Killer Set for 3-3-23:
Love Jaw Lament, Funny Jew Bone Forever, Prince Of Promiscuity, War Drums Inside, Blackmail Pics Unnerving, Woody Killers.
Tag: COVID19
War Drums Inside
Man nods at me with a mask on on MetroNorth, acting like I’m one of them. He might as well have said, “Howdy partner. You’re too good for noshing on bugs on a stick yet.”
“Care to take a ride in my cow hide? Assuming you’re quadrupled boosted, got proof of vaccination and got nothing to hide.”
I got up and changed seats immediately.
I don’t want any masked puppet pawn to ever think I’m on their side, especially since all Patriots have been declared domestic Terrorists for protesting against a stolen election since the day Democracy died.
War drums inside, Challah.
Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
Woody Killers
The decline feature on LinkedIn-In Mail is designed to convey a semi-aggressive f off vibe, don’t you think?
It’s the closest an IT nerd from a hedge fund in Greenwich, CT can get to hitting you over the head with NO.
VP Of Product Engineering rumbles to his wife at night.
My team programs trading strategies for masters of the universe.
This Headhunter Writer couldn’t get into Hillsdale College early acceptance.
He’s a God damn disgrace.
You bet your ass, I declined his LinkedIn, In-Mail.
I’ve got no room in my life for another parasitical putz face.
We manage big Pharmas bankroll for Christ stake.
But seriously, the decline feature on LinkedIn Mail screams passive aggressiveness that’s out of breath.
How did this glamorized indentured servant who works on a draw, get the balls to hit on me?
I piss Benjamin’s as far as the eye can see, after my team polished off 2 kegs of Dog Fish 90 minute at our Company Retreat in Capri.
The decline feature on LinkedIn In-Mail is designed to rub in your short sighted loserness in your face.
Yeah, smart move hitting on me through a keyboard lame o breath.
Why don’t you cold call me like a man, so I could tell you to f off in real time with more resounding Shazam?
When someone takes the time to click on Delcine after you blow your load on a LinkedIn In-Mail.
It means, you got under their skin a bit.
So, it’s their turn to make you feel like shit.
If someone actually takes the time to click on decline after receiving a LinkedIn In-Mail in means.
Either A) I want to take a shower
B) Your confidence is off putting
C) You’re not hot enough to hit on me.
D) You’re too dumb to do what I do.
E) Everything you spat in my direction; I can articulate better.
F) Frankly, I don’t normally read LinkedIn Mails because most Recruiters are illiterate burnouts, but I don’t want to you feel sneeringly superior around your pathetic plagued peers.
G) My day just went from good to great, by putting you in your place.
H) Hacks are us, not interested. If I had an ugly stick, I’d beat you over the head with it, till you scurried off to cave underground with nobody else around, where you belong.
I) Idiot, nobody writes in complete sentences anymore. What makes you so special? #RookieRecruitersneverknowwhentothrowinthetowel
J) Jump off a bridge already. You hit on nerds for a living. If were still in high school, Alpha males in school, wouldn’t even waste their time acknowledging your bottom feeding, sexless existence.
K) Kill yourself. I went to the University of Chicago. You went to Ithaca, which is Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor, I win again.
L) Love yourself less. You’re desperate, delusional, dunz face for thinking this attempt to connect would impress.
M) You have no business feeling cooler than any millennial mousketeers who made twice what you make since they raised minimum wage their senior year in college.
N) Nudge your boss into firing you by wearing a xeroxed copy of your latest COVID test at work, so you can make more money collecting unemployment.
O) How do you feel outstanding doing what you do? You badger companies into hiring software engineers who are going to get a new job anyway. Regardless of you emailing their resume, which is your only way to sway.
P) Piss off, you predatory peon scrub. You’re only good at taking well enough to get another recruiter job, you’ve haven’t gotten fired from yet bud.
Q) Quit your recruitment agency career already. You obviously care more about entertaining yourself than your intended audience within the IT sphere, who aren’t known for their rolling senses of humor in the 1st place.
Y) Yuck it up Headhunter Writer. Have fun telling yourself that writing inspires the next time you get fired.
Z) Give your brain a rest and take some Z’s. I bet your sneezes are annoying too. So, f off already please. Do I have to get on my knees?
But Headhunter Writer inspires. So how you can decline further chats with me?
Oh, yeah, you’re a deadweight conversationalist.
That’s what I get for pissing up the wrong tree.
Woody Killers live, Challah.
Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
Dark Web Monopoly
What’s the latest message from Ukraine?
Cribs me.
Russian Caviar doesn’t grow on trees.
I want a creamy white Bugatti with a yellow, blue trim for Ukrainian
Christmas.
Keep your Ak-47s. They reek of hashish and Afghani cheese caves made out of camel’s
milk.
Got Hunter’s Zip Drive by the balls.
Got Venmo?
Zelensky needs to record his next charity drive for Comic Relief at Electric
Lady Land Studios for 500 per hour.
Ukraine cries penny stocks while ringing the bell at the New York Stock
Exchange.
Perogies are too starchy after getting hooked on lobster claws.
Pierogi Peasant blues, Challah.
Thank you very much.
Big Pharma Blues
1st word today kids.
Corrupt, something that rots from within.
Think of ancient hipster hacks like Patrick the musician.
Who thinks blowing off mama’s birthday early for band practice in his late forties is a jealous inducing hook.
Who thinks doing Enya cover songs on riverboats along the Hudson makes us in touch with the beautifying divine and dream alive hip hearts in us all.
Who thinks being in a band with a bunch of pharma tech developers and designers gives him the anti-authortorian edge to break on through to the cover of Rolling Stone in the sixties in no time. Then again, Steph Curry is on the cover of Rolling Stone these days, which is less rollicking than a young Cameron Crow being on the cover of Rolling Stone.
If you had a conflict with what drugs you were pimping big pharma websites for, you’d quite your job.
Yeah, and Dice would go soft on Neil Young on his podcast.
You ever want choke Joni Mitchell with one of her hippie haggard shawls to shut up long face Horse tooth for good?
Leaving your wife who survived cancer for Daryl Hannah is in poor taste, don’t you think Young? You going through a post midlife never banged a mermaid crisis or what?
You were scared during the height of Covid, Young? Didn’t you used to share heroin needles with Harvey Millk? You were scared of getting an itchy esphogus from Covid Young? I’ve been puffing Marbalo Reds since my twenties and my lungs feel great, since my bud Ari Shaffir turned me on to edibles and the weed pen; but you get the gist.
Not one big pharma company has spoken out against the clot shot.
Not one big pharma company has condemned the pushing of opiods in our coutry that have killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking it with Lena Dunham on Instagram.
Not one big pharma company has come to the defense of Eric Clapton confessing to experiencing temporary paralysis in his playing arm strung by the All Mighty by taking the Covid vax shot.
Not one big pharma company has commented on Justin Bieber’s frozen face or Katy Perry’s droopy eye twitch in Vegas or how the craziest thing about soccer is how my fellow Ameeicans still expect me to give a shit about soccer, World Cup or not.
The LA, Philly title game was the craziest thing that ever happened in soccer. I thought midfielders dropping dead midfield at a hard 30 from blood clot induced cardiac arrest through the operation death speed did the trick, my bad.
Flourish, to kick ass and take names, think Kari Lake once she teams up with Linda Hamilton and takes down The Dominion Machines, that being the new Skynet for good.
Fluky, think any hired hack replacement on Comedy Cental to replace Trevor Noah on the Daily Show, assuming he remains Bruce Springsteen’s gimpy bitch message boy for life. Insisting how all his blue collar fans 3 decades ago were n bomb dropping hicks, who only tolerated Clarence Clemon’s operatic, spine tingly sax work on Jungleland because jungle is in it and the song is West Side Story meets American Me meets New Jack City.
Just don’t call voter ID fair and inclusive. How else are you going to tell MS13 apart with all that shit on their face?
Practicing conflict resolution.
Samuel, don’t hit your brother in the spine when he’s not looking or you’ll paralyze him like Van Damne’s brother get’s paralyzed by the braided pony punk in Kickbocker. And when your paralyzed from the waist down, you can’t derive any prolonged merriment from futzing around with your schmeckel spot anymore. If you’re lucky your brother would feel a whiff of butt wind after going butt liquid in his pants but that’s it. You don’t want you brother in a wheelchair because he intentionally scared you in the morning by pretending to be a raccoon on the loose again, do you? Last, stuffing you in the trash and duck taping you in there with raccoons and your butt liquid nappies would be times worse, don’t you think?
Son says, “Stop stealing my butt wind, butt liquid jokes, Moron Jewish Son. Eat my butt rice, Challah. Thank you very much. And Patrick’s son is more boring than Patrick. Is that why you accuse his mother of micro dosing to make her kid more interesting because he takes after the father?
Big Pharma blues, Challah. Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
Dreaming On Past COVID
Dear God,
I’m dying of Covid-19 alone, allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking two 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, always inhalable on-the-spot, pitch-perfect southern belle.
The always-magical chills down my spine were induced from mere memories of walking, hand in the hand, throughout Main Street in the Cape with my dear Katie King.
Especially, they came from knowing how my bitch roommates at the time hated how the Jew boy from New York who’d struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in three 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 the one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never-draggy or 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 who, as you know, 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’s 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 to 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 hand in hand with at Rye Playland and 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 and 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 five-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 for years on Yom Kippur, knowing that 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 who’se 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 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 a lady laugh-off for long time, all the time, began.
My parents raised me in the snuggle-soft confines of Westchester County. I performed 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 to 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 origins 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 that I’d stop breathing because I was being a degenerate Jew who again 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 forty-four bites works only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young, and 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 having entry into, knowing that Lou Reed could use some added some levity, up there, from time to time.
This can happen next time he showcases the insufferable gall to insist on charging Billy Idol for the privilege 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 that prevents me from being embraced by your loving light in the 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. That would be on par with forcing him 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 of the earth, where us oh-so-fortunate, 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 in the front row to make love to my soul with her oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring memories of 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 Fillmore 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, too.
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
Bound 2 Bullshit
Jimmy Kimmel thinks it’s funny when Flordia folks die of COVID primarily, allegedly. No, what’s funny is Jimmy Kimmel dumping his ex-wife for Sarah Silverman before she became a full-time social justice warrior to distract the Twitter-Verse from her tits sagging popularity for the past 20 years and counting.
Jimmy Kimmel is Adam Carolla minus funny man integrity. At least Jeff Ross is the Roast Master General. You don’t even lead Greg Gutfeld in the late-night viewing race Jimmy. And Greg Gutfeld exudes less excitable charisma than HIV pill commercials on Hulu. God forbid Greg Gutfeld hits Trumpy Poo with harder hitting questions such as, “If Israeli doctors are reporting record high COVID case numbers, among mostly vaccinated people within a country that’s 80% vaccinated, then is it safe say, that your overhyped vaccine works less than Stay at Home Shemale comedian COVID truthers like Michael Kornbluth from Scarsdale, New York?” Challah, thank you very much. Gutfeld adds, “But seriously Trump, can I call you straight up Trump now, with no Deep State Attorney General chaser working in your favor ever? The Gateway Pundit just published a piece that reports how thousands keep dying from this alleged MRNA therapy, with no studies available listing long-term side effects yet. So at this point, is it safe to safe say that this vaccine produces less immunity to COVID than wearing Biden’s diaper nappy on despite whiffs of Strawberry Shortcake embedded in between? Plus, did Trump, you don’t mind be talking about you in the 3rd person at this point right? Did Trump, ever experience pusher man remorse, after realizing how thousands have died from these vaccines when the vaccine for the Swine Flu was pulled after 50 dropped dead from it? Did Trump, ever attempt to divorce himself from his savior type ego and seriously consider releasing a press release on Rumble, which plows forward the idea of this overrated vaccine actually resulting in weakening our immune systems more than entry into the Dallas Buyers Club? You don’t mind these hard-hitting questions do you Trump? Because what our country needs more than ever is more tempered enthusiasm regarding your Operation Warp Speed delivering vaccine, not over the top hyperbole, like if Dr. Gnocchi were to break into Mara a Lago with the help of the Deep State to prick you with the dirty heroin needle used to take out Easy E, only for you to admit on Newsmax the following morning, “Do I have HIV yes, but my T-Cell Count numbers have never been stronger.” I’m not allowed to admit whether I think you won at Fox after after walking papers were served to Lou Dobbs Trump. I don’t want to get kicked off Twitter to, despite the Chinese resisting Wuhan lab investigations into the origin of the virus more than AquaFresh. I’m too marble mouthed short to be considered threatening enough to the military industrial complex. And the Deep State is too fixated on getting Tucker Carlon’s Vineyard Vines boxer briefs tangled up in a bunch and I’d like to keep it that way Trump. Maria Bartiromo had the balls to ask you about charges of election fraud on her show. But I’m also not married to a billionaire descendent financier Saul Steinberg, who controls the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. I told you I was comedian funny, Patton Oswalt, whenever I jack Michael Kornbluth’s a plus gemry for free, Challah, thank you every much. I agree Trump, I sound too colorless smarmy blah when I say, Challah compared to that big headed Heeb. Trump says, “Can I get in a word here Greg? Are you using Joe Biden’s Adderall supplier or what? Not that it makes Joe anymore focused on being any less of a liberty ruining creep. Joe Biden claiming, he cares about unity is like Hunter claiming he cares about who buys his blow paintings since he gave up blow for blow painting on a full-time basis allegedly.”
I hate to be a prick about it, but sending my younger brother a concerned text about discouraging him from getting the vaccine shot seems pointless since he took up snorting heroin. At the same time, you can’t inhale the vaccine either, so he’s got that working in his favor. But I’m the deplorable piece of shit for insisting my dad send him to rehab or he’ll die of a broken heart for ignoring my advice again like when I told him to invest in Google and Apple before Jobs invented the causal Friday look, all my himself, without the aid of his free love missing, Beatles spurning worker bee programmers because they only score some sweet nookie by paying for it at a massage parlor outside of Palo Alto among the older than Ming Dynasty happy enders, knowing they weren’t yanked of the boat yesterday. Challah, thank you very much.
COVID case numbers are more inflated than Ann Coulter’s warped sense of importance, since Lebron James, King of The Persecution Complex told Laura Ingraham to stick with being a less ghoulish Ann Colter for a living.
More kids died from suicide than from COVID last year because they don’t have the luxury of selling their souls to Apple, resulting in them looking less tormented worn in 8000 leather jackets as the new head of music curation like Trent Reznor did. In related news, Meghan Markle said she almost killed herself when she bunked up with scruffy Archie in their castle over in England. But Harry hasn’t shaved for years, you user minded bitch. Yeah, I don’t see Elton John coining a song in Meghan Markle’s honor either. B bit actresses who still act like ungrateful royal pains in the ass, aren’t getting stars on Hollywood Blvd dear. What would Elton John call a song about Meghan Markle exactly? Waiver Cunt in The Wind?
Masks on my kids on the bus aren’t needed. Masks on Boris Johnsons’ wife at the G-7 Summit are, woof, woof.
Whatever happened to children being our future? So, who the fuck cares if Joy Reid from MSNBC dies on air at all? Her 2 million followers on Twitter will find some other homophobic hack to get their fear mongering fix from by the time Chris Matthews yells at his new chesty yenta breath intern from Long Island, “Eating our Maddow, counts as your lunch break babe.”
If Fuck Fauci had the power, he’d order teachers to resume duck and cover drills the next time a student admits to catching an itchy esophagus from watching a Trump Rally on Fox News on YouTube for old times sake.
It’s my civic duty to get the vaccine. But at this point, Fauci warns, means less than In Fuck Face Fauci We Trust.
Why should I be so trusting of vaccines from big pharma knowing they’re immune to all forms of liability? That’s like entrusting my health to the federal government, since they did dick to restore publish trust in our civil servants in charge since the day they let Democracy die without even making a sigh heavy peep. No amount of Capital Building fencing can block out the piles of self-deflecting bullshit about peaceful Trump supporters being the real cause of threatening, intimidating, terrorizing behavior in our country after the cops let ANTIFA and BLM burn our cities to the ground in honor of Thugs Lives Matter Most. But it’s your choice to forsake the vaccine, just expect your employment prospects to be cut by eighty percent as we use a faulty COVID test by jamming an abortion hanger up your nose to see if you’ve developed a natural immunity yet before taking a vaccine that will strip you off all life shooting power all together. You know the same false positive COVID tests that continue to wreck the world economy and endless amount of immigrant run, family businesses, resulting in thousands of elderly dying alone, hooked up to sniffle aggravating ventilators. Who only killed themselves to make a living in this world only to have their final moments stripped away from them because MAGA country at large voted for the shit talking New Yorker who didn’t take any shit from deliberately divisive, soulless, sell out pieces of shit in the media. Unlike our current imposter President who left God knows how many more Americans to die in Afghanistan while handing over airport security to the Taliban because this open borders a president is a proud member of the rape enablement party like the all the other demonic scumbags in power who allow this endless shit show plow on. Fuck Joe Biden’s sham presidency. Fuck Joe Biden’s nappy mask. Fuck that marriage wrecker Jill Biden and her Shortcuts scarecrow hair due. And fuck the FBI for treating Hunter’s laptop like it contained nothing more than a choppy version of Breaking Bad for Funny or Die on IFC. Fuck being bound 2 bullshit. Because if the world doesn’t break free from this COVID fear driven shit show, the never ending shit show will never end. Kayne lives, Challah, thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
Dumb Drunk Daddy
I say, “Matilda, tell me about the Bath Bomb mama got you last night for
Hanukkah. She says, “It’s almond winter mint.” I say, “Sounds like a coffee drink
Michelle Obama strong armed Starbucks to make for Kwanza.”
I support defunding the United Nations. They only exist to give Hamas a veneer
of diplomatic stature like Kamala Harris in a Burka made from Ann Taylor.
The Left today has less use for proud practicing Jews than abortion on
demand because nobody would get smoochy with Booger Face Behar disciples without
a nappy mask on to puke up their pro-Antifa innards 1st.
Leftist Jews today reject everything today Jewish. Why else would they rush to
tat up their arms to rock the Lena Dunham arm flapper look for all it’s worth?
And you wonder why New York birth rates have sunk into China rat ruining
earth.
Mocking full of themselves, fully vaccinated dicks from my Generation X, who got an itchy esophagus from COVID, who still think Mr. Groper won by a hair, who had no problem with the Democrats using mail in voting to jack an election to hide their crimes
against humanity is more than kosher in my book.
They moan, “I can’t believe I got COVID. I’m vaccinated for Christ’s sake.
But you’re still the Mongoloid Moron for trusting your natural immunity over
Dr. Gnocchi, Obama Be Good and Nancy Denture Breath Pelos, who have less use
for lockdown-imposed rules than consciousness clearing confession.”
More pretentious moans of despair continue.
“How could I get COVID after being fully vaccinated?”
“Because you’re a glamorized lab rat, immune to self-corrective inspection like
your baby boomer resister parents, because insufferable, wholly destructive, baby
boomer arrogance never dies. And you’re the delusional, a plus narcissist who
thinks the real America kicked off Twitter already, gives a flying shit about your opinion’s inflated sense of self-worth since you’ve done dick to speak out against censorship and
silencing of any pro-self-defense sentiment since your jerkoff media pretended, they acted in good faith by calling a child rapist released from the loony bin in Kenosha as a peaceful, victimized protestor who only punctured his victim’s age of innocence with guided meditation music on Amazon music, indefensible pricks.”
Kurt Vonnegut was right; the US media is the one to blame for dividing everyone
into either a liberal or a conservative. Why can’t someone just launch a Burning
Mask Party already? That’s right, black men have been wearing a masks for
years according to Dave Chappelle. Yeah, Kamala, the Ugandan Giant wore one in character from 84 to 86, but that’s it. We all know Kamala Harris was a useless cackling
whore before she was assigned border visitation duty to see if the Donkey show is
keeping the dreamer alive in us all. Unmasking Kayne as an opportunistic showboat
fame whore didn’t require a tremendous leap of faith either. So, Drake accused the infallible Kayne West of writing strictly secular rap music these days. Fucking own it Kayne. Don’t sling me shit like how Bound 2 You, was secular music, when you banged Kim on the sink, while getting some gunk on her mink. Unless you’re framing Kim Kardashian in
your eyes as top of the Porcupine Persian Puss chain, who could turn
your prick into wine to pour over Taylor Swift’s country ass white dress at the
MTV music awards because only Beyonce can get away with wearing ray of light white
after Labor Day in St. Barts.
I can’t wait to give up all forms of overpriced wine and IPAs for the year.
So, I could feel like a less bloated, blowhard hobbit hipster straining to
give any bangable woman sustained stiffage based on their Grateful Dead and Company
shirts and Dancing Bear masks since everyday became mask up Sharia Law appreciation
day. Without those freedom loving deplorable Dead Heads making a peep about the fascist Democrats hacks in charge of these draconian policies otherwise. What a depressingly dreary, fake news patriots unmasking it’s been. But Hillary doesn’t have evil energy like Trump, Carlos Santana? But Hillary is the best-selling voodoo doll in Haiti, year after year. Plus, I don’t need to drop acid in this instance, to see who’s full of shit Carlos.
Did you know you can reverse all form of brain damage impairment by refraining from alcohol for one whole year? You experience improved memory and better
executive reasoning for a degenerate Jew like myself, with a long, shameful
history of alcoholic bumps into furniture in the middle of the night after
pissing himself while passed out in his daughter’s bedroom prior because he
possesses no feel for measured pounding pace of Kentucky bourbon on the 1st night of Hanukkah, that he’s only been planning for all year, whatsoever.
87,000 people die each year from Alcohol overdosing. I must have 87,000
lives then. Because I’ve drank enough bourbon one winter in my parent’s attic
with my wife to make Charles Bukowski feel like a lightweight pussy poet,
guilty of excessive hyperbole like Hitler’s claim to be Marc Chagall in the
making despite never leaving you with a magical dreamy, impressionistic
impression.
Hanukkah Challah Day Joke:
A Cardinal’s finishing line on altar boys next in line.
“It’s all holy meat juice to you kid.”
Lenny Bruce Lives.
Hannukah Challah Day, Challah.
My brother’s response to this joke was a plug for an old school Public Enemy
video. He says, “Despite your political affiliation. I know you can still appreciate
some old school hip hop.” I say, “Why, because Public Enemy predates the
Thugs Lives Matters Most protests during last year’s Summer of Love? I should still
love Public Enemy because the Jewish Forward insists on framing Professor Griff
as a “victim”, whose career was gunned down by the Jewish Mafia over his comments
about all the Jews controlling the slave trade at the height of Public Enemy’s
popularity despite Jews heading up the Holocaust being banned from land ownership
in Europe while being stripped of any incentive to love thyself as thy neighbor,
when you’re surrounded by nations of mini-Hitler’s mouseketeers. Why would I listen to Public Enemy after my best friend’s mother claimed I looked like Elvis growing up as a kid? It feels good to be compared to rock royalty while your best friend’s mom drools at the prospect of unleashing your hound dog side inside of her for some totally worth it rib rattling, jail house bound rock of her own. Professor Griff is a fucking moron. Calling Jill
Biden, Dr. Biden, doesn’t make her any less of a lying, trashy, small-town ho, who
never met a brush she liked for Scarecrow Appreciation Month. Professor Griff
accused the Jews of controlling the entire drug trade to Rolling Stone. I’m positive
Frank Lucas would have an issue with that white supremacist blanketed assertion.
If you saw the movie American Gangster, you know Denzel’s character believes, “Whatever those dumb mooks can do to poison my community, I can do better. Just wait until the Saints of Newark comes out motherfucker.”
How does Farrakhan celebrate Holocaust Remembrance Day? Spray Jard Kushner’s
Twitter feed with nothing but termite emoji’s, from dawn till night, but throw
in the hashtag, but Natalie Portman is alright.
New theory behind my compressed nerve: Losing my nerve to offend LinkedIn by
posting more comedy records bound to keep me out of Corporate America forever.
Future father wisdom 1st time Dads can look forward to on text conversation threads from their friends in the same boat already.
Increased wiggle room can be a deflating experience.
Unlike Glue Guns, your sweaty sex period won’t stick.
No looking back once mama’s semi-tight snatch of yesteryear tears apart at
the seams.
You won’t know whether you’re floating in space or landing on an aircraft carrier
museum strip in Chelsea Piers, unable to achieve blast off without fantasizing about
new Bermuda Triangle’s to have your super soaker disappear in.
Give hell hole sex a chance, for a tighter topping experience all around.
2 kids later, Goose would rather spike Wilson half naked around other sweaty
slick Top Gun gunners, instead of taking another nosedive headfirst into Meg Ryan’s
sunny shine snatch. Because sex with Meg Ryan after 2 kids resembles playing musical
triangles in the high school band as you flail your metal rod stick against Tom
Hank’s romantic movie library collection stuffed inside.
Before you know it, your 10-year-old daughter gets breast buds. And you get
mad at your wife yelling, “Why haven’t yours sprouted yet.”
But you can’t get mad at your wife for converting a gingerbread house into
a tricked -out Hanukkah blue one with a Star of David out front for the 3rd
night of Hanukkah. The only thing missing on front door was a sign that said, “No
Liberal Jews allowed, who think Farrakhan’s admirers in Public Enemy are held back
from demonizing Jews any more than Deshawn Jackson only needing to be properly reeducated on Hitler. You know, Obama’s most admired leader according to the Source Magazine. Obama would give Hitler 5 mics if he could. I’m not even exaggerating. Obama’s the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Mass extermination, of all his nosy pestering journalist critics, who dared to criticize his billion-dollar nuke time out deal with Iran would be a gas. Dumb Drunk Daddy, no more, no more. Aerosmith lives, Hanukah Challah Day, Challah. Thank you very much.
Michael Kornbluth
The Dishonorable Front
Best way for Obama’s half-brother to downplay his Terrorist ties to the Muslim Brotherhood. Ditch the Islamic head cap for a MAGA hat during a Facebook livestream on the 4th of July, while blasting the Kayne West portion of Black Republicans in the background. Before wishing Soccer Mom Nation, a Happy 4th, immune from low-income housing from radicalized Sunni refuges from Somalia like Minnesota did for congressional rep Baby Face Omar gonna work it out. Then, Malik, no I wasn’t the swing forward star from St. Johns, Obama, says, “Kenyan lives don’t matter, unless you’re Barack Obama, Christians decapitated by ISIS excluded. But you got to give Barack props for rebranding ISIS, ISIL, so they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times during March Madness. That’s an Obama accomplishment for you Tucker, that boasts thousands of likes under the Muslim Brotherhood fan page on LinkedIn. And if my half-brother is such a baller at basketball Tucker, then why did Barack ride the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii?”
You ever get a LinkedIn connection request from an impossible to annunciate Arabic name which you’re only uncomfortable with because their profile shot is a headless one?
You don’t want to be accused of Islamophobia, so you’re forced to feel like an asshole for questioning whether this a warning shot from the Muslim Brotherhood for spreading disinformation on your WordPress comedy blog about Public Enemy and The Bomb Squad being bigger Elvis haters than lovers of Farrakhan’s use of poetry slam intended rhyme.
“I’m not an anti-Semite. I’m anti-Termite”, is an ok turn of phrase to try out at an oxygen bar open mike in the valley within the stench laden bowls of North Hollywood. But it’s no, “Emancipate our minds from mental slavery.” Or the demonic Jew in charge of CNN will praise ANTIFA for their unheralded bravery. Farrakhan isn’t my number one pick for prophets above Bob Marley on Ranker is all I’m saying. Although I’m positive Snoop Dog would disagree, despite Wine Spectator claiming, “Snoops’ Cabernet tastes like mouth wash used in porn hood hell.”
Did you know Hitler was born on the pot smoking holiday 4/20? I haven’t felt this duped by the satanic Jews in charge of green lighting Cheech and Chong films since they allowed Sly Stallone to sneak Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.
Has Don Lemon interviewed Ziggy Marley on 420 yet to discuss the plunging birthrates in NYC because of Lena Dunham’s encouraged arm fat flapper look on Instagram? Don Lemon asks, “How did your dad have so many kids Ziggy? Doesn’t ganja drain your ball sack dry? Ziggy Marley says with an extra lit powered grin, “Fake News Man.”
Michael Kornbluth
Reimagining Old Testament God
Antisemitism and Florida are so hot right now.
The UN just passed a resolution to deny all Jewish ancestry connection to Temple Mount by calling it Haram esh-Sharif, which in Arabic means, “King Solomon didn’t build shit”, despite remnants of the Western Wall still standing. And there being archeological evidence of lamb skin condoms buried deep under the 1st Temple used by King Solomon with the Queen of Sheeba, so he could last longer, the next time she flashed her bushy legs under the influence of some primo Ethiopian weed, which was never confused with dirt sprayed week from the Boogie down Bronx that tastes like Windex.
What would you consider more suicidal behavior? Accusing the founding father of Islam of cultural appropriation on the BBC for hijacking the great of Mosque of Mecca despite Abraham and Ishmael building it. Or becoming known as a Dome of Rock Truther Blogger Comedian on Real Time with Bill Maher to take heat off Salmon Rushdie by comparing the UN’s attempt to rebrand the Temple Mount as a Muslim only holy site to Mr. Roger’s Land of Neighborhood Make Believe. Dome of Rock Truther Blogger Comedian reveals his last words on Real Time with Ball Maher, ” A 2-state solution is impossible if Hamas keeps fucking. The Dome of Rock is also a 3-minute walk from the Western Wall. So, claiming ancestral connection to the original resting place that housed the 1st great Temple of Solomon is a stretch Bill, like Hillary claiming all her of destroyed emails under subpoena were yoga related while the rest detailed funeral arrangements in the woods if Chelsea’s finance decided to increase his asking price at the last sec. I also don’t recall Drago popping out of my voting booth, only to threaten me with real life hate speech such as, “Vote for Trump or I’ll break you. Russian Collusion isn’t why Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lost to Trump. Hillary lost, because she’s an unhuggable cunt, who failed to sell 70 million branded racists on why Baby Boomer Mom knows best. Baby Boomer Arrogance never dies. I’m still waiting for that bumper sticker Bill. But Trump has ties to Russia, no shit, what mail order bride owner doesn’t it? Cut me off any time before the Muslim Brotherhood does Bill.”
Bill Maher says, “You’re growing on me like Dexter on Showtime although I don’t see you getting renewed for 7 more seasons. I wouldn’t want to be your neighbor in Vencie, California, late at night, knowing how many hired loons are available to cancel you prematurely from breathing since my cherished southern California of yesterday became a giant Tent City sponsored by REI.”
Suicidal Comedian throws in some final last words, “But Bill, I forgot to promote my new comedy record, “Not Kosher Baby.” The original record cover concept was a picture of my 4-Year-Old-Son Chosen Curls Was Bound Too Woo in the process of licking Finn’s butt from the new woke Star Wars franchise. My son does share my DNA, so he’s bound to take a dip into the dark side eventually. My son licking Finn’s butt was my son’s idea actually. I don’t want to you think I’m grooming future fluffers for the Rebellion. Son even said, “Finn being a black guy makes it funnier.” I said, “I agree. Licking the Asian girl’s butt who plays the Rebel Mechanic wouldn’t work because I don’t see her being popular enough of a character to warrant a giant doll size action figure on her behalf either. Although the last image we settled on for the record cover was my son blocking his face with an old school Playboy magazine while holding up a playmate centerfold from the 2nd do over Suzanne Sommer issue that I got myself or Hanukkah. Next to Chosen Curl’s is son is his new Teddy Bear, who’s sporting an orange foam roller between his legs. In the end, my son and I decided to use the Teddy Bear foam roller hardon pic instead of the one catching my son in the middle of licking Finn’s butt. Between pictures, my son knocks over the orange foam roller with the Playboy magazine and I make him when I said, “You knocked over his penis.” But yeah, so we went with the orange foam roller boner pic, because we didn’t want the butt licking one to do give the Podesta brother’s any funny ideas. And don’t act coy Bill. Google Tony Podesta artwork. There’s enough pedo installation artwork on fundraising walls for the DNC to make Marilyn Manson blush. At the same time Bill, going with the record cover of my gorgeous son licking Finn’s butt for 45th Comedy Record, Not Kosher Baby would be innocuous, compared to sicko states like California forcing kids to take COVID vaccine shots to attend Kindergarten like they’re grown-up Billy Madison’s who are wastes of life to begin with. The only long-term side-effects these vaccines offer is a false sense of security or a fake news return to normalcy because they work less than Hunter does on his Blow Painting since he gave up blow in townie bars in Wilmington, Delaware, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall. And China loves open borders Joe, because Chinese made fentanyl smuggled across our southern border has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram. Pregnant moms getting stabbed are causing an increase in stillbirth babies. Vaccinated mothers are giving birth to kids with cardiac problems out of the womb. Grown healthy dads at 42 have been reported to drop dead of heart attacks on the vaccination room floors seconds later. But I’m supposed to trust Dr. Fauci who’s suppressed effective early-stage treatments like hydroxychloroquine to treat an itchy esophagus for anyone under 70, who never condemned Cuomo for forcing elderly homes to house infected COVID patients after Trump shipped in hospital beds for needed spacing, that got less touches than a Bible at Barry’s favorite bathhouse colony in Provincetown. But my mom wants me to get stabbed with the vax before visiting her and my dad in Arizona for Christmas before threatening to issue the take-away invite. Mom tries to pre-close me on the phone with, “I don’t ask much of you.” And I’m thinking, “Experimenting with the most dangerous vaccine of all time, which a preponderance of PHD’s have resisted taking, so you can steal my free mind and warrior soul away is a pretty big ask mom. Your side already stole an election and got away with it. All of this drawn out COVID theater way past its expiration date, where all the evolved ones pretend to care about the health of their neighbor when most diehard leftists want all Trump voters dead already is a serially unfunny comedy, that’s offering no comedic relief in sight. Unless Mike Dikta becomes the new president of the CDC and calls masks a worst prevent defense than pissing off Walter Payton by calling him a pretty boy in headbands. I know you don’t have kids Bill. But I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to see their kids masked up off the bus looking like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain. But the masks work. Woke bloke please. Masks work less than Melo running the Triangle Offense. Why hasn’t Melo become the spokesperson for Tampax Tampons yet? Name another NBA lifer responsible for stopping so much flowage. And doctors who refuse to treat unvaccinated patients aren’t doctors anymore. They’re wannabe George Clooney’s in stethoscopes who belong in Straight Jackets for acting like COVID depresses your immune system more than backend entry into the Dallas Buyer’s Club. Last, I don’t like interfaith families Bill. Not that my wife gives me a choice in the matter. The only thing I hate more than my kids being used as extras like the kids from Pink Floyd the Wall to feed the media manipulated narrative behind vaccinated lives mattering the most, are fucking Gnomes Bill. Gnomes look like Santa’s stoner slacker offspring in Succession. I had to give up taking edibles before I thought my daughter was asleep already because I’d feel like a mongoloid moron trying to answer her super deep questions on the stuff. She’d ask, “So daddy, if God created the universe. Then, who created God. I said, “God went back in time in a Time Machine, made my Elon Musk.” Daughter says, “That’s a real convincing explanation Daddy. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.”
Michael Kornbluth
Do It All Dad Year Podcast Blog 