Tag: celebrity

Short Lived Nirvana

by doitalldadyear, posted in beauty, culture, music

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to sloppy seconds hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Kurt Loder, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his smoking hot second wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H, so I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle.”

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Uprooting Somber

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, entertainment, humor

Every Carlin bit: Everything you were taught was bullshit. Plus, your dad doesn’t have a monopoly on the distant dad prick market. I’ll take your dad’s collapsed shoulders and torso while going in for a hug over an Irish kiss from Dad despite winning top toast at Toastmasters International before blowing his paycheck on Bushmills 20-year Irish Whiskey at the bar soon after.

“Toasting is for fat, drunk, Irish losers and bloated, blowhard Kennedy’s on speedboats off the coast Hyannis Port cruising for late night date chow rendezvous with Great Whites.”

These days, I can’t tell whether I like to hear any standup comedy besides my own material after performing more sheets of Comedy Gold on my Pause Daddy Podcast for free. I try. Robert Klein, I’m an annoying Jew who should be teaching American History at Hunter College for a living. Paula Poundstone is fine, if you want to hear her badger an audience for 5 hours about what they do for a living besides long for Fashion Police on Entertainment Television in her presence before Kelly Osbourne teamed up with Trans Chucky and ruined the show’s legacy forever.

Now, watching Gilbert Gotfried make an audience cringe and laugh whole heartedly at the same time never disappoints like the period out from having to bang your wife on her birthday again. A personal favorite bit by Gilbert the Great was telling a crowd at the Montreal Comedy Festival about learning how John Phillips from the Mama’s and Papa’s used to climb up to his daughter’s bunk bed and nail her for years. Then, Gilbert The Great says, “I can’t even get my daughter to hold my hand while crossing the street. All I want her to know is that her Barbie Dreamhouse didn’t pay for itself.”  Now this a shining example of uprooting somber and how comedy possesses the power to make flawless light from unfathomable abhorrence in this world by using his slight case of personal dejection in the service of getting a laugh for the greater good. Just like me adding, “So that’s why in the song California Dreaming when dad gets on his knees and pretends to pray, he’s just screaming, holy fucking Christ, I can’t bang my Lolita blues away on a Winter’s Day.” United we laugh.  Gilbert The Great proved it every day. Thank you, Gilbert The Great, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Baffling Ranker

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

Ranker lists are always disappointing because I can never find what I need.

Hottest pregnant naked celebs on Ranker, nothing.

All I got was a list of actresses who filmed while pregnant.

At this point, Jennifer Garner is just one endlessly menopausal pitchperson for the Lifetime Channel as far I’m concerned.

Like I give a shit about user reviews of movies with actresses who were pregnant while filming. That’s like giving a shit about the most cost-effective morning after pill once that becomes banned faster than Henry Miller’s new art exhibit in Waco, Texas, Brushing Up on STDs, Hashtag: Paris Dicks Are Burning.

I want a pregnant naked celeb to watch my thigh spreader grow at the sight of their bare feet at the coffee shop. Thinking, “Pregnant woman can’t enough of double stuffed fillings, right?” “Let me bang your future albatross free.” “I’m sensing a growth spurt coming on.” “Walk out the nots on my back you front heavy bitch.” “Squat on my life blaster, so I can split your cervix in 2. You’re hot enough to get knocked up by mistake again on a semi-regular basis, minus the enhanced, chewtastic tits or not.” Slut in a Strait Jacket baffling Ranker again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Pregnant naked celebs, normally means some celeb no longer in their prime banging years, cupping their tits. Granted, I have more free time on my hands than most.

But Jessica Simpsons boasts the sexiest pregnant naked pic of the pack. Her olive oil skin is smoother than Dane Cook’s crowd work with busty teenage girls from Boston at MSG bursting at the seams. You girls like Candy Crush? I love Candy Crush. I want to shoot a love burst between your sun burnt tits so badly right now. Does that kind of rhyme? I don’t care. I just want to chew up your tits and blow them out again till they explode in my face. Don’t act like you can’t stomach this material, you Candy Crush sluts. I squeeze into these ripped jeans easier than your hollering hymen in the presence of my Bubble-Licious balls. Tea party for 2 Bitch. What only, Jim Norton gets to wear his inner pervert on a sleave? What a gyp. I’m not even supposed to be performing standup comedy anymore after banging Jessica Simpson in Employee Of The Month. I crushed her pink-a-licious pussy so good, it fell off into her Daisy Dukes in her trailer soon after.

I get most horny around clothed pregnant woman the most, with Connecticut License Plates. Fuck the Mile High Club, I want to get into The Stepford Wives new mommy swinger club to keep alive the possibility of more toppable tomorrows, with an expecting mommy who has bigger tits than my wife before she had a soulless Zygote brewing inside her belly. Fuck fucking a Trans girl with 0.0 body fat around the mid-section, I want a 3-month pregnant mom from Darien, CT on my Hannukah to do list this year. Wife asks, “What do you want for Hanukkah this year?”

“The chance to cheat on you with a pregnant mom from Connecticut to keep alive the possibility of more toppable tomorrows like Dane Cook saving one last candy crush blast for Jessica Simpson during the film wrap party for Employee of the Month. Clean up in Aisle 2, sexual napalm, blew my banana rammer to pieces.

Demi Moore started the pregnant naked selfie wave pre-smart phone on the cover of Vanity Fair, yet I don’t remember her sporting such a saggy ass. I just remember being thrilled to get a sight of some side boob because online porn at your fingertips didn’t exist yet before a bunch of tweaked, tatted out girls on Crystal Meth ruined the golden age of muff diving porn forever. Mountains Of Muff being a personal VHS staple after Scandalous Snatch Mansion, and Gargantuan Gaping Pussy Girls back in the day. Plus, when I saw Demi Moore standing online for a movie at the Century City Mall in LA after college, she lost all her curves or maybe had them airbrushed on to appear womanly in Vanity Fair because in person she looked like an emaciated boy ghost, who could be best described as Tommy Lee’s more effeminate, less banger pretty sister. Too fast for love, I think not. Baffling Ranker again, Challah. Thank you very much. Trump wanted to have Motley Crue play at his inauguration, yet his son-in-law Jared Kushner cock blocked it. He said, Tommy Lee looks too alt-rightish and my Hebrew Hammer can’t compete Dad.”

If I were to pinpoint my surging reinterest in wanting to bang a pregnant woman again, it was at the supermarket recently, when this blond with a so-so face and I’m being generous in glasses no less, was gyrating her bicycle pants bum in my general direction while exposing her 5-month pregnancy bump. Who in my head was screaming, “You couldn’t knock me up if you tried bitch, but who’s going to stop you from trying, besides your good guy conscious that feels guilty about doing what you want to do, despite your youngest son, constantly proclaiming, “Do what you want, you’re the boss.”

“So be the boss of my box, Hugo Hungtree The Third. My husband won’t mind. He likes to share pineapple scented snatch. He’s really into air fresheners since he inherited his father’s chain of carwashes throughout Carol Gables. So come on stud, your air of superiority awaits you under my suckalicious skin Do It All Dad.”

Florida, gotta love it, Baffling Ranker again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Greatest One

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, health, writing

When mommy says, “I miss you guys”, you can tell if its half-hearted bullshit or not. Did you really miss Samuel asking you to finish wiping his bum while you’re cleaning up for your date with Sarah? Did you really miss badgering the kids about whether Daddy reapplied sunscreen on them or not after their picnic after I picked them up from camp? Did you really miss rushing out of the house in 98-degree weather to get some snacks for a picnic that turned out to be one for just Matilda and her friends? One of them being the kid who lives next door to Bill Gate’s daughter. Who for a wedding gift was bequeathed a 22-acre farm under the condition that she turn it into a placenta smoothie retreat for Hollywood Actresses to practice equestrian therapy with. You haven’t lived until you threw back a placenta Smoothie with January Jones on the set of Mad Men. It provides nutrients for an anorexic baby in the making. So, let’s kick this spirit cooking party into full gear and invite Hillary Hammer Time Cankles to feast off magnums of Baby Jane from 62. But no “unusual” placentas Planned Parenthood or else they can’t demand top dollar by Bill Gates and friends. I know Marina what’s her name isn’t satanic, she’s a “performance artist”, because her interview with James Franco got published in the Wall Street Journal under the money and investing section for Spirit Cooking Schools for the rich and famous not advertised on LinkedIn. Recipes for liquid dinners are painted on the wall in blood. The first one is a mix fresh breast milk and fresh semen, none of this frozen shit from Walt Diseny and friends. Added directions include to only drink on earthquake nights although attending a live podcast by Megan Mccain, otherwise known as the Plop of Nothing gets the job done. You don’t think the DNC is controlled by demonic beasts in relation to Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, Snopes Salon? Have you seen Tony Podesta’s kiddie porn art collection draped on his fundraising walls? There’s enough pedo bondage pics on those walls to make Marilyn Manson blush. You don’t think the Wiki Leaks emails from the Podesta’s about pool time entertainment, with ages specified along with talk of kids being sent Ubers on top of various mentions of various pizza topping such as yum, yum sauce are enough reasons to give you hypertension for giving babysitting with the Podesta brothers a chance?

So were about to leave the “Picnic”, and the girl who lives next door to Bill Gate’s kid’s Placenta Smoothie Farm Retreat says, “Richard Gere is my neighbor to.” And in front of 2 parents there I say, “Those prayer beads didn’t come in red Gere.”

Michael Kornbluth

Fabulous Gang Bangs

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, sports, writing

Magic calling a time out on more hang out time with Lakers owner bus Dr. Buss.

“Dr. Buss, remember when Coop said how running the fast break was better than sex?” Well, that was some old G Nostradamus shit. HIV don’t want me playing around no more. Cookie said, “That’s how the cookie crumbles.” Dr. Bus says, “Don’t worry Magic. I’ll call in a favor to Jack. We can pump his body double for some fresh blood. How do you think Jack stayed alive after all these years? His dick should’ve caught gang green from gang banging fountain spewing hookers in Chinatown ages ago. How else could he bang more fabulous tight-coochie girls while standing up while smoking a joint to cheer you on in the playoffs during away games. Fabulous gang bangs live, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

New School Speed

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, fiction, storytelling

Dad says, “I don’t eat steaks anymore.” I reply, “I’ve been burnt out on your burnt steaks before I bloomed under my Fruit of the Looms Dad. And I’m the one who was diagnosed as a learning-disabled learner in High School. Granted, by the time I completed my un-timed SAT, my friends had already declared their majors at Washington University. At the same time, you did nothing to speed the development of my non-existent self-esteem as my basketball coach Dad like LaVar Ball could. He’d throw me house parties at our crib in the 9th grade to help ensure I got to 1st base before my younger brother did. My star substitute coach dad would only invite Stuck Up Jenny from The Block. Two seconds into the party, super sub coach dad barks into her hoop heavy, dangling ear, “The Grape Crush soda bottle, doesn’t spin itself bitch.”

But we can’t be defined by our self-esteem strangled, fight adverse past selves forever. Which is why none of those pinko buds of yesteryear who attended Washington University 23 years ago, will ever come close to producing 111 comedy records in 11 months flat like a Speed Angel out of hell. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his Stay-At-Home Dad Years. And Quicker Dick Wins, comedy record 113, is coming up right up your juice box hole, Challah. Quicker dick wins, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Hate Speech Offense

by doitalldadyear, posted in comedy, entertainment, humor

Why did the audio have to cut out when Denzel and Tyler Perry were caught comforting Will Smith? Did Denzel say, “You try that shit with Spike at the Vanity Fair Oscars bash and I’ll jam your black privilege up your ass son, you dig. Just keep the black Medusa away from me. She’d scare P Diddy stiff with cucumbers on his eyes during a post Beverly Hills Hotel facial like Mila Kunis would with no makeup on.” How did Tyler Perry comfort Will Smith without having enough time for a Madea costume change backstage? To promote his latest and greatest film, “Bitch Slap Happy White”, starring Juan Howard.

And then Bradley Cooper trying to comfort Will Smith after Denzel and Tyler Perry failed isn’t too hilarious. “Will, if I could act like I achieved sustained stiffage from sucking face with Lady Gaga. You can pretend you’re not a black supremacist entertainer like the rest during the Oscars when you knew ahead of time you were going to win no matter what. Like the great Johnny Mac would say, “You cannot be serious.” Minnesota Congressional Rep Baby Face Omar Gonna Work It Out, can knock out Chris Rock with a Hijab headbutt to his Solar Plexus for Christ’s sake.”

Assuming the Will Smith slap was a staged one, it wasn’t a very convincing one. Jerry The King Lawler slapping Andy Kaufman over his chair on the Late Show With David Letterman it wasn’t. Apparently, all the brains in Hollywood died with Andy, Challah, Andy Kaufman lives, because he staged his death in the 1st place, you gullible pieces of shit, Challah. Thank you very much.

If the slap wasn’t staged, then why did Chris Rock look less fazed than when Sandler showed up to his wedding in his finest pair of Jam shorts?

The worst part about Will Smith cashing in on his black entertainer privilege while doing his best to distance and downplay his ties to the hip-hop gay mafia, is having to read in the NY Post about weird, weak, woke Howard Stern accusé others of mental health issues compared to fake news deep perm head, who treats catching COVID as a death sentence worse than back-end entry into the Dallas Buyer’s Club. The same weird, weak, woke Howard who never dared criticize the Thug Lives Matter Most protests, 2 billion dollars worth of damage later, or say anything remotely critical about the Russian collusion tales with less legs than Lieutenant Dan, out of fear of being disinvited from anymore 2 bite chicken parm dinners at Jimmy Kimmel’s house.

But hey, it’s all good, according to P Diddy after Chris Rock and Will Smith reconciled at the Vanity Fair Oscars bash, because “It’s all love”, like Will Ferrell ending his hundred-dollar million friendship with director producer writer star Adam Mckay because he casted John C. Reilly over him as Dr. Buss in Winning Time. Brilliant decision on Adam McKay’s behalf. Plus, he directed the Big Short, so Will Ferrell can go woke himself to. Out of character during interviews, Will Ferrell exudes the personality of a blah breathed Amy Schumer. Will Ferrell is somebody who deserves a bitch slap over forsaking his friendship with Adam McKay for a part on HBO, not the great Chris Rock, who Netflix can no longer afford to pay with just one rib. Regardless of Chris Rock losing anti-establishment cred after he shilled for Governor Cuomo as a clot shot pusher shamer like the rest, but nobody’s perfect. Or why else would any woman willingly bang Andrew, No I Won’t Jump Off My Own Bridge, Cuomo. He looks like The Thing and Mama Fratelli from the Goonies had a baby. Now, that’ an Oscar punchline worthy of the great Chris Rock, because Amy Schumer ain’t no moral compass of civility either. She thinks the group who voted for Hillary Hammer Time Cankles are the smart ones despite Huma Licker Breath failing to sell 64 million branded racists on why Baby Boomer Mom Knows best. But Amy Schumer still thinks Hillary lost to Trumpy Poo because of Russian collusion. That’s funny, I thought Hillary lost because she’s an unhuggable cunt, my bad. But it takes one to know one, right Amy? I guess Hillary deleted that memo to, Challah. Tony Clifton shits on, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Roasting Royals

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, humor, writing

There’s no way Prince Harry tried to kill himself. Scruffy Archie hasn’t shaved in years.

Did Oprah give Harry and Markle the idea they could be a power couple like Linda Hamilton and James Cameron minus the major box office muscle?

Did Oprah recommend they read Hillary’s latest and greatest memoir, Eat, Drink, Wheeze?

But seriously, what was the power couple pitch that Oprah made? “William is a dud like Russell Brand after undergoing an ego lobotomy during the remake of Arthur. You’ve served in Afghanistan and have bad boy cred. Your hot right now like E from Entourage after he started banging Sloan in season 3. You 2 want to break free from your Royal Family ties. Now, is the time to do it. Just promise you won’t kiss and tell after you get your freckles mushed off into the Royal carpet after Michelle Obama pegs your royal bum into middle earth China for shits and giggles after a game of Operation Gender Reassignment edition gets out of hand.”

Has Oprah condemned Harvey Weinstein’s wife for finally divorcing that fat pig after 14 years of marriage? So, she could focus more on her lifetime battle with Amnesia.

Imagine Thanksgiving at the Obama’s this year. Malia, you barely touched your Tofurky. So, I let you intern at Miramax one summer. At the time, Miramax looked good on your resume. Besides, Michelle was your chaperone, and that fat Jew couldn’t pin down Michelle if he tried. Just like there’s no way Kristaps Porzingis tried to rape a girl in his apartment building, the day he tore his ACL. As a whole, going strong to hole was never KP’s forte. Plus, would Harvey Weinstein, try to rape Gal Gadot in her half naked Wonder Woman outfit on only one good leg?

At what point, did Markle say to Oprah? “Fuck the Queen, we bring in major tourist’s dollars to Wimbledon. Nobody’s buying tickets to take in Pier’s Morgan’s bloated blotchy mug.”

At any point, does Oprah keep it real and tell the royal pain in the ass to know her role and go woke herself for pretending she’s anything more than Lisa Bonet without the rock star DNA implanted up her lowly rated IMBD ass?

“Look, Meghan, you have a nice rack, but you still look like a wannabe mulatto mean girl in Heathers. Just because you didn’t get blinded by Scruffy Archie’s pubes, you think your entitled to capitalize off the royal name and use your own line of high-end stationary called, Royel Sussex Royal? Why, not come out with your line of handmade cars and call them, Royal Sussex Royce? You unhuggable classless cunt, Princess Diana, you’re not. Elton John isn’t dedicating shit in your honor, despite you being broad shouldered enough to pass for a B -Tranny judge on set of Rupal’s Drag Race to Nottingham Non-Entity Land. Joan Rivers would’ve called you “Princess Cruises for Hitler Youth Gingers on Halloween” on Fashion Police before Kelly Osbourne teamed up with Trans Chucky and ruined the franchise Joan built forever. Sound familiar, freckle cunt? Joan lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Big Stinger Day

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, humor, writing

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Misery Lives

by doitalldadyear, posted in books, storytelling, writing

The unelected governor of New York looks like Delta Burke’s insane sister sentenced to the electric chair only to be brought back to life in a Stephen King novel for refusing to say amen at The Judds house over Christmas after Grace. Exorcist 2.0 wails, “Kid Rock isn’t my Rock and Roll Jesus. I’ll say, an Amen over THAT. Jesus only saves perfect cheekbones and mounds of tits for my big sis. I couldn’t even interview for a PA job on the Warners lot of Designing Woman. A Janitor chased me with a broom out the door, screaming, “No Loony Tunes allowed. You look like Sylvester’s cadaver in drag Pet Cemetery.”

Misery lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth