Ball Gag and Chain

Nike’s stock is dropping because of poor sales in China.

I remember Zit Face Zuckerberg running in a mask throughout the streets of Bejing pre-COVID regardless.

Although Lebron’s son, the fake news chosen one like Jesus, will break Jordan’s record for most wins and catapult its stock price to new Stock Market highs in no time.

Only to ring the bell at the New York Stock Exchange during George Floyd Appreciation Century, and proclaim loud and proud, “It’s gotta be the bat shoes, made in Wuhan, Wuhan. CCP forever, Brony Bon Bon, gets paid in Yuhan paper y’all. You can’t knock the COVID scam hustle. Big Pharma reps from Brentwood, got to get paid. We all can’t be good enough with numbers to sling rock or white enough like Steph to make a living off our wicked jump shot.”

Michael Kornbluth

Shirley Temple Life

Mom texts from her cross-country trip stop in Memphis with my dad.

“How is Samuel enjoying camp?”

I say, “He’s a happy camper. Funnier Dad, happier baby.”

Just like how John’s mother and my 2nd Grade teacher Mrs. Pariso would call me Elvis growing up. Samuel is getting hit on by older Italian woman at DeCicco’s all summer long. Last one said to Samuel. “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.”

And I say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative. I’m not sending him to junior high without a lawyer on his person at all times to hand out pre-poundage consent forms. I call him Chosen Curls was bound to woo for a reason. But instead of declaring bankruptcy, after spending our last rolls of Nickles on gas, I can always sell lockets of his hair for 5 grand a pop on Chinese Ebay. That’s a sustainable business model to keep us rocking in President Poopy Pants world.” Mighty Magic, Challah. Thank you very much.

My wife saw the Elvis movie, which made her walk away from the movie with a heightened appreciation of his sex appeal now. So now, whenever I want to get the wife in the mood for some lockjaw love on my pussy wrecker, rearranger, I’ll whip it out on our Time Life memorial Elvis plate and say, “Memphis Mafia lives. You want to hit that? Fine, pretend, I’m giving you communion Priscilla. Then, pick up your shit and your Fisher Price Farmhouse and have your mommy pick you up in 2 minutes and you got yourself a deal.”

I like to encourage my son’s fearlessness, so he isn’t controlled by fear and only takes up diving off the diving board at 43 years old like his old man. Mom says, “I don’t remember you diving ever.” I say, “That’s because I grew up in the era of Aids mom. So, I’ve never gone headfirst into anything without some initial, gun-shy trepidation. Plus, dad calling me a waste of height before I bloomed under my fruit of looms while being stuck in my head miserable and alone for being the last kid to get into puberty party didn’t help my manly metamorphosis into a high-flying Jimmy Snuka like Little Richard without his rollicking personality swinging in my favor just yet.”

So, my son’s favorite Bruce Lee movie scene is the fight with O’Hara, when he says, “Board, don’t hit back.” That is before Bruce Lee kills O’Hara with a jump kick on to his cranium, which he breaks in 2 like a Meghan Mccain sat on Watermelon, after an act of honor chucking, desperation on O’Hara’s part when he breaks a fairly sizeable beer to cut Bruce with, which causes the master to deliver the final kill shot kick in the head for the ages. As a result, my son, wanted to recreate the scene, and break the glass, only for Daddy to yell, “O’Hara”, which drug lord Han does to O’Hara after he breaks the beer bottle in a no more honor admonishing manner. So, whenever my son whips out his Schmeckel when my Nespresso is being made instead of doing planks with me as I wait, I yell, “Not kosher baby”, or “O’Hara”, pick up your pants Schmeckel Spot.”

I text my mother an O-Hara Lives Part 2 video, so she knows her grandson isn’t breaking his cherry here as he breaks a Shirley Temple Saranac bottle on a rock before yelling, “O’Hara. I laugh uncontrollably on the video and say, “Fast forward funny, O’Hara lives. Shirley Temple Knife, Challah. Thank you very much. But my son is pissed because he broke the entire bottle with only a tiny part of the top handle left in his striking hand. I urge him to say, “Thank you very much. ” Son says, “Thank you very much. This sucks and throws the tip of Shirley Temple bottle on the ground away in disgust.” Mom texts back, “Why are you sending me videos of my grandson breaking bottles on rocks while yelling O’Hara? “I text back, “O’Hara, New World Order, Klaus Schwab, Soros and Friends buying all the farmland and trailer parks on the cheap to turn us into Placenta Smoothie Nation. What difference does it make?” Shirly Temple Life, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Comedian Medium

Can too much goodness be a career impediment? My 5-Year-Old Son, Chosen Curl’s Was Bound to Woo thinks so. He says, “Daddy, your comedy records are too good like Punchout Poverty and Flipper Bird Baby. I say, “So you think Indy records labels I’ve shared links with like the one Kevin Hart owns are intimidated by my over-the-top towering genius 72 records later compared to their miniscule, pathetically weak punchline offerings in return?” Chosen Curls replies, “Your comedy records are too good moron, got it. Maybe, you should make them half good, half suck, so you don’t come across as completely full of yourself if it half sucks. Rocky didn’t win every round against Apollo, remember?”

For the 1st night of Hanukkah, I got my son some old school WWF wrestling action figures including Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Fuji and Superfly Jimmy Snuka yet what provided him the most joy was the Rocky 1 soundtrack on vinyl. The moment the needle hit wax, Chosen Curls otherwise as known as Faster Than Flash, Blood Sport Dragon and Hardcore Hunga Rocks began to perform a series of one-armed pushups on the floor because it will “make him tougher.” The way I allow him to hit me in the face when I box him on my knees on our Rocky rug downstairs with his Everlast gloves as a form of flinch freeing treatment, so I don’t remain pushover putzy no more, no more. Aerosmith Rocks lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Growing up, I didn’t back way from any fist fights, but I did refrain from hurling insults whenever they were thrown my way like accusations of me eating my own jiz at the Nurse’s office, after I admitted to touching myself in there prior like a mongoloid moron, which later inspired an opening scene in my TV Pilot pitched to VH1 Classic Heavy Metal High, when my imaginary guiding star Andrew Dice Clay appears in the Nurse’s Office after I become the last member of my class to get into the puberty party. A puff of smoke clears, Dice flashes the bedazzled Dice Rules Leather jacket and starts clapping, before saying, “Congratulations, you finally achieved blastoff jerkoff.” Dice adds, “Jerking off doesn’t make you a man. It’s how you use your balls that matters most in this world kid.”

It’s hard to feel that you’re being super ballsy recording non-stop comedy records at home for 6 months in a row. Still, my wife threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn’t get a real job already and dared to write any more books before I quadrupled down on my imagination on her dime and wrote 3 more including the Koshertarian Comedians, Sloppy Second Stories and Seriously Clowning. So I can’t claim I’m guilty of playing it safe either, especially after releasing comedy record titles such as Funny Enough Fagalah, far from straight, I’m not.

But what’s nagging my psyche today on the Comedian Medium podcast, dead writer ghost talk for you and me, is whether my excessive goodness is being used against me. I want to summon the ghost of William Blake to discuss concepts such as self-sacrifice in contrast to Ayn Rand’s ardent belief in only being able to achieve personal happiness and career fulfillment by not living out the expectations for the sake of others. Charles Bukowski says, “Writers are awful, selfish people, who save the best versions of themselves on the page.” Perhaps, I always viewed my writing as my idealized self, who’s funny, smart, brave, secure, energized, big hearted and borderline poetic as opposed to feeling like a floundering, touchy feely bitch in real life. I think most of my rage issues stem from allowing my brother, parents and old friends to ruin everything for me again and again. Why do they aggravate me so much? Because they’re not good enough, which explains why I seek love from strangers for a living through my books, blogs, comedy records and podcasts episodes involving dead writers who provide more varied company that I crave, who don’t pretend to be my biggest fan or loyalist supporter when they can’t acknowledge a new comedy record posting on LinkedIn to shake up the stagnant, gun-shy boredom in the straight world. How can I honestly claim any enviable connection to old friends, brother or parents, when not once have they asked how’s the comedy career going over the past 5 years since my lucky number 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born? Fuck their half ass insincerity, fuck their glaring indifference to the greatest funny man hot streak known to mankind. Fuck their belief in thinking I should be grateful for their sloppy second treatment at all. Fuck their safe, secure professions. Fuck their claims of good things happening to good people. Tell that to every family forced into bankruptcy after losing their jobs over forced mandates to prevent the common good from catching an ithcy esophagus. Fuck my brother for blaming his opioid pill addition on his wife and for my parents buying that bullshit narrative like Big Tech being nothing more than freedom of speech killing bastards. Fuck my friend who acts like he’s on my side because he’s tired of showing his VAX card to see the Knicks at MSG. Fuck any friend who started ignoring my being because I went into the funny man business on my own and used to support Trump on my old Do It All Dad Year Podcast for free. And fuck all woman who react with, “Ah”, anytime I write something, sweet and thoughtful in their honor via messaging boards for others to see. It makes me want to gag on a bag full of dicks for opening my beautiful heart soon after. I think my problem is that I’m too big hearted. How do I become less big hearted? Become a more enraged 1st responder whenever a friend takes his sweet ass time to reply with a “thanks bud”, after I text him Good Dad +Good Friend +Good Brother+ Good Husband + Good Jew=100 Percent proof Mensch. Are good people the most generous with their time pleasing others versus themselves? I’ll never forget my own mother throwing my younger brother under the bus in my honor once saying, “I wish you had a better brother.” And that was before he made Hunter Biden come off as slacker underachiever in comparison. I also don’t buy into this horseshit premise behind how were supposed to be content with old friends from our past reflecting our less sure, outmoded selves, when we outgrow their measured praise when we get older, especially, when they’ve shown no interest in your new and improved offspring whatsoever after writing the debut comedy hit book, Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, no less. At least, he writes really funny jokes. Go fuck yourself, I create a video with my daughter about your younger sister beating cancer and that’s the best you can do to pretend about actually giving a shit about me succeeding in this world with a family of 5 to provide for. It makes me sick to think I wasted any time caring about these friend’s opinions, when none of them haven taken any ballsy chances with their life whatsoever. And you’re going try to demean me and reduce me to some flailling desperate clown in need of your loving laughing approval after God came into my heart, blessing me with 3 Koshertarian comedian kids later as I proceed to plow forward with the greatest comedy record streak of all time, with comedy record 74, Too Much Goodness, coming out later tonight, yeah, you can go fuck yourself to. We weren’t that close to begin with. As usual, I romanticize all relationships way out of proportion and gave you blah brained fucks way too much benefit of the doubt. I’m the good life giver, not you asshole. Edgy energy star, you’re not. Over the top artist, not in your wildest dreams bud. So, let’s conjure William Blake already before I come across as too jaded bitter for Marc Maron’s taste before his podcast broke big. Yoh, William is anyone out there? What’s your favorite Door’s album? Did your pen pal Thomas Paine have enough common sense to wrap his tool before banging those busty broads in London town after Ben Franklin got 1st dibs on the house for inventing soothing bath salts for herpes? Woh, your ghost spirit looks mighty pissed off Blake, you’re redder in the face than other writer ghosts from podcast episodes past. I love your line, “Exuberance is beauty.” Because it makes my father look like an asshole whenever he tells me to calm down. Plus, my wife freaks out if we’re out in public at a bar due to my tendency to perform in front of crowds like any self-respecting slut in a strait jacket would.” Ghost of Willaim Blake screams, “Shut up already. You’re an unholy father, who doesn’t accept Jesus Christ as his lord and savior. Who wrote a blasphemous chapter called Jesus Killer Set in The Great American Jew Novel? Isn’t that correct?”

“I love being quoted by dead writer ghosts I admire almost as much as my son Chosen Curls quoting my comedy records like Pause Daddy, Challah, thank you very much. ”

Ghost of William Blake says, “How does The Great American Jew Novel sell more copies than my self-published book of poetry, Songs Of Innocence & of Experience? Granted, my book only sold 33 copies but still. I made the Doors. Jim Morrison doesn’t exist without me. You named your son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, whoopty freaking do.”

“You mean The Sun Butter King, AKA, Art Show USA, AKA Leapfrogger Lee. That’s my new nickname for Kosher Klaus Sushi since I saw him clear a pole stick held high by his instructor for his 1st Kung Fu class this week. I almost gave Arthur the middle name Brooks, in honor of comedian Albert Brooks but I didn’t want to give my son the permission to become a Jewish pussy. Yeah, so come up with a better book title that’s less schizophrenic than Songs of Innocence & Experience Blake and I’ll give a shit about your anemic books sales again. You’re not going to give Walt Whitman sustained stiffage with a horseshit title like is all I’m saying. Not that Leaves Of Grass, is anything to write home about either. Then again, neither of you were blessed with the funny Jew bone. And mine is more well-endowed by my maker than most, Challah, thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth