A Pagan Spirited Christmas

Growing up, I’d try to sell my Dad on allowing my mom to get a Christmas Tree and say,” Mom converted to Judaism to kick Jesus to the curb and marry into your putzy DNA dad. The least you can do is let her get a Christmas Tree already, bigger than the cobweb covered Bonsai tree relegated to the corner of our side patio last year Dad.” Dad says, “Jews don’t buy Christmas trees, unless the plan is to convert one into a Tree House and flip it for a profit.” Dad adds, “Son, when Christians look at a Christmas Tree, they see a Christmas Tree. When Jews look at a Christmas Tree, they see a camouflaged cross.”

One year for Christmas Eve, my wife had to work that evening, so we didn’t visit her folks for Christmas that year. So, I missed out on receiving the same set of black socks from my mother-in-law because the cost of postage cost more than the socks themselves. So much for postponing laundry for another week.

Another year for Christmas in Delaware, whose state slogan should be, “Your Nazi Gold Is Safe With Us, the only gift my daughter received from her Christian grandparents was a plastic, toy chest with no toys in it. I calmed my daughter and said, “Don’t worry Matilda, when we get back home to New York, will fill it with your eight thousand Hanukkah gifts.”

I wrote a short story for Hanukkah called Gimmel Be Good about the kid who invented the Dreidel game to distract the Romans from their banned Torah studies by making it a gambling game which used fake news gold Gelt. So, if a Roman Officer crashed your home to see if any forbidden circumcision was being performed to remove the future head buried into a floppy Sleeping Bag look, The Roman officer would think, “Oh, another degenerate Jew with a gambling problem, nothing to see here, play on.”

At Whole Foods, I got an Albert Einstein ornament decoration for our Christmas Tree, which I bought because it’s a solid anti-semitic qualifier. Especially, knowing, how Einstein played a huge role in building the Atom Bomb, not some Nazi tweaked on Crystal Meth, giving heil Hitler shout outs to a Swastika Flag, which looks like 2 gay stick figures giving each other a 69 on a Seesaw.

My wife got tense when I brought home the Albert Einstein ornament. She said, “Decorate your own tree.” I said, “I thought it was our in-house non-denominational tree. Because you bought a white Guido tree like the one Ray Liotta brings home for Karen in Goodfellas after he starts selling cocaine behind Paulie’s Back. So the tree you got doesn’t count as the traditional, Jesus loves you no matter what Christmas tree, even if your dad was the former head of Planned Parenthood like Bill Gate’s baby shower crashing Dad was. Wife says, “But the Christmas Tree is a pagan symbol.” I say, “But I’m trying to raise our kids in a Jewish household, not on the set of the Slayer video, Rain On More Blood.”  Plus, true believing Jews don’t bend over backwards to worship idols like Hiding Biden while giving God the stiff arm, talk to the hand treatment, or else the Maccabees would’ve never deliverthed the smackdown on the Syrians who tried to force my people to eat one too many ham and cheese sandwiches for our tastes. But Jews are the pushy, demanding ones, not the more inclusive, all loving Christians of yesteryear, and I’ll take the crusades 1 through 9 Alex.  Fine, I’m being a paranoid Jew, the Christmas Tree isn’t a camouflaged Cross, it’s just another pagan symbol rip off. So, let’s up the ante and I’ll pile all my Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath records to the ceiling and call it a tree, in the spirit of stacking pagan symbols on top of each other. I’ll even drape the bottom of my dark metal tree with a Ouija board signed by Jimmy Page from Ebay, as a combined big kahuna Hanukkah gift for all 3 kids, in case our little ones get burnt out on playing dreidel to Adam Sandler’s Chanukah song on Vinyl, one too many times, even with the new added verse, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.”

Michael Kornbluth  

In & Out Of God

I’m reading my rave review for The Great American Jew Novel to my father from the Midwest Book Review, proving how the book wasn’t too overtly Jewy for the American heartland’s tastes. Soon after, my dad blurts out, “Always knew you can do it.” Just kidding, instead he blurts out, “Eating Kosher outside the home to is very extreme. You’ll never be Orthodox Jewish, you know.” I say, “Because I’m a fancy Faggallah, who owns more pairs of designer sneakers than I’m comfortable admitting. But I bought all of them at the Nordstrom Rack in White Plains, NY, so that must earn me some humble man props within the hardcore Chabad houses in Crown Heights, don’t you think so pops? Pre-Covid, I also never have sex with my wife on the rag, nor got up for mere plowing of her box for Torah commanded business sake every Friday night, after sundown for Shabbat, so I share that much more in common with the hardcore Hasidic, Orthodox Jews than you think Dad. Actually, I identify more with the Hasidic woman homemakers than Orthodox Jews who break down the Talmud every day, arguing for why Madonna’s blown-up camel toe is largely a result of Dennis Rodman occupying her ever expanding territory longer than most.”  

Understand, I’m in Scottsdale, Arizona over Christmas Break and famished, yet pretty burnt out on Fish Fillet’s from McDonald’s and I wasn’t feeling a fried fish burrito from Mexican fast food chain Rubio’s just yet. I already done my research on Yelp and found a couple of Kosher haunts nearby I hadn’t tired yet. One place turned out to be a purely vegetarian haunt, which I should’ve realized this from the parking lot, as I spotted an anemic, Zoe Kravitz clone on the outside patio, sucking down another American Spirit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then, I track down a Kosher food truck, which was closed, next to a Jewish community center in Scottsdale, Arizona yet I felt like another wandering, starved, direction challenged Jew lost in the desert again, without any imminent relief for hunger pangs in sight. Then, I thought, In and Out is close by. I’ll write off breaking my extreme commitment to upholding the Koshterian Diet because I’m writing a book on the subject, and everybody breaks their diet at some point, right? I don’t want to come across as an all-knowing exalted, funny man Jew, who isn’t a slave to his inhalatory, animalistic leanings from time to time. So, I wait on the line at In and Out off of Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard and think, “This MILF is so hot. I don’t care if she has 6 million kids. I’d like to inhale her animal style on the spot.” Then, my double, double, cheeseburger, animal style arrives, and I decide tear into it, with zero reservation like the 1st time Jared Kushner went down on Ivanka because his rose water infused lunch didn’t fill him up less than he anticipated. I didn’t enjoyed one nosh of it. The Ivanka Trump of cheeseburger, cheeseburger, it wasn’t. Afterwards, as I receive a Hannukah pedicure away from my 3 kids back east in splendid isolation, I thought, “Are you in and out of God, or what?”

Later, during my trip, my father issued an ultimatum, declaring, by my parents beautifully tilled, well-earned Arizona Estate home while I became at one with the pool and God’s beautiful, imbibed universe, by emphatically stating, “I can make a better burger than In and Out.” So, I put my father to the test, took a pleasant schlep to East Phoenix to a place called the Imperial Kosher Market to pick up some premium ground Kosher meat in the hopes of my dad not burning out the inherent laden flavor again and succeed he did, despite the Imperial Kosher market looking more run down disheveled than Matthew Perry on the set of Celebrity Rehab.  I roasted some diced up cherry tomatoes, hand bathed in cold press, Virgin Olive oil, fresh ground pepper, Kosher salt and chopped Mexican oregano from my mother’s Cactus rich garden to throw on top of the bomb burger, which insulated the burger with a rich shield, of sweet sultriness, which drowned out any glaring, dark black char marks on these heaven-sent burgers, enjoyed inside after watching the sunset over the beautiful desert bloom sun. I also saluted some baby bella mushrooms, some sweet Vidalia onions with a sherry wine finish, which took this in and out of God lead family burger creation so much higher, making feel more than alright, in my parent’s home sweet, Kosher virtual home.

Michael Kornbluth

Deconstructing Shishy Bitch Tuna Melts

Tuna Melts don’t have to taste like Woody Allen in Junior High. After Woody sucked face with the Chicken of the Sea can, to see what going down on a cat lady on the Upper West Side tasted like, before he scored his TV writing break on the Show of Shows with Sid Caesar and could afford to acquire the taste of Pinkalicious Ahi Tuna Sashimi.

Good tuna doesn’t stink. Of course the Italian canned kind tastes so much more, sultry better. Good tuna doesn’t stink because it’s not your mom’s lazy day lunch.  And what’s better than bomb spicy tuna rolls? You don’t even give a shit that the spicy tuna roll is derided as Americanized Sushi one bit either. My ex-girlfriend from Westwood, CA took me to a family haunt Sushi place on Pico Blvd, which was managed by a Sushi Chef who always played Bob Marely and his spicy Tuna Rolls were high art like the Songs Of Freedom boxset for Bob Marley, it has acoustic medley on it, which is impossible to find anywhere else, and the accompanying, shim shaggy, Hurting Inside makes feel like I’m 21 again, it was a better than average year.

I also melted my daughter’s heart with my Tuna Melt Love Supreme for lunch today. She didn’t smell anything funky like when she asks, “Daddy, why does it smell funny downstairs?” Daughter adds, “Where did you go? You felt gone for an exceptionally long time this time around.”  Understand, this wasn’t my 1st Tuna Melt melding creation done good.  I hated the smell of my mom’s Bumble Bee tuna growing up. It’s like the woman has literally been pushing me toward homosexuality ever since I popped out of hêr womb. When I used to live in Sherman Oaks, CA, I got a freaking panini grill at the Grove in West Hollywood, best movie theatre there ever, saw Kill Bill there once and the entire audience started clapping in unified awe once the credits started rolling, in LA woman loving unison as the surging sparks of homage toward Gen X’s most prominent writer director auteur propelled the love beam wave to keep on rising, rising.

So, I got this cookbook at Barnes and Noble at the Grove also from famed cook Nancy Silverton who owns La Brea bakery, which I used their baguettes for bomb Boarshead roast beef made cheesesteaks with chopped, sautéed onions and green peppers to, white American cheese always being the best. In Nancy Silverton’s book, she has a recipe for the shishy bitch Tuna Melts of all Tuna Melts, which uses sushi grade, Ahi Tuna poached in olive oil and bunch of fancy dried herbs, with a homemade Remoulade, a mayo, pickle juice, spiced up New Orleans on my mind concoction and English cheddar, which I hate to admit is more musky chesty, than the strongest Vermont cheddar has to offer.  

Today, I’m not splurging or schlepping to Stew Leonard’s for Ahi Tuna, when the future of our republic will be sealed by hump day this week. So, I made a tuna melt with the previously professed into Italian tinned kind, with sweet, dice up nice red peppers, also sautéed with peeled shavings of garlic, red onion, fresh shredded shards of carrots, topped off with semi-thick slice offs of crunchy green Jalapeno and melted Vermont Cabot Seriously Sharp Cheddar, with some homemade Remoulade thrown into the mix to keep the Tuna spreadage moist in the middle, on top of diced, roasted, fresh juice essence spewing cherry tomatoes with some  olive oiled bathed sliced up nice Avocado on top. Yeah, my daughter better fucking love my Tuna Melt Supreme. It’s like saying, alright, to seeing, Dice at MSG ever.  I forgot, butter fried up Rye bread or Peasant Bread, humble sounding sourdough, takes this Tuna Melt Supreme so much higher, into electric shishy bitch, Jewish soul land.

Shishy bitch Tuna Melts can be the eliminator of a lonely heart because Tuna out of a can doesn’t have to be depressing, or another ho hum album addition to your Lonely Tuna Heart’s Band. I melted my daughter’s apprehensive heart from taking the deep dive into Tuna Melt land and you can to.

Michael Kornbluth

The Sun Butter King

                                                  

North Dakota was only state in the country which enjoyed full employment and Do It All Dad wanted in. North Dakota was also the least visited state in the nation yet Do It All Dad was used to seeing his parents only twice a year and also accustomed to not seeing any of his former friends since his 3 fuss free children were born, failing the friendship litmus test every time. So, the isolating nature of North Dakota didn’t bother him one bit, especially knowing how much Do It All Dad hated to navigate around lost in time, tourist hicks in Times Square pre-Covid, on his way to work when he used take the subway there for his IT Recruiter job in Midtown East for a living.  But the majority of the jobs in North Dakota were within the farming and energy industry, which Do It All Dad had no experience with whatsoever. Granted, his mom grew up in Kentucky and had an Uncle Jim who owned a farm, who even wore overalls to his Grandpa’s funeral, because that’s how he rolled. And Do It All Dad would have a bit in his old act about how Kentucky gal Ashley Judd wasn’t an actual victim of rape. He’s say, “Ooh, she refused to watch Harvey Weinstein shower himself down at his 5-star suite in the Four Season. At the same time, Ashley Judd had plenty of experience judging fat pigs at the County Fair.” Still, Do It All Dad wasn’t expecting to be working headliner comedian at the non-existent comedy clubs in downtown Fargo, North Dakota. Microsoft had 100,000 employees based in North Dakota yet Do It All Dad was no fan of Bill Gates’s Dad being the head of Planned Parenthood either, whose founder was intent on carrying out Hitler’s eugenics solution, one fetus flicker, mostly of color at a time. North Dakota was also voted the least female friendly environment because it had less abortion clinics than Oxygen bars for the Persian Iranians to act urban sheik smug in, like tanner, humorless Whitney Cumming clones in those Hollywood Hills, who were too uptight for Do It All Dad’s tastes, whose blah brained personalities offered him nil.

Do It All Dad had an old Headhunter boss in Manhattan Beach, CA who drilled into his cranium the do or die mantra, “innovate or die.” Innovate he must, because Do It All Dad had to invent a new job title besides Stay At Home Comedian. Do It All Dad just wanted to write more books from home and cook more yummy dance meals for his family but needed a paying job of some sort to finance finishing his next book in progress The Koshertarian Diet, so his wife wouldn’t bust his balls about it.  Do It All Dad was also working on a new short story book collection, Waste Of Height, which forced him to be tad less political and overtly sexual in his writing for a change. Still, as famous English novelist Virginia Woolfe once said, “A woman must have a room of her own and money to write fiction.” Now, Do It All Dad being a stay at home she male rocker mom of sorts, could identify with this stone cold sober truism, even more than being a shishy bitch who would get dressed up on Shabbat Friday nights to stay in with his 3 kids while his wife went back to work at the hospital in the NICU to check on the vital signs of blue faced babies, which made Do It All Dad feel like an insufferable narcissist at times, because all he checked for was for retweets, before he got banned from Twitter calling Governor Cuomo, the Blanch killing, cold blooded, Italian Reptilian inside.

Now, Do It All Dad couldn’t even justify his IPA intake after a Peloton ride anymore, because his family was barely affording the monthly payments on their mortgage and nothing had changed too much since he started chasing down open mikes throughout Southern California 15 years ago, after getting the laugh chaser bug, which no amount of widespread bombing or martial bliss disintegration or threat of complete financial ruin could cure. Also, Do It All Dad’s office, was in his bedroom, which a recent jilted audiobook reviewer, derided as “Tiny and cramped”, based on the lack of reverberating echo in his Chapter reading for “The Last Temptation of Adderall”, I assume.  Also, Do It All Dad had given up hope on securing a lit agent to take a chance on an eccentric Jewish comedian satirist, reinvented literary novelist, who used his books for extra long stand up comedy monologues, he couldn’t afford to do during open mikes throughout Manhattan, because he couldn’t justify the 40 dollar Metronorth train fare to wail with his arms on stage for the pleasure of trying to entertain the 2 millennial mousketeers in the audience with such a jade free, joyous, giving heart anymore. Now, Do It All Dad didn’t desperately seek strangers funny many approval as much on stage, since he launched his successful podcast and blog 3 years ago, which for him was the greatest open mike on earth. But it pained Do It All Dad to still not be in a position, to buy his son, Art Show USA the GI Joe, SS Flagg, Aircraft Carrier for his son’s 7th birthday, snowboard lessons, a vintage pair of Freezie Freakies on eBay with the Thundercat’s on it, anything but more copies of his impossible to find books on Amazon.  Reality is, Art Show USA provided book cover color consultation on all 4 of Do It All Dad’s books so far and he adored his Do It All Dad book’s so much, he took a screensaver picture for his remote learning school issued computer, holding all 4 of his his dear dada’s books, exuding a beamish prideful through association inside and out. 7 years on this earth after Art Show USA was born, almost a decade, and Do It All Dad needed to fight harder than ever to keep his elusive dreams of comedic literary superstardom alive. Do It All Dad’s son loved his Dad’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast to and didn’t want his dad to perform more sheets of comedy gold on it without having to worry about mom threatening to kick him out the house again because of his lack of money generating power.

So, Do It All Dad got an idea while making lunch for his son one day, The Sun Butter Challenge. What if Do It All Dad went into business with his gorgeous son who could smile on cue without breaking into hives in the process and daddy became his Agent, booking him as the new face for Sun Butter Gold foods, located in Sunflower country, Bismarck, North Dakota, which could lead to Do It All Dad snagging enough loot sack to buy his family the Porsche Comedy Gold Mobile, a new lake house summer home in Lake George, NY for his son’s GJ Joe SS Flagg and enough money to fiancé writing more books without ever having to bite his tongue while being offered a career consultation email from LinkedIn, considering the gaps of wrath of his corporate America resume ever again. Do It All Dad’s son, Art Show USA possessed the sunbeam smile, few other kids could match with such star powered gleaming light. So if Do It All Dad couldn’t get a job interview for a junior copywriter position at let’s say Sun Gold Foods in Bismarck, North Dakota, which boasts full employment to the point, where they could use some extra creative firepower, knowing it’s also the least visited state in the grand old USA, then Do It All Dad could create a job for himself as his son’s personal manager, calling himself on LinkedIn the Sun Gold Hunter, so he can finally capitalize in a big time cashing in way off all of his new business development, cold calling centric, IT headhunter background in both in LA and Manhattan, where he slaved weekends away when he wasn’t trying to write new scripts or jokes, researching new IT Directors or Chief Marketing Officers to cold call the following week, again and again.

Do It All Dad was old school and had no problem cold calling men and woman in powers of authority who controlled staffing budgets in a NY Minute. Plus, Do It All Dad took perverse pleasure working around HR humpbacks, which as a whole were major business to business cock blockers, who ruined the love connection potential between a hurting hiring manager and staffing solution specialist Headhunter to the rescue like Do IT All Dad fashioned himself to be in this instance.  Do It All Dad also learned from his headhunting days, how passion is always picked up over the phone, so he’d have no problem conveying the head of Sun Butter Gold products in Bismarck, North Dakota, what a gross disservice to mankind, they’d be doing for refraining from making his American made beautiful boy, Art Show USA, the permanent franchise face of Sun Gold Food products, which would double annual sales from 4 million to 8 million in the first week alone, guaranteed.

Now, Do It All Dad is pitching his son as the new face for Sun Butter with the Chief Marketing Officer through Zoom. Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer looks confused. Do It All Dad says, “You look confused Cheryl. I want my son to star in The Sun Butter Challenge campaign across America, similar to what they did with the Pepsi Challenge back in the day, when kids had stronger immunities to bullying, Kurt Cobain excluded. He longed to retreat into his pre-fame bubble without having to rummage through his Grandma’s closet for another ugly, lime sweater to wear at the MTV Music Awards, I get it.” Cheryl, the CMO for Sun Butter Gold products says, “So, where’s Art Show USA? How do you expect me to hire you 2 as a packaged deal to do the creative and performing in these Sun Butter Challenges campaigns, without me seeing, the sun butter smile to light up a thousand suns? The same smile which will double our sales in a year, according to your fuzzy Math estimates, knowing you still have to count with your fingers for simple arthmitic, which I read in one of your blog posts, in case you think we just ignored the totality of your digital fingerprint on the Internet all together, because your son is the star smile attraction, we’re really after.”

Do It All Dad says, “Art Show, come in Dada’s office for a minute. “Art Show says, “You mean you’re bedroom Dada? Do It All Dad says, “Thanks for reminding me and for destroying what little sales leverage I have left without you flashing your smile through Zoom for the Sun King Maker to see.” Art Show hops on his dear Dada’s lap, and smiles. “Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer says, “Wow, you’re Dada isn’t another full of shit New Yorker after all. Are you ready to be a star kiddo?” Art Show USA says, “Just give my Dada 10 percent of everything I make for a finder’s fee and give him final cut approval on all commercials and print campaigns starring my Sun Butter Smile and you got yourself a deal.” Can I go back to building my Harry Potter, Astronomy Tower now? Dada starts singing with jubilant heart, “Sun Butter King’s stock is rising, rising.” Next Do It All Dad adds, ” King Arthur, my kid eclipses his star power limited to Disney fable books, nobody reads anymore, oh, I can’t take no more.” Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, says, “Would you mind if we put Sunflowers in your son’s hair, the LBGT community will lick it up, lick it up, oh, oh, oh! What, you think you’re the only Kiss fan who resents how Nirvana’s Nevermind was the death blow shot heard around the world that killed off carefree Hair Metal Pop rock forever.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Trading Birthdays

Nobody wants to be born on January  3. At that point, everybody is either partied out or enacting New Year’s resolutions already. Honestly, by day 3 of partying in a row, whether you’re just drinking, or doing drugs, combining the 2, or you’re just dancing the days away at a 5-week rave Germany, based on pure adrenaline and highly charged sexualized vibes alone, you’re still dragging like Hunter Biden on any given Monday afterwards. If God gave you the universe, you morphed into Art Show USA, who was born on New Year’s Day, inspiring his dear Dada to call him Number 1 Capricorn. His dear Dada didn’t nickname him Number 1 Capricorn to make him an insufferable, know it all twat bore, but to praise the almighty, the most-high, Hashem, for perfecting human civilization with his beautiful boy, who he blessed with out of this world good looks, hilarious acting chops and a beautiful builder artist mind, ripe with unlimited imaginative topping possibility. I’m also positive Art Show USA would make a great looking brother like Rick Fox if he used the black face filter through Instagram to.  Every day, Art Show USA’s best friend Shawn Wayans-Stein resented his existence half the time, because he was born on January 3rd and had less birthday rocker gathering memories than the Elephant Man had bottles thrown at his head for trying to crash games of Spin The Bottle after his black-tie makeover one 2 many times.

One day, Art Show USA was having lunch with Shawn at school and he says, “Why don’t we trade birthdays Shawn.”  I was born on New Year’s Day, as you know, which everyone treats like their own personal birthday celebration, so everyone is in a perpetual state of good cheer, until they strike out at midnight in their desperate dash to suck face with the nearest available girl to love. So, you don’t feel like a loser benchwarmer scrub in Junior High again. When you’re born on New Year’s Day, everyone is out of the house to celebrate their unique brand of specialness with their planned lifetime’s partners in love, whether it’s not done of out of begrudging spite or not. The point is even if you’re  stuck home alone on New Year’s Eve, have zero friends to party with, parents who don’t reserve much bonding time with you ever, unless they feel stranded and a pronounced pang of empty loneliness when they retire to Arizona in their more advanced, retired, CNN consuming years amid so called Pandemic scares, where fewer people died this year than last, you can still make out with your blown up balloons with pretty drawn on faces, and not feel completely deflated for making out with a poor man’s blow up doll because deep down, you know you’re not the only one making an extra effort to reward yourself with some extra good loving on New Year’s Eve or not.” You’re my best friend and I love celebrating your birthday on January 3 with just you, like the one year we went Duck Pinning and had the entire place to ourselves, or the time we had an entire Laser Tag room to ourselves, or the time we snuck into weird, weak Howard Stern’s floor seats to see the Knicks, because he was still debloating at home from eating one too many Turkey Burger salads at Jimmy Kimmel’s house for New Years. Still, it feels cooler to be in Manhattan on your birthday, than in an abandoned duck pin bowling alley in Danbury, CT, that looks more dated than the low rent, white out paint job on the walls. Shawn says, “I appreciate the gesture Art Show. I’ve thought about what it would feel like to have myself celebrated on New Year’s Eve instead of on January 3, which gives sloppy thirds a bad name. And you’re a good friend for offering to trade birthdays for the year. Now, I know why you spent all the time watching those graphic design tutorials on YouTube to make me a fake ID, reflecting my New Year’s day birthday, just so I can hear a bouncer at some swanky club in the city, look at my ID and say, “Oh snap, happy birthday New Year’s boy. Don’t forget to pace yourself. I’d postpone New Year’s resolutions till January 2, because you’re not sleeping tonight.”

Art Show says, “I did to make you a fake ID for your birthday. I know you don’t drink alcohol like me, but I wanted to give you the feeling of being a number 1 Capricorn for a change.” Shawn says, “Again, I appreciate the gesture Art Show, but I actually prefer the celebrities born on January 3. Eli Manning was born on January 3rd and he’s much bigger pimp than Tom Brady. He’s NFL royalty before we became a woke plagued universe gone wild. Plus, Eli beat Brady in the Super Bowl and prevented his perfect season from happening due to him asserting his big-time clutch gene. So, Brady is married to Gisele, big deal. She’s like 80 in model years. Robert Loggia from Scarface was born on my birthday, who plays Tony’s Jewish mobster boss for a bit who drops the hilarious line, “Never underestimate the other guy’s greed.” Art Show says, “I hear you Shawn. JD Salinger was born on New Year’s Day like me, and he became a reclusive freak who spent 4 decades in the New Hampshire wilderness, writing books for himself like a tweaked Holden Caulfield, on an endless trust fund funded retreat, with all his time-release Adderall delivered to his doorstep by his various pharmacist groupie fanatics at large. So how much did he relish the company of others on New Year’s Eve? Which I never really thought about until now.  J. Edgar Hoover was a glamorized peeping tom, also born on my birthday, New Year’s Day. It’s not as if Mini Me born on New Year’s Day who died prematurely in his forties could boast a sustainable, long lasting career with legs after Austin Powers 3. “

Shawn says, “But we can’t let your killer fake ID go to waste Art Show. I read about a Beastie Boys cover rap trio group performing at some dive bar on the Lower East side on New Year’s Eve, this year. Why don’t we go there together and get our bodies moving to some Intergalactic Planetary? Will have to fight for room to dance because of the ban on smart phone devices to make old-school hip hop city life great again.” Art Show says, “Didn’t you say the name of this gastro pub on the lower East Side was called Hip Hops? Shawn says, “You got it Art Show. With a friend like you in my corner, I’ll always have a bigger hop to my step than the rest.”

Michael Kornbluth

4 Jews Enter A Greek Temple

Gimmel, a high school wrestling star for Jerusalem High, turned professional Bookie for the Maccabees stands in prayer, lip synching some horse-shit prayer in honor of some half horse, half man freak Centaur, who also happens to be hung like an Arabian. Shin, the local tailor, adjusts his fancy schmancy Tallis like a stressed-out Rodney bombing with new material at Dangerfield’s and says, “Gimmel, have you ever been Hellenized? Because you know I have. How else do you explain my fear of getting electrocuted to death since Zeus jammed a thunderbolt up my wife’s snatch because she called the Goddess of Wisdom Athena, fake news deep compared to the Lord, our God, not the God of Loud Rain.” Gimmel elbows Shin in stomach and says, “Stop making me laugh Shin, you’ll arouse the wrath of Gelos, the personification of laughter, because despite his Greek God status, he isn’t endowed with the funny Jew bone to bang out room shaking laughter with either. Nun, a Kosher winemaker enters the Greek Temple after wining and dining a Greek senator who threatened to take over his family winery if he didn’t erect a marble sculpture fountain of Dionysus, connected to underground barrels of pricy Cabernet Sauvignon, which spill out of his golden chalice cup every other 2 seconds. Nun spots his friends Shin and Gimmel whispering to each other, lip synching up close near the holy side of the Greek Temple where the Golden Menorah used to light up the 2nd Temple before Antiochus took over after Alexander The Great died and turned the Second Temple into a headshop for Greek Gods, where they now sell bundles of Incense Sticks for 5 shekels and a gram of Hashish. What a country, Judea had become.

Nun lines up next to friends, Shin and Gimmel, engaging in fake news Greek God prayer and whispers to his old school Jerusalem High wrestling buds, “What are you 2 doing here again? You’ll get crucified if the Greek priests overhear you kvetching about you having zero interest in worshiping Pan the Goat Boy during the never-ending 2nd Temple period. But you have to bitch because we already paid our synagogue dues before King Antiochus turned our JCC gymnasium into a members only gay bathhouse for Greek senators to bask in endless leisure, admiring each other’s flappy rounds of mound. ”

Hey, the Kosher Dairy Farmer, enters the Greek Temple with a Chalef knife, whose incredibly sharp edge ensures a painless, Torah commanded, gentle as can be death for cows later converted into Brisket stew. The Negev Desert sun glares through the newly refurbished stain glass window designs of nymphs playing tug of war with Hercules cock.  But this blast of holy powered light nearly blinds the Greek Priest leading the service as the Negev desert light bounces off Hey’s Chalef butcher knife and refracts into his Greek God loving eyes. Which I’m sure reminds the Greek Priest of the time he wanted to poke his eyes out after getting black out drunk from a 3-day Theatre Festival in Athens, only to wake up next to Medusa’s sister, who rapes drunk, Greek Priests at will because in her presence, black out drunk or not, you become automatically frozen stiff.  As the Greek Priest rubs his eyes in extreme agony, Hey, The Kosher Dairy Farmer, with his Chalef knife held high in the air, yells, “Maccabees rule. We’re the chosen people for a reason bitches.”

8 days later, the magnificent band of Maccabee warrior brothers reclaimed the Greek Temple and turned into the grand 2nd Temple of old, without barely breaking a sweat, because the Lord was on their side. I bet you 8 million Shekels Hermes ran for the hills away from Zion, as fast as he could, refusing to give Zeus that message. Happy Hanukkah!

Michael Kornbluth

4 Jews Enter A Greek Temple

Gimmel, a high school wrestling star for Jerusalem High, turned professional Bookie for the Maccabees stands in prayer, lip synching some horse-shit prayer in honor of some half horse, half man freak Centaur, who also happens to be hung like an Arabian. Shin, the local tailor, adjusts his fancy schmancy Tallis like a stressed-out Rodney bombing with new material at Dangerfield’s and says, “Gimmel, have you ever been Hellenized? Because you know I have. How else do you explain my fear of getting electrocuted to death since Zeus jammed a thunderbolt up my wife’s snatch because she called the Goddess of Wisdom Athena, fake news deep compared to the Lord, our God, not the God of Loud Rain.” Gimmel elbows Shin in stomach and says, “Stop making me laugh Shin, you’ll arouse the wrath of Gelos, the personification of laughter, because despite his Greek God status, he isn’t endowed with the funny Jew bone to bang out room shaking laughter with either. Nun, a Kosher winemaker enters the Greek Temple after wining and dining a Greek senator who threatened to take over his family winery if he didn’t erect a marble sculpture fountain of Dionysus, connected to underground barrels of pricy Cabernet Sauvignon, which spill out of his golden chalice cup every other 2 seconds. Nun spots his friends Shin and Gimmel whispering to each other, lip synching up close near the holy side of the Greek Temple where the Golden Menorah used to light up the 2nd Temple before Antiochus took over after Alexander The Great died and turned the Second Temple into a headshop for Greek Gods, where they now sell bundles of Incense Sticks for 5 shekels and a gram of Hashish. What a country, Judea had become.

Nun lines up next to friends, Shin and Gimmel, engaging in fake news Greek God prayer and whispers to his old school Jerusalem High wrestling buds, “What are you 2 doing here again? You’ll get crucified if the Greek priests overhear you kvetching about you having zero interest in worshiping Pan the Goat Boy during the never-ending 2nd Temple period. But you have to bitch because we already paid our synagogue dues before King Antiochus turned our JCC gymnasium into a members only gay bathhouse for Greek senators to bask in endless leisure, admiring each other’s flappy rounds of mound. ”

Hey, the Kosher Dairy Farmer, enters the Greek Temple with a Chalef knife, whose incredibly sharp edge ensures a painless, Torah commanded, gentle as can be death for cows later converted into Brisket stew. The Negev Desert sun glares through the newly refurbished stain glass window designs of nymphs playing tug of war with Hercules cock.  But this blast of holy powered light nearly blinds the Greek Priest leading the service as the Negev desert light bounces off Hey’s Chalef butcher knife and refracts into his Greek God loving eyes. Which I’m sure reminds the Greek Priest of the time he wanted to poke his eyes out after getting black out drunk from a 3-day Theatre Festival in Athens, only to wake up next to Medusa’s sister, who rapes drunk, Greek Priests at will because in her presence, black out drunk or not, you become automatically frozen stiff.  As the Greek Priest rubs his eyes in extreme agony, Hey, The Kosher Dairy Farmer, with his Chalef knife held high in the air, yells, “Maccabees rule. We’re the chosen people for a reason bitches.”

8 days later, the magnificent band of Maccabee warrior brothers reclaimed the Greek Temple and turned into the grand 2nd Temple of old, without barely breaking a sweat, because the Lord was on their side. I bet you 8 million Shekels Hermes ran for the hills away from Zion, as fast as he could, refusing to give Zeus that message. Happy Hanukkah!

Michael Kornbluth

The Koshertarian Diet

Before my kids take another reluctant bite out of mama’s lentil pie, which was good but still needed some savory, mouthwatering sautéed mushrooms nestled inside with speckled sage to counterbalance the borderline al dente lentils stuck between a rock and a fluffy pastry place, I tell my son Jeremiah, “Before I overrule mama’s law of return to eat one more obligatory nibble bite from her lentil pie, tell me one new thing you learned at school today, which you didn’t know before.” Son says, “My teacher learned I’m a vegetarian.” I said, “Don’t you mean Koshertarian?” Son laughs long time. Can I get a holla? For birthing a new A plus catchphrase, which I can exploit for all its worth in the form of a family reality cooking show based around my famous family if I ever become a famous comedian already, titled Keeping Up With The Koshertarians, holla!

So, what is the Koshertarian Diet exactly? It’s not boiling a lobster in the Kosher infused kitchen I grew up in along the Tudor home lined streets of Edgemont, NY, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, before Kevin Durant chose to play for the Brooklyn Nets over the Knicks to exert more control over his social media narrative and give Lena Dunham a good run for her money as the less overtly confessional voice of their Millennial Mouseketeer generation. My wife’s gentile friend actually bought a lobster to boil in my parent’s kitchen one summer with zero hesitative motion without seeking approval from my parents. I can’t demonize my wife’s dear friend completely for doing so, knowing my parents weren’t even half ass Kosher anymore, compared to when our entire family use to eat pork dumplings outside of the house, if we weren’t scarfing down more delectable, heaven sent bites of veal stuffed with prosciutto coated in a white wine mushroom sauce before my younger brother and I moved out of the house for good.

But once famed supermarket chain Stew Leonard’s moved to town in nearby Yonkers, NY, my parents scrapped their in-house kosher obeying diet only because the tastier, lumper servings of shrimp cocktail at Costco prices were impossible to resist. Still, the image of my wife’s friend barging into my parent’s kitchen with crusade possessed fervor with a lobster in hand doesn’t make my blood boil as much anymore because of parents ho hum embrace of me becoming a full time Koshertarian this past year, which has made me more at one with God than ever before while my 3 kids have derived a vicarious sense of pride from embracing my new soul man infused spiritual path along the way. Still, I don’t think my wife’s friend would whole heartedly embrace me barging into her parents kitchen on Good Friday to sell them on trying my Do It All Dad Hero creation from my new book The Great American Jew Novel, which is the 1st ever Kosher cheesesteak, using a plant based cheese wiz either. Especially, if I ate the Kosher cheesesteak in front of them and continued to push with divine powered zeal, “You have try one bite. “It’s holy shit, good.”

I know my wife wants me to not put restrictions on my happiness at times like when she urges me over an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives as I salivate over the Indian spiced Lamb Burger draped in a Paneer cheese and Jalapeno infused mango chutney, to forget eating Kosher, when she says, “ Just eat cruelty free, hormone absent, local meat. Kosher dietary laws are more dated than Yiddish, yada, yada, yada.” Because God forbid, I don’t half ass my Kosher diet like my parents did. Instead, I want to lead by example and stick with my full time Kosher diet because for once in my life, I feel like a less over the place Jew. Plus, by sticking with my Kosher diet come rain or shine, it eliminates my second guessing of ordering at restaurants because I now only have so many options to choose from. So now, whenever I’m out eating, I no longer feel more indecisive than Jared Kushner at the salad bar at the Bellagio.

On a holier, deeper level, I love my commitment to uphold my Kosher diet to repay God’s continued heaven on earth granting favor, for blessing me with the 3 sweetest, funniest kids in the universe, who make me howl with unrivaled laughter like no other. For example, my 3-year old son Samuel, AKA, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, developed a new routine which kills me, so he performs it for me all time now, where he walks away from me for a couple of feet, only for him to stop in his tracks and say “Wrong way.”  But everything about my kids growing up Koshertarian, feels like the right way to me. Mama is a pescatarian, so she can have all the buttered Lobster Rolls she wants, which are overrated, and way overpriced compared to more funk filled, personality loaded clam rolls in my book anyway.

Moving forward, I’ll continue to experiment and perfect my kosher chicken breast stir fry in a scallion, ginger based sauce and generate more yummy dances galore from my Mexican lasagna made with corn tortillas and homemade salsa to inspire my kids to follow my lead and assume more wholehearted ownership of their diet as they get older. So one day, if they decide to have kids, because I finally made it, resulting in mama and daddy not fighting as much anymore, our eventual grandchildren, wow that’s heavy, can grow up Koshertarian to.

So, for all those jowl jingly bearded hobbit hipsters in Bushwick, who identify as being non-religious Jews. Who are struggling to be fruitful and multiply because they’re being forced to pull out prematurely from excessive meat sweats. My message is clear. Come on man! And give the Koshertarian diet a chance.

Michael Kornbluth