Pitchwoman Of The Year

Aliens are capable of formulating and defending their own critical race theory, too. A bunch of Think Tank Alien Eggheads from Planet Scrambled Over Easy declared the American Dream dead and its entire race plain stupid for thinking otherwise, on both sides of the political divide, during its annual Brunch Expo address at their annual Northern Lights retreat on Planet Verde. It was known for its enormous avocado trees, tricked-out converted farmhouse party palaces, and was enveloped by hop farms galore and beautifully manicured baseball diamonds and fields of highly stimulating, brain-tickling weed.

            Even Think Tank Alien Eggheads need to cool off their hyperactive brains with some baseball, buds, and brews, from time to time.

            The Think Tank Alien Eggheads observed how unhinged and excessively biased the US media and Big Tech had become since the New Yorker from Queens exposed them for the feckless, misleading, self-serving, fear-mongering, deliberately divisive, commie sell out bastards they’d become.  

            Close Encounters Of The Third Kind was voted the number one-ranked sci-fi film for forty-four years in a row and counting, according to Egghead Alien Film Review Magazine, which still boasts an incredible print ad sales revenue because, on Planet Scrambled Easy, print is king and is considered the most prestigious medium, attracting the universe’s most talented writers, knowing they’re willing to pay up to three US dollars per word.

            There are no TV shows made on Planet Scrambled Over Easy except a hugely popular father/son alien cooking show called ‘Better Than Boobie.’ On this show, we learn the alien baby is a result of a mixed marriage between an alien and a busty, full-lipped, tan, Sicilian-blooded Italian, Barbera Bustiasti, originally hailing from Rochester, NY.

            On the show, our Stay-At-Home Alien Dad Host, Fried Brains Bourdain, a self-anointed in-house gourmand for the entire Planet Scrambled Over Easy, will ask his part-human, part-alien baby, Chef Samuels, what he thinks of his latest and greatest LEO Scramble Supreme, including smoked salmon lox, scrambled eggs, and sweet, not-too-bitter caramelized red onions.

            Normally, Chef Samuels will take a taste and pronounce the dish creation a double-fister instead of a yuck-yucker. But if baby Chef Samuels is totally enthralled with the dish, he’ll ask his cherished dada, Fried Brains Bourdain, to make the dish for him every day before he whizzes around the rings of Planet Scrambled Over Easy faster than Flash, in a high-calorie burning blaze of glory.  

            So, the reason Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy was smitten with the movie Close Encounters Of The Third Kind stemmed from the aliens portrayed in it being musical savant mutes, of sorts, like Holly Hunter in The Piano.

            The problem, on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, is how their recent open borders policy resulted in a gazillion different languages spoken at once at any given Farmer’s Market—enough to make C3Po’s language transmitter chip melt down from an intergalactic auditory sensory processing overload. So, the clamor in the streets had reached a fevered pitch, with no universal language in place capable of instilling a more melodic cadence.           And none of the star magazine writers on Planet Scrambled Over Easy were capable of banging out musical showtunes (such as West Side Think Tank Alien Stories), because Broadway tunesmith legend Stephen Sondheim declined the invitation to procreate with the alien civilization (because he was gayer about the prospect of lunging at the Othello backstage in tights, whenever asked to do his best Kevin Spacy impersonation by his cast and crew at Sardis for wrapup show celebrations, after hours.

            Stephen Sondheim gave the anal probe a shot after the Alien Think Tank Leader, Gershwin Goo, convinced him they were doing it the name of stool DNA sampling science in their long, hard, in-depth exploration pinpointing the exact genetic makeup roots responsible for sprouting such a mature musical genius out the womb.

            At six, Mozart was touring Europe, entertaining French nobles with the nimble quickness of a French prostitute who got two customers to spew with joy in one minute flat, each, so she could squeeze in her favorite customer, famed American Jewish writer Henry Miller, in one more, before closing hours, for the road.  

            So, not only was the roaring decibel of noise on the streets of Scrambled Eggs Over Easy consisting of every guttural, gross alien language imaginable, that collectively heard together sounded like the antithesis of French pillow talk in Eric Rohmer films such as Busted Burgundy Girls and Paris Dicks Are Burning, thereby making their home planet a highly grating, excessively annoying place to be; but there was also not a singe lone, beautifying voice to even sing their new planet anthem in an attempt to promote, celebrate, and unify the country behind a star’s beautiful voice in their own native tongue, Hebrew.

            What, you think the pyramids and the first great temple were built by the Israelites alone? I’ve known Jews who are allergic to Home Depot, who suffer from immediate panic attacks upon entry.

            On retreat, The Think Tank Aliens sucking down endless IPAs and puffing non-stop high-grade green over a killer double header of baseball surrounding the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, with a young, rising star egghead about to pitch his famous speedball splinter known to make most fellow aliens whiff more than Charlie Sheen at an AVN afterhours party, these days.

            An idea emerged. “Hey, fellas, instead of blowing up Planet Earth for our annual Fourth of July Celebration (to celebrate our freedom of banning the Internet in 2000, because we knew Y2K would serve as a slow-acting bomb to blow up Earth’s any last remaining capacity for critically thinking, mass-produced independent thought ever again), we convince Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth to become our permanent-in-house Planetary Anthem singer?

            “Granted, we have incredible leverage, knowing that if she refuses, we’ll go head and blow up the Earth for the best fireworks show we’ve ever seen. Bulldozing a casino is child’s play compared to planet blasting. Plus, I think the universe is ready for a new Earth to emerge, again (assuming God’s in the mood to give the human race another shot at redemption).”

            The Think Tank Aliens of Scrambled Over Easy Planet actually thought of Singing Rose Kornbluth immediately, the moment they coined the idea of establishing a Planetary Anthem in Hebrew, from eavesdropping from space whenever she’d recite the Shabbat prayers over the candles, challah, and wine.

            To them, Singing Rose Kornbluth was blessed with the most angelic-laced, beautifying, spiritually rich, jade-free voice of all time. It sounded ten times more soul-tantalizingly pretty sung in Hebrew, which she’d do in Synagogue, shining through the most whenever the Torah was taken out of the arc for the infamous Shema prayer “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”

            The Think Tank Aliens from Scrambled Over Easy Planet are able to eavesdrop into different galaxy systems due to their alien race being crossbred with Alien Hybrid Elephants reared by Alexander The Great. Alexander The Great would use those elephants to eavesdrop on his enemies or on Cleopatra the next time she plotted to roofie him, tie him up, and jam some precious gemstone beads up his ass for shits and giggles, to see if they came out looser since the last gender-neutral interkingdom orgy at her Luxor party palace.

            Now, Singing Rose Kornbluth is at home in her bedroom within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, fifty minutes north of Manhattan, brushing the mane on her new American Girl horse doll Lavender Love and singing her own made-up tune: “Lavender Love has beautiful hair, my brother Arthur better not threaten to turn him into fake news dog chow, if baby Samuel double dares.”      Then the Palomino American Girl Doll horse Lavender Love comes to life and speaks to her from the baseball diamond on the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, and says, “Singing Rose Kornbluth, don’t be alarmed. For starters, my voice can’t be any freakier than when you confuse your American Girl Doll Horse for an actual little person, on occasion.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Keep talking.”          Think Tank Alien says, “We think your singing voice, especially in Hebrew, is the most beautiful, God-loving, effortlessly sweet signing voice we’ve ever heard, without any deep vibrato rumblings (which ruin Adele and Demi Lovato’s chances as potential picks for us, if you really need to know).”     Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “And who is “we,” exactly?”

            Think Tank Alien says, “We’re Think Tank Aliens from Planet Scrambled Over Easy. Our natural tongue is Hebrew, and we just came up with our first-ever Planetary Anthem, and it needs work, because our alien civilization isn’t musically inclined whatsoever.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Do all aliens talk through American Girl Horses? I knew Aliens were real.”

             Think Tank Alien says, “Singing Rose, we love your voice. God made your supernatural voice for a reason. Still, we will be left with no choice but to blow up your planet, if you don’t let us use your gift of creation and singing love songs which touch the innermost sanctum part of the Divine.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “I’ll only help you out if you agree to take over control of our Internet, unleash virus worms to corrode all the software code for Twitter, Facebook and Google, and fill in that gaping voice of Internet bandwidth with my father’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast every Friday for another Meandering Shabbat Shalom Special.

            “My daddy is hilarious. He said, ‘Beyonce sat out the national anthem because Demi Lovato sounds like a white privilege version of Alabama Shakes.’”

            Think Tank Alien laughs a long time and replies, “We don’t have the Internet on our planet.”            Matilda says, “I’ll be your new best friend. And you’ll get one sleepover invite a year, deal? Think Taken Alien says, “Deal.”

            One year later, Singing Rose Kornbluth graced the cover of Time Magazine. On the top, the headline read ‘Pitchwoman Of The Year.’ She saved her country’s planet from being wiped off the solar system map for selling the Think Tank Aliens on making her Do It All Dad the most popular, downloadable, highly quotable podcaster in the universe.

            So, he could afford the opportunity to shine like the brightest rising comedy star in the galaxy and drive his family back from the hospital in his new Comedy Gold Porsche SUV with a new baby sister addition in the back, Lavender Love Kornbluth, to make his Do It All Dad year mission complete.

            Now Singing Rose Kornbluth could sing duets with her new baby sister, Lavender Love Kornbluth, for a double dose of beautiful wonderfulness on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, so she’d never have to feel homesick again.

Michael Kornbluth

The Metal Edge

The mother responsible for her son’s developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at age two, called Torticollis (where the neck muscles contract, causing the head to twist to one side, as a result of too much newborn plopping time alone in the crib), summoned the gall to ask her son, who’s about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY, lounging on a monied polo lounge green Adirondack chair overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into fencing?”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, ‘Headbangers Baller’, is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed the Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their necks.

            “So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker, with the colossus wind power to match.  

            “Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden, is a championship fencer, yet his nerdy-hued Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge.

            “I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski, and Slash, all wrapped into one.

            “He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and will tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss-plowing play.

            “Force=Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indomitable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line (which will be recession-proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in a post-COVID universe gone wild ’till our last dying breaths, anyway).”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than basketball and baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old-school fencing decorum bullshit out the window.

            “Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, and you name it, so he could afford to pay any fines for inappropriate, hotdogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  

            “Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.            “Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before fencing matches, booming “Let’s get ready to rumble,” Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin” while ‘Kickstart My Heart’ by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surroundsound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair.

            “I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant; nor is he third-generation wrestling royalty like the Rock, nor has a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho.

            “So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible?

            “He also plays with collection of lightsabers now, more than he does with his cherished wrestling figures, and he owns the original rubber dog toy-size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat (among many others the with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off Ebay, to match).        “Kayne West is worth six billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for one grand and upwards; yet there’s no limited, in-demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all.

            “I envision a flashing middle F-You finger logo that sports the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred,” to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers and ripped jeans and shorts (obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red).  

            “He’ll have his own line of studded belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats, and tank tops to show off to his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise workout videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as ‘Moth Into Flame’ by Metallica plays at full blast is responsible for his shredded physique, once he steps into something more comfortable for post-fencing fight interviews.          “I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes, and Steve Vai for love-of-God, kickass metal guitar solos and for his metal-loving American Dad, who pushed him to shred for bread.

            “On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.    “I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale’s mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into fencing, Mom.”

            Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson; like football, for instance.

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “We’ll be sticking with Nerf football in yard, Ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, Mom—no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for nine years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once, yet. Case closed.

            “AlsoDad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock.

            “Because, if I bowed down to this belabored, weak-ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from boarding school, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody so Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt-right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a tiki torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in ’89.

            “And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all three of my kids, and my speedboat, Slashing Thunder.”

            Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?”            Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine-powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric-fueled comedy gold.

            “I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids; because they’re my kids, not yours. Especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis-correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time.

            “I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing the work I was good at, which made me feel the most kickass, happy, and alive.”

            Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer two fencing scholarships a year, max.”  

            Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing three times in a row, shredding every fencing record of the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords, now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion-dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops, and speed metal belts with his signature middle finger logo that sported a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred.”

            Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world, whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed-addicted seed or not. Shredders soar. Shredders fly high with the angels like ‘Three Guitar Attack’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird.

            Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip-strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

Pause Daddy

“Welcome to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast: What Gen X Dads understand; Dad-friendly entertainment for you and me. I’m your host, Michael Kornbluth.

            Controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again. My three fuss-free kids (most of the time) are living proof of this.

            I’ve been a Stay-At-Home Comedian on and off for a decade, now, although my dad is more old-school and prefers the expression ‘sheltered bum.’ Whenever I’m out with my three kids without their mommy, I hear, “You’ve got your hands full.”             I’ll say, “If any of my books ever become bestsellers and my wife agrees to an open marriage with Susan Sarandon, then my hands will be full.”

            I stopped smoking weed until I thought my daughter was asleep, already, because I felt like a moron answering her super-deep questions about the sticky icky stuff after I thought she was asleep.   She’d ask, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God?”

            I said, “God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.”

            Daughter says, “Real convincing, Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at age four.”

            Michael Kornbluth, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and proud father of the three most hilariously sweet, snuggle-shine bundles of sunshine known to mankind, adds, “Today, on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, we have a guest. Which is a rare occasion since the launch of my podcast four years ago, in my pursuit to become the paid star voice behind remote work revolution, before China could hog up all the credit for forcing corporate America to adjust to a remote work way of life to please our commie-controlled corporate masters till our last dying breath.

            “During my pilot episode, I interviewed a UX designer who worked for Apple. I know you’re bored out of your mind already (unless he was Steve Jobs, pumped for the casual grandma-jeans look for all it was worth). My standup performer instinct constantly interjected the moment I sensed my guest lose the audience. This happened automatically, whenever I allowed him to drone out another colorless, brain-reaching, screeching halt reply, so I swore off ever doing another interview on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast ever again.

            “Especially knowing that Do It All Dads who want to work from home based on free will alone, in the impassioned pursuit to make their kids the center of the universe instead of the reverse, don’t grow on freaking Bonsai trees, either.

            “But I decided to make an exception for our, guest Richard Lankfear from Plano, Texas, who is a retired drug counselor and the author of a new book called Addiction, a mind-expanding warning of drug abuse symptoms guide so parents can see if their kids are a frantic manifestation of their crazy hick degenerate gene, with zero concept of moderation in real time or not.

            “Raising drug-free children is important to me because being a druggy dependent is the opposite of feeling free. (Cream lives; holla thank you very much.)

             How can our kids get excited about the pursuit of happiness at home or at school if they are getting high off their loved ones, or from a job well done that isn’t enough (at least until their mid-twenties)?

            “Richard enacts tremendous good from his lifetime service as a drug counselor by making a drug abuse warning guide for parents today who are unaware of what constitutes drug-forming behavior under their allegedly emotionally-present watch.

            “The chilling, sobering stats in the book, such as fentanyl being 100 times more powerful than morphine, speak for themselves, and need to be illuminated with unflinching detail, knowing that either blissful ignorance, dismissive sugarcoating, or mere whitewashing of the opioid epidemic throughout the US as being a mere “white trash ” problem can become the worst fatal mistake a parent today can make.

            “This is especially true knowing how Chinese-made fentanyl, snuck in through our Mexican border, has killed more crackers in this country than Lena Dunham kicking it with Taylor Swift on Instagram.

            “The recurring theme in Richard’s book The Addicted Child is parents becoming reactive firefighters multiple rehab stints later, versus the ideal of becoming proactive troubleshooters before such residual damage has been done, which some families never truly recover from.

            “This book will help more families spot drug habit-forming warning signs by offering actionable insight to prevent their kids from facing such a life-crippling fate. More importantly, the vast breakdown of all types of drug abuse included in the book will give parents the confidence and sense of surging urgency to have the “drugs will kill your brain cells” talk with their kids and their still-developing minds, before those rapidly-deepening drug-forming habits become that much harder to break.”

            Richard, on the side of the Skype podcast interview, is red and flustered in the face, flabbergasted over how the Do It All Dad Year Podcast has made zero effort to give his guest a smidgen of breathing room to promote his book seven minutes into the broadcast, already.

            If only had Richard known of Do It All Dad’s code work trick which his three kids used whenever he went on one of his impassioned rants in one seamless endless breath, with zero auditory relief in sight as his kids long forgot what cool interesting idea, or question, they were to express!         It which was this: “Pause Daddy.” As they pointed an imaginary remote directly at him, they’d say, “Pause Daddy” with warm-hearted smiling-stretchy cheer because it was funny and it actually shut their dad the fuck up for change, whether he was on Adderall or off. 

            Stay At Home Comedian rolls on, adding, “Let’s focus on our guest, now, Richard, who didn’t spend any quality time emoting about the all-star book review I just read for you on Amazon about his book The Addicted Child (which was more than generous, considering what a snooze the book was, as a whole).

            “So, Richard, I just read another book by Lou Gramm, the former leader/signer/howler legend from Foreigner who’s known for co-writing and belting out endless classic rock staple hits such as ‘Juke Box Hero’, ‘Double Vision’, and ‘Long, Long, Long Way From Home’ (being my personal favorites among the pack).

            “In his highly readable book, in comparison to yours, he talks about getting sober and the growing frustration of not even being able to partake in lighting a doobie after killing at freaking Solider Field, on the tour party bus soon afterwards, when everybody else from the band is now in their early forties (they still are).

            “Like the roadie guy says in the movie Rockstar with Mark Wahlberg, “Don’t be half-ass about it. Live out the rock star dream for those who can’t. Or something close to that. 

            “Also, there’s a standup comedian who’s no longer with us; the late great Greg Geraldo, who said that drug use should be encouraged when in your forties more so than your twenties; especially when you learn, during a parent teacher conference, “That your son is a half a ‘tard.”

            “So, my question for Richard is, “What’s an acceptable form of addiction in your book?”    Richard says, “I wish I had a stage light to shine on you a thousand runon sentences ago.”             The Do It All Dad Year Podcast host fires back with, “So, all the Irish thugs who used to beat up nice Jewish kids in the Bronx, calling them Christ Killers and blah, blah…are they what you’d call a special kid of drunk prick later in life, or do you think the concept of a so-called happy drunk doesn’t apply to any Irish alcoholics because their rosy noses give the impression they’re really just more superficially cheery on the surface than the rest?

            “And if the Irish are the best drunk poets, then whatever happened to the Irish Beastie Boys in the Jump Around video?

            “Don’t get me wrong; I don’t thinking being a drunk prick is a strictly an Irish disease. For me, I think a fellow member of my tribe, Michel Rappaport, still sounds like he’s auditioning for the role of Wigger Number Three asshole In the Jump Around video.”

              Richard says, “Are you going to ask any of the questions I gave you?”

            The Do It All Dad Year Podcast Host Michael replies, “Why are parents so afraid to have honest conversations about drugs through their record collections with their kids, Richard? What makes these parents so apprehensive as to point out the dangers of doing shitty Chinese-made coke with Hunter Biden, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall?

            “Do you feel that sketchy degenerate behavior is born, enabled, or all the above?

            “In the movie Requiem for a Dream, Jared Leto is missing a freaking arm at the end, which is a powerful cautionary message to nail home, on par with reading your kids Allen Ginsburg’s Howl the next time they claim to not scare easily. It describes all the beautiful angels of the light’s mind ravaged by drugs, reducing them to eating stray cats throughout the streets of San Francisco.

            “Why didn’t you share such hardcore scare tactics tips in your book, for parents to use on their kids, so they wouldn’t have to spend a mini-ortune, and take out a new home equity loan on the house to afford your overrated counseling services?”

            Now all of Michael’s three kids come bursting in the room to give their dear Dada a hug after coming back from school, anxious to tell him about their day. In unison, they all point an imaginary remote at their Stay-At-Home Comedian Dad and say, “Pause Daddy.”

            Richard throws up his hands in defeated disgust on the Skype window screen and yells, “That’s it! ‘Pause Daddy’ are the magic words to shut this loudmouth, obnoxious Jew up, already.”   Stay At Home Comedian Dad replies, “When your opinions are deemed worthy enough to interrupt my killer flow, I’ll let you know, jerkoff.            “Never forget controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again. My three fuss-free kids, 95 percent of the time, living proof of it.”

Michael Kornbluth

Racist Alien Attacks

“Nobody ever wrote the song ‘Waiting for A Fallen Angel Alien Like You’, tweets a frenzied 10-foot-tall alien, RH Negative 5000, from a Mars espresso bar with excellent WiFi as he looks down on Earth with a mix of surging envy and desperate urgency, knowing that if he can’t find a virgin Earthling with RH negative blood to get him pregnant by midnight tonight, then his race of Fallen Angels Aliens from Mars will disintegrate into the cosmos, as would’ve been superangel contenders, forever.

            This secret race of fallen angels on Mars aren’t allowed to abduct and rape any old Earthling into getting them pregnant, either, despite Andy Dick’s repeated offers on dating sites such as Intergalactic Beams Up My Anus Hole.com.            Finding a virgin Earthing with RH negative blood is hard enough, knowing that those creatures are normally emotionally evolved and blessed with superior physical prowess in the sack, compared to their medium-length Earthlings, including stars such as Leonardo DiCaprio, Jim, MOJO Rising, Morrison, and Bob Marley, for starters.

            “Bob Marley banged out twelve kids, but isn’t ganja supposed to drain your life shooter dry?  It’s fake news, man,” RH Negative 5000 tweets in a race against time to save his race of fallen angels of imminent ruin. He knows all the weed in the world won’t get Seth Rogan’s kid brother to knock up RH Negative 5000, even though he could transform his body into any dream physique he wanted, despite looking like an erect serpent and guitar god Steve Vai had a baby, when he didn’t have to change his appearance to get a virgin Earthling into sticking it into his alien procreation hole.

            The other problem for RH Negative 5000 is how only ten percent of the Earth’s population was RH Negative. Due the advent of the Internet, dick-pick swiping sites, and online porn, virgins are pickier and more selective than ever before, and I don’t recall ‘alien porn’ being a popular hashtag category on Youporn.com. Nor was Pete Townsend ever caught clicking on Soapy Alien Bottom Boys.com in the name of new song research about a pinball wizard who gets probed by a race of white, pureblood, RH-negative aliens for his out-of-this world, old-school arcade game prowess because playing guitar hero on the XBOX gets played out fast when you can do mind-blowing Pete Townsend solos from Live At Leeds, with five arms doing non-stop windmills out of your ass.

            Little did RH Negative 5000 know that one his followers on Twitter was a nine-year-old girl from horse country in North Salem, NY, who believed in fallen angels; especially since her father was conspiracy theorist comedian Michael Kornbluth, named after the archangel who applied the final smackdown kick on Loose Lipped Lucifer, which kicked him out of heaven to his new liar in the Hollywood Hills behind Bill Cosby’s house, for good.

            Actually, Matilda had just got her family tree report from Ancestry.com and confirmed ancestry with RH Negative. He lived in Boswell, New Mexico (otherwise known as the Mecca for UFO landings on Earth because Fallen Angels aliens from Mars knew that Val Kilmer owned a ranch nearby—which was cool enough for them, knowing that he played one of their kind in the Doors with such believable, otherworldly authority.

            Now, Matilda was always intrigued by the Twitter handle RH Negative 5000; especially the profile shot of what looked like an extra scaly, greenish guitar god Steve Vai after puking his brains from breaking his one month fast with In and Out Burgers, animal style, in his attempt to pen a sequel to his masterful magnum opus guitar swansong for the ages ‘For The Love Of God’.            Stop letting Twitter teach your kids. Dr. Seuss is racist—he’s not.

            Matilda loved that her father read Dr. Seuss books to her, especially when he’d make up his own rhymes if Dr. Seuss got a tad repetitive again (because he’s guilty of peaking early).

            The other night, actually, her Do It All Comedian Dad did some riffing, to her extreme delight, to unearth some comedy gold material after the latest and greatest Dr. Seuss cancellation movement from the side of tolerance, unity, and joy, spreading peace, saying, “Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist, then: that’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion, yet.”

            What Matilda loved most about her daddy reading her Dr. Seuss books was how he adopted his infectious love of rhyme, always pointing out how Walt Clyde Frazier, NBA broadcaster for the Knicks, was in the fact the slickest tongue-twisting cat of his time.  

            More importantly, Matilda loved how her school was celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday this week for national reading appreciation month. He was born in March, like herself, which, in her book, was extra cool.

            This coming Friday was ‘silly switch day’ in honor of Dr. Seuss, which Matilda found extra comical because’ despite having two working parents and being on all the Adderall in the world, she could never find a pair of matching socks for school, ever, which made every day, for her, Mismatched Socks Day.  

            Matilda’s comedian father encouraged Matilda to open a Twitter account for her tenth birthday, to use as a humongous open mike to test out her poems because she wanted to become the female Dr. Seuss, with a PHD in Counseling Psychology.             In her final paper, she’d argue how time-release Adderall is actually legalized cocaine, in addition to being a gateway drug to weed and to high-octane IPAs to chill out your aggravated, easily-avoidable added noise, in their minds. She would do this while also making the argument on how a time-release dark chocolate smoothie can help maintain these kids’ inner, sparkly essence while helping increase their powers of concentration (in addition to being much lighter on the heart, compared to big-pharma-cranked-out speed, too).

            Now, the moment Matilda got a Twitter account, Twitter suggested she start following RH Negative 5000. So she did.  RH Negative 5000 was already on his 5,000th cup of espresso, without any clue as how to audition, let alone recruit, virgins for RH Negative, to impregnate him to keep his race of Alien Fallen Angels alive.

            So, in a desperate Hail Mary attempt, he sends a direct message to Matilda on Twitter and says, “Do you have any virgin cousins who are RH negative in Roswell, New Mexico, who are interested in knowing what Fallen Angel Alien Love is?”

            Matilda, being a huge Foreigner fan (because her Daddy pushed the band on her early and often, in his pursuit to be a podcast comedian hero of his own) replies to the DM and says, “I have a Cousin Jonathan, who’s still a virgin at age fifteen. He’s very picky. Plus, his Dad homeschooled him through the ME Too movement, and only sent him packing for junior high with his Kiss backpack, flush with pre-poundage release forms. My cousin Jonathan is also really into Joe Satriani, and played ‘Surfing With An Alien’ for his Bar Mitzvah party from start to finish, so it’s worth a shot. “

            RG 5000 replies, “I have to get pregnant with a virgin Earthling with a RH negative blood, or my fallen angel race will never be given our wings again to swoop down to the Kennedy compound to seduce the next Marilyn Monroe impersonator they hire for another July 4th annual barbeque retreat.           “Marilyn had RH negative blood, which makes sense because her slamming bod is impossible to clone, let alone replicate. But we’re not too picky, and are used to sloppy seconds on Mars (for the past 5000 years, actually).

            “Also, I have the power to turn into any female form your cousin desires, if he isn’t into having sex with an alien Steve Vai drag queen look-alike.”

            Matilda ponders this big ask request and replies back, “I’ll make the call, but you have to do me a favor first.”

            RG 5000 says, “Whatever you want, just name it.”

            Matilda says, “Abduct Spike Lee and threaten to anally probe him before giving him an intergalactic tossed salad if he doesn’t stick up for Dr. Seuss and buy the movie rights to ‘And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St’ starring Chazz Palminteri playing some second-generation pizza maker in the early eighties in the Bronx. He gave Grandmaster Flash the freedom to play his demo tapes in the pizzeria on his boombox on Frank Sinatra’s birthday, to make every day feel like Black Appreciation Day. Deal?”

            RG 5000 replies, “I better morph into Pam Grier from the seventies, snag Richard Pryor’s old strap-on from eBay, and tap Bill Cosby’s old quaalude dealer in the Hills to make Spike loosen up to the idea before he pens the screenplay ‘Racist Alien Attacks Boy’, instead.

            “I’m in no rush to get canceled and kicked off Twitter before my planet implodes.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Neverending Prick

“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort?” asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a fifty-something, well-dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like.

            The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last-second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment in the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights where he bought from Julio Silverbade, the Third before his co-op eviction trial began.

            The Manipulative Prick (otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot) loved doing cocaine—mainly on the weekends, though, when he wasn’t working. So, what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life (such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine, too)?

            Last month, when the newlyweds received their first of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a forty-year-old phone sales rep for Verizon, says, “Relax babe. Our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me because his life sucks compared to mine; that’s all.”

            Wife Kate, a thirty-five-year-old, one-time divorced, pretty yet worn-down-looking ER nurse, says, with weary disgust, “You’re a forty-year-old cokehead who sells smart phones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about, exactly—your tar stains on your two front teeth?

            “Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career-secure? Do you think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at four am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody-free snatch?

            “Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor, for a Jewish cokehead, that your Hebrew name is under judicial review?    “Maybe he’s jealous about you being a no-show uncle who’s more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from five years ago today than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on New Year’s Day, moron.”

            Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day.

            He says, “First off, I take incredible offense at being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.”      Then a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke, to get him erect with aroused interest at all, these days.

            The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it, and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money, here.”

            This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near-deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it.

            Now the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion during your eviction notice hearing, already? You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name Automatic Fuckup, or what?”   Now the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

            Co-Op Board Member Number Two, a wrinkly, diminutive, yet feisty, retired realtor, chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other fifty-and-over tenants, when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion-free during your final eviction notice hearing?

            “Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, and drugged out loud when consequences for your got-to-have-satisfaction-up-my-nose, whenever-I-want behavior have never been greater.”

            The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him (the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior, in addition to the realtor’s wig) and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone while my wife works the weekend shift, especially since COVID hit, these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils (which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much, actually).”

            Now a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling and through a fancy schmancy chandelier while looking more like the worm giant from Dune. All the Co-Op board members duck for cover under their judgment table as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction.

            Co-Op Board Member Number Two, squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face, screams, “What the fuck is that?”

            The Never-Ending Prick.

Michael Kornbluth

4 Jews Enter A Greek Temple

Gimmel, a high school wrestling star for Jerusalem High turned professional bookie for the Maccabees, stands in prayer, lip synching some horseshit prayer in honor of some half-horse, half-man freak centaur, who also happens to be hung like an Arabian.

            Shin, the local tailor, adjusts his fancy schmancy Tallis like a stressed-out Rodney bombing with new material at Dangerfield’s, and says, “Gimmel, have you ever been hellenized? Because, you know I have. How else do you explain my fear of getting electrocuted to death ever since Zeus jammed a thunderbolt up my wife’s snatch because she called the Goddess of Wisdom Athena ‘fake news deep’ compared to the Lord our God, not the God of Loud Rain.”

            Gimmel elbows Shin in stomach and says, “Stop making me laugh, Shin. You’ll arouse the wrath of Gelos, the personification of laughter, because, despite his Greek God status, he isn’t endowed with the funny Jew bone to bang out room-shaking laughter with either.”

            Nun, a Kosher winemaker, enters the Greek Temple after wining and dining a Greek senator who threatened to take over his family winery if he didn’t erect a marble sculptured fountain of Dionysus, connected to underground barrels of pricy Cabernet Sauvignon which spill out of his golden chalice cup every other two seconds.          Nun spots his friends Shin and Gimmel whispering to each other, lip synching up close near the holy side of the Greek Temple. This was where the Golden Menorah used to light up the 2nd Temple before Antiochus took over after Alexander The Great died and turned the Second Temple into a head shop for Greek Gods, where they now sell bundles of incense sticks for five shekels and a gram of hashish. What a country Judea had become!

            Nun lines up next to friends Shin and Gimmel, engaging in fake news Greek God prayer, and whispers to his old school Jerusalem High wrestling buds, “What are you two doing here again? You’ll get crucified if the Greek priests overhear you kvetching about you having zero interest in worshiping Pan the Goat Boy during the never-ending 2nd Temple period.

            “But you have to bitch, because we already paid our synagogue dues before King Antiochus turned our JCC gymnasium into a members-only gay bathhouse for Greek senators to bask in endless leisure, admiring each other’s flappy rounds of mound.”

            Hey, the Kosher Dairy Farmer, enters the Greek Temple with a chalef knife, whose incredibly sharp edge ensures a painless, Torah commanded, gentle-as-can-be death for cows later converted into brisket stew.

            The Negev Desert sun glares through the newly refurbished stained glass window designs of nymphs playing tug of war with Hercules cock.  But this blast of holy-powered light nearly blinds the Greek priest leading the service, as the Negev desert light bounces off Hey’s chalef butcher knife and refracts into his Greek God-loving eyes.     (Which, I’m sure, reminds the Greek priest of the time he wanted to poke his eyes out after getting blackout drunk from a three-day Theatre Festival in Athens, only to wake up next to Medusa’s sister, who rapes drunk Greek priests at will because in her presence, blackout drunk or not, you become automatically frozen stiff.)  

            As the Greek priest rubs his eyes in extreme agony, Hey, The Kosher Dairy Farmer, with his chalef knife held high in the air, yells, “Maccabees rule! We’re the chosen people for a reason, bitches.”

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

             Happy Hanukkah, Kayne excluded. Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Kosher Klaus Sushi

Once upon a time, there was a Kosher sushi chef prodigy, Art Show USA, who opened Kosher Klaus Sushi on Christmas Eve in 1994 before the Internet became mainstream and Asian elite Yelpers went hog wild.  Kosher Klaus Sushi was located in the heart of Scarsdale Village, and earned immediate rave reviews in the Scarsdale Inquirer from local food critic Debbie Wasserman, who described Art Show’s mind-blowing specialty roll creations as, “Orgasmic before they reach the back of your throat good.”  

            What made Art Show unique, outside of his unmatched imaginative heft and juggling sushi knifework at the bar, were his God-given star-powered looks, which commanded legions of groupie Yentas to schlep from the far reaches of Long Island to wait in line in the dead of winter just to catch a glance of the new age pretty boy/badass sushi chef through the window, cranking out one swoon-worthy, inhalatory sushi specialty roll after the next like his signature one, Living On The Edgemont Edge, which had smoked salmon, cream cheese, capers, and caramelized shallots throughout, to inject an extra special loaded lift.   

            Every day, Art Show USA would sharpen his sushi knives together (made from Israeli steel, used in bulletproof vests made for their special force’s unit, Mossad), which would woo with sparkly, dazzling delight as patrons at the Kosher Klaus Sushi Bar gave impromptu standing ovations throughout.  

            Art Show USA was a 6 foot 4, spikey blond-haired, blue-eyed, lean, mean, sushi-slicing machine who made Tom Cruise (from the movie Cocktail) look like a stumpy, homely hobbit hipster hack, in comparison, regardless of whether he kept his rolled-up-sleeve button shirt tucked in or not.   

            But, one day, a bunch of rowdy Irish wiggers entered Kosher Klaus Sushi to track down a hot yenta breath from Syosset, Long Island’s Rachel Weinstein, who rocked swinging booby beauties (36 Ds, to be exact), who was also a solid 5 foot 9, making her mountable from behind, standing up (assuming you weren’t a stumpy Irishman, unlucky in the height department).   

            Rachel was a full-lipped, Sephardic Persian, tan, busty beauty. Even Roger Waters from Pink Floyd would pulverize her fetching snatch until he was comfortably numb.  The leader of the wigger Irish pack was Liam O’Reilly, who sported a Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus (which scared off most, but not Art Show USA).

            Art Show USA got a black belt in judo by the time he was 13, for his Bar Mitzvah. For Art Show’s Bar Mitzvah Party, he played ‘Siamese Dream’ by the Smashing Pumpkins on the guitar with his feet and teeth.  So, Art Show USA never sweated the prospect of losing a fight or a girl to an Irish wigger moron from Long Island, who thought that stamping a permanent Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus was a bright idea, regardless of whether it ensured him a truck driver job for Killan’s Red or not.

            Liam and his crew of Irish wiggers came down from Long Island to start a fight with Art Show USA because they attended the same high school as Rachel Weinstein, and only had eyes for inhaling her whole. Plus, they weren’t enthralled with Rachel wearing an underground-circulated hoodie with a picture of Art Show USA on it, who was sporting an American flag bandana and a Star of David gold necklace around his neck, showcasing well earned, non-banking-job-related bling.  

            Liam cuts the line with his Irish wigger posse and bursts into Kosher Klaus Sushi like Mark Wahlberg on the set of SNL after Andy Samberg did a sketch about Marky Mark talking to farm animals. He bum-rushes the sushi bar and says, “Hey, faggot. I’ll kick your ass right now, to show all your groupies what a pretty boy faggot, gay pussy bitch you are in real life.”

            Art Show ignores Liam’s Alpha Dog attack. Liam jumps over the sushi bar to strike. Art Show does a lookaway kick to the middle of his forehead, which sends Liam flying into the ceiling fan, which knocks him out senseless.

            Art Show USA says, “Alexa, play ‘Jump Around’ by House of Pain.” Kosher Klaus Sushi erupts into an instantaneous jubilee and Jewish pride pounces the air, inspiring Rachel Weinstein to flash her tits at Art Show USA as the entire restaurant throws their gold necklaces (with Stars of David’s on them) in her general direction, in honor of all those sweet, harmless Jewish boys who were never taught to defend themselves like the Hebrew Hammer, Bugsy Siegal, or Art Show USA.

Michael Kornbluth

Untradable Summer

Jerry Garcia died, Garth Brooks played to 93,000 in Central Park and the Knicks still made long playoff runs that boasted more legs than Lieutenant Dan. Casino, Heat and Braveheart all came out in the same year, years before your in-laws who didn’t care for Inglorious Bastards, reserved stadium seating to see Apocalypto on Fandango 6 million months in advance. And Joshua Kornbluth, an aimless, long haired 20-year-old college student, who interned for the office of Special Narcotics actually developed a semi-sober conscious by giving his brain an overdue week from the weed, which also included abstaining from the less potent sprayed kind from the boogie down Bronx at Aquarius Records that tasted like Windex.   Because it’s hard to maintain a clear conscious interning for the Office of Special Narcotics when you’re perpetually burnt out on the sticky icky, responsible for draining you of what soul powered glint you were blessed with the first place that some would say beamed brighter than most.  Especially, when you’re listening in stupefied awe to an undercover cop, who’s regaling you about his latest undercover assignment as if he’s a black Donnie Brosco come to life who looked like a younger version of Duck from White Man Can’t Jump come to life.

Reality is, Joshua began to question his lushy littered past while drinking another winter break away with his friends from high school at the local bar, J. P’s, where everyone knew, you could get loaded on gin and tonics and smoke weed out back and not worry about jack shit. Which explains why Joshua once made a bet with his Japanese American friend Kohji about whether Darryl Strawberry now playing for the NY Yankees at the original Yankee Stadium before they replaced it with the House That Gentrification Built. If Darryl Strawberry went yard, then his friend Kohji would give Joshua the highly prized Bob Marley boxset which included the ultimate singer songwriter lament, Acoustic Meledy followed by the ultimate killer pick me up follow up, Hurting Inside. But only if Joshua dropped his pants and ran across the street while flinging around his drunk, dizzy dick throughout the thick, muggy summer wind, while chanting, “Darryl, Darryl, Darryl.”  Kohji fulfilled his end of the bargain, after Joshua sealed the deal with his own version of riding the bull pre-Happy Gilmore while showcasing his stroke of excitable good luck between his legs in the process.

Out of all the drunken, wasted nights of carefree collegiate youth spent at J.P’s throughout wasted winter breaks of yesteryear, Joshua remembered one encounter that stood out from the pack as, “Hey Tonight”, by Creedence blared on the jukebox which never grew old like EZ Wider Double Widers back in the day used to overcompensate for piss poor, barely even elementary rolling skills while being forced to roll the joint on a flat surface no less. Yes, Joshua wasn’t good at weed, despite him looking like a preppy version of Kevin Pickford from Dazed and Confused minus the hot, borderline mute artist hippie girlfriend. As Joshua went back to the bar for another stiff pouring of gin and tonic, he bumps into an older Latino gent by the jukebox who he never talked to prior, who says, “You shouldn’t drink too much bro. And I don’t think all your weed puffage, based on your bloodshot eyes is doing your imagination any favors either. I see you being a major public speaker one day, maybe, even an important politician, not like these other drunken animals around you. So, slow it down kid.”

And slow it down, he did. Now, Joshua woke up every morning in his old childhood room before getting dressed for his internship in Manhattan before the subways had centralized AC with a lighter flow to his step as he’d blare Sly Stone’s Greatest Hits in the car on his way to the train station and sing, “Everybody is a star.” He started running the steps after work at his high school track and field where he spent more time senior year trying to get into slamming Budweiser Tall Boys if he wasn’t sipping on flasks of Southern Comfort when hanging out with his friends, wasting time, who didn’t share his crazy alcoholic hick DNA from his mom’s southern side to contend with as much, not that his boys back then, were fuck up free Angel’s either. On Friday’s, Joshua would take the local Lex line in Manhattan and get off Astor Place from City Hall to use his weekly 125-dollar stipend to buy up whatever Grateful Dead bootleg audiocassette tapes being sold that day on the corner of Saint Marks Place in the East Village. He’d cruise the bars at North Avenue on the weekend located in New Rochelle, in southern Westchester County, because everyone went out back then. How else do you explain Zima mixed with grenadine becoming a trend at all? Joshua and his high school buds drank forties of Old English, not known yet as Snoop Dog’s ho sprayer of choice. But giving up the weed, whether it was result of developing a semi-sober conscious because of where Joshua was interning that summer or an issue of no longer wanting to be mentally enslaved by the all-mighty ganja anymore, Joshua found his smile again, exploring haunts in Little Italy for lunch in his pursuit to track the down the perfect shrimp parm hero. But if Joshua ever lost his sense of direction, which still happened on occasion, despite taking a break from the weed, he’d still have the World Trade Center to use as the ultimate North Star in his city, to help regain his bearings again.

Now, Joshua has grown a bit, and leading a boat tour of lower Manhattan as a divorced comedian in his early forties, who hasn’t broken big yet. The Freedom Tower was finally built in 2006, after a crater of death hovered over Lower Manhattan, which seemed to stretch out forever like W’s presidency before our precious news media hailed him as some sudden misunderstood genius, since he started painting pictures of maimed vets, he gave PTSD under his permanent fuck up watch. Especially now, since Ellen was spotted palling around with W at a Cowboy’s game, only for her to admit on her show soon after how their actually friends in real life. Because regardless of political affiliation or role in allowing 9/11 to happen under his watch, Ellen is pro-Bush all the way.

Joshua no longer a long-haired, completely directionless hippie, spots a woman on his tour from his untradable summer of 95. As Joshua proceeds to wrap up the tour of Manhattan as the boat spots Lady Liberty, a petite, pretty Italian girl from Staten Island raises her hand. Joshua, never one to forget a face, remembers his Staten Island girl who he took to the free Garth Brooks that summer after meeting her at a local bar on some random Friday during the summer of 95, only for them to fail at picking up more Budweiser’s to bring to Garth Brooks, because the 95,000 in attendance had already cleared out every bodega within the 20-block radius along Central Park West.

Staten Island girl says, “How do you explain 9/11 to your kids?” Joshua remembers her being the 1st girl he ever hooked up with who admitted being a single mother prior, which at the time, prompted the response, “I can handle it if you can babe.” Joshua takes a minute to reflect on her question since becoming a single dad himself after getting divorced for failing to maintain any form of steady employment till he found his sweet spot and achieved a steady stroke against the winds of change in life, as a boat tour guide of Manhattan, which combined his love of comedic storytelling and his cherished concrete jungle of Manhattan, that he loved so, that 1st love powered dreams are made of.

The island of Manhattan was also the birthplace of his endlessly beautifying son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, already a star architect at 19 years old, who just joined the American Institute of Architects, who would in fact join him for occasional joint boat tours involved the sweeping historical knowledge and sweep necessary to give a big city architectural boat tours of lower Manhattan with larger-than-life flourish. After all, when Joshua’s son Arthur was only 5-year-old he told his daddy that one day he’d built an apartment with an adjoining enclosed bridge passageway, so they could live together when they got older, which finally came true. Now, Joshua’s son emerges from the background, looming much larger than life than his dad sporting spiky blond hair and a six-foot six frame, looking like Donald Trump birthed a preppy hipster art show baby. Joshua’s son, affectionally nicknamed Art Show even before he was conceived answers the question.

“My Dad always explained 9/11 as the day his age of innocence died. But my dad would always use humor to lighten the darkest realties on his lifetime like the prospect of dying from the killer queen virus of them all, no not COVID, Aids. He’d say, “If I had a daughter, I’d encourage her to become a Lesbian because the Kama Sutra is a recipe for Aids. Plus, when you’re Lesbian, you can take a licking and keep on ticking. Don Draper lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Art Show, The Architect adds, “How did my dad make fun of the uptick in crime during the Mayor Adam’s years? He’d say, “Sanctuary Cities are encouraged lawlessness on crack. Still, the crazies on Twitter rant and rave about wanting to ban ICE. Because Homeland Security was so Weapons of Mass Destruction years.” And how did my dad bring up the Holocaust without being depressingly dreary about it? He’d made jokes about it because humor allows us to get in the last word against our dying of the light. Dyland Thomas lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Dad would say, “Did you know 4/20 the national pot smoking holiday in on Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this duped since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. Anyone visit the home of Anne Frank in Amsterdam? My 1st impression was one of shock and awe, as I thought to myself, “This place is enormous. I’ve never seen so much closet space. I expected a cubby, not a walk-in-closet.”

The entire crowd in the boat tour can’t stop laughing as beautiful streams of endless, purifying laughter fill the air. Lady Liberty radiates a prettier punctuating light that pierces through the purple and orange sun set draping coastline. And the grown-up mom from Staten Island says, “Fuck Pete Davidson, let’s crown the new king of New York comedy. I had a feeling he’d bang out something special one day. The Big Apple is a brighter place with you 2 twin towers in it. And I thought Darryl Strawberry was juicy to take in whole.”  

Darryl, Darryl, Darryl.

Michael Kornbluth

Smackdown Satan

Archangel Michael says, “You shall not misuse the name of the Lord by calling him, “Fake News Mercy God”, Lucifer. Just because God won’t give WWF wrestler Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings, despite you having a soft spot for flaming bear wrestlers in tights.” Lucifer fires back with, “Michael means, “Who is like God.” You mean another micromanager control freak? I give humans the permission to exercise free will in the service of pleasing themselves. That makes me the good life giver, not God Michael.”

Archangel Michael says, “You don’t get to be the ears of God, Lucifer, I do.” Lucifer says, “Don’t think for a second, I want to trade winged tipped shoes with you Michael. Your name Michael means who is like God. You mean another micromanager square who won’t give Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings because he considers drug overdoses a form of subconscious suicide. Your name Michael means who is like God, but what it really means is sloppy second spokesperson after Moses. And if Moses really knew God face to face, then why didn’t he prophesize about the condemnation of goatees on metal rappers during Woodstock 94, before the entire shit show went up in flames?  But that’s what happens when Jewel is considered a seat stayer middling act before Limp Bizkit gave Carson Daily sustained stiffage until Kid Rock’s performance blew everyone away in college bliss paradise.”

Archangel Michael says, “Why am I hearing a new rumor around Heaven about you being the voice behind the Burning Bush Lucifer? You’d literally piss on Moses’s grave if you knew where to find it. And you wonder why God makes you feel like the sloppy second son, brother.”

Lucifer says, “I was the voice behind the Burning Bush. It was a prank I learned at Angel Magic Camp. I loved hearing Moses’ stutter like the kid in Billy Madison. But Moses didn’t shatter his teeth from stuttering after I spoke to him through the Burning Bush as expected. At the same time, Moses stumbling to articulate more excuses to turn down God’s job offer was hilarious.  Moses moans on, “Whiny Jews chosen to complain about not receiving immediate recognized sit-down service at restaurants in Del Ray Beach won’t take me seriously as your chosen your spokesperson Lord. It’s not as simple as Joan Rivers hocking jewelry to Midwest housewives she detested on the QVC. And why would Pharoah release our people from Slavery? What form of leverage do we have to offer our Lord besides the threat of my cousin Schlonka boring Pharoh to death through her mustard making workshop seminar at local JCC?”

Archangel Michael, says, “Remember when God said to Moses, God’s favorite prophet on Ranker, the last I time I checked, “You shall have no other God’s before me”, little brother? Well, that includes your Olympian size ego that rivals Kid Rock. Who I’m sure doesn’t pleasure himself in front of the mirror naked the way you do. Future Talmudic scholars will amplify God’s commandments in relation to you little bro when stating, “You shall not suck off the totality of your own awesomeness and refrain from stroking off what elongated love you provide the universe without 1st giving shout out props to the Lord, for endowing you with such special equipment to become such a star powered lighter upper with.”

Lucifer says, “But similar to Jeffery Bruckheimer, God isn’t the only big swinging dick in the producer business Michael. Tell that to Brian Grazer at Imagine Entertainment or to Mark Wahlberg, who’s the executive producer of Entourage for Christ’s sake.”

Archangel Michael says, “And you wonder why God never speaks directly to you anymore, only grumbling to his assistant Joshua in the background whenever you bother to text Shana Tova this Jewish new year. Lucifer says, “Communication is a 2-way street brother. And if I do hear from Dad, it’s because he’s dictating another business memo to his cherished assistant Joshua, who could transcribe all the sketched in stone commandments without complaining about a surging case of carpel tunnel syndrome in the making.”

Archangel Michael says, “We get it Lucifer, you want to feel like God’s gift to the universe 24/7, but forget angel wing promoting power, that’s far outside your pay grade brother. Granted, Bam, Bam Bigelow was a phenomenal wrester for his size, who power slammed his opponents into the mat with forceful funk authority like a more feral Junk Yard Dog, cranked up on Crystal Meth despite swallowing a cauldron of Hooter’s hot wings prior. Still, you don’t get to draft your own team of archnemesis angels.  So, stop acting as if your Dr. Jerry Buss in Winning Time on HBO who was anointed with savior type status for the city of angles, with the deep pockets to match. At least Kayne made money enough money off his artistry to justify his ego enlargement therapy sessions on wax for Def Jam and Roc-A-Fella records.”

Lucifer says, “Enough talk. I challenge you to a Ladder match in Heaven to wrestle away your favored angel status from Dad Michael. Problem is, you don’t know how to fight do you, Michael?”

Archangel Michael says, “Unlike you Lucifer, I have friends in high places, to end your smack talking reign about Big Mouth Moses for good.”

A winged, Macho Man Savage launches into his famed elbow drop from way up high in the Heavens on top of Lucifer’s head while the Lord from above bellows, “Oh yeah”. The Lord adds, “You want to be my ears now Lucifer you got it.” Next, a winged Super Fly Jimmy Snuka comes flying down off a golden ladder from the World Trade Center with a coconut in hand that smashes into 2 as it comes crashing down on Lucifer’s rapidly rupturing head.” Then, a winged Owen Hart, swoops in to unleash a dropkick that smacks Lucifer straight to Hell, to deliver justice for all, especially in honor of Moses, Abraham and David who earned their plethora of Mensch and a half shouts outs in the Torah for a reason.

Archangel Michael gives a bunch of ariel high fives to his new angel brothers in arms, Macho Man, Super Fly and Owen Hart, all highflyers till the end of time and says, “Slim Jim’s on me”, as Flying High by Ozzy Osbourne blares on the Lord’s decked out gold plated surround sound speakers as guitar God Randy Rhodes puts on a one man show for all WWF angels including the female wrestler Chyna. The Lord took her into Heaven despite her doing the sex tape Back Door to Chyna in addition to her subconscious suicide from pills and booze. Even the Lord Hashem, is a softy for female body builders. So, the Lord gave Chyna her angel wings because she already shouldered the responsibility of being the 1st WWE female wrestler star to get over in the “attitude era”, while becoming the only female wrestler to win the Intercontinental Belt Championship, let alone beat Triple H and high flying, metal howler Chris Jericho in the process. Besides, who else is going to break balls about Macho Man’s steroid size nuts in Heaven with such divine powered authority?

“Hey, Randy, can I be your new Miss Elizbeth in Heaven? Your balls filled out a missing person report ages ago, but are they still big enough to take on the Chyna challenge, which is drilling my hell hole into China for Back Door to Chyna Part 2?”

Macho Man says, “Oh yeah. Then again, power slams are more up Bam, Bam, Bigelow’s alley.”

Michael Kornbluth

Anti-Media Matters

Writing block is my son rubbing my pens on his penis.

Husband, Wife teams make me sick, especially the ones that operate farm to table restaurants near you.

I’d rather fuck a goat than blow 20 bucks for a burnt pizza with goat cheese on it. While resenting anyone who willingly goes into the business of hanging out with their wife for 17 hours a day, thanks.

Addias terminated their contract with Kayne at the cost of 250 million.

I thought Kayne designed his own shoes. Plus, prove Kayne’s point more America.

At this point, I don’t even care that Kayne mentioned the Jew controlled media. Let’s not act as if my so-called people in the media have done anything to spotlight our stolen election since the day Democracy died. I don’t even hear Greg Gutfeld call Amy Barrett, Mia Farrow with better husband selection. The same media, Jewish controlled or not, who doesn’t call out big Pharma, fuck face Fauci or our nefarious puppet government that’s pushed the clot shots on our children at nauseum as if they made a bet with the Dukes of Comet Pizza to see who could fuck over more young kids than remote learning and lab created meat prison camps in a NY minute.

I like Kayne sporting a white lives matter shirt since All Lives Matter became the new n word. I like Kayne pointing out how George Floyd was a slowed down version of Rodney King on Fentanyl.

“I don’t want people to give misguided hate an audience.”

If the media, Jewish or not, is misguided hate, then Judd Apatow is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

Ari Emanuel acts like a real friend to the Jewish people by calling for Spotify to strop streaming Ye’s music when he said dick about Obama gifting Iran 150 billion without congressional approval to produce more chest hair removal cream for the Kardashians.

Don’t you think Amazon denying the sale of the Hebrew Hammer on Amazon Prime is more hostile to Jewish superheroes than Ye’s hackneyed, older than Yiddish asides Ari? Why not call for all your clients to end their streaming deals with Amazon until they remove Mein Kampf for sale on Black Friday?

WME clients like Lebron, King of The Persecution Complex, has canceled an episode of the Shop because of Ye’s continued repeating of dangerous stereotypes during the filming of it.

Voter ID is racist. How can else can you tell MS-13 apart, with all that shit on their face?

BLM doesn’t cause 2 billion dollars in property damage if brothers in the struggle stop resisting arrest.

BLM only gets charged with tax evasion because Turbo Tax is culturally biased software.

Lebron’s no role model because he makes young black men think they can get away with all the offensives charges they want.

1 kid only means your diaphragm is for walls after all.

Deplorable is anyone whose glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.

Sanctuary cities are encouraged lawlessness on crack.

No bail laws are an endless supply of get of jail free cards.

Tony Podesta has enough pedo themed artwork to gaze at while munching on pizza over games of nude ping pong with Susan Sarandon to make Marilyn Manson blush.

Westbrook should be the new spokesperson for Tampax Tampons after Melo retires his bitchy belabored ass. Name another NBA lifer in designer glasses, that’s been responsible for stopping so much flowage.

“Please support the boycott of Kayne.”

Like Kayne’s fly guy Jesus Rap was flying off the shelves.

Like atheist Jews too cheap for ad free Spotify are still clamoring to buy The Life of Ye after he hugged it out with Trumpy Pee.

And shut the fuck up Kim Kardashian. Nobody cares about your meaningless placation fodder on Instagram. Speak out against crime in your hometown of LA and I’ll care about your social justice reform efforts before the City of Angels resembled Mad Max meets Tent City sponsored by REI.

“We cannot support hate speech, bigotry or antisemitism.”

What else can we support then Kim? Bitching out Karaoke tits for bitching out a waiter in SOHO for fucking up his egg white cunt scramble.

“We cannot support any content that amplifies his platform.”

Fine, I’ll support my own hate speech. I hate everyone in the media, Jew and gentile alike who sold millions on taking the clot shot. Which causes more cases of sudden cardiac arrest than torn condoms at Bill Mahr’s Airbnb fuck pad in Rio during the last leg of his standup comedy tour, Third Legged Beauties.com.

“Hate speech is never ok or permissible.”

What if it’s about Mr. Groper, who forced our military to take the clot shot or look for solar panel sales groups to network with on LinkedIn Pulse?

Kayne only signed with Addias because he fantasizes about squeaky clean preppies like Jared Kushner being behind bars for insider trading like his father.

Like Kayne running his mouth about the Jew controlled media is going to accelerate the smash and grab robberies already occurring along the Gold Coast of Chicago and in Beverly Hills at breakneck speed before there’s nothing left to steal. Like Suge Knight, emptying Vanilla’s Ice’s sweats of any lent covered roaches after getting him to sign over ownership of his master recordings for Ice, Ice Bay soon afterwards.

In the spirit of Ice Cube, I’m not antisemitic, I’m anti-media.

Mark Levin, the Blowhard One, blows.

Laura Inghram is a less ghoulish looking Ann Coulter.

Joy Reid is Jemele Hill in drag.

Tucker Carlson is Charlie Rose in Vineyard Vine briefs.

And just as original.

Who names his book Ship Of Fools?

That’s a Grateful Dead song from Mars Hotel?

Tucker doesn’t have one pothead bud left from boarding school, since he left CNN for Fox News.

Fuck anyone in the media who’s not condemning Operation Death Speed, especially those openly sick enough to push it on our kids, licktards still into Trumpy Poo or Poopy Pants included.

Anti-Media Matters, Challah

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth