The Jewish Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist

Chosen, a 28-year-old black Jewish Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, required a COVID vaccine stamp on his passport for an upcoming summer tour in the US after sending Kayne West a demo tape with banging, killer rap songs such as ‘Me, My Mask and I’, ‘F The Mask Police’ and ‘Life After COVID’.

            The problem was, Canada had distributed the vaccine to only five percent of the Canuk population so far, enraging even the most stalwart, diehard, left-leaning government propagandist dirt rags of the far north. They now ran harassingly hurtful headlines about the anemic vaccine distribution numbers throughout Oh Canada such as “Operation Escargot Speed”, “Jagged Pill To Swallow” and “Flipping Out Over Florida” because Canadian caravans emerged, leading to a massive migration down south to score COVID vaccinations within swamp music country in Florida, to attain the digital proof of indoctrination necessary to work, travel, or take in a Toronto Raptors game again.

            This was despite Kwai Leonard taking his talents to LA to make mumblecore magic for the Duplass Brothers in a bunch of NBA short films for the Bleacher Report whenever he’d rest his nagging quads again.  

            Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, prided himself on being a funnier, less sadistically creepy Eminem. At the same time, he’d write record reviews and mail them to editors at the Source in LA, the hip hop Rolling Stone, for his own self-published rap debut album under COVID house arrest in Canada titled “Cosmic Chosen Perfectionists” in true cosmic-chosen perfectionist style while also proving that Kayne West didn’t have a monopoly on highly stylized, ego-topping, art rock God rap, either.

             Chosen would push album review lines in his honor to editors at the Source, such as, “Please don’t compare me to Drake for a fake news black Jewish rapper’s sake.  

            “I come from a line of hilarious Jewish rappers like Ad-Rock from the Beastie Boys, unlike fake news-persecuted Chuck D on Anthrax’s Bring The Noise.

            Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, had zero love for Good Wille Hoodie at Facebook for banning his budding fan page for so-called hate speech violations after dissing some of his primo targets in his rap such as Good Will Hoodie at Facebook, ANTIFA, Michelle Obama, Lebron James, and King of the Persecution Complex and Minnesota congressional rep Baby Face Omar for her support of the BDS movement against Israel, and for referring to death of Amy Winehouse on Twitter as, “Something happened, to a beehive-sporting, horn-hiding, satanic bitch who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.”

            Chosen got banned from LinkedIn, after getting banned from Facebook and Twitter, for calling Farrakhan a “Black supremacist who trolled Elie Wiesel on Holocaust Remembrance Day with termite emojis from dawn till night,” although what resulted in Chosen’s permanent suspension from LinkedIn was a truth bomb video link targeting the world’s largest resume database service when he did this gem-sparkling bit, “This is my impersonation of Dr. Dre discussing the recent merger of Microsoft with LinkedIn with his former protégé Eminem. Hey, Slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, “Wordddddddddddddddd, LinkedIn is lamer than ever yoh.”

            Then Chosen adds, “Eminem calls Trump Hitler, but he lifted the lifetime ban on Jewish membership when he bought Mara-A-Lago, Slim-On-Facts Shady.”

            Never getting enough of his punch-heavy, punctuated prose, Chosen goes in for the retaliatory kill against all the Trump-obsessed Twitter twats and states, “Tell me why I should care about Snoop Dogg’s political opinions, again? His brain hovers a notch below porn hood hell.            “Although I’ll still drink Old E, if it’s ice cold, at an AVN convention in Vegas. Party, Old E: you know Snoop Dogg’s Ho sprayer of choice from back in the day.

            “This was before Magic made HIV disappear, feeling exceptionally spry and swell for being an early-stage investor in Dell.

            “Trump is the Anti-Christ. But in the Bible, Part 2, Jesus defeats the Anti-Christ. So, have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you people?

            “I actually had to Google Anti-Christ. At the time, I thought, “that’s what Pig Vomit calls Howard Stern in Private Parts before he became weird, weak, woke Howard. So, how bad could the Anti-Christ be, holla, thank you very much.”

            Now Chosen was about to hop into his Toronto stripper girlfriend’s Porsche SUV. Her name was Cayenne, like the ride before their desperate dash across the border to score her some much-needed stripper work in Miami and much-needed vaccinations to keep their careers and balling lifestyle afloat.

            As Cayenne, a part-Haitian, part-French, striking, six-foot stunner hailing from the sultry Big Easy, pulls her champagne room-spewing ride out of Chosen’s driveway, she stops the car and says, “I don’t want to end up in a COVID Canadian jail, Chosen. How are we going to get past customs without showing them our vaccination IDs, Chosen?

            “I know you’re the best of the Beastie Boys all wrapped into one and are blessed with the funny Jew bone, capable of spitting out rhymes at will as if you were born to be in the perpetual zone.

            “But there’s only one Moses, babe, and I don’t see the Lord playing any part in getting the Canadian border patrol to part with their motion-sensing technology on your behalf.”

            Chosen takes in his stripper-scrumptious beauty, looking as if he could make love to her until his life blaster snaps in two, and says, “Stop talking crazy, Cayenne. We’re bound to Kayne, now, bitch. Plus, once I get that money on tour with Kayne, big tech and the Canadian mask police can’t tell me nothing.

            “Worst case scenario: I get arrested, record a new album in prison like Little Wayne, and Kayne West makes a trade for me in three years when he becomes President for Jim Carey, after he paints himself as a Chicago Rapper Conspiracist like the rest.

Michael Kornbluth

High Schooler Hoody Problems

“Hear my bus coming, Daddy?” asks Art Show USA.

            Do It All Dad says, “Pretty soon, Art Show USA is going to buy this town and put it all in his shoes—that’s what he’s going to do.”

            Art Show USA says, “I know the town of Croton Falls is small, Daddy, but don’t be ridiculous. Plus, I’m going to build my own house in the woods next to another house I’ll build for you one day, so we can be neighbors. Plus, if I put the whole town of Croton Falls in my shoe, everyone will bother me in the woods to pick up their mail, since I’ll have absorbed the post office in my shoe, which defeats the purpose of me living in the woods in the first place, Daddy.

            “Got to go now, or I’ll miss the bus. Love you, Daddy, but only if you keep on rocking the high schooler hoodie look, or I’ll stab you with our sharpest knife for real.”

             Art Show USA whizzes across the street to catch his bus in time in one spark-smooth motion, which his fills his Do It All Dad’s heart with tremendous nachas (which means ‘vicarious joy derived from your kid’ in Yiddish, especially when your 7-year-old son, otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day, becomes more grownz up every day. Yeah, yeah, yeah.).

            Do It All Dad, though, was having reservations about rocking the high schooler hoodie look anymore. It was one he should’ve retired in his thirties, at least, when he used to be a semi-sporadic performing open-miker at the New York Comedy Club in Manhattan, if he could rally enough friends in attendance again.

            Now Do It All Dad was questioning the extent of his maturity, knowing he’d never outgrew his truly tasteless jokes phase. He still puffed the green out of a one-hitter at 44 in a hoody like Sarah Silverman, minus the career.

            Now Do It All Dad still got asked for ID at Target with his three kids whenever he couldn’t resist snagging another six-pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for only $9.99 (knowing it’s the pale ale that never gets stale).

            Still, it was impossible for Do It All Dad to stare at his suddenly-grey-specked beard in the mirror at age 44 while still not showing any touches of grey on his chosen curls on top, and think, “You look better than John Oliver, these days but that isn’t saying much.”

            “Now I have to worry about a podcast hosting opportunity slipping away all because I made a joke over our second call about a donkey-shaped pinata with Governor Cuomo’s ugly mug on it (except, instead of candy spilling out when it breaks, piles of pink masks come out, instead, that say “Cuomo Blows,” which got a big, cathartic laugh out of my future potential benefactor, at the time.

            “I’m so tired of acting like some gun-shy stiff out of fear of never getting a job in a post-woke corporate America again, or snagging a comedy manager ever, because I dared to make fun of Obama Be Good for gifting Iran 150 billion for overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear, to make their economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal products for the Kardashians.

            “I think my son Art Show likes to see me rock the high schooler hoodie look because it helps ensure I stay young at heart, and don’t lose heart, too, when I can’t even get the Jewish Book Council to review my book, ‘The Great American Jew Novel’ after sharing stellar previous reviews.            It’s because I’m not an atheist has-been like David Cross, who hasn’t made a good W joke in 15 years (or even an edgy insult about Laura Bush, for that matter).

            “At least Hillary had the balls to get rich or die trying, bitch. Deep down, I think my son Art Show wants me to sport the high school hoodie look more than ever to ensure that I keep on rocking in our big-tech-ruining world as a symbol of non-conformist resistance, knowing my comedy career can still take flight if I never lose touch with what make me feel most kickass and in-control alive—which is getting laughs longtime, all the time, with a big-deal-talking, NY-made, ball-busting flourish, all the way.”

            Son Art Show USA enters the bathroom and notices his Do It All Dad, lost in thought, grazing the specs of grey on his beard with the tips of his fingers, and says, “Don’t even think of shaving the beard, Daddy. You’d look weird without one, like when you shaved it to dress up like Stan Smith from American Dad.

            “Remember, dressing up our family, like the Cleveland Show family, was no longer an option because Megyn Kelly already stole our thunder. Plus, Cleveland’s holding up the sign “Build The Pool Fence” for Mimi and Papa to see on Facebook in Arizona would’ve lost his impactful oomph, too.

            “Also, Daddy, I like you with the beard; because without it, you’ll look like a Pre-K schooler in a hoody. So, you won’t be able to boast on stage about the Jews being chosen by God to perfect the human race through your gorgeous sons, who stem from your Do It All Dad Year tree trunk.”

            Do It All Dad hugs his son, Art Show USA, and says, “The beard stays, kiddo. It’s just that the high school hoodie look rubs me the wrong way sometimes, because it reminds me too much of Sarah Silverman—which annoys me, since she came out to Twitter as a social justice warrior to detract from her once-mouthwatering tits’ sagging popularity.”

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

Uprooting Somber

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Herky Jerky Reaction

Who’s hiring? Funeral Homes, you don’t say, LinkedIn. But I thought the clot shots worked more than COVID truther comedians. I could become a well-paid eulogy ghost writer after all. I’m beginning to like the making of this screenplay, The Eulogy Ghost Writer, Alan Ball. Who do I got to blow that doesn’t have Monkey Pox yet, to pitch my movie to David Geffen on his Yacht in St. Barts this winter while socially distancing myself from more Hannukah time blues powered losing?

“Mr. Geffen, The Eulogy Ghost Writer is Trumbo for emotive thought impaired Twitter Twat Nation, got it. I want Vince Vaughn to play me as the Eulogy Ghost Writer, Joan River’s daughter to play the out of work makeup artist turned Mortician because girls don’t dress up anymore and Andrew Dice Clay to play the Funeral Director Dad who constantly makes fun of his daughter’s fucked face. “That bat shit crazy governor of NY, who looks like Delta Burka’s insane sister, who survived getting electrocuted to death in a Stephen King Novel for forsaking to say grace at the Judd’s House for Christmas, looks less bat shit crazy than your face. Was your plastic surgeon barely finished with his residency with the Nip Tuck Institute in Wuhan or what? And I thought Margaret Cho had a squinting problem with the house lights on at Catch a Squinting Star. I could get into Margaret Cho being my reflexology therapist these days, because I’m against supporting underage sex trafficking and we all know Catching A Squinting Star wasn’t yanked of the boat yesterday. Bob Kraft, I fucked him, oh, I can’t take no more. Eulogy Ghost Writer Lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

New Lover Hunter

Wife tells me that our daughter is the last girl in her class to get breast buds. I say, “Then, why haven’t yours sprouted yet?

What’s wrong about telling jokes about my daughter being the last girl in class to get breast buds?

She isn’t competing on America’s next Teen Tranny Prom Date for Bill Maher.

If my daughter barley fills out a clam shell bra like Ariel in the Little Mermaid, then similar to mama, she won’t have to worry about throwing out her vertebrae by lunging for lost royalty change from Spotify at a Fish Monger’s market in downtown Oslo like Lars Ulrich in town for the Monster Penny Pincher of Metal Tour.

The benefit of zero tits is my daughter never getting hooked on pain pills like Fentanyl from her back being weighed down by busty beauties like Jennifer Tilly.

Because Fentanyl has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking it with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

Did you know Lena Dunham was Hillary Hammer Time Cankles Social Media Community manager on her campaign? Only Lena Dunham could make Huma Licker Breath less likeable and relatable in one blubbery swoop.

Feme Fatales don’t have small tits either. So, I don’t have to worry about my daughter seducing an insurance agent to knock off her wealthy husband for the insurance money. Detective asks, “Where were you last night during the scene of the crime?” Feme Fatale says, “Betting on video game horse racing in Atlantic City. Actually, I was feeling myself up in the dressing room at Neiman Marcus, if you really need to know. I’m still sporting the squeeze marks if you’d like to take more than a bird’s eye peak detective. Did you just sneak a Bazooka in your pants Commando Joe? Or do you always get this stiff before raiding pantie drawers for a smoking gun to pin on a damsel in distress under the suspicion of blowing her husband away for the money because I’m cunty to the core like the rest, Prince Harry included. You don’t think scruffy Archie actually tried to kill himself, do you detective? Prince Harry hasn’t shaved in years.” Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Nothing Shitty

I’m paying our Septic bill in person and say, “If somebody doesn’t pay, you really have them held over a barrel.” 85-year-old Bird laughs and says, “You couldn’t pay me enough to change Biden’s drawers.” I say, “You’re not an opportunistic, perv enabling, small town ho, who outwore the usefulness of her fishnet stockings during her cradle robbing babysitting years. I call this administration the never-ending shit show since the day Democracy died. Anyone who supports, apologizes or enables this shit show of an administration is shit in my book United We Laugh.”

Old Bird says, “I agree, and I would know about never-ending shit shows since my father started this septic tank business in 1922. In fact, my entire life has been shit.”

I say, “Either something in life is great, medium suck or shit.” She says, “There’s nothing shitty about you kid.” And I love that eulogy ghost writer business idea champ.” I add, “Yeah, my new pitch to Funeral Directors is, “Do you employ eulogy ghost writers for hire? Because our religious leaders have failed us post COVID damage done, and our loved ones deserve better send offs than this shit. And if I hear one more Rabbi during the High Holy Days use Holocaust and COVID in the same sentence. You’ll see more body bags than ever, during a Hell in The Cell match between The Undertaker and Triple H.” Old Bird laughs long time.

United we laugh, I prove it every day. What’s my mantra for a winning life in America? Nothing shitty and don’t be a half ass putz like Hair Plugs Sniffer playing President on the fake news White House set. And let’s contemplate God powered light through my 5-Year-old son strumming my Fender Stratocaster, singing, “I tried, I lied, I died. Now, I’m in Heaven with Daddy, the end.” I just quoted my son verbatim; did I mention that he’s 5? Like father like son, nothing shitty, from our gene pool today, Challah. Thank you very much.

And this is me making an honest attempt to reconnect with my dad who grew up on the streets of the Bronx.

“Hey Dad, did you know that Edgar Allen Poe used to live in the Bronx near Fordham? Dad says, “How much money did he make off his writing?” I say, “He could afford to drink himself to death. But he was also the 1st well known American writer to a earn a living through writing alone Dad. You were editor of your school newspaper when you attended Clinton in the Bronx. I’m sure you can appreciate that feat.” Dad says, “His prose was weak and maudlin tone was excessively weary.”

I add, “He wrote humor tales to.” Dad says, “I’m sure the gentile from Boston was a barrel of laughs. Edgar Allen Poe wrote humor tales, use that in your act or podcast or whatever you do anymore because that shit is hilarious. You can’t write NOTHING that shitty. Nothing shitty, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Antioxidant Kids

COVID is like HPV.

Everyone got it.

Except COVID doesn’t give you cancer.

When I was 46, I plucked my 1st grey pube.

I want to tape it to my 1st dollar bill spent on Life Insurance.

Antioxidant foods fight off premature aging my balls.

Like Bob Marley’s satchel of pumpkin seeds made him skip skin cancer on the last leg of his Babylon by Bus Tour.

Positive vibrations have surfacy impact on encroaching cancer man.

But don’t ditch Farro from your diet.

It’s an ancient grain man.

But how could ancient Mayans get a fair gauge on increased life expectancy when the most common cause of death was human sacrifice?

Don’t knock antioxidant foods kids.

They fight off Parkinson’s.

Like Michael J. Fox didn’t enjoy his fair share of Avocado toasties on the set of Family Ties.

They fight off Dementia.

Like Groping Biden wasn’t strong armed into drinking Kale smoothies by What’s Talent Got To Do With It, after she threatened to break her arm up Obama’s ass if he ever dared to offer Beyonce another glass of Paul Newman’s Lemonade over her homemade Kombucha.

Like Bill Hicks would’ve staved off stomach cancer if he asked the Waffle waitress if his burger came with sweet potato fries in 1985.

And let’s not act as if almond smoothies resolved Obama’s heart failure issues after ISIS raped and pillaged through the Middle East before he rebranded them ISIL, so they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times.

I’m getting my kids into antioxidant foods like Cauliflower Wings, so they can develop an immunity to bullying.

“Your daddy made Cauliflower Wings for the Super Bowl, that’s so gay.”

Son says, “Your dad plays fantasy football. That’s gayer than counting the black to grey ratio on Brett Favre’s ball sack.”

But it’s hard to sell your kids on becoming antioxidant kids without turning them into a bunch of mini-Albert Brooks in the making.

“So, my one pumpkin seed allotment for dessert gives me a good shot at beating Cancer Dad?”

“Doesn’t cancer always win like Iron Mike before he got arrested for fake news rape?”

“So sweet potato fries over regular ones fried in peanut oil like in Rehoboth Beach that Baba refused to share gives us a punchers chance of beating cancer like when Rocky stopped fighting southpaw against Apollo?”

“Come to think it, why don’t we take a vacation to Burger King kids. At least there, we can order an Impossible Burger with Onion Rings on the side while feeling high school poor again.”

Antioxidant kids live, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Holy Lighter

It’s been officially 6 months since my year without beer journey began. It got humiliating spending so much time hungover, recycling, endless reminders of my lush-littered past, as entire Rocky Marathon marathons on AMC passed me by. Now, I fuck with type A personality types, who think it’s a good look wearing a running medal of some kind at a bagel shop during the weekend. Chances are, this edgeless, blah breath, has never been in a rush to slam double IPAs behind his kids’ back on a Friday, because his wife is being ahead of the curve annoying again, especially when she says, “Do you believe in the Monkey Pox Vaccine?” I say, “Babe, I gave up my alt right dirt rags like the Gateway Pundit and Breitbart according to Anti-MAGA country at large. So, I don’t really give a shit about any of the damned hell hole sex commentary about it. All I know, is that according to an American Thinker article from 1 month ago, kids are getting it, according to groomed are us.com. Plus, from what I’ve read in the past, I’ve learned that Monkey Pox primarily impacts the gay community and can be transferred from mere skin on skin contact, which rules out random hand job relief at the Equinox Gym in Chelsea, that I can’t afford a membership from my non-existent book sales anyway. So, I don’t see what a vaccine can do to prevent skin on skin infection outside of good old-fashioned abstinence, which I’ve got going for me because were us, and I’m in the middle of porn cleanse also, so the temptation to juice for joy at the sight of Third Legged Beauties.com has died. So, I’ll pass on the Aids light, Monkey vaccine, thanks.”

So, the Medal running douchebag at the bagel store on a Saturday gets all chummy with the manager there, taking about the upcoming New York City Marathon, I think, then his age of 36 is brought up, which is a decade a younger than me. My sober Alpha Dog attacks and spit fires, “Do you still get asked for ID?” Atkins lite barely mutters a clear sounding lie, “Well, maybe, sometime.” Because this asshole has never passed out with a raging hardon with a condom still on while blacking out the face of the gal he banged the night before, guaranteed. And I say, “I still get asked for ID and I’m 46. I win this race to the fountain of the youth, BMI light. The only thing that sucked about getting asked for ID around my 3 kids at Target, is how it made me feel like a teen drop out mom from Tallahassee. Later when I got home, I wanted to change my headline title on my LinkedIn profile to Crystal Meth Homemaker.”

So, what’s my essential thought leadership point LinkedIn, as the new king of sober media? Comedy keeps you young at heart and does wonders for your complexion, which is why upholding a rigorous regimen of banging out more endless sheets of comedy gold keeps those encroaching greys at bay. At the same time worry lines don’t become to pronounced worrisome after your done lifting the spirits of random mom’s standing next to you with your kids at Target now, with the oppressive hold of Adderall and edibles rapidly fading from your system, who thank you for “making their day”, after you refuse to get your son a Hershey Bar after stating, “No chocolate bar. We just made Chocolate chip crumbled pancakes at home. And we have crazy hick degenerate DNA to contend with on the southern side of our family, that makes Hunter come off as a slacker underachiever in comparison. Plus, mom had a drunk cousin on her Irish side who fell into a vat of Guiness while on the job once to. So, we need to temper our over top indulgent desires more than most families or else you’ll be a slave to your primal desires forever, and never achieve sustainable levels of holy lighter light. Which explains why Uncle John, looks like a hollowed version of his former self these days or why former Mets All-Star Dwight Gooden talks in that stilted, drained dry manner while losing his God given ability to throw blazing, awe inspiring fastballs that scream you better feel the fucking breeze in my presence motherfucker. Back when Dwight Gooden’s masterful timing and killer attack ease, would leave you speechless like Shoeless Joe Jackson batting .408 his rookie year, which is a hit to swing ratio even Woody Allen couldn’t match on Show of Shows with Sid Ceasar, despite him shitting out films like Bananas soon after in his sleep. That’s why holy lighter can’t be beat.”

Son says, “So not drinking beer for 6 months in a row, makes you feel lighter on your feet? I say, “Yes, and your inner light shines brighter than putz breaths who show up to bagel shops on the weekend wearing running medals with far more stable work histories to boast of, who haven’t been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot, that’s correct kid. Plus, I can finally trash my old joke about what it’s like being a Stay at Home She Male Slayer Comedian. “Well, drinking alone is no longer an issue.” Son adds, “Don’t you mean behind our back?” I add, “Well, daddy, doesn’t do that anymore, but that’s correct Art Show. Now, I can feel superior around mama while she nurses a glass of Pinot Grigio on a Friday night or around my mother for that matter, who sometimes can’t even wait for the Oaky Chard to cool because I’m strictly committed to getting high off your presence now kid, Matilda and Samuel included. That is until, next summer in Vermont, so I can order an insanely overpriced IPA in Burlington Vermont, only to spit out the 1st sip and declare, “Murderers Row work here. Sorry, I confused you for Hospitals sanctioning quadruple clot shots for its employees while more Doctors hit the floor than coin at the strip club in Montreal during pledge trips from the University of Buffalo while Neil Young and Crazed Vax Horse is reclaiming lost Spotify royalties in town. Holy Lighter rocks on in his free clot shot world, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth