When The Shredder Frets

Vinnie Boom Boom Burrata kissed his Fender Stratocaster more than his ex-wife. In his ex-wife’s defense, she was a self-conscious kisser on pure MDMA. Plus, nothing made Vinne Boom Boom Burrata smile more inside than making his Fender Stratocaster cry. Big tits get played out on the same wife compared to copping endless slides down your electrified shaft, which Vinnie could make come to life like no other. BB King had Lucille and Vinne Boom Boom Burrata had Amanda, named after his favorite power ballad by Boston who also wrote his 2nd favorite song ever, A Man I’ll Never Be, which reminded him of his dear Dad who died in his arms from fucking Gum cancer, despite giving up dip for Big League Chew ages ago.

Vinnie’s Dad, Roberto, hailed from a fine line of guitar makers in San Marzano Italy known for its olive farms and its fertile breeding ground of Ferrari red glimmery tomatoes that were sweet enough to pop in your mouth off the vine as if they were mother earth’s answer to organic nerd dispensers. After getting his strumming finger cut off by a local mob boss Domnick De-Gutter Grasi, for refusing to pay the protection money for his acoustic guitar making store for European royalty with plenty of free time on their hands to strum away the midday nappy booze under the sun. Because of that, Vinnie was forced to leave Italy for America and move in with his older brother in Staten Island who was an Italian Butcher known for his 100 Year Prosciutto curing hall beneath his shop on Arthur Kill Road.

Roberto became known as the 9 fingered butcher of Staten Island, who’d flip off the spoiled mafia offspring 6 degrees separated from the Gotti family whenever they’d drop by the shop expecting non-stop access to his primo aged pork samplings below the store, which sold for thousands per pound on the open market. Still, Roberto never lost his love of guitar creation and swore to God he’d make a Barolo wine red one for his 1st and only son Vitto Boom Boom Burrata to ensure he didn’t let the Italian Mafia kill off his family line’s gift of heart strumming serenades that put our heart’s together with our maker in one seemingly beautiful harmony.

But now Roberto’s only son, Vinnie Boom Boom Burrata, who was his best friend till the end can’t play his cherished Fender Stratocaster without crying his eyes out for his dearly departed Dad. Vinnie quit his band Shredder after they signed a recording contract with a new upstart record label Wailing Wall of Metal Records, based on the operatic, heart tingly instrumental guitar solo song, Roberto’s Son Shreds. Vinnie’s finger tapping work on Roberto’s Son Shreds was described by Guitar World as, “Getting finger blasted by Eddie Van Halen on your wedding night great.”

Little did Vinnie know, his biggest fan was a kid known on YouTube as Hardcore Hunga Rocks, who was considered pound for pound the greatest little drummer pounder prodigy since Buddy Rich headlined his own Bat Mitzvah at 10, like a young Cameron Crowe on the sticks from Almost Famous.

Hardcore Hunga Rocks tracks down his favorite shredder of all time in hopes of joining forces to make the greatest pop rock metal record Boston never made in the home recording studio Vinnie’s Dad had built for him before he was born to become the shredding beast of the six string that he could never be since pops fell in love with Led Zepplin and Jimmy Page’s masterful slide guitar work on In My Time of Dying.

Hardcore Hunga Rocks knocks on Vinnie’s door with such force, he knocks the entire door off its hinges in the process. Vinnie, a silky, long haired black stallion emerges from his Electric Playland Studio with a cigarette in hand and says, “Who invited you the fuck in?” Hardcore Hunga Rocks springs up from the marble floor and says, “How the fuck can you afford all marble floors? Your record advance from could’ve been that big? Besides, didn’t you have to give that record advance back after you quit the band to take care of your dad?” Vinnie takes a quizzical puff from his Camel Extra wide and says, “Your Hardcore Hunga Rocks. I’ve seen your drum solos on YouTube. I’ve never heard anyone smash the drums with harder edge than you kid. You should call your band Aftershock for Christ’s sake. Hardcore Hunga Rock says, “I’m not in a band, but I would want to form a supergroup with you. If Jack White and his fake news sister can do it, we can to. Make out with your guitar all you want. In fact, I was thinking we can make a video spoof of the November Rain video and have you walk down the aisle with your cherished Fender Stratocaster while doing a remake of the serially underrated cult classic, Till Death To Us Part by White Lion.”

Vinnie says, “Shit that’s my favorite song after A Man I’ll Never Be.” So, you want to join forces to become a super White Lion cover group?” Hardcore Hunga Rocks says, “When the Shredder Frets has a beautiful tonal ring to it already. Weird Al, I fucked him, I can’t take no more. My Dad was a huge Dice fan to.” Vinnie laughs for the 1st time in years as an incredible warm crash of sea calm washes over him and says, “Fuck Boston and Pete Davidson, let’s make Staten Island stand for something stand out special more than Russian gangsters sipping on espresso drinks in 25th Hour. I sold plenty of blow in the eighties, which paid for my marble laden home despite never touching the stuff. Hunter Biden was the gift that kept on giving my freshman year at Georgetown University.”

Michael 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

Fly Nuts Trap

Jeff Goldblum explaining Chaos Theory to Jimmy Fallon. Humanizing Trumpy Poo on your show by rubbing his flop top hair like he’s the Great Dane you never had.”

Fallon gets defensive for once in his endlessly charmed, borderline edgeless, frictionless life.

Had no idea the bit would blow up in our face, when a real-life skinhead never emerged.

Michael Kornbluth

Gilbert The Great

Every Carlin bit: Everything you were taught was bullshit. Plus, your dad doesn’t have a monopoly on the distant dad prick market. I’ll take your dad’s collapsed shoulders and torso while going in for a hug over an Irish kiss from Dad despite winning top toast at Toastmasters International before blowing his paycheck on Bushmills 20-year Irish Whiskey at the bar soon after.

“Toasting is for fat, drunk, Irish losers and bloated, blowhard Kennedy’s on speedboats off the coast Hyannis Port cruising for late night date chow rendezvous with Great Whites.”

These days, I can’t tell whether I like to hear any standup comedy besides my own material after performing more sheets of Comedy Gold on my Pause Daddy Podcast for free. I try. Robert Klein, I’m an annoying Jew who should be teaching American History at Hunter College for a living. Paula Poundstone is fine, if you want to hear her badger an audience for 5 hours about what they do for a living besides long for Fashion Police on Entertainment Television in her presence before Kelly Osbourne teamed up with Trans Chucky and ruined the show’s legacy forever.

Now, watching Gilbert Gotfried make an audience cringe and laugh whole heartedly at the same time never disappoints like the period out from having to bang your wife on her birthday again. A personal favorite bit by Gilbert the Great was telling a crowd at the Montreal Comedy Festival about learning how John Phillips from the Mama’s and Papa’s used to climb up to his daughter’s bunk bed and nail her for years. Then, Gilbert The Great says, “I can’t even get my daughter to hold my hand while crossing the street. All I want her to know is that her Barbie Dreamhouse didn’t pay for itself.” Now this a shining example of uprooting somber and how comedy possesses the power to make flawless light from unfathomable abhorrence in this world by using his slight case of personal dejection in the service of getting a laugh for the greater good. Just like me adding, “So that’s why in the song California Dreaming when dad gets on his knees and pretends to pray, he’s just screaming, holy fucking Christ, I can’t bang my Lolita blues away on a Winter’s Day.” United we laugh. Gilbert The Great proved it every day. Thank you, Gilbert The Great, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Bob Saget Lives

Growing up, my father called me a waste of height because the highlight of my high school basketball career was scoring a whole 10 points against an all-Japanese team. Scoring at will wasn’t a stretch. Every time I drove to the hoop, their players ran away from me like frightened movie extras in a Godzilla film. But instead of saying, “Look Godzilla, they’d say, “Look, Hugh Grant on stilts.”

I wish Lavar Ball was my substitute coach dad growing up because he’d ensure I lost my virginity before my younger brother did. Then, I’d strut down the court with more big pimping Jay Z ease. And my substitute coach dad LaVar Ball wouldn’t have to worry about me shaming the baller brand name for prancing down the basketball court on my tippy toes, looking like I was sporting high heels, instead of high tops while yelling, “We’re trying to sell Baller-Wear son, not Jimmy Choo’s.”

Lavar Ball wouldn’t let my younger brother lose his virginity before me. Lavar Ball would get Rihanna to pop my cherry 1st by offering her future participation profit points in Baller Wear, so I’d feel like a big baller on the rise inside. But 1st, Lavar Ball would throw me house parties and only invite stuck-up Jenny from the block. 2 seconds in the party LaVar Ball yells, “The Yoo-hoo Bottle doesn’t spin itself, bitch.”

LaVar Ball as my substitute coach dad wouldn’t actively depreciate my star player potential on draft day to snag higher caliber players and say, “Let’s be honest folks, my son is soft. I’m not talking regular soft, he’s more like Snuggles, 3000 thread count type soft. My son is a perpetual nervous wreck. He jams his fingers while struggling with the can opener. His only go-to move is a stationary, hurried, half formed hook shot that puts less fear into opposing defenders than an all-Japanese team who think the pic and roll means their choice of fish.”

But at least I can question my dad’s predictive prowess and talent assessment ability within the right, told you so authority today after I told him to invest in Google, bet him Trumpy Poo would win and that I’d write for TV one day, which I did. Does questioning my father’s talent assessment abilities count as disrespecting thy father, just because he already fears my 1st born son being a superior athlete compared to his defective offspring in comparison? Granted, I was shipped off to an all-Jewish sleepaway camp for 7 years and was the 2nd worst athlete after the Shieks son from Great Neck. Plus, my younger brother makes Hunter Biden come off a slacker underachiever in comparison. Still, it would’ve been nice to hear pops make a favorite forecast prediction on the behalf off his grandson after I talked about his 1st basketball practice. Instead, all I heard was, “You’ll learn soon enough if he’s an “average talent” or not. I said, “Your boy Biden’s talent was never under question pops because he never had any to begin with. And if Obama’s such as baller, then why did he ride the bench at all Asian private school in Hawaii.”

I’ll just follow Jimmy Valvano’s advice when he said, “My father gave me the greatest gift in the world, he believed in me.” Oh yeah, I also told my dad these booster shots are less secure than Joy Behar retaining the job as the new Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

RIP Bob Saget. Dirty Work was pure hilarity from start to finish. Wish I could’ve opened for you instead of B.J Novak. I’ve met Lobotomy’s with more sparkly personalities remaining. Say hello to Greg Giraldo for me and tell him that the roasts suck without him. Although in comedy heaven, I’m sure Giraldo already busted your balls and said, “Of course I die in a hotel in New Jersey while you died in a Ritz Carlton in Orlando. Look on the bright side, at least you got to die in style Bob.”

Michael Kornbluth

Reimagining Old Testament God

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.

Antisemitism and Florida are so hot right now.

What would you consider more suicidal behavior? Accusing the founding father of Islam of cultural appropriation on the BBC for hijacking the great 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 Salman 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 Bill. 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 of her 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 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 picture concept was my 4-Year-Old-Son going in to lick 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 being pictured licking Finn’s butt was my son’s idea actually. I don’t want you to 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 Somers issue that I got myself for Hanukkah for a Do It All Dad treat. Next to my son in this pic 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 laugh longtime 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 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 those 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 my 45th Comedy Record this year alone, Not Kosher Baby is innocuous behavior, 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 doing blow in townie bars in Wilmington, Delaware the night before Thanksgiving, 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

Stain Of Shame

Signs your gay.

When you’re a married man who feels competitive with Suzanne Somers.

You buy her old Playboy spread for Hanukkah primarily to pump for comedic gold material for all it’s worth.

Someone on YouTube makes a comment about her looking like a haggard looking tranny, which gives you a mildly surging stiffy in the process.

You take a virtual tour of her former fuck pad palace shared with her manager husband of 50 years in Palm Springs and think, “It’s all gaudy, heavy, animal print clutter like Trump Tower on Safari.”

The moment you learn Suzanne Somers left Threes Company to become a nightclub entertainer in Vegas, you become a bitchy Twitter twat, feeling like a wannabe Rockette with bunions.

Once you learn how Suzanne Somers is in talks to star in a reality show with her husband about their amazing sex life 50 years later. All can you think is, “Who’s the target audience? Baby Boomers taking a load off after soaking up Uni Brow Maddow’s spewing’s about money shot tax return reveals? Which give blue balled diehard Democrats left a S&M branded name.

You contemplate buying a Thigh Master but don’t feel completely gay in the process while briefly indulging in the fantasy of burying your head between her stretchy, moisty snatch in between reps.  Then, you think, “I wouldn’t mind eating through Suzanne Somers spandex sweats to suck up a mouthful of sweaty, scrumptious snatch pie eight days a week.”

You obsess over Suzanne Somers bitching about how hurt Suzanne Sommers was from her 1st Playboy shoot. How did the photographer screw over Suzanne so bad? After declining his advances, did the Photographer get Suzanne back by photoshopping the moles of his English mother-in-law’s neck on to her previously gold ray spewing clit?

You fixate on the Playboy journalist for never questioning Suzanne’s alleged discomfort around her son discovering naked pictures of Mommy 10 years later? Positive Suzanne lost sleep over it like wanting to change places with John Ritter after Threes Company and beyond. I’d ask, “Who gives a shit about what your son thinks? According to Freud, if your son wanted to titty blast your eyes wide shut, you would’ve caught him licking your Thigh Masters clean already. And cut the bullshit Suzanne. Claiming Suzanne Somers cares about her son’s feelings about being raised by the most inhalable mom in Palm Springs is like Larry from Threes Company claiming to care if your replacement was still fuckable enough to cum in with a condom on by Quagmire’s standards during the latest summertime air show at Stewart Airport.”

You remain competitive with Suzanne Somers and start brainstorming products you can become a spokesperson for that will outsell the Thigh Master after you become a famous comedian one day like hot yoga naked classes for recent divorces called Spread Eagles.  

Suzanne Somers calling her husband the Johnny Carson of Canada for 2 years get’s your panties in a bunch, despite that claim not meaning much, considering the fact he never competed against Tom Green for Dice’s funny man respect on the Apprentice.

Suzanne Somers didn’t think the pictures of her 1st Playboy spread were very flattering. Get over yourself Suzanne. Lois Lane’s skeletal shape after Superman blasts through her bust with his X-Ray Vision you’re not.

How did Suzanne Somers nightclub act in Vegas break all attendance records, second only to Elvis? By singing Raining Men while prancing around on stage to an umbrella resembling her stretched out snatch? I’d schlep that umbrella to work every day. It would be a good way to create breathing room on the subway stop at Christopher Street down the block from the famed gay bar known throughout the underground gay world as the Cubby Bar Inn.

I’m not gay about those blown-up lips on Suzzane Somers. I wouldn’t mind her mouth to be my permanent resting place before my rocket launch blasts eventually flat lined to death.

I can’t be too gay if I’m pro pepperoni size nips. You can also argue, once a size queen, always a size queen.

Would a straight gay contemplate show names for Suzanne Somers pool side reality show in the works, co-hosted by her leering, older than Yiddish husband? Who’s constantly seen in pictures trying to squeeze the tits out of her chest as his Canadian Canuck cock rages against the dying of his light?  Similar to any other reality show showcasing highly bangable MILFS who boast tits that have withstood the erosions of time better than most, they might as well rename all these reality showoff shows, “Good luck keeping up with my orgasm count bitch.”

Suzanne Somers was embarrassed by her 1st Playboy spread. Try scrubbing off the stench of degenerate drunkenness off your soul after you wake up in your daughter’s bed after the 1st night of Hanukkah drenched in your own pee, fully clothed thank God. Been off the beer, wine and bourbon ever since. Don’t knock the stain of shame bitch. It helps us rise to the occasion to avoid more lushy powered playtime consideration.

Michael Kornbluth

Female Maccabe Power

Amazon sucks. You can’t find the Hebrew Hammer on Amazon Prime, but Mein Kamph is available on your Kindle, which is 725 pages of hate speech in a row.

Practicing kindness at Banana Republic.

Do you know where that sweater was made?

It says on the tag.

You’re making it hard for me to practice kindness babe.

Do you sell ball gags made in China to?

I want my daughter to run for class president under the new Burning Mask Party.

Name a kinder act to usher in more smile rich tomorrows besides the FCC pulling the broadcast license for The View?

As your next class president, I will host our school’s 1st ever Burning Mask Party.

Pinko baby boomers burned bras, we burn masks.

You support masks mandates at school baby boomer grandma.

Too bad they don’t provide immunity from Mr. Groper sniffing your granddaughter like ground up Ritalin.

Boomer grandparents think the CDC, the WHO and Dr. Gnocchi know best.

What’s new? Baby Boomer Arrogance never dies.

Meanwhile, more kids died in South Central this year from Vape Pens than those who who called out sick from an itchy esophagus.

You want to talk child safety? Then, why are drug cartels allowed to push fentanyl through our southern border freely? Which has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

And the FBI can’t accuse us of being domestic terrorists.

Because we don’t pledge our allegiance to ANTIFA.

Ok, bad example.

I forgot.

ANTIFA are burn victims, who never outgrew their pyro phase in elementary school.

Plastic masks will take 450 years to decompose and completely disappear from our environment? Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi continues to defy the odds unfortunately.

We shouldn’t be forced to wear these masks anymore like Michael’s Jackson’s kids on holiday in Baharain.

Kindness is believing someone gives a shit about putting an end to this never-ending shit show.

And that person is me.

No more masks.

They’ll budge.

Our teacher’s cushy pensions are riding on it.

Joan of Arc wouldn’t put up this shit.

And neither should you.

I’m your Maccabee.

Matilda Rose Kornbluth.

The mask burning party revolution starts today.

Happy Hanukkah Challah Day!

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Last Licks Lasting

How do you fuck with your Atheist wife? Be serious about expressing your desire to adopt a kid with Down Syndrome. But they can die at 40 from cancer. Athletes are dying from the clot shot in their twenties now. So, 40 is the new 90 really babe. Plus, your username on the Peloton is Flowers and Babies. Shouldn’t all kids enveloped in our circle of love in our comedy estate home come up roses in your eyes? You work in the NICU checking for vital signs. All I check for is for retweets. You want me to prove I’m not an A Plus Narcissist and break the curse of my family tradition. Then this is it. Huey Lewis and the News live, Challah. Thank you very much. Although leave it to Uncle John, AKA Sir Snort A Lot to contaminate our air of holiness at home, the one time he offers our adopted son with Down Syndrome some blow and says, “You don’t always have to be down kid.” But who’s going to look after him? You still don’t have a job. He’ll help me sell my new gum invention Hop-O-Rama Chew. Who’s going to say no to a kid with Down Syndrome? What, I want to disrupt the job market for young adults with Down Syndrome. Most kids with Down Syndrome are highly creative. Plus, they possess highly developed senses of humor like Phil Rosenthal’s cousin in Somebody Feed Phil or the guy in Something About Mary. And who could resist our adopted kid with Down Syndrome going to door to door in Brooklyn selling Hop flavored gum to overweight Stay At Home hipster dads who identify more with Lena Dunham since she morphed into the Hunchback of Bushwick during Restaurant Week? We can call him Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, which gives him immediate hipster cred after he introduces himself and some immediate breathing room to pitch. I want to out Hipster the shit out of these guys. Door to door sales would do wonders for this kid’s self-esteem. At the same time, nobody is slamming a door on a kid’s face with Down Syndrome, especially if he’s blowing the biggest bubble, you’ve ever seen while holding up tape recorder that plays our pre-recorded radio jingle for Hop-O-Roma Chew. Blow your blues with away some Hop-O-Rama Chew. Our bubbles are easy to blow. Even kids with Down Syndrome can blow big bubbles while chewing on a daily nugget of wisdom wrapped inside each burst of bright-eyed flavor inside.  Hop-O-Rama Swami says, “Beer Bellies give self-love a bad name. And Sarah Palin is better than you. So, add some extra bounce to your step with some Hop-O-Rama Chew.”

“Also, your best friend Sara will feel like a more self-involved narcissist for only having one kid versus our 3 plus one adopted one with Down Syndrome. And our 4th kid being an adopted one with Down Syndrome would really piss my parents off. Just think of what a big deal they made about putting up a pool fence. But I don’t view a kid with Down Syndrome as an eye sore but as angel light and their laughs are the purest. Plus, when a kid with Down Syndrome smiles it could light up a youth hostel in a no-go zone area in Germany with no-WI Fi during the Chinese planted plague made in Wuhan delivered through remote controlled drone bats, next day delivery. Supply Chain problem solved because everyone will be dead. So, what difference does it make? Except that our best of 4 worlds family, that being all 4 kids, because were not family without them, will be able to bask in some angel light before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. As we sing in a beautiful, truthfully tuneful harmony, “It’s the end of the world, and we know it, and I feel fine. Because Samuel needs a younger brother to look after. And denying him the opportunity to be the biggest hearted big brother ever would really blow more than being denied the chance to see if your mother would terminate her Nazi dog Heidi over a more playtime consideration with her grandchild with Down Syndrome. Will see how God blessed she’ll act in the face of our new kid with Down Syndrome who will do abortion jokes in my honor over Christmas. One kid only means your diaphragm is for walls after all Baba. Plus, how could I ever be sad in the presence of Dad? Funnier dad, happier baby. Thanks Dad. For giving me the confidence to do more than dig ditches for non-biodegradable masks at McDonald’s before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. Burning Mask Party return, 121 comedy records later, Challah. Thanks for the laughs, Dad, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Recess Passes Matter

Instead of giving criminals get out of jail free cards, which is what no bail laws do.  We should institute a recess pass system that my teachers used on us to discourage bad behavior growing up except these Recess Passes are used for Cannabis shops in New York City. Latrel Sprewell’s kid chokes out a cop’s white privilege and he gets his recess pass to the cannabis shop taken away. Thugs Lives Matter Most, start having panic attacks on the Subway. Where am I going to get my gummies now? Stink free plus ash free equals zero regrets homey. Plus, I don’t want to share a blunt with your ass just out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.”  Recess Passes Matter, Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth