Number 1 Capricorn

Number 1 Capricorn squeezed out of mama on New Years Day in the big city, Manhattan to be exact. Chances are, Number 1 Capricorn won’t have a hard time hooking up on his birthday at a club in Manhattan when he gets older or struggle to rally his friends to celebrate his birthday on New Years Eve. By urging them to put down the VR Googles for a night when real life beer googles await.

I was also born on the Island of Manhattan. I share that in common with my son, number 1 Capricorn. Which gives you some insight into my son’s 1st nickname in my honor, Always Loud. If I was a Native American Indian, my son would call me Trips on Curbs.

My other 2 kids were born in suburbia, Number 1 Capricorn’s big sister Matilda Singing Rose, and his younger brother Samuel, Headbanger’s Ball. Does my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA, Number 1 Capricorn, posses my flair for the comedic? Obviously, or else he’s not telling me in the car on the way back from Pre-K to be funnier than Weird Al before Christmas. Or he’s going to kill me with our sharpest knife for real. Obviously, he’s inherited my leanings toward dark humor also.

Is Number 1 Capricorn a sweet, observant, thoughtful child who never causes his dad any crazed distress? Similar to myself growing up, not that my own parents take this into consideration when they’ve always blatantly built up my younger brother versus constantly tearing me down. Despite my younger brother’s multiple arrest record, 2 decades long of nose candy abuse, derailed wedding engagement 1 week before his wedding. And the fact my parents had to take out a home equity line of credit to pay for their prefered son’s Boarding School in the process. But I digress.

My parents outsourced the education of my younger brother to an all Christian, jock heavy boarding school in Connecticut from the 9th grade onward. He says it made him tougher. And made him deal with actual Anti-Semitism like when his classmates threw pennies at his shoes for Mass. But a putzy, semi-built Jew from Westchester County like my younger brother. Who only competed in basketball and football against other similar putzy, semi-built Jews and Asians in a Division 3, suburban athletics prior. Was totally primed and ready to distinguish himself among the other monster, athletic bigs similar to former boarding school alum legends like NY Ranger great Bryan Leech, who broke the Cup curse from 1940, no problem.

My younger brother fell into the druggy crowd. I wasn’t any better. It did neither of us any favors. For me, it helped me come out of my shell a tad. And for my younger brother his test scores improved from snorting Ritalin. But it was a crutch. And only deepened his dependence and addiction for chemical induced highs. To help boost a strangled self-esteem void in the core of his being. For not feeling distinguished in any 1 particular field of interest like acting, writing, lacrosse or photography. This much I share in common with my younger brother from my experience in High School also minus the snorting Ritalin part. I had get into the Roy H. Park School of Communications at Ithaca College. Before I became friends with kids to snort Ritalin with and become the beneficiary of such speed paper writing privilege. Ithaca is otherwise known as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But I graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications. So after graduation, I could take a bong hit of the extra strong outdoor and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.

At the same time, my younger brother showcased glimmers of leadership potential during summers with Wilderness Ventures. Leading his group mount, the glorious Gran Teton National Park in Wyoming. Whereas I wasted away summers, counting down the days for Summer Camp to end during Color War. Because I wasn’t leading our basketball team to victory despite winning “The Most Improved Basketball Player Award.” Still knowing I was the 2nd worst athlete at camp after the Sheik’s son from Great Neck. Had no intention of writing about younger brother here but it makes sense because the story I’m telling is about my desire to raise my son into a winner because preparing is caring. And settling for outsourcing your kids education to strangers prematurely isn’t.

Preparing is caring. Don’t get me wrong, my dad coached me in basketball when I was a kid. But in retrospect, I got the impression he did it more for his own ego enlargement than for my own competitive evolution. It’s a damning statement I know. But even my younger brother who denies our dad is a narcissist. Despite our Dad having zero problem playing tennis 350- days in Scottsdale, Arizona, summer included. Versus playin and getting to know his 3 grandchildren better than he did for his 1st born. Now, I’d say my dad’s favorite activities in retirement in Arizona are playing tennis and jerking off to the Weather Channel. With news of more winter storms, slamming against the Eastern seaboard, again and again. But at least my dad’s feeling good about his developing ground game. According to my dad’s new instructor, his forehand has never been stronger.

But I’m being serious. Preparing is caring. I’m in Arizona with my younger brother and my family. And my younger brother says. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Again, let me stress the fact this advice was coming from my younger brother. Who rejects any fake news notion of our father being a Narcissist. And this is coming from a kid who posts driving selfies of himself on Facebook. Proving how the road to objectivity is way behind him. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Is coming from a kid who sees nothing wrong with leaving a condom on a couch where my kids used to play. We ditched the couch once we moved. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Is coming from a younger brother who saw no problem, asking me to get him high, when I granted him the opportunity to come through for me and look after my kids Arthur and Matilda before my lucky 3 Samuel, my flipper, breech baby was born. Which I just made the birth to in time because I had to call an audible at the last second and invite my in-laws to drive 3 hours from Delaware to look after my 2 kids at our place because my younger brother’s heart wasn’t into being a class, non-selfish act for once his life, my chest. That’s not my expression. A friend of mine in high school coined it but it’s beyond pertinent to incorporate in this butter fingers, baby brother, dropping the ball case of biblical proportions. Similar to when God said to Adam. “Under no circumstances, turn the apple of knowledge into your personal bong. The magic herb already possess plenty of mind stimulant properties of it’s own. Who do you think created Maui Wowie in the 1st place?”

So when my younger brother of 3 years who posted a picture of himself holding my 3rd born in our home as his new Facebook photo without my consent. You can understand why I got enraged, thinking, great. Now, he’s stolen both my weed, Adderall and my life. How many times has he babysat my other 2 yet? So I can squeeze in an open mike God forbid. But feel free to use my newborn as a means to hide your sketchy surging side from mom to attract more maternal minded muff Sir Snort A Lot, my chest.

Look, even my own mother who worships the ground my younger brother walks on has admitted to me. “Son, you deserve a better younger brother.” So don’t think I’m being a melodramatic, caustic drama queen about it. I’m only mentioning my younger brothers’ serially self-centered behavior to highlight the contrasted sober sound advice he gave me in relation to my 1st son Arthur for a change. “Push Samuel more than dad did with us.” Because my younger brother is big enough to recognize the limitations of outsourcing your sons not only physical but spiritual and cultural education to strangers who aren’t family. I think we can all agree. It’s family members above else, especially dads, who should have the most personally vested interest in ensuring his children establish good, healthy habits, versus spoiled, lazy, degenerate, mentally retarding ones. Who should make it priority to educate his children on the danger of weed abuse, when their brais are still developing in High School. Instead of merely relegating you’re own use of weed in college because you worshiped Bob Dylan, sold weed in college and glamorized telling the tale of waking up to Sly Stone at Woodstock, in a post Acid haze to I’m going to take you higher.

I want my 1 Capicorn to get into the habit of winning sooner than later before losing becomes a complacent habit. Which as time drags on becomes a much harder habit to break. My dad still smokes cigarettes. And has zero problem stinking up my kids or leaving his disgusting bits of gum on our table whenever we’re graced with his presence, all after his heart attack no less. He blames his heart attack and being addicted to sleeping pills on my younger brother after his drug cop sting arrest. At the time all I thought in response was. That’s pretty fucked up thing to say dad in trying conceal your blatant favoritism you showcase in my younger brother’s direction, time and time again, obviously. Throwing your youngest son under the bus like this. Who you shipped off to Boarding School at 15. Knowing he had zero clue on how to be self-reliant or even defend himself in any effective capacity because you never signed us for Martial Arts either. Plus, insisting Jonathan gave you a heart attack over me, makes complete sense. Knowing your heart was always more invested into what upside and return my younger brother gave you in terms of pride and joy after you downplayed my rec basketball stock in front other dads in order to recruit higher caliber players. And relegated your 1st born to mere penny stock status post Bar Mitzvah. Because till this day, the only accomplishment of mine, my father beams about it was me rocking my Haftorah portion at my Bar Mitzvah. Despite my cold brought on by his perpetual, belittling, dismissive, you’re soft putz tone, which left my nervous system in shatters. It also doesn’t do wonders for your self-esteem, when your mother and father openly admit to fretting about nobody showing up to your Bar Mitzvah Party after the party happens. Only to learn they invited as many people as possible to cover their bases. Despite me having more friends back then than I do now by far.

I was close with plenty of my buds like Ari, John and Coop but all those past relationships during my age of innocence. When we used to dance like comedy buffoons to Man in the Mirror and get high off Shirley Temple’s alone at Bar Mitzvah parties galore fail to match the pure joy I derive from making a dish which gets my 1 Capricorn to launch into repeats laps around the room. Otherwise known as the Yummy Dance as my son declares with endless topping glee, best daddy ever.

All of those relationships, even mine with Coop. Who I’d buy candy with before Hebrew School. So our group of friends could throw the Nerds candy and Gobbstoppers at the Scarsdale kids moments later. Because we attended nearby Edgemont High School and went to movies like New Jack City in Yonkers, NY during the height of Albanian Guido revolution. Albanian and Italian Guido’s of late eighties, early nineties fame, were the original metrosexuals really. So, by spending all of our free time in Yonkers at the movies around such spiked haired, fist flailing Albanian bad assess of yesteryear, we became a tad tougher than our Snuggles soft Scarsdale counterparts by mere osmosis. And didn’t sweat retaliation from raining cherry Nerds in Danny Farbers face during readings of Exodus 1 bit.

Despite writing every Heavy Metal band we could think of or read about in Circus magazine with my friend Ari on our Jean Jacket Denium 3 ring binders instead of letting Rabbi Klein bore us to death. Jackie Mason, an ex Rabbi he wasn’t.

Despite all the time I spent in John’s driveway with him teaching me how to throw a tight spiral already. Despite all of those special, warm hearted memories amassed between these old school friends of mine. Who’ll I always love in my heart for loving my sweeter, sober, still way in his shy shell self. My relationship with my son Arthur, my number 1 Capricorn is far more magical and heart tingly than all of those past relationships combined. And we all saw Dice’s coming out party on HBO and Poison slay at the Westchester Country Center with Fallen Angel and Nothing But A Good Time together.

All of these friends mentioned above, came to open mikes and bringer shows I did in Manhattan after living in LA for six years after college. Our roots run deep. But having a son is different type of relationship because he’s a more beautiful, funnier, far sweeter manifestation of you. Plus, he emanates from your Tree Trunk. So he has a sense of humor and can laugh at my new naked nickname for him Pecker Wood.

My beautiful son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, my number 1 Capricorn, my all American dream. Can’t believe he’s real. God really came through for me when I prayed for none of my kids to be afflicted with my knock kneed putz gene and boy did he overdeliver. But as I’m always emphasizing to my 1 number Capricorn, talent alone is no guarantee of greatness or of transformation from nobody to somebody success. Is Kobe Bryant genetically gifted? Of course, but he’s gym rat and it’s his killer work ethic, his dogged desire to be the best like Larry the Legend and MJ before him which separates him from the Alpha Dog pack. I don’t want my son to get addicted to munchies and the giggles in High School. I want him to get addicted to winning and becoming a leader. Who helps turn other self-doubters into winning addicted believers.

Before Arthur was born, I said, babe, I got the perfect nickname for Arthur, we’re going to call him The Art Show. 1 second later, his big sister interjects Arthur Morrison Kornbluth’s swelling embryonic mojo. And says. “No, it’s my show.” Since then, I’ve also called my son Arthur, my All American Dream because he’s got blue eyes, blond hair and looks like a prettier Micky Mantle. If Leo played him in a movie before all the booze and coke drained him of his God given good looks like a non-fruiter sounding Peter O-Toole.

I think giving your kids confidence building nicknames are important because it gives them a high standard to live up to like Art Show USA or All American Dream or Number 1 Capricorn. I’d say those nicknames are a glaring contrast to self-esteem restricting nicknames like Waste of Height in comparison.

The 1st founding father to sign the Constitution, George Washington said 99% of people fail because of their insistence on making excuses. And I refuse to raise my Number 1 Capricorn to be this way. Preparing is caring. So when I see my son on the playground at Pre-K to pick up early. And see him running around with such athletic grace and confidence supreme because I pushed the monkey bars on him early like his sister and got him mirroring my kettle bell exercises at 3. This glorious sight of my son’s confidence on the rise puts me at ease. Knowing he’s so much more comfortable in his own skin than I ever was at his age. And he’s getting stronger at conquering his inner shyness, more everyday, yeah, yeah. “Life is on the other side of fear”, like Eleanor Roosevelt said. When you’re an unemployed stay at home comedian dad, you have plenty of time to look up life coaching quotes to use on your children I know.

Preparing is caring. In a sense, a fair share of the losing in my life has prepared me to become a more informed, empowering caretaker for my children to ensure their semblance of egos don’t get tripped up at the starting gate. Becoming a parent is a life improver do over by granting you the opportunity to do good through your children. By doing your best to make sure they’re aware of your mistakes and don’t repeat them to ensure they become addicted to winning sooner than later. And don’t end up an unemployed father of 3 with a very funny yet unbillable podcast and blog under their belt for the past year and change. Preparing is caring. And more than ever, I’m determined to be the best winning role model I can be for my 1 Capricorn. And the only way I can do this, which is under my control. Is to keep banging out more retweet worthy jokes, unearth more heart warming blog chapters and finish writing my book, Stay-At-Home Comedian already. And settle for nothing less than family inspired comedy gold so I become funnier than Weird Al and don’t die a nobody before Christmas. I told you 1 Capricorn got his dark sense of humor from me.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

Kids Need Dad Around More

Kids need dad around more than mama. Because dads blessed with the quality bonding time with their children. Who take advantage knowing their dad was content letting you play with yourself always. Never treats their kids like regrettable time sucks.

Kids need dad around more. How many more times do I have to say it? Funnier Dad, happier baby. I’ve logged the most time with my 3 kids on this God green earth so far. Of course, they’re super chill, loosey- goosey sweet.

Kids need dad around more than mama. Daddy’s got way more crazy girlfriend stories to share. Hey kids, do you know what a restraining order is? You can avoid it by not going home with red headed girls who kiss you 1st at the bar in hats.

Kids need dad around more. Because who else will defend on Twitter why American Dad is educational on their behalf? Good morning USA. Today will refute mama’s inappropriate viewing claim in array of hilarious ways.

Kids need dad around more. Because mama has zero interest in dumping them off at the park so she can increase her vertical with box jumps and drain her 42 high arcing jumping beauties from way downtown.

Kids need dad around more because mommy doesn’t exude enough star power to compel our kids to start throwing change at my face and kicking me. Because for our Astrology Off, my name drops were Vince Vaughn, Eddie Murphy and Doug Stanhope.

Kids need dad around more. How else will they learn to mirror rock solid core strengthening plank exercises? From mama lounging on the couch to Instagram again? No offense. Her filtering work is excellent.

Kids need dad around more. Do you want Ted Cruz’s lumbering buzz kill wife around more than you have to endure? At least Ted Cruz calls out Zit Face Zuck for the fake news moralist he is. You’d think Ted made his wife lose out on marrying W.

Kids need dad around more because I make more of an effort to dress up to stay in. Especially on weekends, when mama’s working at the hospital. So my 3 kids don’t think I’m taking their evening entertainment for granted.

Kids needs dad around more because mama sucks at arranging play dates and socializing with other mamas in general. So I’m all my 3 kids got. Sorry Baby Boomer Bust Grandparents. It’s sad but true. You being useless and all.

Kids need dad around more because mama’s parents thought taking in a hairless rescue dog commanded more attention than their 3 pristine, luscious locked grandchildren. And weed impaired my judgement in the past Dr. Savage?

Kids need dad around more. Because the only way to control your 3 kids with comedy is to be more consistently funny than just scary spider mom from Coraline to get them into the bubble pronto.

Kids need dad around more because mama isn’t getting up at 5 Am to make homemade hummus sandwiches with fresh shaved carrots & munster. Earning crazy good dada accolades after I pick up Art Show from Pre-K and Deltoids Dawn by the bus outside our home sweet home.

Kids needs dad around more because mama isn’t increasing their comedic expressive might through Mad Libs every night. Nor is she busting out silly string cheese words like nipple de do da. Which got a big laugh by the way.

Kids need dad around, especially if he’s blessed with more Dragon blood energy than Kayne and Trump combined until kids tucked in bedtime. Ensuring no degenerate old school dad me time ensues. Keeping old school Dragon Lungs, the pothead away.

Kids need dad around more than mama. Because after moms give birth. They can claim catch up exhaustion the remainder of their lives. So getting up early to get the house humming is never seized if she doesn’t have to.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

Jokes I Won’t Do in Manhattan Tonight

It’s time to lay off the Amazon Cloud. When your 4 year old son threatens to stab you in the heart 1st thing in the morning because you deny him instant gratification from his Futurama TV.

Astrology Off
Matilda, you got Einstein, George Washington. Arthur has Dr. King, Ben Franklin. Dammit Arthur is beating me already. Baby Samuel has Alice Cooper, Lincoln. I don’t like this game anymore daddy. Pisces are very competitive.

Int. Whole Foods
Barista
Is your baby always so chill?
Stay at Home Comedian Dad
He isn’t with her. Plus, his mommy isn’t an American Pyscho.
She’s originally from Australia. So that helps.

My 7 Year Old Daughter’s glimmers of Atheism.
Your baby brother’s new nickname is number 1 Capricorn. Plus, he stems from the 1st man on earth Adam. Daughter interjects. We all come from Apes Dada. Stop acting so evolved already Female Flash.

He’s So Happy Retort
My baby is already familiar with Bob Marley’s earlier work during his prime crooning pre-Concrete Jungle, chase those Crazy Baldheads out of town phase.

Unlikely post on LinkedIn.
I think God Gives Kids to Only The Lonely is obviously funnier and far less depressing than God Gives Kids to the Lonely. Agreed fake news funny commentators?

Int. Whole Foods
Stay At Home Comedian
Dad
Nice pin, All Good. I’m assuming Jeff Bezos gave you his pin number for his JP Morgan account. Assuming, you emote online about the muffled shrieks of despair on The Hand Maid’s Tale.

The baby is so happy. Old men hate him for it because my precious offspring highlights how loud and annoying their kids were growing up. Knowing their wives failed at making their kids any chiller on even a part time basis.

Daddy propping up Columbus.
Daddy, Columbus gave the Indians diseases. Pretty sure Charlie Sheen planted his seeds of destruction and gave his fair share away at the last AVN convention in Mohegan Sun. Nobody’s taken down Major League off Cinemax yet.

Michael Savage interviewing Ziggy Marley.
Studies prove excessive weed use lowers your sperm count.
Ziggy replies. My father had 12 kids. Fake news man.

Michelle Obama is class personified no doubt. As the ex 1st lady has she ever gone on record stating her 2 girls are composed, bright, celestial beams of light because she held them to higher social standards than ANTIFA? Just curious.

Bloomberg could’ve run against Trump the way Bernie did. So much for 2017 being the year for Atheist Jews.

Int. Pre-K
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I got Arthur’s mom to take all 3 kids to Delaware for a long weekend. So I can get my book proposal out already. And not be a bitchy, dependent, underling the rest of my life.

Int. Tavern
Older Woman
Your son is gorgeous. Your wife must be fetching in her own right.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
But her arm fat. Which my other 5 year old son points out at the dinner table. Weighs heavily on her overall bangability index score.

Michael Savage on Kayne
I’m sick to my stomach. This low life rapper debased the same desk I sat across from the President. Great work Savage. You’ve straddled the Imus, nappy headed you know what line out of pure ego driven jealously alone.

Memo to Dr. Savage
Your huffy, gruff, old man get off my oval office assessment of Kayne West makes me want to smoke weed again so I never end up sounding like you. Once, I’m done reading your book Stop Mass Hysteria. You’re so off the list.

Robert E Lee quote: “Slavery as an institution is a moral and political evil in any country.” But have fun with your pretend race war twitter twats. Last time I checked, Trump beat Hillary not Obama. Obama just introduced her at Jay Z rallies.

Me being an intentional dick to my wife.
Oh, baby Arthur said Baba to grandma.
That’s pretty miraculous because he’s only seen her 6 times so far max, correct?
Sorry, she’s done goonish to help me out.

Is any defeat of Penn State really a surprise now? Karma is in constant prevent feel good mode for Penn State football fans left, sorry.

Astrology Off Part Part 2
Matilda, you got Einstein, George Washington. Arthur has Dr. King, Ben Franklin. Baby Samuel has Alice Cooper, Lincoln. Dada’s got Van Gogh, Eddie Murphy. Daughter kicks me as my son throws change at my face.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

LaVar Ball as My Sub Dad Growing Up

I’d have more brothers to play with over my GI-Joe Figures way past puberty. It was a road block to my emotional development.
He’d hold spin the bottle house parties in my honor.
But only invite stuck up Jenny down the block.
2 minutes in, he barks. The Yahoo bottle doesn’t spin itself bitch.
I’d be more inclined to my buy my dad a Bentley with unbridled enthusiasm. Instead, of the gift giving possessing a cold, transactionary, I owe you for college and for paying Pre-K way.
I’d prank call Cuba Gooding. And challenge Cuba and Laurence Fishburne to games of 2 on 2 for 64’s of Old E. Just to watch my Dad LaVar Ball pour the 64’s on Fishburne and call him a low IQ baller.
He’d make sure I lost my virginity before my younger brother did. So I wouldn’t feel like a big brother bust like Eddie Curry or Greg Oden. With an even shittier, less reliable hook shot.
My highlight varsity year would be more than scoring a whopping 12 points against an all Japanese team in suburban NY. The players ran away from me like movie extras in a Godzilla film.
My dad still wouldn’t be sporting the same pair of ashy sweats from 88.
Totally ruining his 1st type Skype call with his grandchildren in retirement splendor from Scottsdale, Arizona.
My father’s favorite nickname for me wouldn’t be a Waste of Height but instead be Manifest Baller Destiny.
We mirror our dad’s behavior. So I wouldn’t have taken up smoking cigarettes at the time or only get off the couch to tear down my John Stark’ poster after he failed to elevate the Knick’s past Houston.
He’d send me to Big Man Camp to build up my toughness. Instead of to a Jewish sleep away camp where I was the 2nd worst athlete after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck, Long Island.
My 1st concert would be Public Enemy with Anthrax, for the Bring the Noise, bring the funk tour. And I wouldn’t have to feel so self-conscious Jewish in the presence of skinheads and one percenters in attendance.
He’d offer Rihanna future sneaker profit participation points for popping my cherry. So I’d pick and pop from way downtown with bigger baller authority.
I’d still get busted for stealing Hockey Cards at Child World in attempt to snag an Eric Lindros rookie card.
By,

Michael Kornbluth

LaVar Ball As My Sub Dad Growing Up

I’d have more brothers to play with over my GI-Joe Figures way past puberty. It was a road block to my emotional development.

He’d hold spin the bottle house parties in my honor.
But only invite stuck up Jenny down the block.
2 minutes in, he barks. The Yahoo bottle doesn’t spin itself bitch.

I’d be more inclined to my buy my dad a Bentley with unbridled enthusiasm. Instead, of the gift giving possessing a cold, transactionary, I owe you for college and for paying Pre-K way.

I’d prank call Cuba Gooding. And challenge Cuba and Laurence Fishburne to games of 2 on 2 for 64’s of Old E. Just to watch my Dad LaVar Ball pour the 64’s on Fishburne and call him a low IQ baller.

He’d make sure I lost my virginity before my younger brother did. So I wouldn’t feel like a big brother bust like Eddie Curry or Greg Oden. With an even shittier, less reliable hook shot.

My highlight varsity year would be more than scoring a whopping 12 points against an all Japanese team in suburban NY. The players ran away from me like movie extras in a Godzilla film.

My dad still wouldn’t be sporting the same pair of ashy sweats from 88.
Totally ruining his 1st type Skype call with his grandchildren in retirement splendor from Scottsdale, Arizona.

My father’s favorite nickname for me wouldn’t be a Waste of Height but instead be Manifest Baller Destiny.

We mirror our dad’s behavior. So I wouldn’t have taken up smoking cigarettes at the time or only get off the couch to tear down my John Stark’ poster after he failed to elevate the Knick’s past Houston.

He’d send me to Big Man Camp to build up my toughness. Instead of to a Jewish sleep away camp where I was the 2nd worst athlete after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck, Long Island.

My 1st concert would be Public Enemy with Anthrax, for the Bring the Noise, bring the funk tour. And I wouldn’t have to feel so self-conscious Jewish in the presence of skinheads and one percenters in attendance.

He’d offer Rihanna future sneaker profit participation points for popping my cherry. So I’d pick and pop from way downtown with bigger baller authority.

I’d still get busted for stealing Hockey Cards at Child World in attempt to snag an Eric Lindros rookie card.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Science of Fatherhood Not Working In My Dad’s Favor

Science of fatherhood not working in my dad’s favor:

Scientific studies prove distant, belittling fathers are more likely to produce sons prone to obesity, especially when mom doesn’t mix up her P&J lunch routine ever. Some hippie ma.

Science of fatherhood not working in my dad’s favor:

Scientific studies prove involved dads produce sons who suffer less psychological problems like turning into Mr. Defensive because Dad was always striving for his offensive best.

Science of fatherhood not working in my dad’s favor:

Scientific studies prove sons of involved dads are more popular in Pre-K. That explains why my son is picky whereas I only recall a stand alone play date with booger face. I bet he’s a 42 year old virgin. He smelled like puppy chow.

Science of fatherhood not working in my dad’s favor:
Scientific studies prove distant, belittling fathers produce sons more prone to sexual deviant behavior. So deciding to live in West Hollywood after college wasn’t in my best interests.

Finally, a scientific fact in my dad’s favor.
Men who drink before conception are more likely to have sons who abuse alcohol. I can’t blame that on my dad directly. My mom’s crazy hick gene from Kentucky rearing its ugly head again.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

Celebs Playing Dad

Brad Pitt playing Dad.
David Fincher scripts were bumming me out man.

Brad Pitt playing Dad again.
Floyd had to get off the couch sooner or later man.

Brad Pitt playing Dad again.
Don’t get me we wrong. I love killing Nazis and all. But revenge pics are so tired Tarantino. Unless, he pens one where Uma gets to gut Harvey in Grindhouse 2. I’m so much cooler than Johnny Depp.

Ben Affleck playing Dad.
Normally, dads don’t move to New York City after rehab in Malibu to curb their enthusiasm for boozing all night long.

Jeff Goldblum playing Dad.

2 kids later at 68. Jeff Goldblum feels right on schedule. I’m sure his boys will feel the same way when he forgets to zip his fly doing the Humpty at their Dino rocker themed Bar Mitzvah parties.

Ryan Phillipee playing Dad.
What, my agent can’t get me a recurring role on TV. I’ll take any role I can get.

Ryan Phillippe playing Dad again.

Does Reese, I mean mama ask about me anymore? Or has her love for daddy gone to pieces? Because of my cruel intentions of making her jealous by banging a younger actress before my cameo for Crash never materialized.

George Clooney playing Dad.

Clooney opened up how fatherhood changed his life once and for all. Let me guess. He no longer feels so distinguished. Plus, massive acid attacks in England made him flee back to rape wood in sunnier, walled surroundings.

Will Smith playing Dad.
What do you think of the dress dad? I think a tailor is in order. If you want another shot at rebooting an iconic movie franchise. But for kicks the dress looks adorable on you kid.

Neil Patrick Harris playing Dad.
I know Mario Cantone is funnier than me. I’m not a traditional stand-up comedian kids, remember? I thought you were just a child actor with good timing dada.

Ryan Reynolds playing Dad.
My boobs just didn’t pop out of nowhere girls.
But don’t sweat it. You’re bound to follow after mommy’s golden globes when it’s your time to pop.

David Beckham playing Dad.
Pele does bicycle kicks, not me kid. But I can show you how to kickstart your ab workouts into high gear in no time.
Chris Hemswoth playing dad.
I learned how to surf at Bondi Beach with Brody as my surf whisperer.
So hop on my back kid. You got nothing to fear when the ghost of Swayze is near.

Salman Kahn playing Dad.
Bollywood actor Salman Kahn wants to embrace fatherhood through surrogacy because he’s not marriage material. Or as they say in India. Why the buy the cow, when it’s not arranged or skewed in your bold, rich, and beautiful favor.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth