Reimagining Cuomo Book Titles

Did you know Jared Kushner talked Dad out of Motley Crue playing at his inauguration because he insisted Tommy Lee looked too Alt-Rightish. Later he adds, “And my Hebrew Hammer can’t compete Dad.” Holla, thank you very much.

A leadership book by Cuomo carries less impactful weight than a Stacy Abrams romance novel, especially after she ditches the fat suit for a parachute jumper on casual Friday. Holla, thank you very much.

Knowing how New York State boasted the highest death rate of any US state, largely due to Cuomo’s policy of forcing sick old patients with COVID to shack up with other sick old New Yorkers older than Yiddish, to die, cursing the Italian Reptilian inside against their dying of the light, it’s time to reimagine new book titles for the thug in Armani, don’t you think? If Cuomo’s lucky, he can win another Emmy with a TV show on Netflix in his honor based on these killer, headline hooker titles alone. Let the alt righting book title reimagining being.

  1. That slut Blanch from the Golden Girls was going to die from a urinary track infection anyway. Wait a minute, in Florida she’d still be alive to suck a golf ball through a garden hose for another day, my bad.
  2. Ben Stiller thinks I’d play a convincing mob boss in a remake of the Goonies because I look like Mama Fratelli and the Thing had a baby. Wait a minute, who wrote this shit for me, Joan Rivers. I thought that annoying, Jew bitch was six feet under already for insisting Michelle Obama let it flop around on Ellen like she he don’t care. Joan lives. Holla, thank you very much.
  3. Trump’s shipped in hospital beds were just for show. Who cares if they got less touches than a bible at a bathhouse colony in Provincetown?
  4. I got Chris Rock to do a mask up PSA in my honor despite President Trump helping push prison reform to give his people new leases on life. I just gave BLM more rope to hang themselves with within the court of a public opinion.
  5. I destroyed the greatest city in the world in 14 months flat. What have you done with your life, besides wish the big, bad blond wolf could give me a nipple twister under the comment section on the Gateway Pundit?
  6. Born to Kill like Anthony Gnocchi.
  7. Vince Lombardi Lives
  8. Thugs in Armani Matter
  9. Broadway Blue Balls
  10. Andrew Black Eyes
  11. Destructive Mook Knows Best
  12. No, I Won’t Jump Off My Own Bridge.
  13. Reckless Endangerment Is Good
  14. Hijacking Hydroxychloroquine. Cuomo confiscated the entire supply in NY for his own personal stash and banned Doctors from prescribing it because the Italian Reptilian Inside had a surplus of body bags to fill, never mind.
  15. How to Kill Without Throwing Granny Off The Train
  16. From Good Too Imprisoned for Highly Avoidable Crimes Against Humanity.
  17. The Ponzi Push of Death
  18. The Art of Getting Away With Granny Choking On Her Pasta Fazool, metaphorically speaking.
  19. Too Big for Late Term Abortion
  20. Why I’m Smarter Than Tony Soprano
  21. Eating Meatballs Alone On Death Row
  22. The Hit Man’s Dilemma Around Real Made Men Tough Guys
  23. How to Get Banned From Rao’s For Life
  24. Dysfunctional Democrats Always Win Last

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time there was a famous Jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more than Duke Ellington. Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra strength heroin one night, home alone, in his Queens apartment, in far Rockaway Beach, which would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience for a change and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his Jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window to.


Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes again, to make sure what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision on mind melding H, a so called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini tablet device of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell out the window into the frigid, February snow with absolute relished glee, to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing out his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before. Now, Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling and asks God in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my Jazz piano masterpiece? The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  And how dare this so called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks, I ever spent”, after his carefree son flings my Jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic, Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “Melancholy magic.”  

Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine, but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well guess what, you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me motherfucker. Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American Jazz songbook. So instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mother, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway like Cole Porter or those those fancy, schmancy Gershwin brothers for a change? At least, they dress nice and the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you got some brains cells left to use more wisely.”

Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door this time and bemoans, “Fight or flight Junky, what will your destiny be? I get it, you’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep, singing, “The Man I Love, whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  So, you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard, whoopty freaking do. I’m positive, you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter or get some sin on sin loving, behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room to.  Innovate or die a broke, boring Junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his Piano with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer on the spot. His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens alone and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone and says, “Jazz Rock is the new groove now Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you, when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative Jazz, or elevator music, on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in. Regardless, your sound, helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. Sorry about cutting out your work on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit Junky.”

Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing my new lease on life Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank, but boy could you play. And I am fucking Jazz. And Miles knows best, even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell, can see that.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time there was a famous Jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more than Duke Ellington. Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra strength heroin one night, home alone, in his Queens apartment, in far Rockaway Beach, which would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience for a change and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his Jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window to.


Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes again, to make sure what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision on mind melding H, a so called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini tablet device of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell out the window into the frigid, February snow with absolute relished glee, to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing out his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before. Now, Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling and asks God in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my Jazz piano masterpiece? The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  And how dare this so called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks, I ever spent”, after his carefree son flings my Jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic, Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “Melancholy magic.”  

Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine, but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well guess what, you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me motherfucker. Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American Jazz songbook. So instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mother, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway like Cole Porter or those those fancy, schmancy Gershwin brothers for a change? At least, they dress nice and the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you got some brains cells left to use more wisely.”

Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door this time and bemoans, “Fight or flight Junky, what will your destiny be? I get it, you’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep, singing, “The Man I Love, whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  So, you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard, whoopty freaking do. I’m positive, you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter or get some sin on sin loving, behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room to.  Innovate or die a broke, boring Junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his Piano with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer on the spot. His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens alone and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone and says, “Jazz Rock is the new groove now Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you, when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative Jazz, or elevator music, on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in. Regardless, your sound, helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. Sorry about cutting out your work on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit Junky.”

Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing my new lease on life Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank, but boy could you play. And I am fucking Jazz. And Miles knows best, even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell, can see that.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Eulogy Ghost Writer

Do It All Dad had a bit in his old standup comedy act called Wise Black Grandma, where he’d say, “If I could do it again, I would’ve subbed my no show whiny Jewish Grandma for a wise black Grandma to fill in her place at my wedding instead. Post an ad on Craigs List, “Wise Black Grandma need for a wedding in Woodstock. Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome, must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only.”  Growing up, Do It All Dad grew a fondness, teetering on full blown love for his substitute Grandpa Ed, who exuded the furry browed, warm hearted, wiser glint you’d expect from a retired Jewish estate tax lawyer from Queens, in his button up, neatly woven sweaters and whiff of well put together after shave.

Becoming a grandpa doesn’t make you into Santa Claus, yet Grandpa Ed, his substitute Grandpa, who his Jewish Grandma Ethel remarried soon after the death of her 1st husband Murray, would shell out an always, neat, crisp 5 dollar bill for the grandkid who found the Afikoman which is the half broken piece of Matzah little Jewish kids go looking for after dinner for Passover, which was a nice, cheer filled touch to celebrate the Jewish people’s liberation from slavery in honor of God’s hardcore divine intervention years, on the behalf of his chosen people, meant to become cosmic perfectionist lovers of TV, who lived to complain in restaurants about unrecognized, immediate service.

Now, Grandpa Ed had a grandson from his 1st marriage, yet you didn’t get that distinct impression based on the eulogy he delivered on his grandpa’s behalf and Roger was billed as the really smart one because he played chess and wore plenty of turtlenecks, which gives you 10 extra IQ points easy.  Grandpa Ed was dead now and Roger who later went to Harvard was supposed to be giving a heartfelt eulogy in honor of his biological grandfather, not his rebound one, yet merely reading some boring letter his original wife wrote to Grandpa Ed, devoid of any juicy details such as their sweaty sex period after World War  2, when she used to lick Ice Cream Bonbons off his bellybutton during those brutally hot summer Queens nights, before Grandpa passed the bar, become a family estate tax lawyer and could afford an AC unite of their own, failed to bring back any semblance of real deal connective feeling either.

Eulogies really do separate the men from the ungrateful twats such as Roger, who couldn’t muster up a single original, expressive remembrance of his dead biological grandfather, who treated him like the 2nd coming of Bobby Fisher.  Eulogies also reveal if Grandpa raised a cunt for brains daughter to. Now, there’s a good kind of gaul and a bad kind of gaul. Faye, Roger’s, clammy, insincere peppy, patronizing, style free, tad stumpy mother, showcased the worst kind of gaul, when during her eulogy, she went for the kishke’s, meaning the intestines in Yiddish by openly declaring permanent f you season on Do It All Dad’s grandma when she said with what felt like manufactured, dialed up invective, “I’m just glad that now Dad can join mom now in heaven”, which was a low blow on par with Mini Me trying to gnaw off Austin’s Power’s Nuts, In The Spy That Shagged Me.”  

Now, in the limo ride to the grave site, Faye asks Do It All Dad, a 20-year-old college junior at the time, “You didn’t write your eulogy did, you? He says, “No, my mom wrote it for me Faye.” Faye almost stutters and says, “Well, I just thought.”  The 20-year-old Do It All Dad adds, “You thought what Faye, I hired a eulogy ghost writer with my bus boy tip money this summer in Cape Cod. My eulogy was well received by the Rabbi because it sprang from my heart Faye. Regardless, if Grandpa Ed was my rebound grandpa or not, he still treated me like I was his own grandson worthy of his wisdom and love. I recall him telling me how to place my feet when using a 7 iron once, which is more than my own dad ever taught me besides a half-formed hook shot. Wasn’t there anything Roger could’ve mentioned to honor his legacy outside of reading an old letter his 1st wife wrote? Reality is, your son Roger, the genius, is the one guilty of plagiarizing, by stealing the memories contained in an old letter your mom wrote, to fill in the lapse of having any soul serenade sermon to deliver on his own. And where do you get the gaul to disrespect my grandmother at her dead husband’s funeral, regardless, if you feel her endlessly manic bi-polar art buying spree of southwest American Indian art, being responsible for draining his will to live one second more either. Also, Jews focus on more Mitzvah and doing good for the sake of doing good hear on Earth, without the intention of sole financial gain or promised hooked up afterlife in Heaven, where all sins are cleared, even if Grandpa Ed asked Jesus to forgive him for raising such a cunt for brains like yourself. Do I have way with words or what? But I’m positive Roger will make an excellent food coloring chemist for Johnson and Johnson to overcompensate for his color free personality, which he could thank you for inheriting at your funeral to.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth