes on Pinterest??

Vermont must change their state logo from the Green State to CBD Oil only. Bernie Sanders couldn’t even make Vermont great for potheads on vacation.

I drop weed edibles about an hour before I tuck my kids in to avoid my daughter’s super hard questions on it before they kick in. Once, edibles kicked in earlier than usual and my daughter says, “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.” She replies, “Real convincing Daddy. Thanks for making an atheist at 4.”

Did you know 420, Earth Day for Potheads because it’s an herb that grew wild around King Solomon’s grave, is also Hitler’s birthday? Total bummer right man? I haven’t been this let down since I learned how Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.

And this is my impersonation of Ziggy Marely being interviewed by High Times magazine? Reporter says, “Ziggy, your dad had a dozen kids. Isn’t excessive ganga use supposed to drain your life blaster and ball sack dry? Ziggy Marely says, “Fake News man.”



I really don’t like Baby Boomers wearing Grateful Dead masks because they’re acting like this freedom killing reign of COVID terror is campy fun like touring with the Dead during summers past. I only wish I could dance in the grass to the Shakedown Street again throughout the Bethel Woods great sprawling lawn without any mask mandates anymore to kickstart the 1st of many burning mask parties this summer, able to sing with final chapter closed authority, “What a long, evil revealing trip, it’s been.”

Last, I’m sick of hearing certain Baby Boomers proclaim, “We’re all mad.” Unless, you were drafted to fight in Vietnam, I don’t give a shit about your alleged discomfort post COVID asshole. Generation X, that being my generation, had to endure the nagging, adolescent of fear of contracting HIV, multiple recessions, 911, the media’s perpetual white washing of the Jew hating squad and our kids being forced to wear masks in school as if we’re living in some sick, twisted version of Pink Floyd The Wall, except this time only the CDC, Fuck Face Fauci and China get final cut. Jew loving Roger Waters lives, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

White Privilege Lasagna

Lasagna, I don’t care who makes it, is normally a soupy saucy, droopy, ricotta plopped, dumpy looking mess. For a native New Yorker like myself, I always saw Lasagna as a tourist trap order like peep shows in Times Square in the seventies or apartment rebates in Manhattan today, offering zero deposit and the 1st 2 months free, since the greatest city in the world turned into an office space ghost town. Also, if I have to hear one more story about some NY transplant renting out a million-dollar mansion in South Carolina to conduct Zoom meetings in splendid, far more spacious isolation, I’m going to drive our family SUV off the cliffs of chained, middle class fixed insanity.  

Lasagna isn’t the most versatile dish to serve after winter either. I’d rather blow my calorie intake on hop forward pilsners and 4 sipper watermelon beers from 21st Amendment from San Fran during the heat of the night this coming summer than get weighed down by a dish full of heavy melted cheese best suited for a shittier Godfather remake in the making. And how exciting is the standard ground meat stuffing offered in most Lasagnas? If I weren’t eating Kosher now, I’d prefer a bomb meatball parm hero from Carmines off Broadway, over their ground meat crumbled lasagna any day of the week because you’re getting far heartier, tastier, meatier loving bites. I also write a gay food blog for closeted married men with kids called, “Meatier, The Better.”

My wife made lasagna in the past with tofu stuffing inside, which is as arousing as it sounds. Tofu has no place in Lasagna. It’s more out of place than a Guido with a tan line in South Beach on Spring Break, holla, thank you very much. Outside of dumping on the totality of what this fabled, old school Italian dinnertime dish classic has to offer, I’m going to spotlight a superior alternative that I learned to make from the domesticated goddess of home hearth enhancement Martha Stewart, The White Privilege Mexican Lasagna.

You know your White Privilege Mexican Lasagna is a hit, when even your normally snooty, compliment free mother-in-law feels compelled to compliment it 2 bites in, uttering, “This is very good. You’re making my daughter look like a slacker lazy brain in the kitchen. She’d thrown in the towel 50 rolled perogies in for our next Uki church bake sale guaranteed.”

I’ve futzed with the Martha Stewart recipe over the years, yet my strongest batch of White Privilege Mexican Lasagna used white corn tortillas versus the standard corn tortillas, which tend to lean more toward the grating side in comparison like COVID Loonies who insist on wearing their masks in the car versus others willing to pull it down on the elevator alone to suck their thumb for added comfort.  

You sauté the black beans, red onions, and jalapenos in vegetable oil 1st, before spreading them into the casserole dish with layered mini flying saucers of white corn tortillas, layered, with shredded pepper jack cheese and Monterey in addition to homemade salsa made from cherry tomatoes, 4 jalapenos at least, cilantro, red onion, and plenty of lime. I’d buy two batches of cherry tomatoes for the salsa topping to maximize maximum spreadage like Katy Perry hoisting up her pushup bra equipped with multiple party screamer kazoos attached on the tips. Also, use 2 rectangles of Monterey and Pepper Jack from the Cabot cheese company or else it will taste like a cheeseless White Privilege Mexican Lasagna. You might well add some tofu inside and commit an Asian on white priveledge Mexican Lasagna hate crime in the process.

My 7-year-old son asked for 3rds, which was unprecedented like George Lopez doing 5 minutes of straight of stand up without spicing his set with some Spanish in between to keep it cornier yet earthier real Holmes.  White Privilege Mexican Lasagna won’t stop Asian hate yet the more we embrace culturally rich cuisines outside of our preconceived prejudices, the less clannish will act at home and out.  Last, beating up on Chinese Grandma isn’t a good look thug lives matter. JR Smith doesn’t even find the act cute. But at least JR Smith has an NBA ring and earned the right to party topless in Vegas for 3 days straight. At the same time, nobody thinks picking on Asian granny requires courage of any kind and nobody is ever confusing your disgraced nuts as Thinking Balls to devise your new 5-year masked mugger plan with. You’re offended? Good, go woke yourself to. That’s the way the Fortune Cookie crumbles.

Michael Kornbluth

Shell Shocked Snappy

Wine Coolers, Jello Shots and reluctant repeat sips from your 1st can of Budweiser help melt teen shyness away. But pet Snapping Turtles aren’t 9th graders in junior high, who haven’t got into the puberty party yet either. At this point, Matilda a 12-year-old entrepreneur and inventor of a suction sticking party ball strobe light machine called Party Magic, was willing to blow some of her Kickstarter startup money on a Past Life Regression consultation with an Animal Communicator at a nearby Crystal Shop in Ridgefield, CT to get her new pet Snapping Turtle Snappy to come out of his shell already because changing his name from Waxy to Snappy wasn’t helping. More than anything, Matilda wanted to boogie board in Australia, her mama’s home country, along Mother’s Beach, 30 minutes north of Melbourne for her parents 10 year anniversary yet she didn’t feel safe in those Jelly Fish infested waters without a trustworthy, Snapping Turtle to ward off attacks by her side, knowing their preference for scarfing up electric, purple haze stingers.

The 70 something, bushy haired, frumpy, shawl strangled, Sedona sun wrinkled transplant, Animal Communicator, Talks With Toads, lounged out in her cubby size room office within a crystal shop in nearby Ridgefield, CT, and takes of her bi focal glasses to examine Snappy The Turtle more closely. Who Matilda reveals hiding in her old beat up backpack, knowing his tendency to fart uncontrollably, especially around strangers, which she considered a reason for why Snappy The Turtle’s head was hid in perpetual shame so often.  Talks With Toads says, “Matilda, over the phone you said, Snappy won’t come out of his shell around strangers.” Matilda says, “I’ve offered him Lobster Rolls from Stew Leonard’s, smoked Nova from Russ and Daughters, bought him the Tony Robbins audiobook boxset, which wasn’t cheap either, so I’m running out of options hêre. Our first Kornbluth family vacation to Australia is tomorrow and I don’t know what to do, because Snappy is my 2nd line of defense against all those Jelly Fish in Australia after the Jelly Fish nets which aren’t even available in the beaches in Bondi, and that’s where all the serious boogie board action happens anyway. My parents wanted to get married in Australia, where my mom is from originally yet my Grandma shot it down. She calls my dad and says, “Australia is a long trip from New York Scoops and your dad doesn’t love you that much.” Then, my dad made a compromise with my mom and says, “If we have boy one day, will hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision, just to hear a room of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Talks With Toads spits out a deep, weighty laugh, opening up her throat chakra more than any downward dog pose ever could and says, “Does Snappy ever come out of his shell around your daddy or does he get intimidated by larger-than-life comedians to? I saw his performance at the Montreal Comedy Festival on YouTube and coughed up a lung in he process. He made such a strong, funny man impression the last time your family dropped by the crystal shop. And I don’t care for most stand-up comedy these days. Plus, how creepy is the comic Anthony Jeselnik, knowing that he considers psychic surveys on how many missing children they’ve seen through their Carrot Cards as being the height of God loving hilarity today?” Matilda says, “In Anthony Jeselnik’s defense, God commands his chosen people to forsake the counsel of psychics in Deuteronomy, but my dad told me is was Kosher to make an exception in Snappy The Turtle’s defense.”

Talks With Toads does her best to shrug off a smart-ass Jewess rubbing God’s law in her face with such effortless fluency and decides to plow forward with her Past Life Regression reading for Snappy The Turtle, so she can get back to watching some bestiality horse on man porn on her lunch break, which now can’t come soon enough. Talks With Toads grabs a sapphire crystal from a cramped, unorganized drawer, representing the entire kitchen sink of healing, past life reading gemstones known to mankind and places it on Snappy The Turtle’s shell. Talks With Toads says, “I see a Deadhead at Giant Stadium in a Soup Truck RV called Terrapin Soup, blowing high grade, 75 dollar an eighth weed into Snappy The Turtle’s face again and again as the live version of Scarlet Begonia’s from Cornell 77 blasts on the tape deck in the background. I stopped going to shows after I stopped smoking weed myself.”

Matilda says, “After my 2nd birthday, my Dad took me to a Dead Show in Bethel Woods, in upstate New York. I pointed at a dinged up looking Deadhead sucking down a Nitrous balloon and said, “Birthday.” And my dad says, “No, Burn Out Day.” Talks With Toads unleashes another full throaty laugh again and says, “Wait a minute. No, he can’t be.” Matilda’s interest in Talks With Toad’s Past Life Regression Reading has reached peak interest and says, “What do you see now? Is the Deadhead owner feeding Snappy The Turtle’s head with a sheet of acid or what?” Talks With Toads takes a deep breath, doing her best to conceal her startled state as she pulls back her long, tangly grey hair and utters in a whispery, barely audible tone, “The Deadhead owner is serving Snappy The Turtle’s family for dinner.”

Matilda jumps out of her chair in a bewildered state of dígust and yells, “I thought Deadheads ate Grilleđ Cheese Sandwiches after Dead shows when they got the munchies.” Talks With Toads says, “Munchies don’t happen when you’re on 4 tabs of acid dear. Hold on, I see a line of Deadheads around the parking lot in Giant Stadium waiting for this Terrapin Turtle Soup Truck to serve bowls of Turtle Soup to cure more endless bad trips on Hêrculean amounts of acid. The Merry Pranksters used to spike garbage cans full of fruit punch with Acid during 3-hour Dead jam sessions back in the day before you tripped over shit throughout the Cable Car lined streets of San Francisco. Eventually, the college dropout hippies who weren’t banking on replacing Santana anytime soon, became howling, starved lunatics, left with no other choice but to eat stray cats behind the dumpster at Mu Shu York’s. Soon after, a famed chef from New Orleans, Gumbo Greg, who went on to become the executive chef at the Philly Club for years before opening his own restaurant in North Beach, Chowder Panisse, gave Jerry Garcia the idea of serving one of his freaked out tripping groupies some Turtle Soup in their house on Haight Ashbury to cure her bad trip, after doing the same for Dr. John during Jazz Fest once after he crawled himself up into ball on stage, thinking, he’d turned into psychedelic, night tripping crawfish. Crawfish, you know Shrimp with more personality, similar to John Mayer teaming up with Grateful Dead and Company, injecting scruffy smooth with a dose of much needed personality.” Snappy The Turtle finally snaps out of his shell and yells, “Thanks for the flashback bitch.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth