Dreaming On Past Covid

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking 2 packs a day of Turkish blend, extra wide Camel cigarettes fended off my surging lung cancer either. I’ll never forget how top of the world scrumptious that Camel extra wide tasted after losing my virginity to Katie King in the Cape. If there was ever a reason to take up smoking again, so I could enjoy sucking face with my summer wind love who enjoyed her Camel extra wide smokes even more than I did, it was for my sweet darling, inhalable on the spot always, pitch perfect southern belle, the always magical, chills down my spine inducing from mere memories of walking hand in the hand throughout Main Street in the Cape, my dear Katie King. Especially, knowing how my bitch roommates at the time, hated how the Jew boy from New York struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina, who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in 3 years flat. Oh yeah, that’s right, one of those girls went to McGill in Canada, which was a safety school for stoners obsessed with free healthcare and Justin Trudeau’s purple specked socks. So, it looks like I’m one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never draggy dumpy, 36D tits.  

So, my parents, younger brother, friends, and ex-girlfriends can’t visit me, but I’d sure love to kiss the never annoying, always pleasantly plump on top, Katie King again. The last time I kissed her was when I surprised her while driving cross-country to California for my last semester of college, with an aching in my heart. She was more than a friend of mine Lord, Katie was a guardian angel as you know, who was sent down from Heaven to make me a true believer in the power of prayer and modern-day miracles, which benefited my love life immensely for a change. I remember praying to you alone on the beach in Cape Cod Kennedy country, during the summer when the Fugees broke big, finally giving me a woman to cry about in my heart after our romance came too a sudden, crashing end. I said, “God, I love Hair Metal ballads because they’re hopeful songs full of longing, and I always longed to have a real-life girlfriend to walk hands with at Rye Playland to win stuffed animals for, as I drained more basketball shots from way downtown with effortless, in the zone, choke free ease.”

You’ve always provided me with divine intervention comfort Lord, so I’m not going to fret against my dying of the light this late into the 9th Inning, with me going up against Mariano Rivera with a 5 run lead at the new Yankee Stadium, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. Gentrification Lord, you know, liberal talk for less black people. I wouldn’t have written that a plus joke gem without your divine powered assistance as usual. Has my sadness enshrouded heart weighed heavily on my weepy, hurting inside soul in Synagogue some years on Yom Kippur, knowing it’s another year, where I ask for another shot to be a productive, functioning member of the Jewish race versus another schmuck in a headset, whose been fired more than a Palestinian Slingshot. I’m also not going to bitch about certain friends or family members not always being there to consistently support my comedic ambitions, which lead me to killing at the Montreal Comedy Festival, thanks to your steady, unrelenting support in me doing me all the way. Those friends came to my bringer shows in Manhattan at the New York Comedy Club, when I was an average nobody putz, because they believed in my potential, which you always have Lord, back when my pursuit of getting lady laugh off long time, all the time began.

My parents raised me in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, performing well at high paying jobs, which were no labor of love either.  Plus, acting like an excessively obnoxious, supremely spoiled, entitled twat, never felt right with my labor of laugh lust pursing heart either. You made me grow up and become a man in LA, when my parents cut me off, forcing me to overcome a debilitating stutter as an IT Headhunter, cold calling through the Los Angeles Journal Book of Lists like a man possessed to be a pushover putzy no more. I got to sing Karaoke in the valley and perform high kicking, windmills to Baba O-Reilly, proving to myself I was meant to strut my stuff and sing the gift of comedic song on stage for a living one day.

Should I order Chinese for my last meal to earn myself social justice righting props on Twitter, instead of insisting how those bio-chemical warfare starting commie bastards have resisted investigations into the origin behind the Wuhan lab originator of the virus more than Aquafresh? The only time I ever feared dying was from weed induced panic attacks, thinking, I’d stop breathing, because I was being a degenerate Jew again who was bound to lose his gift of gab sooner or later.

Dying semi-alone through Zoom, doesn’t appeal to me much Lord. I say semi-alone because you’ll always be the bursting source of light in my laugh loving heart come rain or shine. Also, I prefer to say goodbyes to my parents, friends, ex-girlfriends, and younger brother through emotive, giving letters like this, which touch the soul far deeper than any belabored, drawn out Zoom call could, while our new Chinese slave masters monitor our every last show of vigorous, in your face emotion.

Dying prematurely at 44 bites, only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young blares with rollicking empathetic flourish like no other on Rocking In The Free World. I’m positive that song gets plenty of play in stage performer heaven, which I wouldn’t mind entry into, knowing Lou Reed could use some added some levity up there from time to time, next time he showcases the insufferable gaul to insist on charging Billy Idol for the priveledge of recording with him while waiting for his man Marlon Brando again off Broadway upstairs for A Streetcar Named Desire, now that’s he’s love with the act of on-stage creation again. I’m not worried about being a pseudo homo preventing me, from being embraced by your loving light in afterlife. Desmond Child isn’t dead yet, but there’s no way a loving God would damn the writer behind Livin’ On A Prayer to endless agonizing hell on par with forcing him to to act like he enjoys hearing the Fleet Foxes live in front a log cabin, on his one ordained night out for his birthday in homo performer hell, year after year.

Thanks for the thrill of killing and for the heart soothing memories involving my dear Katie King, oh, sweet Lord. Dear Katie King, the magic fairy dust beneath my wings, who took me to the other side on earth, where us oh so fortune, cosmic comedic perfectionists roam. All the bombing in life was worth the thrill of killing at the Montreal festival, especially with my dear Katie King in attendance front row to make love to my soul with her Oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring our last departed goodbye kiss, when she said in the Cape, “I never knew someone could make me so happy before.” I do, it’s you Lord, all the great good in my life stems from your miraculous handy work on my behalf. I must make you laugh more than yenta breath Seinfeld ever did, to be blessed with such infinite beauty in my life, because like your other star creation Billy Cox, Jimi’ Hendrix’s old school paratrooper buddy sings with number 1 soul brother authority at the Filmore East New Year’s Eve in 1970, “With the power of soul, anything is possible.” Being blessed with the funny Jew bone, which you gave the obsessive drive to develop to the best of my God given ability helps to. I’ll love you forever Lord, for my summer wind Katie King and for making such an out of this world beauty, beautify my life, with such a majestic, soul tantalizing sweep that summer wind dreams are made of.  

All My Love,

Michael Joshua Kornbluth

Dreaming On Past Covid

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking 2 packs a day of Turkish blend, extra wide Camel cigarettes fended off my surging lung cancer either. I’ll never forget how top of the world scrumptious that Camel extra wide tasted after losing my virginity to Katie King in the Cape. If there was ever a reason to take up smoking again, so I could enjoy sucking face with my summer wind love who enjoyed her Camel extra wide smokes even more than I did, it was for my sweet darling, inhalable on the spot always, pitch perfect southern belle, the always magical, chills down my spine inducing from mere memories of walking hand in the hand throughout Main Street in the Cape, my dear Katie King. Especially, knowing how my bitch roommates at the time, hated how the Jew boy from New York struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina, who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in 3 years flat. Oh yeah, that’s right, one of those girls went to McGill in Canada, which was a safety school for stoners obsessed with free healthcare and Justin Trudeau’s purple specked socks. So, it looks like I’m one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never draggy dumpy, 36D tits.  

So, my parents, younger brother, friends, and ex-girlfriends can’t visit me, but I’d sure love to kiss the never annoying, always pleasantly plump on top, Katie King again. The last time I kissed her was when I surprised her while driving cross-country to California for my last semester of college, with an aching in my heart. She was more than a friend of mine Lord, Katie was a guardian angel as you know, who was sent down from Heaven to make me a true believer in the power of prayer and modern-day miracles, which benefited my love life immensely for a change. I remember praying to you alone on the beach in Cape Cod Kennedy country, during the summer when the Fugees broke big, finally giving me a woman to cry about in my heart after our romance came too a sudden, crashing end. I said, “God, I love Hair Metal ballads because they’re hopeful songs full of longing, and I always longed to have a real-life girlfriend to walk hands with at Rye Playland to win stuffed animals for, as I drained more basketball shots from way downtown with effortless, in the zone, choke free ease.”

You’ve always provided me with divine intervention comfort Lord, so I’m not going to fret against my dying of the light this late into the 9th Inning, with me going up against Mariano Rivera with a 5 run lead at the new Yankee Stadium, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. Gentrification Lord, you know, liberal talk for less black people. I wouldn’t have written that a plus joke gem without your divine powered assistance as usual. Has my sadness enshrouded heart weighed heavily on my weepy, hurting inside soul in Synagogue some years on Yom Kippur, knowing it’s another year, where I ask for another shot to be a productive, functioning member of the Jewish race versus another schmuck in a headset, whose been fired more than a Palestinian Slingshot. I’m also not going to bitch about certain friends or family members not always being there to consistently support my comedic ambitions, which lead me to killing at the Montreal Comedy Festival, thanks to your steady, unrelenting support in me doing me all the way. Those friends came to my bringer shows in Manhattan at the New York Comedy Club, when I was an average nobody putz, because they believed in my potential, which you always have Lord, back when my pursuit of getting lady laugh off long time, all the time began.

My parents raised me in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, performing well at high paying jobs, which were no labor of love either.  Plus, acting like an excessively obnoxious, supremely spoiled, entitled twat, never felt right with my labor of laugh lust pursing heart either. You made me grow up and become a man in LA, when my parents cut me off, forcing me to overcome a debilitating stutter as an IT Headhunter, cold calling through the Los Angeles Journal Book of Lists like a man possessed to be a pushover putzy no more. I got to sing Karaoke in the valley and perform high kicking, windmills to Baba O-Reilly, proving to myself I was meant to strut my stuff and sing the gift of comedic song on stage for a living one day.

Should I order Chinese for my last meal to earn myself social justice righting props on Twitter, instead of insisting how those bio-chemical warfare starting commie bastards have resisted investigations into the origin behind the Wuhan lab originator of the virus more than Aquafresh? The only time I ever feared dying was from weed induced panic attacks, thinking, I’d stop breathing, because I was being a degenerate Jew again who was bound to lose his gift of gab sooner or later.

Dying semi-alone through Zoom, doesn’t appeal to me much Lord. I say semi-alone because you’ll always be the bursting source of light in my laugh loving heart come rain or shine. Also, I prefer to say goodbyes to my parents, friends, ex-girlfriends, and younger brother through emotive, giving letters like this, which touch the soul far deeper than any belabored, drawn out Zoom call could, while our new Chinese slave masters monitor our every last show of vigorous, in your face emotion.

Dying prematurely at 44 bites, only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young blares with rollicking empathetic flourish like no other on Rocking In The Free World. I’m positive that song gets plenty of play in stage performer heaven, which I wouldn’t mind entry into, knowing Lou Reed could use some added some levity up there from time to time, next time he showcases the insufferable gaul to insist on charging Billy Idol for the priveledge of recording with him while waiting for his man Marlon Brando again off Broadway upstairs for A Streetcar Named Desire, now that’s he’s love with the act of on-stage creation again. I’m not worried about being a pseudo homo preventing me, from being embraced by your loving light in afterlife. Desmond Child isn’t dead yet, but there’s no way a loving God would damn the writer behind Livin’ On A Prayer to endless agonizing hell on par with forcing him to to act like he enjoys hearing the Fleet Foxes live in front a log cabin, on his one ordained night out for his birthday in homo performer hell, year after year.

Thanks for the thrill of killing and for the heart soothing memories involving my dear Katie King, oh, sweet Lord. Dear Katie King, the magic fairy dust beneath my wings, who took me to the other side on earth, where us oh so fortune, cosmic comedic perfectionists roam. All the bombing in life was worth the thrill of killing at the Montreal festival, especially with my dear Katie King in attendance front row to make love to my soul with her Oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring our last departed goodbye kiss, when she said in the Cape, “I never knew someone could make me so happy before.” I do, it’s you Lord, all the great good in my life stems from your miraculous handy work on my behalf. I must make you laugh more than yenta breath Seinfeld ever did, to be blessed with such infinite beauty in my life, because like your other star creation Billy Cox, Jimi’ Hendrix’s old school paratrooper buddy sings with number 1 soul brother authority at the Filmore East New Year’s Eve in 1970, “With the power of soul, anything is possible.” Being blessed with the funny Jew bone, which you gave the obsessive drive to develop to the best of my God given ability helps to. I’ll love you forever Lord, for my summer wind Katie King and for making such an out of this world beauty, beautify my life, with such a majestic, soul tantalizing sweep that summer wind dreams are made of.  

All My Love,

Michael Joshua Kornbluth

Tofu The Terrible Slayer

Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth, was in no singing mood today. Every day, she’d wake up singing,” Good day sunshine” by the Beatles even if she got up at the crack of dawn again or decided to work in Norway away from her mom and dad throughout an entire darkened 5 month winter as a 9-year ski model for Northface, knowing in a post-corona universe, she was used to doing remote learning away from school anyway. But this drab Thanksgiving morning was different, because she had to act thankful for eating Tofurky Roast again, despite the spirit of Tofu The Terrible terrorizing her dreams since she described soy dogs in her school lunch cafeteria blog as “Rubber dog link nosh toys.”

But how could Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth act grateful for eating a Tofurky Roast, since her 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Right, made it clear how the native American Indians weren’t responsible for teaching the Pilgrims how to turn soy milk into white blocks of semi-firm bricks of soy with higher levels of estrogen to feminize John Smith’s sturdy stock of sailors with. Also, Thanksgiving this year post-Corona wasn’t feeling particularly festive, knowing Matilda was suffering from PTSD from wearing all of those Corona masks to death. Matilda was now having nightmares of being terrorized by the masked man, Tofu The Terrible who ruined every favorite meal she’d dream of. For example, if Matilda had just won the Gold Medal in the Hardcore X Games for Equestrian Riders within the Under 10 Years age bracket, having to complete jumps through rings of fire with an occasional baby dragon on her tail. She’d normally celebrate with her best friend Shannon in her dream over their favorite treat Jellybeans for a sleepover party soon after. But now all that appeared in her dream were pasty, slimy soybeans in the place of jellybeans because Tofu The Terrible was punishing her for calling soy dogs on her cafeteria food blog, “Not good enough to pass for rubber dog toys.” And Matilda hated pet dogs because they ate dog food with minced horse meat inside. Matilda had always been a hardcore vegetarian loyalist, yet she greatly offended the spirt of Tofu The Terrible, a ferocious Chinese vegetarian warrior from the Ming Dynasty, who even got Genghis Khan into Mapo Tofu over Jasmine Rice, a fiery, dish loaded with super scary Sichuan spice. The smell from the grounded up Sichuan peppercorns would make most grown men cry, making their lips tremble in fear at the prospect of having to try one more bite, knowing Genghis Khan would be hoarding all the Sake rice wine for any temporary relief for themselves soon afterwards.

Matilda was convinced she’d never enjoy the food she loved in real life again such as her Dad’s fried Icelandic cod in a barbeque aioli without tasting anything but mushy, dog drool instead.  

Now, it was time for everyone at the table to give thanks for Thanksgiving, which Matilda had been dreading from the start, because she was consumed with nightmarish visions of Tofu The Terrible ruining all her favorite foods in her dreams and in real life, such as her Dad’s star side dish creation, caramelized cauliflower potato  gratin, combining cave aged Gruyere and Raclette cheese from the Swiss Alps, which  injected the dish with an extra scrumptious, creamy fresh finish.

Matilda’s Dad, a Stay At Home Comedian Author, Podcast Host and self-taught semi gourmand Chef could tell his daughter was dreading her turn to participate and says, “Matilda, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is Tofu The Terrible ruining the taste of your Jellybeans again?” Matilda perks up, shaken out of her petrified, frozen comatose and says, “How did you know about Tofu The Terrible Daddy?” Matilda’s dad says, “I helped you launch your own lunch cafeteria blog on WordPress remember? Your last piece Tofu Brownie Blues, was about how Tofu The Terrible threated to shred everyone’s masks at school, unless the Brownie Girls started selling his special batch of Tofu Brownies at the next school bookfair instead.” Matilda says, “Do we have to eat the Tofurky Roast this year?” Dad says, “No, try this veggie Barbeque Pita instead.” Matilda takes a reluctant bite but is moved by her Dad’s gesture of goodwill. She says, “Yummy daddy. Her Dad says, “I fried up cubes of semi-firm soy inside that bad boy. The sautéed onions and peppers keep the memories of mushy dog toy food at bay. Tofu The Terrible was dead in Matilda’s head and she started singing again while giving thanks and praises at Thanksgiving, singing, “Soy Dogs still suck, Tofu The Terrible to, but you’re no longer so bad, since my daddy came to my rescue.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Democrats Are Screwed When

Democrats are screwed when they parade Governor Cuomo as a strong enough leader to write a book about his handling of the pandemic, when he helped killed off the greatest city in the world in 5 months flat, turned New York City in a sanctuary city, which is encouraged lawlessness on crack, stymies ICE to get rid of illegal rapists and murders who don’t belong here by cock blocking access to the NYPD’s database to run background checks, ban bail, in addition to forcing elderly homes to accept Covid patients, knowing Blanch is most likely to get infected from the Chinese Black Lung, than contract a urinary track infection, because no old timer, is getting it up to mount her disheveled, stink box anymore, let alone for round number 2, with the advent of grinder for bi curious grannies today.

Michael Kornbluth

Baby Boomers Resist Quarantines To

Wife asks, “Why are your parents not quarantining themselves at their cottage in NY after flying in from Arizona last week?” I say, “Because my mom is convinced Trump is going to win again anyway, so what the fuck? Plus, even my resister boomer parents, respect Bill De Blasio’s authority less than Trump supporters respect polling numbers, since the NY Times predicted Hillary Hammer Time Cankles would waltz into the White House with the assistance of an Iron Lung, despite 64 million branded racists voting different, proving baby boomer mom doesn’t know best.  The Drunken Deplorable Druid must have deleted that memo to.

Michael Kornbluth

Cooling On The Knicks Ex-Golden Child

 

I don’t like Jeremy Lin anymore because he’s a fake news Christian. If he was so concerned with spreading the light, then take a stand, and don’t play for the Beijing Ducks, asshole. I’m positive LaVar Ball could start his new tweener league with Lin as the semi-deplorable star in JR Smith’s eyes.  It’s not as if Jeremy Lin is hurting for cash. I’m also calling  Jeremy Lin a fake news Christian, because claiming you wanted to play for the Knicks after Linsanity no matter what, is bullshit because I wouldn’t after JR Smith bitched about the golden child hogging the bike lane all for himself. But what really burned me about Jeremy Lin’s interview with the NY Post was the total lack of provocative questions such as, “Do you really believe Obama was a baller at basketball, knowing he rode the bench at an all Asian private school in Hawaii?” or, “Despite Melo’s career resurgence in Portland, do you think he should be the new commercial spokesperson for Tampax Tampons, because he’s responsible for stopping so much flowage?” Last, “Do you think  Conan being demoted to TBS makes him feel like a resounding winner inside, knowing NBC deemed him too eccentric, nerdy for the Tonight Show’s taste in addition to NBC just being fake news bullshit in bed with China now like the rest, TNT included?”

Michael Kornbluth

Chapter 10 Burning Mask Party

https://doitalldadyearpodcast.libsyn.com/chapter-10-burning-mask-party

The Killerset 

Masks Are The New Condoms

Not Wear The Mask Iron Lungs

The Italian Reptilian Inside

Our Post Plagued Universe

It’s A Failed Photo-Op In Chinatown

The Worst Beard Mayor Of All Time

No 9/11 Light Memorial For You

Pro Near Abortion Tales

 

 

No 9/11 Tribute For You

Millennials don’t even know what a stamp looks like. Using them is an outdated practice like rubbers or hitting on girls at bars without swiping them over to their spot at the cider bar in the east village 1st. By now most Boomers do online banking. Plus, I haven’t gotten a birthday card on time from my parents since 86. But I’m supposed to believe mail in votes will arrive on time and spread like wildfire like a viral vidéo of America’s frontline doctors claiming how their use of hydroxychlorquine on patients has saved more patients from Covid related deaths than any faulty mask made in China ever could?

 

You still don’t believe the Coronavirus isn’t being exploited for nefarious ployed purposes? Then, why else would the mayor of NY to cancel the annual 9/11 light tribute  this year, which he blew off last, over alleged Coronavirus concerns? Because I’m positive 1st responders who ran into the 2nd tower, are shaking in their boots at the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus from Covid. Can’t the Guardian Angels hang Deblasio from the Freedom Tower in the name of true social righting street justice already? It would be the only time the NYPD wouldn’t turn their back on hizzonner, because they’d be too busy talking pictures for their prématuré retirement parties from the force. 

Michael Kornbluth

No 9/11 Light Tribute For You

Millennials don’t even know what a stamp looks like. Using them is an outdated practice like rubbers or hitting on girls at bars without swiping them over to their spot at the cider bar in the east village 1st. By now most Boomers do online banking. Plus, I haven’t gotten a birthday card on time from my parents since 86. But I’m supposed to believe mail in votes will arrive on time and spread like wildfire like a viral vidéo of America’s frontline doctors claiming how their use of hydroxychlorquine on patients has saved more patients from Covid related deaths than any faulty mask made in China ever could?

 

You still don’t believe the Coronavirus isn’t being exploited for nefarious ployed purposes? Then, why else would the mayor of NY to cancel the annual 9/11 light tribute  this year, which he blew off last, over alleged Coronavirus concerns? Because I’m positive 1st responders who ran into the 2nd tower, are shaking in their boots at the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus from Covid. Can’t the Guardian Angels hang Deblasio from the Freedom Tower in the name of true social righting street justice already? It would be the only time the NYPD wouldn’t turn their back on hizzonner, because they’d be too busy talking pictures for their prématuré retirement parties from the force. 

Michael Kornbluth

 

Pro Near Abortion Tales

What’s so crazy about Kayne giving thanks and praises for never urging Kim to abort their 1st child together, which brought him closer to God than ever before? Was it ultimately Kim’s decision? Yes, but for the wife of his 4 kids to punish Kayne for hardcore emotional realism all of a sudden, by murmuring to friends and family about having him locked up now for merely retelling the near tragic tale of almost pushing Kim to prematurely knock off the eventual light of his life with morning after pills, amassing dust on Joy Behar’s dresser since 86 is real cold hearted gangasta shit.

Kim Kardashian is no better than Twitter or Faceboook or the outrage mob in general online or off for trying to censor her husband’s speech, by threatening to lock him up in a loony bin for telling a pro near abortion tale turned out good. He’s already under lock down in his Wyoming home with his 4 kids like another married slut in a straight jacket. So if Kim really cares about social justice, then give Kayne some breathing room bitch.

Michael Kornbluth