Tag: divorce

Back To Hebrew School

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, travel, writing

Do It All Dad’s daughter, Matilda Kornbluth, his funnier, sweeter twin, who had his genetic makeup all over fer face hated how her friends used the word “loyal” to describe her at school. In other words, I like being able to get away with using my friend as a doormat whenever I want. “What am I some dumb dog?”, she’d fume to her dad on occasion. Do It All Dad could relate to his daughter’s feeling of resentment. You could argue that after ending a marriage of 11 years, 3 kids later, he began to question the strength of his past loyalties, which also included the Knicks, IPA’s and picking up the phone every other time his mother called. Was loyalty deader than Yiddish Theatre on the Lower East Side? But what did loyalty look like in 2022 post pandemic? Rapidly fading spotting’s of Biden, Harris bumper stickers, embedded colors of the Ukrainian Flag on Indeed.com, forsaking Twitter for Facebook because Good Will Hoodie in charge does more to silence COVID disinformation than Elon Musk?

Fact is, Do It All Dad was done with New York after finding it nearly impossible to get a job in corporate America there without getting a COVID vaccination shot, which turned him off from ever wanting to sell his precious time and soul to those worker bee killers at large within the rotten Apple anymore. Now, it was time to move outside his comfort zone, accept more responsibility for his destiny and make a daring decision not imposed on him by his ex-wife, parents or from a Book Coach, not even deemed quote worthy enough to be quoted Goodreads.com. Who after reading one his short stories Korny Kornbluth says, “Nothing happens in the story. The main character promises to get a real job that’s not hosting a comedy podcast for free yet never wills that promise into reality.” Problem was, Do It All Dad had to get out of the fucking house already and do so some real life living for a change, which wasn’t an issue now since his wife threw out his ass after his brother-in-law bitched to his wife about a story posted on his WordPress blog called, Countdown To Boredom, which was about his brother-in-law offering to take his kids to see a soccer game in Philly this coming summer. In the blog piece, there was also mention of another story brewing on the horizon called, Matzah Murder Mystery, about a Jewish son-in-law who employs his 3 kids in a detective training program to figure out who planted the box of Matzah in his Ukrainian mother-in-law’s Cupboard as an attempt to frame her as a lover of biblical Jewish tradition, despite her pushing Eucharist, which are the body wafers of Christ on her 3 grandchildren already. That same mother-in-law still didn’t know about their Jewish naming ceremonies, because Do It All Dad’s wife swore to never tell them until he got a real job. So naturally, Do It All Dad was tempted to find a job now that was Jewy as can be outside of being some busted, hack blog editor for the Times Of Israel, a clot shot pushing pediatrician who graduated from Tufts University with a major in biochemistry and psychology of wanting to terminate special needs kids through asking Alexa to do it if possible. “Alexa, abort Sarah Palin’s special needs child on demand. John Hopkins Hospital will force the kid on a ventilator and overprescribe it enough pills to extinguish its so-called life, if the unvaccinated kid got COVID anyway. Just so the Hospital can collect more ventilator hookup kickbacks from Uncle Sam and rake in bigger COVID death certificate dollars by chalking all deaths to COVID no matter what, regardless of a teen being another innocent bystander on the south side Chicago from another drive by shooting during George Floyd appreciation month. Those blood controlling kids don’t sell themselves. Mayor Lightfoot of Chicago has to prove there’s a viable market for those blood controlling kits, mostly made in China remember.”

When still married, Do It All Dad didn’t buy into his wife’s spiel about his mother-in-law being such a diehard, Matzah enthusiast all her life knowing she grew up in Manchester, England, surrounded by Pakistani neighbors no less. “Hey Samir, you haven’t lived until you tried a grape leave on a bed of matzah. It won’t taste like a depressed cracker, I promise.” But seriously, if you’re not an observant Jew, why the fuck would you ever have Matzah in your house ever? Unless the mom is hosting a political fundraiser for Hillary for a spirt cooking dinner serving the blood of Christian babies in them. Yeah, so hardcore hilarious lines like this proved to be too offensive for Do It All Dad’s wife tastes. And that was before she read the line about learning how his mother-in-law kept her kid’s teeth in a satchel like a Tooth Fairy for the SS, assuming there was an occasional gold filling in there to stash in a hidden Swiss bank account somewhere.

Growing up in a predominately Jewish suburb of New York, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, Do It All Dad, then known simply as Josh, or Bud Man, Bud Man, after he got into the weed senior year, was involved in an alternative school, that was a school within a school that encouraged individual expression and the fostering of intellectual curiosity by allowing students to choose their own humanity courses such as Holocaust History or American Short Story Writers while still taking the required math and science courses in the regular school. It’s there where his teacher for Government and Media wrote in his written evaluation, given to students over standardized grades that said, “Josh could be a leader one day if he was willing to accept the responsibility.” Now, Josh was willing to accept the responsibility more than ever, tired of being another pissy peon pawn in the game of life. He was successful at raising good eggs at home when he was still married. Now, he wanted to groom other mini menschs on the rise that weren’t his own because getting his wife pregnant by mistake wasn’t an option anymore anyhow.  At one point before they got divorced, Do It All Dad broached the hypothetical scenario of getting his wife pregnant by mistake again and naming the kid Solomon Kornbluth, only for his wife to reply, “No, Solomon sounds too much like sodomy to me.” Do It All Dad replied, “Whatever you say Mrs. Groomer. Disney kid subscribers know best.”  

But where could Do It All Dad groom future menschs on the rise? He’d have to go back to Hebrew School, not the Scarsdale Reform synagogue, where his friends would hurl Nerds at lispy lipped Danny Farber, and never expect any hardcore retaliation in return. No, Do It All Dad would set his sights on the south, Memphis Tennessee to be exact, which was not only the cradle of rock and roll but NWA southern wrestling. Did Do It All Dad have any teaching credentials outside of schooling his children on how hardcore hilarity rocks? No, but what he did have to sell a Jewish principal at a reformed Jewish academy right outside of Memphis, Tennessee was Jewish soul, which he had up the wazoo. His new mission was to groom a bunch of Jewish messiah evangelists by inspiring them to fall in love with the act of Mitzvah, which is doing good for the sake of doing good, without any promised, hooked up afterlife in return. He wanted to teach kids not to stop yearning for the Messiah, but to carry out his work for him as mini, Messiah trainee menschen on their own. What is the Jewish Messiah but a Jewish leader? Who ushers in an era of heightened spirituality and universal recognition of Jewish law. So, getting his students into asking their parents to start ordering from Grow and Beyond for Hanukkah to savor Kosher duck wings for Hanukkah was a promising start, striving in the upright, direction.

Do It All Dad was done being a stumbling, IPA drunk, intent on doing his best mensch impersonation possible and what better way to do that than becoming a star alternative Judea history teacher who brings the stories of major Jewish characters in the Old Testament Bible to life with a touch of funny man historical fiction to keep them coming back for more. But first he had to settle scores with the COVID crazed Jewish community at large and performed a slam mic for the ages at the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis Tennessee.

10 Reasons Why I Feel Bad About Yearning for The Messiah

  1. I feel bad about yearning for the Messiah because he’ll judge me for ascribing too much faith in Trump being above sheer ego preservation.
  2. I feel bad about yearning for the Messiah because 24 carrot crosses worn by rappers will depreciate in value and they’ll feel robbed.
  3. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because it’s against self-help, and I’d like to feed my family on my own again.
  4. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because of the nagging Jewish guilt that would ensue. My cousins get thrown in ovens, but I get off easy by noshing on God blessed Sponge Cake with ringside seats for the rebuilding of the Great Temple.
  5. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because I’ll feel like I’m cheating death when the Dead come back to life, to tell Christian nation, I told you so.
  6. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because it forces me to lie about wanting all Jews united under one roof, when I can’t stand any of my Jewish friends from High School anymore.
  7. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because no more wars, means Terrorists will be forced to drive more Uber cars in Tel Aviv, than I feel comfortable driving in, when I’m in town to watch my son, compete for Israel’s Next Top Temple Builder.
  8. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because wishing for no more famine, means I can regress into being a pampered, trust fund baby again.
  9. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah, because I don’t think Israel should be redeemed for forcing its citizens of God to take the clot shot to feed their families. Maybe, the 2nd booster made the COVID case less severe. And Booger Face Behar is the new Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.
  10. I feel bad about your yearning for the Jewish Messiah because my father will become more spiritual and finally visit the Grand Canyon after moving to Arizona 10 years later. So, I’ll lose my moral high ground and right to call him a fake news hippie anymore. Challah, thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why I Have Mixed Feelings About The Messiah Arriving In My Lifetime

  1. I’m not ready to give up hatred yet.  Without hatred, comedy ceases to exist, which translates to me making 95 comedy records for nothing.
  2. Tinges of jealousy are alright, if you use that surging sense of envy to fix your sour puss situation, so you feel less shitty about yourself than before.
  3. And the existence of greed is good, if it motivates you to work harder for brighter tomorrows, pregnant with more do good possibility man.
  4. I don’t need the Messiah to arrive in my lifetime to convince me of God’s divine presence in my 3 glorious, blemish free children for the time being. Cosmic perfection through my kids’ lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. I don’t want Trump to get involved in the next hit reality show, “Israel’s Next Great Temple Builder”, only for him to tweet on his new social media platform, “Not enough orange marble for my taste, personally.”
  6. Regardless of Twitter being bought by Elon Musk or not, the Twitter Twat home will be flush with real life hate speech from atheist cunts about the arrival of a real deal Jewish leader who can prove King David descent on Acenstry.com. Linda Sarsour will accuse the Messiah, of “Cultural apartheid”, moments after construction of the Great Temple begins because it’s not a Super Mosque for God’s fake news chosen people. Islam gave us math, I heard. Then, why aren’t Muslim ever getting charged for tax evasion due to creative accounting?
  7. Israel means, “To argue with God”, but once the Messiah arrives, you can’t pull off a convincing remake of Fidder in The Roof, starring Jack Black. The milk man Dad will come off as a short-sighted true believer.
  8. I won’t be able to jerk off to Third Legged Beauties.com again, without dreading the prospect of the great 3rd Temple, tumbling down due to my inability to let go off my death grip on sexual immorality.
  9. I’ll have to send my kids to Hebrew School then, despite the Rabbi using COVID in the same sentence as the Holocaust. Death camp victims don’t boast a 99 percent survival rate Rabbi, sorry.
  10. I’ll just get mad about my parents for refusing to use my future inheritance money to buy the Kosher meat store in Yonkers, NY on Central Avenue on the cheap. Because after the return of Jewish commanded law, Kosher butchers will make a killing, Challah. Thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why It’s Hard to Believe The Messiah Will Arrive In My Lifetime  

  1. Because who wants to see Trump rolled up in a ball behind closed doors after another interview expose with Piers Morgan on Fox Called, “The Day My Ego Died.”
  2. Because Florida and Anti-Semitism are so hot right now. If the real messiah did emerge, that being the new age promised Jewish leader self-picked to rebuild the Temple of David and teach Hebrew to a bunch of dreamers in South Bronx. I don’t see him descending from Mount Sinai, because he’ll be called a poor man’s Moses impersonator by the NY Times, who posts Hot Sauce Parm recipes on Pinterest to downplay his Jewish noble ties to King David out of fear being called Butt Bump Buddies with Trumpy Poo, God forbid.
  3. Because Lebron James has depreciated the Messiah brand name after inscribing the tat, “Chosen One”, on his holy temple bod. Forget the promised land, King of The Persecution Complex can’t even get the Lakers into the 1st round of the playoffs with all eyez on him in the Staples Center for year 2 of COVID this time around.
  4. Jews in charge of our precious news media need to repeat Hebrew School because they still refer to January 6 as an armed insurrection uprising.  Taking selfies in the atrium of the Capital Building is equal to the Maccabees jamming white roman priveledge up their ass in the form of spears shaped like Thunderbolts after reclaiming the Great Second Temple to prove God was on their side, I agree.
  5. Doesn’t China need to approve the Messiah’s social credit score before agreeing to sell Israel more masks made in China?
  6. Kareem Adul Jabbar will stay pray five times a day to play the horn better than Miles Davis regardless.
  7. Obama will go on hating the hick from French Lick regardless, because despite being half black, Obama Be Meh’s vertical jump is still whiter than White Man’s Disease.  
  8. All Lives Matter is the new N word and BLM don’t play that.
  9. George Soros will have to pay ANTIFA in shekels instead bitcoin, which will set fire to the Great 3rd Temple in a nanosecond.
  10.  Executives at Disney care more about grooming pool time entertainment at the Podesta’s summer house in Martha’s Vinyard.  It’s not as if those executives have any intention of going back to Hebrew school to teach Jewish pride and groom future mensch’s on the rise instead. Challah, thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why It Would Be Weird For The Messiah To Arrive In My Lifetime

  1. It’s weird because liberals will rally against all the reasons to hate drawn out Synagogue services after the 3rd Great Temple is built, compared to highly shortened Libs on Tik Tok summations of the services instead. Arcade Fire plays. Images of clouds appear and God’s voice pierces them, proclaiming, “Follow my commandments already motherfuckers. How much more proof do you need that I exist already? I’ve eradicated war, famine and all your college debut to study genital mutilation studies at Oberlin College, when Sharia Law for Mongoloid Morons, for only 72 shekels at the local farmer’s market in Damascus, would’ve been sufficient.
  2. It’s weird because I don’t see street meet vendors in New York City scrapping their cash cow by insisting their Muslim brotherhood butchers forsake giving shout outs to Allah’s gangster paradise before slicing the throats of lambs served for the killer price of $8.99 per plate with rice and white sauce either.
  3. It’s weird because my mother-in-law will still say, “God bless”, on every birthday card for her grandchildren without saying, “I’m still eating ham on Easter to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ, you, obstinate, all-knowing bastards.”
  4. It’s weird because the Catholic Church will be harder up for donations than the Clinton Foundation during the new Spirit Cooking Awareness Month.
  5. It’s weird because I still don’t see my Christian in-laws embracing the remake of Happy Days with Henry Winkler, who gives the Messiah a high five at Johnny Rockets for fixing the Jukebox by paying a mini homage to fellow Hebrew Andrew Dice Clay when he says, “Rub A Dub, Dub, Douche”, before thrusting his Chuck Berry loving playing pelvis toward the Juke Box that’s gets the sweet soul music machine playing again.
  6. It’s weird because I don’t see Joe Biden giving the Messiah a post Pandemic first bump without social distancing himself from Hunter’s Laptop from hell 1st. Icky Shuffle, AKA, Mr. Groper says, “Jill, we better tell God, the “Big Guy”, wasn’t me, but Jesus Christ, another fake news messiah like Obama Be Good. Do you think God will warm up to me again with that one liner? I better scrap my Easter Day speech at the White House when I claimed to speak to God through Jen Psaki’s Burning Bush after Hunter gave her the clap from the hooker in Cabo on his birthday. Remember Jill?  When you said, “Blow”, Hunter snorted the cake.”
  7. It’s weird because when The Jewish Messiah isn’t fake news, starts to trend on Twitter. Farrakhan will spray the Messiah’s twitter feed with termite emojis from dusk through night regardless. Elie Wiesel lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
  8. It’s weird because Scientist Atheists will become the new lepers.
  9. It’s weird because Woody Allen will have to explain why he kept naked pics of a 9 nine-year-old Soon-Yi in his top sock drawer when he married to Mia. The Messiah, says, “Woody, how do you explain your nude polaroid pics of a 9-year-old Soon Yi? The only pic missing from your collection was Soon Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine.”
  10. It would be weird if the Messiah was a hard laugh, who refused to acknowledge my free jokes posted on my WordPress blog as a charitable donation of any kind devoid of all striving up goodness whatsoever. Messiah says, “Yeah, Michael, man can’t live on punchlines alone, especially yours. But lucky for you, I’ll treat you as a desperately flailing charity case. So, what’s new? So just get a real job already outside of raging against the world on your Do It All Dad Year blog through more meh jokes because you’re the sloppy second son for a reason. It’s time to move on already. Maybe, you can help me sell Christian nation on why I’m not the sloppy second son compared to Jesus Christ, for Christ Sake, Challah. Thank you very much.” So never forget, keep on yearning, Challah. Thank you very much.

Do It All Dad strikes up a conversation after the slam mic with Rose Gold, a sexy, blond, middle-aged principal of a reformed synagogue charter school located in Memphis, Tennessee. She says, “Hi, Joshua, my name is Rose Gold, principal of Beth Israel Day School, the only reformed synagogue school in town. Delivering that speech down south in Jesus country took plenty of chutzpah Joshua. And I used to work as an air raid drill instructor in Israel who was responsible for gathering all the children and elderly whenever the bomb raid siren went off during Ramadan again.” Do It All Dad says, “Gotta love that Iron Dome. Still, I’ve always said, “NY Times, when Hamas fires 5000 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return, with a thank you note written in Farsi.” Rose Gold laughs as Joshua admires her sun spotted specked tits jiggle with sustained titillating delight.” Rose Gold says, “I got your In-Mail message on LinkedIn about asking for a teacher job, but I didn’t see any teaching experience on your resume. Although your book, Controlling My Kids With Comedy, a Love Story, intrigued me. Do It All Dad says, “But I got Jewish soul to sell Rose and that’s worth it’s weight in gold. Plus, I can ensure Hebrew School isn’t a countdown to boredom anymore. Minor Jewish prophets on Ranker who cares, Major Jewish prophet listings on Ranker, I’m interested. Better yet, you kids want to learn about Moses’s number one assistant Joshua, in the tale The Last Temptation of Temps? Good luck finding a temp back then capable of assisting Moses transcribe the bible in full onto stone.” Give me one year Rose and I’ll make sure Beth Israel Day School gets nothing but 5-star reviews on Yelp. I was thinking, we can attract new members through showing NWA matches on a movie screen this summer and get Jerry the King Lawler to teach an accelerated clinic on how to apply a figure four leg lock, with submission moves in MMA being the new craze, to ensure a new generation of Jewish leaders will remain pushover putzy no more, no more. Rose Gold says, “You’re too much Joshua. But I like your style plenty. How old are you again?” Do It All Dad says, “46.” Rose Gold says, “Could’ve fooled me. You look like the baby face hero dreams are made of. Why don’t we extend our chat at my place? I make the meanest batch of salt and pepper crusted Kosher ribs this side of the Mississippi. We can start mapping out a teaching itinerary for Alternative Judea History together. My homemade barbeque sauce using a pomegranate squirt syrup is the bomb.” Do It All Dad says, “I knew a change was going to come. Sam Cooke lives, Challah. Thank you very much. Thank God for dreams to reconsider.” Rose Gold says, “What do you mean by dreams to reconsider?” Do It All Dad says, “Well, my first dream was to write for TV, which I did, then it was to become a bestselling writer, which didn’t happen. Then, it was to become a world class, world renown comedian, which didn’t materialize either. Yet becoming a Hebrew School teacher showman star that my new southern neighbors can give a shit about and derive some regional pride from sounds like sweet soul music to me.  I brought some edibles down from New York on a midnight train to Memphis. Maybe, after were done braining storming itinerary plans, we can split one and play some Grateful Dead Europe 72 on at your place on Spotify. Rose Gold says, “I thought you’d never ask and sings, “Tennessee, Tennessee, there ain’t no place, I’d rather be, baby, won’t you carry me, back to Tennessee.” Do It All Dad kisses her on the spot, practically inhaling Rose Gold whole and says, “Keep on yearning baby”, and kisses her more passionately than before, with twice as much majestic might, infusing the night with sparkle shine delight as the 2 new soul shine mates collide. Keep on yearning baby. Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Year Without Beer

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, travel, writing

“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

                        –Toni Morrison

            Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of three, was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height, already.  He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him; yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be?  Do It All Dad had a gorgeous-looking jump shot; yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league, knowing that his ball handle was weak, and he could only dunk out with a mini-basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand, while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process.  

            One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie on the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain-punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY, and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters there.

            They mostly came from the boogie-down Bronx, versus his more snuggle-soft secure upbringing along the Tudor-housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked-over Hebrew National Dog from (assuming your uncontrollable, putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again, or you’d just dropped and spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer-pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed being puffed at an increasingly rapid rate.

            One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad (then known as simply Josh) was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages phone book, and launched high, with zero hesitation, for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority.

             He was the lost twenty-year-old college senior without a passion to latch a career onto yet; miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating from the top communications schools in the country (that being Ithaca College, which he’d call ‘Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor’ in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later).

            He thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So I scored ten points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor.

            “It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge, then, which consisted mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi-forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint. I knew that whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away, scared, from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla.

            Then, after Julio’s raise-the-roof, in-your-face, I’m-the-man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking himself, saying, “Your turn, Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it, player.”

            Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension, knowing that his less-than-lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his varsity-playing basketball days, when he used to run on his tippy toes instead of high tops, made him look like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model, instead.

            If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach! He’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did. He’d joked about this in an act, when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater, once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the greatest.

            “He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck-up Jenny from down the block. Two minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck-up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-Hoo bottle doesn’t spin itself, bitch.”

            Now Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline, who gives an encouraging fist pump,  signaling, You can do this, champ.

            Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he starts running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff. This stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim.

            It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing that fear prevented him from flying high again.

            Julio approaches Josh as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, ‘I’m such a worthless putz’, deflated state, and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly, B.”

            Now, at 45, what was keeping Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels?  Assuming ownership of his original birth name, Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua (knowing that Michael was considered partially Godlike, in the sense that he packed enough firepower to kick Lucifer’s ass out of heaven) wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.

            Do It All Dad loved his IPAs, yet, after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut (which most would say was done in extreme poor taste), he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPAs had to offer his rapidly-depleting, voided world without his three beamish wonder kids in his life, anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay-at-home comedian for years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match, after the next.  

            Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic, to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet, because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so-called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior.

            One quote which always weighed heavily on his guilt-plagued consciousness was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that weighs you down.”

            Now Josh was divorced from what had descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love or the patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life; yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly.

            On a less psychic mumbo jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini-beer belly which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking-out glory where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good.

            The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.  

            Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife like at two-drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC, for starters.

             After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or two, to enjoy the post-kill rush among a sea of new touchy-feely female fans?

            Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now that the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post-COVID-controlled universe gone wild.

            If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into an actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle by giving up his precious espresso pods and IPAs. He needed to focus on shedding the extra twenty pounds holding him back from flying with rock-powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks of amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself that he was capable of being a better man, after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet her at a Seattle coffee shop.
            But what would Josh do for money, to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute?

            Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again.

            No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification, this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which would make him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years.

            Josh was blessed with a booming motor mouth, too, and was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his second oldest in swimming, and his third into volleyball; all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each.

            So, how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate, and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child support payments up?  Because getting another 50K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at age 45 wasn’t going to get the job done, either.

            Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia, a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blonde mom in tight ripped jeans (normally, who was caught staring at his swollen package the first time he gave her the green light to give him his spikey-haired, lean, mean machine makeover, an idea emerged.

            Josh says to the chesty, sweat-drenched, perfect-feet-manicured Julie, in bed, “I can’t make a living as a working comedian or as an author, yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time-suck on my life (which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow).

            “So I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Peloton riding instructor, because they all bore me to freaking death.

            “I don’t care how tan, ripped, and solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leader board every time, without completely coughing out a lung, either.

            “Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison, in addition to becoming a star provider for my family (after all, this is what I pray to God for every morning, anyway).

            “The most popular Peloton instructors make 300K a year. No wonder they smiling so fucking much, because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning.

            “Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor who can look stylish and be cheeky and bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch, while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Peloton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home, too.

            “Plus, I wrote the entire script for VHL Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kickass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time.

            “And, I know enough about hard rock to know that Foreigner kicks way more ass than the fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”

            Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?”

            Josh says, “Mormon moms. They’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US—even more than Beverly Hills.

            “I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming that I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.”

            Julia says, “Look, Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks (which I’m not complaining about one iota, either), but let’s be honest. I’m your divorce rebound lay—nothing more, nothing less.

            “Although, sometimes, a divorce rebound lay can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”

            Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA, for the back cover pic.

            “I think I finally found a way to do it—on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion National Park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla; thank you very much.

            “Do It All Dad Does Mormonism can be sold as a self-help, midlife crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides that the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down—that being beer and a nagging ex-wife who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer (which is bullshit all the way).

            “This would prove her wrong, and I could become the star provider for my family after all.”          Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything for this part, like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?”

            Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink-free edibles, claiming PTSD after learning that my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my three kids behind my back.

            “The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello-wresting wife night.    “I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it.

            “I could throw in a line about how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to block the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the first place.

            “Ban ICE because homeland security was so weapons-of-mass-destruction-years, my chest.”        Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big-time, Peloton instructor, maybe I’ll fly to visit you.”

            Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay, career-revitalizing muse, of sorts, with steamy, inhalatory glee and says, “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers From Yonkers, NY.

            “Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition.

            “So, how about I pump up your box one more time for the road, instead.”

            Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and he says, “I’ll take that as a hard yes.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Triggered Tearjerker

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, humor, writing

“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy!” Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy forty-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie, doc.”

            Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think you’re incapable of experiencing joy for others.”

            Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past two hours?”

            Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York, and a Victorian mansion in Mount Vernon, NY.

            That’s Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground, by the way, and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself. That’s how I know, motherfucker.”

            Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already, and we just met. Look, I’m only here because I just got remarried; yet my kid from my previous marriage is already causing a strain on our marital relationship.

            “All the melatonin gummies in the world can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace Mommy or not.

            “My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy, happy movies like Rudy, too, and questions whether I really want to have a do-over baby with her, after all.”

            Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?”

            Matt says, “I don’t know, doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit? I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless of whether The Lord of The Rings franchise was huge for his career or not.

            “I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint, as a kid, than helping me develop a halfway decent hook shot or believable pump fake, in the post.

            “I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother, instead.

            “I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone, which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother to realize that she uses a nickname for me, Scoops, and for my younger brother, too.

            “If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, wouldn’t you have issues crying at the end of Rudy, too?”          Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel, to learn your mom uses the same nickname on your younger brother?

            Matt the furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman; a nobody; an unwanted futon with bedbug bite marks after college.

            “I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy, doc. I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife.

            “Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer; yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away, since giving me a daughter, because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life when she’s barleying around to help with my kid in the first place.”

              Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother, besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?”

             Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug. This saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess.

            “Fuck radical empathy, Doc. My mom’s default sourpuss mode around my happiness-spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish.

            “Either you’re excited about your firstborn raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket-drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video, or not. 

            “I get it, Mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild, instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for four decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, and yet somehow blames it on being lactose intolerant.

            “When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror or change your depraved ways. Just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep the crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking and wish fulfillment at it’s finest.     “And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited, after insisting I get a maid, which I can’t afford, or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever.

            “Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with; got it. All I know, Doc, is that my mother would never break into a constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.”

            Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married?”

             Matt says, “I love her, Doc, but it’s not my role to criticize my daughter so soon. Four years down the road, sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then.

            “So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall, Doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my first marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference, really.”

            Doc says, “Looks like our time is up.”

            Matt replies, “So, what movie magic do you have planned for me next week, Doc? Remember The Titans, or Hoosiers, perhaps?”

            Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home, waddling in drunken squalor, before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you, Dad”?

            Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.”

            Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you deplorable piece of shit.”

            Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the furniture salesman from Nyack. This made him feel like a fluke and another vastly depreciated, average nobody, too, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equally distributed, encouraged love.

            Now Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straightjacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once, during outdoor play. He spends all his days, now, in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face and chanting, with increasing force, “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy,” only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you, Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know that I’m not among the walking dead, yet.

            “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”  

Michael Kornbluth

Beyond Personal

by doitalldadyear, posted in career, culture, education

More hardcore edge is funnier.

Governor Cuomo getting paid to write about leadership is like R Kelly getting early release to babysit the latest Kardashian out of the womb, Woody Allen writing a book on hands off parenting or Kevin Durant, Mr. Millennial Mouseketeer himself, getting picked to do a Ted Talk on how to defend yourself against Cyberbullying.

Celebrity couples who can’t keep their hands off each other are stuck in a perpetual sweaty sex period. That’s the secret sauce ingredient that makes any sexually charged relationship stick.

Russell Simmons addressing rape allegations with Gayle King. Gayle, read my lisp. I didn’t rape any of those vengeful, over the hill ho’s.

New marketing idea for my book Do It All Dad Does Jokes. Donate them to the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility where Martha Stewart stayed. Sample some Snoop Dog jokes on the Corrections Officer in charge of accepting donations for the Prison Library. “Have you tried Snoop Dog’s new red wine yet? Wine Spectator says it tastes like mouthwash used in Porn Hood Hell. Can I donate some Dr. Seuss books or are they not woke enough for the Warden’s tastes? Did you hear? Dr. Seuss is racist for drawing a pic of an African wearing a grass skirt. I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.” Correction Officer laughs long time.

Dad giving you parenting advice 3 grandchildren later over the phone again from Arizona is annoying. Oh, you don’t like the idea of your granddaughter attending Cornell University eventually because of sudden mental health concerns post COVID pops? I think all the outsourced, invisible suicide nets used in factories for Nike and Apple in China got the 13 Reasons Why class covered pops. I bet Cornell made a Suicide Prevention App that has the Skulls and Bones logo on the button to make their snowflake prone students feel extra protected inside. Like Cornell alum Bill Maher for getting away with naming his production company Kid Love Productions, with no media inquiry into its pedo friendly name whatsoever.  If W’s kids weren’t such airheads, they’d download that app at Yale, knowing the Skulls and Bones logo makes you immune to fucking up again consequences like W after 9/11 for doing dick to prevent the inside job on his watch. Plus, whenever you press the Suicide Prevention App button, Bang Your Head by Quiet Riot plays pops, which gets you out of your head after you try to headbutt Joe Rogan through your laptop for promoting how much his brand of CBD oil matters man, despite it giving you no mental lift worth giving a shit about whatsoever like any heady rush takeaways from the Dax Sheppard podcast. That’s right, another interchangeable boorish, CBD disciple comic on The Joe Rogan Podcast sprinkles his killer sets with jokes about how Deadheads only attend Dead Shows for the drugs. Yeah, Dicks Picks Volume 1 through 9000 documents nothing but scattered tracers dude. But seriously pops, once you press that Suicide Prevention App and hear Bang Your Head by Quiet Riot, your anxiety level drops lower than Al Gore’s balls at the sight of finding one more Klondike bar left in his sub-zero freezer on the 4th of July.  

Imagine a kid trying to jump off a bridge at Cornell only to bump into the invisible net. Kid says, “I can’t even ace a perfect landing to end my endless shit show of a life.”

This is my impression of a Tour Guide at Cornell downplaying mental health concerns for the incoming class of 2021. “Freshman don’t even have time to squeeze in a 20-minute Peloton ride between classes. White Pelton Privilege doesn’t exist behind these Ivy draped walls. So, what makes you think, Cornell freshman can afford to spend their down time attending pill parties, listening to 13 Reason Why on Vinyl backwards? While looking for secret hidden messages like, “Sell your soul to Apple Music like Trent Reznor did. And you’ll look less tormented menacing in 700-dollar leather jackets in no time.” Also kids today post COVID can’t enough of social distancing, especially after their ears get raped to death from all the yenta breath sorority sisters during rush week in the school cafeteria, chanting, “Gama Roe, were so hot. We rock the Keto diet. So, we don’t become fat feminist Karen bots.”

Don’t go there question on Thanksgiving. So, dad, what brings you more shame, your son getting addicted to opioids or your eldest trying to wean himself off the comment section of the Gateway Pundit? You never heard of it? Its’ another alt right, dirt rag like the rest, according to Uni Brow Maddow at MSNBC. Hey dad, tell me if you think this impression is funny. This is Chris Matthews sexually harassing a new chesty, yenta breath intern from Long Island on MSNBC. Eating out Maddow, counts as your lunch break babe.”

Waiting for my car appointment to get a new key and some old guy starts asking questions about login codes for the internet. I said, “What are you really missing out on, besides the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and Do It All Dad Year Blog? Personally, I want to kick it old school and get a flip phone again if I’m honest about only wanting to hear my own opinions most of the time.  Describe the Internet in 3 words Twitter, “I’m smart stupid.”  Also, I want to start using my imagination for jerking off again, so I don’t feel like a slacker jerkoff at the same time in real time. Are you feeling me yet old timer? Old timer says, “I like using the Internet to read articles from the New York Times and Washington Post. I say, “Nobody’s perfect. Billy Wilder lives. I don’t do unnamed sources like you know who.” Holla, thank you very much.

At the library trying to donate some books and getting endless laughs by pitching all the book titles of my books to donate to a local prison in Bedford after receiving the suggestion from the Librarian like Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, Do It All Dad Does Jokes, etc. Then, the librarian says, “You remind me of my nephew. He’s a comedian.” I say, “Your warm-hearted embrace of my funny man identity doesn’t remind me of my mother one bit.”

Why should I care about the Swiss beating the French in soccer? The Swiss are guilty of cultural appropriation by storing Mark Chagal designer lamps for their Nazi rulers to sell at Sotheby’s whenever they needed to stock up on more Malbec and crystal meth during their golden years, living it up in the Andes mountains, while writing more glowing reviews of Mein Kampf on Amazon under Nazi Scientist Protection Programs Rule.

New agent seduction plan. Only purse female lit agents, that give me sustained stiffage, which is extended arousal derived from their money shot loaded manuscript sales list. Playing with the idea of making mama jealous with a new potential Jewish Godmother fill in lover embracer regarding the totality of me wouldn’t hurt my increased motivation factor to woo them with more than my pulsating prose either.

Getting a new key at the Toyota dealership and start flirting with the slightly chesty, pretty faced enough, raven black haired, Latino gal who helped reorder the key for me prior in painless, super-fast fashion. I made her laugh long time prior the day before, when I said, “I don’t mind waiting. My unhuggable C Word of a mother-in-law is being forced to play fake news involved grandma for the week, so I’m whistling dixie regardless. Today, I say, the name Vilma is growing more on me every day. It’s more cinematic sounding than Penelope Cruz. In fact, I think Pedro Almodovar should make you his new muse and kick that uppity lisp to the curb.  Everyone working there laughs long time. I add,” I’m glad that my Philosophy and Film Class that my parents paid 50 thousand dollars for just materialized there.” The entire Toyota worker crew laughs long time again. United we laugh, oh, what a feeling.

Michael Kornbluth

Selective Tenderness

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

I don’t like my dad claiming a spiritual connection to my younger brother’s cat, because he bought him Fancy Feast the one week, he was in town this summer. Typical A Plus narcissist. He thinks his presence alone is enough to warrant non-stop pussy love. Wait a minute, that’s his favorite son, who owns the cat, that’s the only thing he got to keep from his divorce, my bad, who makes Hunter Biden come off as a serially underachieving slacker in comparison. We own a cat Miss Kitty, AKA, Miss Pretty, and I enjoy feeding her more than my own kids. And my 3 kids give me running jump yummy hugs like when I made them pecan breaded, Swordfish with a Strawberry, Mango salsa when my parents were in town. Actually, that dish deserved an extended hump leg hug actually. Still, I made the dish because my mom proposed a Shabbat dinner that we host at our place, because my younger brother is less grateful than AJ from the Soprano’s on Indigenous People’s Day after he started banging the model he met at the psych ward for 50 grand a week, I think. Or was that John Snow paying 50 grand a week to attend a rehab center in CT, which ruins everything. John Snow was supposed to be the Alpha Dog Orlando Bloom, minus the pan sexual star leanings. Except now, your left with the impression that John Snow would flinch after receiving a cutting stare from Gordon Ramsey on Top Chef, Celebrity edition. “These Dothraki Lamb burgers taste like burnt villagers Snow.”

I hate to attach symbolism to everything. But my dad claiming a spiritual connection with my brother’s cat that he got in the divorce, that they came back east to clean up for him, rubs me the wrong way. All of a sudden, my dad is a poet laurate of cats, who thinks he’s the Charlies Bukowski of Dutchess County, representing cottage life for the Hudson Weekly, the one week he’s around all summer, I don’t think so. Especially knowing how the cat’s name is Suey as in Chop Suey served in Chinese restaurants with her family. I’m offended personally, because I don’t recall my dad making any positive mention of our cat Miss Kitty, who’s the most fuss free feline imaginable, who licks my feet nonstop and mama’s to, which means she isn’t afraid of no bunions. Death wish lives, Challah. Thank you very much. But hey, I should be used to being the sloppy second son by now. So our cat receiving shabbier, selective tenderness treatment from my Dad shouldn’t be such a painful shock to my system anymore either. Like Trans Father Day, not being a thing on Twitter yet. Get over yourself Nipple tits, either you’re an involved father who doesn’t specialize in selective tenderness or not. Plus, feeling fucked over shouldn’t be such a major shock to your system anymore either, sloppy second sons included. Resisting selective tenderness, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Back To Hebrew School

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, fiction, storytelling

Do It All Dad’s daughter, Matilda Kornbluth, his funnier, sweeter twin, who had his genetic makeup all over fer face hated how her friends used the word “loyal” to describe her at school. In other words, I like being able to get away with using my friend as a doormat whenever I want. “What am I some dumb dog?”, she’d fume to her dad on occasion. Do It All Dad could relate to his daughter’s feeling of resentment. You could argue that after ending a marriage of 11 years, 3 kids later, he began to question the strength of his past loyalties, which also included the Knicks, IPA’s and picking up the phone every other time his mother called. Was loyalty deader than Yiddish Theatre on the Lower East Side? But what did loyalty look like in 2022 post pandemic? Rapidly fading spotting’s of Biden, Harris bumper stickers, embedded colors of the Ukrainian Flag on Indeed.com, forsaking Twitter for Facebook because Good Will Hoodie in charge does more to silence COVID disinformation than Elon Musk?

Fact is, Do It All Dad was done with New York after finding it nearly impossible to get a job in corporate America there without getting a COVID vaccination shot, which turned him off from ever wanting to sell his precious time and soul to those worker bee killers at large within the rotten Apple anymore. Now, it was time to move outside his comfort zone, accept more responsibility for his destiny and make a daring decision not imposed on him by his ex-wife, parents or from a Book Coach, not even deemed quote worthy enough to be quoted Goodreads.com. Who after reading one his short stories Korny Kornbluth says, “Nothing happens in the story. The main character promises to get a real job that’s not hosting a comedy podcast for free yet never wills that promise into reality.” Problem was, Do It All Dad had to get out of the fucking house already and do so some real life living for a change, which wasn’t an issue now since his wife threw out his ass after his brother-in-law bitched to his wife about a story posted on his WordPress blog called, Countdown To Boredom, which was about his brother-in-law offering to take his kids to see a soccer game in Philly this coming summer. In the blog piece, there was also mention of another story brewing on the horizon called, Matzah Murder Mystery, about a Jewish son-in-law who employs his 3 kids in a detective training program to figure out who planted the box of Matzah in his Ukrainian mother-in-law’s Cupboard as an attempt to frame her as a lover of biblical Jewish tradition, despite her pushing Eucharist, which are the body wafers of Christ on her 3 grandchildren already. That same mother-in-law still didn’t know about their Jewish naming ceremonies, because Do It All Dad’s wife swore to never tell them until he got a real job. So naturally, Do It All Dad was tempted to find a job now that was Jewy as can be outside of being some busted, hack blog editor for the Times Of Israel, a clot shot pushing pediatrician who graduated from Tufts University with a major in biochemistry and psychology of wanting to terminate special needs kids through asking Alexa to do it if possible. “Alexa, abort Sarah Palin’s special needs child on demand. John Hopkins Hospital will force the kid on a ventilator and overprescribe it enough pills to extinguish its so-called life, if the unvaccinated kid got COVID anyway. Just so the Hospital can collect more ventilator hookup kickbacks from Uncle Sam and rake in bigger COVID death certificate dollars by chalking all deaths to COVID no matter what, regardless of a teen being another innocent bystander on the south side Chicago from another drive by shooting during George Floyd appreciation month. Those blood controlling kids don’t sell themselves. Mayor Lightfoot of Chicago has to prove there’s a viable market for those blood controlling kits, mostly made in China remember.”

When still married, Do It All Dad didn’t buy into his wife’s spiel about his mother-in-law being such a diehard, Matzah enthusiast all her life knowing she grew up in Manchester, England, surrounded by Pakistani neighbors no less. “Hey Samir, you haven’t lived until you tried a grape leave on a bed of matzah. It won’t taste like a depressed cracker, I promise.” But seriously, if you’re not an observant Jew, why the fuck would you ever have Matzah in your house ever? Unless the mom is hosting a political fundraiser for Hillary for a spirt cooking dinner serving the blood of Christian babies in them. Yeah, so hardcore hilarious lines like this proved to be too offensive for Do It All Dad’s wife tastes. And that was before she read the line about learning how his mother-in-law kept her kid’s teeth in a satchel like a Tooth Fairy for the SS, assuming there was an occasional gold filling in there to stash in a hidden Swiss bank account somewhere.

Growing up in a predominately Jewish suburb of New York, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, Do It All Dad, then known simply as Josh, or Bud Man, Bud Man, after he got into the weed senior year, was involved in an alternative school, that was a school within a school that encouraged individual expression and the fostering of intellectual curiosity by allowing students to choose their own humanity courses such as Holocaust History or American Short Story Writers while still taking the required math and science courses in the regular school. It’s there where his teacher for Government and Media wrote in his written evaluation, given to students over standardized grades that said, “Josh could be a leader one day if he was willing to accept the responsibility.” Now, Josh was willing to accept the responsibility more than ever, tired of being another pissy peon pawn in the game of life. He was successful at raising good eggs at home when he was still married. Now, he wanted to groom other mini menschs on the rise that weren’t his own because getting his wife pregnant by mistake wasn’t an option anymore anyhow.  At one point before they got divorced, Do It All Dad broached the hypothetical scenario of getting his wife pregnant by mistake again and naming the kid Solomon Kornbluth, only for his wife to reply, “No, Solomon sounds too much like sodomy to me.” Do It All Dad replied, “Whatever you say Mrs. Groomer. Disney kid subscribers know best.”  

But where could Do It All Dad groom future menschs on the rise? He’d have to go back to Hebrew School, not the Scarsdale Reform synagogue, where his friends would hurl Nerds at lispy lipped Danny Farber, and never expect any hardcore retaliation in return. No, Do It All Dad would set his sights on the south, Memphis Tennessee to be exact, which was not only the cradle of rock and roll but NWA southern wrestling. Did Do It All Dad have any teaching credentials outside of schooling his children on how hardcore hilarity rocks? No, but what he did have to sell a Jewish principal at a reformed Jewish academy right outside of Memphis, Tennessee was Jewish soul, which he had up the wazoo. His new mission was to groom a bunch of Jewish messiah evangelists by inspiring them to fall in love with the act of Mitzvah, which is doing good for the sake of doing good, without any promised, hooked up afterlife in return. He wanted to teach kids not to stop yearning for the Messiah, but to carry out his work for him as mini, Messiah trainee menschen on their own. What is the Jewish Messiah but a Jewish leader? Who ushers in an era of heightened spirituality and universal recognition of Jewish law. So, getting his students into asking their parents to start ordering from Grow and Beyond for Hanukkah to savor Kosher duck wings for Hanukkah was a promising start, striving in the upright, direction.

Do It All Dad was done being a stumbling, IPA drunk, intent on doing his best mensch impersonation possible and what better way to do that than becoming a star alternative Judea history teacher who brings the stories of major Jewish characters in the Old Testament Bible to life with a touch of funny man historical fiction to keep them coming back for more. But first he had to settle scores with the COVID crazed Jewish community at large and performed a slam mic for the ages at the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis Tennessee.

10 Reasons Why I Feel Bad About Yearning for The Messiah

  1. I feel bad about yearning for the Messiah because he’ll judge me for ascribing too much faith in Trump being above sheer ego preservation.
  2. I feel bad about yearning for the Messiah because 24 carrot crosses worn by rappers will depreciate in value and they’ll feel robbed.
  3. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because it’s against self-help, and I’d like to feed my family on my own again.
  4. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because of the nagging Jewish guilt that would ensue. My cousins get thrown in ovens, but I get off easy by noshing on God blessed Sponge Cake with ringside seats for the rebuilding of the Great Temple.
  5. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because I’ll feel like I’m cheating death when the Dead come back to life, to tell Christian nation, I told you so.
  6. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because it forces me to lie about wanting all Jews united under one roof, when I can’t stand any of my Jewish friends from High School anymore.
  7. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because no more wars, means Terrorists will be forced to drive more Uber cars in Tel Aviv, than I feel comfortable driving in, when I’m in town to watch my son, compete for Israel’s Next Top Temple Builder.
  8. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because wishing for no more famine, means I can regress into being a pampered, trust fund baby again.
  9. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah, because I don’t think Israel should be redeemed for forcing its citizens of God to take the clot shot to feed their families. Maybe, the 2nd booster made the COVID case less severe. And Booger Face Behar is the new Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.
  10. I feel bad about your yearning for the Jewish Messiah because my father will become more spiritual and finally visit the Grand Canyon after moving to Arizona 10 years later. So, I’ll lose my moral high ground and right to call him a fake news hippie anymore. Challah, thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why I Have Mixed Feelings About The Messiah Arriving In My Lifetime

  1. I’m not ready to give up hatred yet.  Without hatred, comedy ceases to exist, which translates to me making 95 comedy records for nothing.
  2. Tinges of jealousy are alright, if you use that surging sense of envy to fix your sour puss situation, so you feel less shitty about yourself than before.
  3. And the existence of greed is good, if it motivates you to work harder for brighter tomorrows, pregnant with more do good possibility man.
  4. I don’t need the Messiah to arrive in my lifetime to convince me of God’s divine presence in my 3 glorious, blemish free children for the time being. Cosmic perfection through my kids’ lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. I don’t want Trump to get involved in the next hit reality show, “Israel’s Next Great Temple Builder”, only for him to tweet on his new social media platform, “Not enough orange marble for my taste, personally.”
  6. Regardless of Twitter being bought by Elon Musk or not, the Twitter Twat home will be flush with real life hate speech from atheist cunts about the arrival of a real deal Jewish leader who can prove King David descent on Acenstry.com. Linda Sarsour will accuse the Messiah, of “Cultural apartheid”, moments after construction of the Great Temple begins because it’s not a Super Mosque for God’s fake news chosen people. Islam gave us math, I heard. Then, why aren’t Muslim ever getting charged for tax evasion due to creative accounting?
  7. Israel means, “To argue with God”, but once the Messiah arrives, you can’t pull off a convincing remake of Fidder in The Roof, starring Jack Black. The milk man Dad will come off as a short-sighted true believer.
  8. I won’t be able to jerk off to Third Legged Beauties.com again, without dreading the prospect of the great 3rd Temple, tumbling down due to my inability to let go off my death grip on sexual immorality.
  9. I’ll have to send my kids to Hebrew School then, despite the Rabbi using COVID in the same sentence as the Holocaust. Death camp victims don’t boast a 99 percent survival rate Rabbi, sorry.
  10. I’ll just get mad about my parents for refusing to use my future inheritance money to buy the Kosher meat store in Yonkers, NY on Central Avenue on the cheap. Because after the return of Jewish commanded law, Kosher butchers will make a killing, Challah. Thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why It’s Hard to Believe The Messiah Will Arrive In My Lifetime.  

  1. Because who wants to see Trump rolled up in a ball behind closed doors after another interview expose with Piers Morgan on Fox Called, “The Day My Ego Died.”
  2. Because Florida and Anti-Semitism are so hot right now. If the real messiah did emerge, that being the new age promised Jewish leader self-picked to rebuild the Temple of David and teach Hebrew to a bunch of dreamers in South Bronx. I don’t see him descending from Mount Sinai, because he’ll be called a poor man’s Moses impersonator by the NY Times, who posts Hot Sauce Parm recipes on Pinterest to downplay his Jewish noble ties to King David out of fear being called Butt Bump Buddies with Trumpy Poo, God forbid.
  3. Because Lebron James has depreciated the Messiah brand name after inscribing the tat, “Chosen One”, on his holy temple bod. Forget the promised land, King of The Persecution Complex can’t even get the Lakers into the 1st round of the playoffs with all eyez on him in the Staples Center for year 2 of COVID this time around.
  4. Jews in charge of our precious news media need to repeat Hebrew School because they still refer to January 6 as an armed insurrection uprising.  Taking selfies in the atrium of the Capital Building is equal to the Maccabees jamming white roman priveledge up their ass in the form of spears shaped like Thunderbolts after reclaiming the Great Second Temple to prove God was on their side, I agree.
  5. Doesn’t China need to approve the Messiah’s social credit score before agreeing to sell Israel more masks made in China?
  6. Kareem Adul Jabbar will stay pray five times a day to play the horn better than Miles Davis regardless.
  7. Obama will go on hating the hick from French Lick regardless, because despite being half black, Obama Be Meh’s vertical jump is still whiter than White Man’s Disease.  
  8. All Lives Matter is the new N word and BLM don’t play that.
  9. George Soros will have to pay ANTIFA in shekels instead bitcoin, which will set fire to the Great 3rd Temple in a nanosecond.
  10.  Executives at Disney care more about grooming pool time entertainment at the Podesta’s summer house in Martha’s Vinyard.  It’s not as if those executives have any intention of going back to Hebrew school to teach Jewish pride and groom future mensch’s on the rise instead. Challah, thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why It Would Be Weird For The Messiah To Arrive In My Lifetime.

  1. It’s weird because liberals will rally against all the reasons to hate drawn out Synagogue services after the 3rd Great Temple is built, compared to highly shortened Libs on Tik Tok summations of the services instead. Arcade Fire plays. Images of clouds appear and God’s voice pierces them, proclaiming, “Follow my commandments already motherfuckers. How much more proof do you need that I exist already? I’ve eradicated war, famine and all your college debut to study genital mutilation studies at Oberlin College, when Sharia Law for Mongoloid Morons, for only 72 shekels at the local farmer’s market in Damascus, would’ve been sufficient.
  2. It’s weird because I don’t see street meet vendors in New York City scrapping their cash cow by insisting their Muslim brotherhood butchers forsake giving shout outs to Allah’s gangster paradise before slicing the throats of lambs served for the killer price of $8.99 per plate with rice and white sauce either.
  3. It’s weird because my mother-in-law will still say, “God bless”, on every birthday card for her grandchildren without saying, “I’m still eating ham on Easter to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ, you, obstinate, all-knowing bastards.”
  4. It’s weird because the Catholic Church will be harder up for donations than the Clinton Foundation during the new Spirit Cooking Awareness Month.
  5. It’s weird because I still don’t see my Christian in-laws embracing the remake of Happy Days with Henry Winkler, who gives the Messiah a high five at Johnny Rockets for fixing the Jukebox by paying a mini homage to fellow Hebrew Andrew Dice Clay when he says, “Rub A Dub, Dub, Douche”, before thrusting his Chuck Berry loving playing pelvis toward the Juke Box that’s gets the sweet soul music machine playing again.
  6. It’s weird because I don’t see Joe Biden giving the Messiah a post Pandemic first bump without social distancing himself from Hunter’s Laptop from hell 1st. Icky Shuffle, AKA, Mr. Groper says, “Jill, we better tell God, the “Big Guy”, wasn’t me, but Jesus Christ, another fake news messiah like Obama Be Good. Do you think God will warm up to me again with that one liner? I better scrap my Easter Day speech at the White House when I claimed to speak to God through Jen Psaki’s Burning Bush after Hunter gave her the clap from the hooker in Cabo on his birthday. Remember Jill?  When you said, “Blow”, Hunter snorted the cake.”
  7. It’s weird because when The Jewish Messiah isn’t fake news, starts to trend on Twitter. Farrakhan will spray the Messiah’s twitter feed with termite emojis from dusk through night regardless. Elie Wiesel lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
  8. It’s weird because Scientist Atheists will become the new lepers.
  9. It’s weird because Woody Allen will have to explain why he kept naked pics of a 9 nine-year-old Soon-Yi in his top sock drawer when he married to Mia. The Messiah, says, “Woody, how do you explain your nude polaroid pics of a 9-year-old Soon Yi? The only pic missing from your collection was Soon Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine.”
  10. It would be weird if the Messiah was a hard laugh, who refused to acknowledge my free jokes posted on my WordPress blog as a charitable donation of any kind devoid of all striving up goodness whatsoever. Messiah says, “Yeah, Michael, man can’t live on punchlines alone, especially yours. But lucky for you, I’ll treat you as a desperately flailing charity case. So, what’s new? So just get a real job already outside of raging against the world on your Do It All Dad Year blog through more meh jokes because you’re the sloppy second son for a reason. It’s time to move on already. Maybe, you can help me sell Christian nation on why I’m not the sloppy second son compared to Jesus Christ, for Christ Sake, Challah. Thank you very much.” So never forget, keep on yearning, Challah. Thank you very much.

Do It All Dad strikes up a conversation after the slam mic with Rose Gold, a sexy, blond, middle-aged principal of a reformed synagogue charter school located in Memphis, Tennessee. She says, “Hi, Joshua, my name is Rose Gold, principal of Beth Israel Day School, the only reformed synagogue school in town. Delivering that speech down south in Jesus country took plenty of chutzpah Joshua. And I used to work as an air raid drill instructor in Israel who was responsible for gathering all the children and elderly whenever the bomb raid siren went off during Ramadan again.” Do It All Dad says, “Gotta love that Iron Dome. Still, I’ve always said, “NY Times, when Hamas fires 5000 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return, with a thank you note written in Farsi.” Rose Gold laughs as Joshua admires her sun spotted specked tits jiggle with sustained titillating delight.” Rose Gold says, “I got your In-Mail message on LinkedIn about asking for a teacher job, but I didn’t see any teaching experience on your resume. Although your book, Controlling My Kids With Comedy, a Love Story, intrigued me. Do It All Dad says, “But I got Jewish soul to sell Rose and that’s worth it’s weight in gold. Plus, I can ensure Hebrew School isn’t a countdown to boredom anymore. Minor Jewish prophets on Ranker who cares, Major Jewish prophet listings on Ranker, I’m interested. Better yet, you kids want to learn about Moses’s number one assistant Joshua, in the tale The Last Temptation of Temps? Good luck finding a temp back then capable of assisting Moses transcribe the bible in full onto stone.” Give me one year Rose and I’ll make sure Beth Israel Day School gets nothing but 5-star reviews on Yelp. I was thinking, we can attract new members through showing NWA matches on a movie screen this summer and get Jerry the King Lawler to teach an accelerated clinic on how to apply a figure four leg lock, with submission moves in MMA being the new craze, to ensure a new generation of Jewish leaders will remain pushover putzy no more, no more. Rose Gold says, “You’re too much Joshua. But I like your style plenty. How old are you again?” Do It All Dad says, “46.” Rose Gold says, “Could’ve fooled me. You look like the baby face hero dreams are made of. Why don’t we extend our chat at my place? I make the meanest batch of salt and pepper crusted Kosher ribs this side of the Mississippi. We can start mapping out a teaching itinerary for Alternative Judea History together. My homemade barbeque sauce using a pomegranate squirt syrup is the bomb.” Do It All Dad says, “I knew a change was going to come. Sam Cooke lives, Challah. Thank you very much. Thank God for dreams to reconsider.” Rose Gold says, “What do you mean by dreams to reconsider?” Do It All Dad says, “Well, my first dream was to write for TV, which I did, then it was to become a bestselling writer, which didn’t happen. Then, it was to become a world class, world renown comedian, which didn’t materialize either. Yet becoming a Hebrew School teacher showman star that my new southern neighbors can give a shit about and derive some regional pride from sounds like sweet soul music to me.  I brought some edibles down from New York on a midnight train to Memphis. Maybe, after were done braining storming itinerary plans, we can split one and play some Grateful Dead Europe 72 on at your place on Spotify. Rose Gold says, “I thought you’d never ask and sings, “Tennessee, Tennessee, there ain’t no place, I’d rather be, baby, won’t you carry me, back to Tennessee.” Do It All Dad kisses her on the spot, practically inhaling Rose Gold whole and says, “Keep on yearning baby”, and kisses her more passionately than before, with twice as much majestic might, infusing the night with sparkle shine delight as the 2 new soul shine mates collide. Keep on yearning baby. Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

No More Mr. Sly Guy

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, relationships, writing

It must be tough being married to Sylvester Stallone according to his ex-wife because he was always pointing out what’s wrong with her super model body when he wasn’t throwing gummy bears at her head.

“Jennifer, it’s not about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward without insisting it’s my fault because you’re a vacant, recovering coke whore with no self-control. That’s how winning is done. ”

No More Mr. Sly Guy, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Asshole Resistance Gone

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, politics, travel

Would Peloton instructor Jess King blame the clot shot if one of her tits froze during one of her summertime rides to get jiggy with it? After talking to her left tit, during a live ride of course.

“Why aren’t you moving Cabbage Patch Splat? Shit, this ride is live, I totally forgot. Yeah, so what Peloton, I call my left tit Cabbage Patch Splat. When you get paid 300 grand to pretend your comments about my bedazzled bicycle pants matter, I’ll give a shit about your designated Indian name pronouns used to address my lesbian rocker online like Strapped With Vape Cartridges, Dead Fish Flopping After 3 Hour Workdays or Doxes With Twitter Twat Wolves. Shit, Eric Clapton wasn’t really bullshitting us when he went on Instagram and claimed how his 2nd booster shot made his playing hands strung by the all mighty temporarily paralyzed almost immediately after. What, I used to bang an A&R rep for Island Records when I used to study Trance Gender Dance Studies at Borough Community College. My thesis was, “Libra Lesbians who adhere to a Pescatarian puss diet are finger licking good. Wait a minute, I can feel Cabbage Patch Splat get jiggy with it again. Thank God, I fake news believe in you again Lord. And FYI Peloton nation, my power couple lesbo baby is due in October. So, don’t expect me to me care about your upcoming training for the New York City Marathon while I’m too busy planning our 1st kid’s name together during my 2-week paid maternity time off, which is more than you make you in a year MAGA mom selling DeSantis Bobble Head Dolls on Etsy. And it’s don’t say gay, it’s happiest place on earth day, Deplorable Mom Bombing. The name Moderna is very modern, sheik sounding and full of social good, don’t you think? My Indy rock wife wants to go all in on high-end hipster cheek and name our foreign imported seed Polly Fume Blanc, she’s Frech Polynesian, in case you’re not following my killer clutch smoker flow. We’re going on a second honeymoon in Bora, Bora after I pump out this asinine Alabatros already. It was my wife’s idea, not mine. She doesn’t live in Austin Texas anymore because of the no abortion thing. Before it was Kosher living there, because the city of Austin still covers the cost health insurance for working musicians still living there like Gary Clark Junior who takes on the era of Trump Era Racism in the song, “This Land”, because prison reform for gang bangers and no bail laws, post-George Floyed riots, regardless of them resisting arrest or not or Lebron ever getting called for traveling is so oppressive. What, I was raised in a red state like Oklahoma, why else do you think I’m trying to piss off my Oil Rigger Manager Dad on purpose, now turned Solar Pannel Salesman/Caterer for Horse De Vores and Bugs on Bill Gate’s placenta Smoothie farm retreat next to a nearby military base that just housed a wrap up party for Tulsa King starring Sylvester Stallone this Fall, which reminds me. That A& R boyfriend for Island Records who turned me on to Jamaican Beef Patties for bit because he told me that all the pineapple smoothies he drank, would offset his greasy baster tip, also told me that 4/20, the national pot smoking holiday, because it grew wild around King Solomon’s grave man, is also on Hitler’s birthday. Tuff Gong Junior said, “Now, puffing to Bob on Tuff Gong, never felt so wrong. I was bummed to. I mean, the last time I felt this violently hosed was when I learned how Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson in Expendables 3. What, I’m half Jewish to. I thought my squeaky annoying voice, borderline okay-ness with working in New York and balloon size breast implants made in Miami were dead giveaways, you Jess Land hater hicks who call me a raver pig who stepped in glittered shit. I’ll dox your ass in a NY Minute if you make fun of my IVF kid like that, try me, homo hater nation. I’m a raver pig who stepped in glitter laced shit you say. I wouldn’t have been let near any aerobics instructor acceleration class in the eighties because it looks like my ass swallowed up Jane Fonda’s extended family down south on Ted Turner’s side. But Peloton is a judge free zone you, glitter hating motherfuckers. And I’m not married to giving a shit about your PowerPoint presentations any more than your hipster hobbit homo, Long Island hack breath husband is. Will you still love me tomorrow, Peloton? A red state reared Jewish Lesbo sooner from Oklahoma who identifies more with going down on premium, fast lane puss on Pelton Mats on top of Tapestries made in Paris, than housing those snooze feast fur balls in my rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side next door to Carole King. Because I’m a killer clutch smoker and you’re not.”

Who knew that off the list Jess had so much to get off her chest.

Killer Clutch Smoker lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Untradable Summer

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, sports, storytelling

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.

Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth