Tag: Chicago

Obama Leaks

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, politics, writing

Imagine any member of the black community getting a gag order today?


Jill Biden would still invite them to the White House.


And say.


Unload in my mouth.


Obama ordered you to leak it.


Obama Leaks, Challah.


Thank you very much.


Imagine Obama being arrested for anything.


What’s the charge, your honor?


You’re a Trump appointee, aren’t you, Judge?


Trump appointee judges are still considered controlled opposition, according to mongoloid commentators on the Gateway Pundit.


You don’t scare me is my point, Judge. Amy Barrett is Mia Farrow with better husband selection.
Judge says.


So, you listen to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast too?


That Michael Kornbluth is one half Heeb crazy Moffo.


Deplorable is anyone who’s glad Jussie Smollett took a shot is economical genius right there.


I can’t get enough of the kid, personally.


So back to you, Obama, Be Good.


You’re being arrested for writing off hot dogs and pizza for pool time entertainment at John Podesta’s house as a fundraising expense since you become the face behind the open borders, openly grooming, rape enablement party?


Get the fuck out of my face.


You look like Andy Dick in blackface after Aids.


I still can’t get the picture of former NSA head John Brennan sniffing your Birkenstocks after your bike ride together in Martha’s Vineyard caught on Anthony Weiner’s laptop when you weren’t looking.


I’m sending you to Gitmo; you’re our last domestic terrorist left; you traded them all to Iran for a carton of Camel Extra Wides, right?


You might get lucky if Hair Plugs Sniffer jails a terrorist again for Arafat appreciation month.
And go woke yourself; Thugs Lives Matters Most.


You ruined the country with your race-baiting bullshit in less than ten years flat like your she-he’s wife tits.
Brittney Griener feels busty in her presence, my chest.


Hey, Hussein, has anyone ever told you, you’re a Mallato drone version of W, but worse?


At least Ellen admits to being friends with W because she’s pro-Bush.


I only remember your thicker half, flapping it around on Ellen like she-he doesn’t care.


I’m good friends with Marv Albert; I understand the attractions to Trans gals in the sack.


But allowing kids to chop off their dick before it blooms under their fruit of looms seems a tad premature.


So, the charge you’re going to Gitmo for is enabling Genital Mutilation gone wild only to downplay your surging interest in taking it up the colo from Michelle on the regular since you were at Walter Payton’s club in Chicago on Sprinkler Blitz Back Night.


What’s my problem with genital mutilation gone wild, Obama Be Meh? Lou Reed Junior’s dick will still be missing at the China Club when he’s 17 pre-hackathon off, despite him feeling lust loinless arousement behind some fat ass Latina swallowing up his fake news cock whole, because the link to his boner directive youth is going baby gone.


Genital Mutilation gone wild.


Sharia Law lives, Challah.


Thank you very much.


Michael Kornbluth

All Metal Baby

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, fiction, humor

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

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 Tabitha Soren, 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 banger pretty 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. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

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 above all else, 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.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

In Leo We Trust

by doitalldadyear, posted in books, comedy, cooking

Trust is earned from sustained excellence such as Leo’s star powered acting performances in any Tarantino film without fail.   Trust makes the world go around. Trust went out the window after Liver Spots got sworn in as President of the United States without a peep from the Supreme Court the day after Democracy died.  But the Leo Scramble Supreme still reigns supreme and is trustworthy enough to entrust your happiness in him for better days and more hope filled tomorrows, pregnant with superior feel-good possibility. James Brown lives, holla, thank you very much.

Plus, making a LEO, consisting of Lox, Eggs and Onions will always remain an ideal anti-Semitic qualifier gift such as my Great American Jew Novel, knowing this divine blessed delectable breakfast, brunch or dinner worthy delight consists of pricy, cut up, overtly Jewy smoked salmon, caramelized onions and scrambled eggs from local Jewish Farmer legend behemoth, good old Stew Leonard in Connecticut, before the warm, sumptuous, funky fishy ingenious concoction get’s swirled into a bowl with a plop of Cream cheese, which melts easier in a hot bowl of eggs, adding a deeper svelte, thicker tasting dimension of deliciousness, which catapult your burst of feel good joy that much higher, Sly Stone lives, holla, thank you very much.

I hate to get political anymore since thé once boastful construct we the people offered less special value than Prince Harry’s bald spot on the open market or his feel for comedy after dressing up like a Nazi officer for Halloween to get back at mom for looking like an ugly version of E from Entourage, with far less a plus snatch to snag in London town compared to perpetually sunny, twice as smoking hot California girls. Megan Markle doesn’t count, and it’s not because she’s a biracial, royal pain in the ass, holla, thank you very much.

Now, if Prince Harry roasted himself dressed up like a Nazi officer for Halloween, I’d give hardcore Archie some funny man cred, regardless if Ricky Gervais wrote the material for him, who tires of Holocaust films because he’d rather bitch in his latest stand up comedy special about harsh online tweets about his movie career, which never got off the ground, reducing him to be in bed with the Obama’s and Netflix since HBO gave him a nice run while it lasted, now more concerned with unmasking Woody’s go to suck the thumb move, because it, “Calms Dylan down”, despite still showing all of his classic, hilarious films such as Broadway Danny Rose, which technically speaking, came out pre-Soon-Yi. But Louie can’t whip it out in his own dressing room after getting consent from fellow no name lesser female comics in the room without all of his standup comedy specials being taken down in a NY minute from HBO once the full court #meto career work retrospective cancelation began. Have they taken down the Rocky statue in Philly yet because it promotes white supremacy? But back to Ricky Gervais giving Price Harry some primo bashing Nazi material, to at least project the façade of being an ironic detached enjoyer viewer of Jewish humor, such as, “Who would Hitler kill first? A Jewish Albino or a balding ginger with a goatee? And how dumb is the swastika symbol. I don’t care that’s it Hindu, it still looks 2 stick figures doing a sixty-nine on a see saw.”

So back to the Leo Scramble Supreme, my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound Too Woo,.can’t enough of it. He’s 4 by the way. The kid can request for me to play Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi on Vinyl or in the car through Spotify, can ask daddy to reheat the rest of his Leo Scramble Supreme, yet still can’t go to bed without a nappy, without me dropping his saggy, drenched filled nappy down our stairwell the following morning, only to sing, with unmatched, father son bonding glee, “Big plopping”, Warrant Lives, they sang Big Talking, holla, thank you very much.

Again, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo no longer dumps in his pants and goes to the bathroom for a number 2 with big boy precision. At the same time, one night, as I got ready to read the Guinness Book Of World Records, wanting to kill myself soon after from learning how much money Kevin Hart made last, year, which doesn’t make me a hater, just a bemused, short on laughs spectator. I do love his energy, and don’t think he’s a bad actor, whose gotten better over time, whom I believe, should buy the film rights to convert an autobiography of Wilson Picket to snag him 1 Oscar more than Eddie, who doesn’t have the balls to do a stand up comedy special again for some dumb reason such as not wanting to be deemed a divisive comedian who dared to make fun of Michelle Obama’s new parody remake, playing Tina Turner, titled, “What’s Talent Got To Do With It.” And Wilson Picket sang my favorite lyric, “I found a true love, and I can shout about her, yeah, yeah”, a truer call to action that I give a shit about taking, not uttered on LinkedIn, as never been blasted with such soul man reverberating bravado, holla, thank you very much. Anyway, this meandering piece is what you get when I’m off Adderall and my mother is in town blaming the great state of Texas for having to burn fucking furniture while Liver Spots can’t be bothered to visit or have FEMA offer nothing more than air dropped leftover Spam reserves from World War 2 or some impossible to defrost packets of TANG leftover from our moon landing the sixties before we learned JFK told Frank to not invite Sammy Davis Junior to his inauguration, because becoming a Jew, was a double whammy against him, which he should’ve known would put his desirability factor in extreme Jeopardy with Nazi profiteering Joe Kennedy in control of his son’s balls as a whole, regardless of the war hero “Being the brightest star in the universe for a time”, according to his backstabbed friend, old blue eyes, who didn’t sing New York, New York, until his late 60’s during his more pleasantly content plump years.

Yeah, so back to my son Chosen Curls, I’m getting ready for reading time and about to throw some sweats on for the occasion because I don’t give a shit about looking like a Trophy Dad when mama isn’t home at 9 on a Tuesday and my 4-year-old son barks at me, “Spread your cheeks.” I said, “Where the hell did you learn the expression, “Spread your cheeks”? Are you watching old episodes of OZ on the HBO app when I’m banging out more all-star chapter additions to my collection of short stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories or what?”

So, the LEO Scramble Supreme is the bomb and couldn’t be easier to make, even Hunter Biden can handle making it with the hangover from hell, whose hell raising ways, makes my younger brother come off as a serial underachiever. And if a man is judged by the fruit he enables, and if Liver Spots is a real man of unifying integrity, why wouldn’t Mr. Unity tell his son to cut out creaming into his dead brother’s wife after his cremation ensued? The most amount of loving attention to the Leo Scramble Supreme is paid toward the caramelizing of the onions in butter under a low heat, but make sure to add some extra deepening caramelizing agent at the end, which could be simple as a drop of pristine NY tap water or from bottled Smart Water, which adds an extra spring step to your step, making you feel like Jennifer Aniston on the rebound. After you caramelize the onions, mix them into beat up egg batter mix, with chopped up pieces of smoked salmon before dropping them into a semi hot pan, bubbling with butter yumminess itching to be immersed with such delectable, pristine, bright orange, slivers of smoked salmon but don’t be too aggressive with swirling the eggs into mini circulation motions before they get cooked through enough, before reaching the point of rubbery sucky return. The last step is throwing the LEO Scramble Supreme into a bowl with a pre-plopped mound of cream cheese, which makes swirly stick together as one magic possible and like my son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, you’ll be made in the shade, made in the shade.

Michael Kornbluth

COVID The Clown

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, books, culture

Screw next year, today we send in the clown. I don’t care if we get fined or reported to child services, in case any of the adults in attendance are joyless rat bastards at heart, intent on alerting the authorities or Good Will Hoodie at Facebook about our socially distant resistant birthday party in honor of my 1st born, the always luminous, effortlessly sweet, way funnier than Blossom will ever be, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth. You only turn 10 once baby and her grandparents don’t even know about us raising her Jewish yet or her getting a Bat Mitzvah in 3 years through Zoom, so our new spying Chinese overlords can see what star powered personality is in motion, knowing Ivanka Trump’s daughter will mostly likely read her Haftorah portion in a monotone, colorless manner and do some boring speech in Mandarin about American exceptionalism losing its luster since her daddy allowed American Democracy to die on his watch. So here he is, without any further, drawn out, divisive introduction, COVID the Clown”, says Matilda’s former Investigative journalist father for the Chicago Tribune. Who just got canceled after his ban from Twitter for insisting the 2020 election was rigged and how the Chinese have resisted Wuhan lab investigations more than Aquafresh, forcing him to take a job as a moral compromised Bitcoin blogger, addressing nefarious claims of sketchy money laundering money, being the biggest backers behind the new digital hit currency titled, Show Me The Dark Money.

One of the grandparents in attendance, Rachel, a wrinkly, veiny, haggard looking, Jewish mother, from High Land Park, sporting a BLM baseball cap, born and raised in the handsome, affluent suburb off Lake Michigan, 40 minutes north of downtown Chicago interjects immediately and says, “I wasn’t told about there being any clowns at this party? Do you have proof that he was vaccinated? Did he just come back from Florida on Spring Break? Does he have a history of performing in black face? We just had one clown in the White House, why bludgeon us to death with another? A Stay-At-Home Dad there in place for his heart surgeon wife whose always on call, interjects and says, “Clown lives matter to bitch. All the comedy clubs are shut down indefinitely and SNL only has so many open slots to fill and Pete Davidson already has a monopoly on being the boy toy rebound king of Staten Island for Generation Z, who looks like Annie Liebowitz and Barney from the Simpsons had a baby. So please spare us with anymore of your BLM bullshit, proclaiming looting aint a thing a but a Gucci thing, because were all not overrated performers like Beyonce who sat out the national anthem for the Superbowl to protest Demi Lovato singing it, because she sounds like the white privileged version of Alabama Shakes.” The other adults in attendance struggle to restrain themselves from laughing long time. Matilda’s father, who introduced the COVID Clown earlier adds, “You’ll be pleased to know Rachel, COVID The Clown, only performs in orange face, so here we go. Let’s give a huge round of applause for COVID The Clown”, resulting a in fairly tepid measuring applause that follows.

COVID The Clown enters the room doing a half-formed Cartwheel to Everybody Needs Somebody To Love by the Blues Brothers, blasting on his old school Radio Raheem conjuring boom box from the Spike Lee joint, Do The Right Thing.  Matilda’s friend, nerdy yet sassy friend Devon, who suffers from premature, puberty disease, forcing her to wear heavy sweaters to conceal her awkwardly, mountainous formations underneath and says, “Who taught this clown how to a cartwheel? Is he drunk on discontinued Trump vodka or what?” COVID the Clown launches into his standup comedy act and says, “Who’s excited for a Burning Mask Party? All the kids cheer in unison with maximum glee. Rachel the BLM hat sporting Grandma interrupts a solid attempt at crowd work and says, “But you’re not even wearing a mask Bozo the Clown. Plus, you don’t annunciate to well in the 1st place. So why would wearing a mask be such a muffled disservice to your act in the 1st place?  I have a Doctorate in Speech Pathology from the University of Chicago and was kept on retainer by the Obama administration to instruct him on the best ways to help minimize his ums, ah’s and resurgent lisp off the teleprompter. Plus, I was instrumental in reversing President Obama’s awful habit of referring to his wife as Michael for some odd reason.” COVID Clown replies, “Maybe, Obama wishes the former 1st lady were more camera friendly like Mike or performed cooler under pressure after she threatened to break her arm up his ass ass if he offered Beyonce some Paul Newman’s lemonade over her own homemade Kombucha ever again.” Matilda’s father, howls with laughing approval as deathly silence engulfs everywhere else in the room, as the Stay-Home-Dad nearly bites off his lower lip in the process. COVID The Clown says, “Have you ever heard of divorce immunity during COVID? It’s a fake news to, doesn’t exist actually. I used to believe in divorce immunity during COVID, until my commercial agent dropped me after Twitter banned me for life for all those Wuhan lab cover up tweets. I also thought divorce immunity during COVID held out some applicable promise, after I got kicked out my Second City troupe, after killing on the main stage for 3 years straight since another cast member doxed my personal info the Chicago Tribune and had ANTIFA show up to door man apartment in the Loop after they shared my old tweet screenshots about Obama that said, “Fuck Trump, Obama’s the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized.  Mass extermination of all his pesty, hook nosed critics who criticized, his time out nuke deal with Iran would be a gas.” I’m banned from using Lyft and Uber now to because I went on the Gateway Pundit Podcast in attempt to sell some tickets for my one man show, Resist This, which isn’t happening now obviously and on air said, “Deplorable is anyone whose glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.” Rachel, the BLM hat sporting grandmother says, “I don’t think this material is child appropriate. If we were in the UK, you’d be arrested for flagrant violations of hate speech already.” COVID The Clown says, “I went to London against my will with my nurse wife before we got divorced and lost custody of my daughter, the brightest star in my universe. Wife got us tickets to see Bjork. I wanted to see Petrified Forest personally. Now, my choice is either entertain arrogant baby boomer grandparents on the kid birthday circuit as orange faced COVID The Clown or pack up my tricycle bag of clown noses and fly Southwest to Arizona to take a job as a Nurse Recruiter, next to parents’ estate in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my head between my legs, in search of my balls every dropping by for a surprise encore appearance again. Recruiting nurses for a living, based on their teamwork and ability to buy into synchronized Tic Toc dance routines for their Chinese spying masters is just what the doctor ordered.”

Matilda, the 10-year-old birthday girl chimes in and says, “I’m sorry to hear about your ex-wife COVID The Clown. And I think it’s really sweet, how you don’t want to move so far away from your little girl. But can you stick to the burning mask party material? Because my friends would rather play with my new American Girl tent set, then spend one more minute listening to your sad sack life story, with no comedic relief on the horizon in sight, no offense.” Rachel the BLM hat wearing grandmother adds, “I agree with Matilda. They’re already more people in this room than I feel comfortable with, knowing this birthday bash is a super-spreader bound to happen. Why don’t you just go home and call it a day? I’ll pay you whatever you were promised, just to stop you spreading such vicious lies and toxic disinformation about President Obama and Hollywood’s biggest overseas market today. COVID The Clown says, “I’ll give you a super spreader bitch”, and squeezes his flower lapel on his shirt which squirts a stream of Orange Crush into the BLM hat wearing, grandmother’s eye. Everyone in the room finally laughs together in unison. Matilda’s father says, “What’s wrong Rachel?  Would you feel more morally outraged if COVID The Clown shot grape soda into your eye instead? Because then you could’ve accused him of being a racist dictator clown, guilty of racially profiling your BLM hat, according to Trevor Noah. Ever notice how for 8 years when Obama was president, you never overheard anyone online at the Post Office, announce with sincere, palpable glee, “I love Obama.” Comedy Central Executives felt the same way when they decided to resign Trevor Noah for the foreseeable future.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Neverending Prick

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, books, entertainment


“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort”, asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a 50 something well dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like. The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment within the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights from Julio Silverbade, the 3rd, before his co-op eviction trial began.

The Manipulative Prick otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot, loved doing cocaine, mainly on the weekends though, when he wasn’t working. So what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine to. Last month, when the newlyweds received their 1st of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a 40-year-old phone sales rep Verizon says, “Relax babe, our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me, because his life sucks compared to mine, that’s all. Wife Kate, a 35-year-old, one time divorced pretty yet worn-down looking ER nurse says with weary disgust, “You’re a 40-year-old cokehead who sells smartphones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of a hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about exactly, your tar stains on your 2 front teeth? Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career secure?  You think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at 4am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody free snatch? Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor for a Jewish cokehead, your Hebrew name is under judicial review? Maybe, he’s jealous about you being a no-show Uncle, whose more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from 5 years ago today, than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on News Years Day, moron.”

Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor, who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day and says, “First off, I take incredible offense, being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.” Then, a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke to get him erect with aroused interest at all these days.”

The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money here.” This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it. Now, the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion, during your eviction notice hearing already. You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name automatic fuck up, or what?” Now, the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

Co-Op Board Member 2, a wrinkly, diminutive yet feisty, retired realtor chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other 50 plus and over tenets when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion free during your final eviction notice hearing? Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, drugged out loud when consequences for your got to have satisfaction up my nose, whenever I want behavior have never been greater.”

The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him, the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior in addition to the realtor’s wig and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone when my wife works the weekend shit, especially since COVID hit these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils, which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much actually.”

Now, a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling, through a fancy schmancy chandelier, while looking more like the worm giant from Dune as all the Co-Op Board members duck for cover under their judgement table, as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction. Co-Op Board Member number 2 squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face screams, “What the fuck is that? The Never-Ending Prick.

The End  

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, beauty, entertainment

Once upon a time there was a famous Jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more than Duke Ellington. Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra strength heroin one night, home alone, in his Queens apartment, in far Rockaway Beach, which would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience for a change and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his Jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window to.


Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes again, to make sure what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision on mind melding H, a so called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini tablet device of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell out the window into the frigid, February snow with absolute relished glee, to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing out his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before. Now, Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling and asks God in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my Jazz piano masterpiece? The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  And how dare this so called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks, I ever spent”, after his carefree son flings my Jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic, Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “Melancholy magic.”  

Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine, but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well guess what, you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me motherfucker. Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American Jazz songbook. So instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mother, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway like Cole Porter or those those fancy, schmancy Gershwin brothers for a change? At least, they dress nice and the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you got some brains cells left to use more wisely.”

Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door this time and bemoans, “Fight or flight Junky, what will your destiny be? I get it, you’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep, singing, “The Man I Love, whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  So, you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard, whoopty freaking do. I’m positive, you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter or get some sin on sin loving, behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room to.  Innovate or die a broke, boring Junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his Piano with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer on the spot. His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens alone and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone and says, “Jazz Rock is the new groove now Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you, when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative Jazz, or elevator music, on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in. Regardless, your sound, helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. Sorry about cutting out your work on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit Junky.”

Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing my new lease on life Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank, but boy could you play. And I am fucking Jazz. And Miles knows best, even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell, can see that.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Midwest Review Loves Me To

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, books, comedy

Slated to appear in the December 2020 issue of the Midwest Review.

The Great American Jew Novel

Michael Kornbluth

Independently Published

ASIN : B08H6MC9M8                      $20.00 Paper/$9.99 Kindle

The Great American Jew Novel will appeal to readers of Jewish fiction and humor and tells of a precocious nine-year-old who becomes her “Do it All Dad” father’s self-appointed talent agent to solve all his troubles, from a failing marriage to comedy career aspirations.

Bashert can’t fix everything, but what she gets her little hands on surely changes many situations in a hilarious romp through stay-at-home dad Joshua’s evolving life.

Michael Kornbluth produces a survey that is, in itself, a comedic satire of the Jewish personality and lifestyle. Joshua’s uncertain navigation of his world, his ongoing ambitions beyond family, and the many challenges he faces in the course of realizing his dreams fuel a lively observational study in Jewish psychology: “…on a baser level, Joshua became addicted to scoring laughs from rehearsed one liners or inspired riffs in the moment, synthesizing the scattered observations and punchlines of years past, because it made him feel like a less all over the place Jew. Feeling in control was important to Joshua. He’d been the only schmuck with a stutter who graduated from the top communication school at Ithaca College in 99.”

From encounters with a funny female rabbi to political correctness on trial, Kornbluth provides a series of evocative encounters. Readers should be prepared for intensely detailed descriptions that would border on run-on sentences, except for the fact that their underlying attraction lies in their very length and depth: “She was funny, and very personable, coming off like a flatter-chested, higher-IQ Judy Gold. He honestly couldn’t tell if she was a bush muncher or not. Still, he loved how she made the Saturday Synagogue services very upbeat, welcoming and business-casual without stripping the house of worship of the deep-rooted holiness preening through the flawless stained glass windows, without the original Super Jew, Jesus Christ, anywhere in sight. But what bothered Joshua about the Rabbi, was a conversation over some Challah noshes after the service, when he tried to gain a stronger grasp on why Jews got so tense when the mere name of Jesus was brought up in conversation, especially when Joshua would get into his Pescatarian schtick about how if a diet of fish and veggies was good enough for Jesus, the original Super Jew, it was good enough for him.”

Much of the lingo and cultural references make this story much more accessible to the Jewish reader already well familiar with this background than those who are not, or who have not been exposed to Jewish language and psychology in their daily lives.

These notes aside, The Great American Jew Novel excels in a hilarious New York exploration of the world of comedy and Jewish culture. It’s sometimes politically incorrect, racy, and ribald. This absorbing viewpoint of a father’s drive for bigger and better goals and added meaning in his world is highly recommended for Jewish readers who enjoy the cultural lure of satirical social examination.

Actually, Giving A Shit About Jay Cutler

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, books, comedy

Fuck Jay Cutler’s wife for divorcing him because he just wants to hang out with his 3 kids on their Tennessee Farm and enjoy the fruits of his labor. The man was freezing his balls off in Chicago forever, getting his head bashed in while the NFL settled out of court and cut Collin Kaepernick the largest unemployment check ever recorded. But your husband is no longer motivated enough for you, because he doesn’t want to do broadcasting for the NFL and do his best sad sack Troy Aikman impersonation.

Michael Kornbluth

 

Looting Ain’t A Thing

by doitalldadyear, posted in comedy, politics, travel

Rioting is negative language to depict widespread violence, looting and destruction along Chicago’s no longer so Magnificent Mile.  What expression would Maxine Waters prefer? Bring on the ruckus, it’s hammer time, resisting gentrification, looting Gucci ain’t a thang because it’s a reparations thing.

Michael Kornbluth