Leap for Murray Crocker

There was only one true friend in my life, Gus. Without Gus in my life, I never would’ve invented Rocket Science Cake for Dad. At least, that’s what Gus called my foray into Sponge Cake Science during the summer of 69, when NASA put Americans on the moon to work on their short game. I developed rocket fuel for Space Shuttles earlier in my career after serving time in the war as a medic. Dear Gus, a Holocaust Survivor who managed to remain squeal free after an SS officer stabbed a pitchfork through his leg while hiding out in a farm in Germany within a haystack also called me the boy who raised himself. Gus would always boast to his friends in the Garment district about me going to City College at 16 and how I sang Hebrew more beautifully than our rock star Cantor in the Bronx who gave Dion a good run for his money. But mainly Gus called me the boy who raised himself because my father had the misfortune of having no trade to fall back on after immigrating to New York from Germany. Horse Collar Makers in the Bronx like my father couldn’t afford to pay my tuition at Cornell even if the Budweiser horses are appearing in more print ads throughout Esquire these days.

I never contemplated tweaking my wife’s Sponge Cake recipe by using my rocket science background until her last batch drove away all the pigeons my dad used to feed in the park. Dad calls and says, “Son, I don’t know what your wife put in her Sponge Cake but all the Pigeons I used to feed in the park have gone AWOL since I fed them some leftover crumbs. Granted, your mom can’t bake either, baking is just not in our DNA, your wife included. I know that you have a kid on the way and enough to worry about Murray and that I was never the provider you and your sister Marian hoped for. I still thought the Candy Shop was a good idea. Who knew, I needed to pay protection money to the Genovese family on a monthly basis versus paying annual Synagogue dues if I didn’t want my store cleaned out every year on Easter Day. It’s just that those Pigeons kept me company Murray. They made feel less miserable than normal, until your mom moaned about how all the modern Orthodox woman in 1969 aren’t interested in upholding the Jewish tradition of sporting the shaved head look post Holocaust enough to buy her wigs anymore. So, without those Pigeons in my life Murray, my life is an endless slog like a plain Hebrew National dog with no sauerkraut or spicy brown mustard to relish on top.”

Soon after, dear Gus was over for Shabbat, before we went out for Chinese with our wives, our usual routine on a Friday night in the Bronx. I say, “Gus, my dad thinks Ethel’s Sponge Cake scared away the Pigeons he feeds at the park and he’s more miserable than normal without them. I wish I knew how I can help him out.” Gus says, “Why don’t you use your chemical engineering background and tweak Ethel’s Spone Cake recipe? You can call it Rocket Science Cake. Nothing’s better than great Sponge Cake. Tweak the sponge cake science Murray. Whatever Betty Crocker can do, you can do better.” “Fine, I’ll tweak the recipe. Who knows, if it’s a big hit, maybe, my dad can open a bakery business with it. 8 million New Yorkers can never get enough of great Sponge Cake.”

I tweaked and tweaked and finally made the perfect Sponge Cake. Man can’t live on his wife’s Sponge Cake alone. I think Maimonides said that once. Anyway, Dad never opened a bakery to sell them. Still, the recipe did become a source of urban legend. I never shared the recipe with anyone but my dad, who took to it his grave. On his death bed at the hospital, he said, “Son, I know you wanted to be an architect and design bridges and I was too much of a useless putz to make enough money to send you to Cornell to study it. But even the Brooklyn Bridge can’t compare to the godly grandeur of your Sponge Cake. Word must have gotten around town, because before I knew it, I was being hailed by the chess players in the park as the Pigeon Godfather. God really knew what he was doing when he made you kid. Nurse, come over and leap for my Murray Crocker. His Sponge Cake recipe is so good, Hitler would’ve called off the Holocaust for it.”

Michael Kornbluth

All Metal Baby

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to Sloppy Seconds Hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Tabitha Soren, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his banger pretty wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H. So, I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism Man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows above all else, when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Off The List Museums

Taking down the Teddy Rosevelt statue outside the Museum of Natural History is bad enough, especially knowing how I named my 3rd child Samuel Teddy Kornbluth. Now, Kyrie Irving can play home games at the Barclay’s Center, but I can’t take my kids to the Met without them sporting a Monet mask on either.

Cump Dumpster Queens like Cardi B can teach kids about making facials great again as a form of money shot birth control to a bunch of 2nd graders at Bronx Science, since they loosened their admission standards for rap ho guest speakers to. But let’s mask up our kids on class trips like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain till their voices crack under their ball gag muzzles made in China, because the CDC, FDA, WHO, and Hunter’s Art Dealer in Wuhan, already painted COVID as the scariest virus imaginable on par with entry into the Dalla’s Buyer’s Club while smashing their age of innocence into ancient ruins. So, at this point, what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Masturbation Equalizer

The Masturbation Equalizer

“Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.”

Salvador Dali

“Money equals middle finger power”, is what my Dad always told me growing up in our quaint yet artistically loaded Comedy Grant House 50 minutes North of Manhattan within the bucolic, historically tiny village of Croton Falls, famous for being the birthplace of my dear dada’s famous catchphrase, “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, on his Do It All Dad podcast that ultimately got him a recording label deal to produce comedy record 100 Too Tall Jew, on Blessed Records and the rest is comedy gold machine making history. Personally, I preferred the comedy record title, Birds Eye View Bitches, but Daddy thought that it was tad long winded even for Bob Dylan’s tastes. At the Montreal Comedy Festival Daddy got big laughs when he said, ‘”Sorry pops, but when you live in Arizona for a decade and counting and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora suggest otherwise.

Still, growing up Papa, my grandfather, nicknamed my daddy, Waste of Height because my father is a 6’4 Jewish New Yorker, who’s only highlight when playing Varsity basketball senior year was scoring 10 points against an all-Japanese team, which isn’t hard when the opposing players thought the pick and roll, mean their choice of fish. Now, my dad was being billed by Rolling Stone as Killer Set Kornbluth, while Variety magazine hailed him as the new giant of late night after replacing Bill Maher with a new talk show called Seriously Clowning. So, at this point in his life, my dad had every right to look down on any soul sucker dream detractor who tried to make him feel like a delusional, crazy man narcissist for pursing A plus comedic glory with a middle finger power mansion located at the highest point in Bel Air next to Jerry’s Lewi’s old school crib. So, the shelf life behind papa’s degrading nickname, Waste of Height, in relation to his 1st born blossoming son, no thanks to his encouraged direction had gone sailing, Dean Martin, lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

But daddy is what you would call a late bloomer, who didn’t start tasting big deal success till his late forties, combining that with a sexless marriage, with a man who is far from straight, on top of his mom wanting him to sling other’s people’s garbage instead of his own A plus gemry jokes for a living one day, combined with in-laws who force fed Eucharist on his Jew blood tainted kids behind his back, combined with zero creative collaborators outside of his own children during his 5 year journey into the wilderness while kicking is decade long addiction to Adderall for good, resulted in creating a tsunami of resentment fueled rage that almost burnt out what love spreader light that existed left in my dear dada’s endlessly beautifying, beyond spiritualized projecting soul, before it was too late.  Because of that, Daddy did everything in his power to ensure I established moonbeam blast shot goals early as possible compared to his mother urging her “artist son”, to settle and shoot for shit by chucking the joke writing career all together and become a full-time garbage man like Magic Johnson’s father in Lansing, Michigan. Obviously, Magic Johnson dad’s is a stellar example of being a God loving, do it all dad done good. Still, Magic’s dad also slung other’s people’s trash, so his son wouldn’t have to, similar to Papa schlepping over the George Washington Bridge for 25 years only to get nickeled and dimed by the likes of Potomka Pickles while working as VP of Sales for a plastics and glass company in Union, New Jersey, otherwise known as the Swamp Thing State, so his 1st born wouldn’t have to follow in his steps and blaze a new trail of funny man innovation to derive prideful enrichment of some kind on his own.

But what really pissed off my dad was Papa resisting the notion that I had genius potential in me because his waste of height son was too much a mongoloid moron in his eyes to birth such a star powered, out of this world seedling capable of moving millions with my own powers of imagination, poetic lift and storytelling powered song. Daddy went to Ithaca College, which he derided as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But he graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications, so he could suck down some bingers of extra strong Tompkin’s country outdoor weed and avoid stuttering every other 2 seconds. I loved the idea of going to Columbia growing up, yet Daddy viewed Manhattan as yesterday’s news and planted the idea of me attending Williams University in Massachusetts instead, because former owner of the Yankees George Steinbrenner, otherwise known as the Boss, was a famous alumnus and larger than life NY bred personalities like George Steinbrenner don’t get any big more time than that. Plus, Daddy loved the standup comedian Jim Norton who claimed Boston woman were the best to slay with. Also, at Uncle John’s wedding, AKA, Sir Snort a Lot, Daddy said, “God gave my younger brother more second shots at respectable redemption than what George Steinbrenner gave Steve Howe”, which got goonish at the time. Plus, I remember my dad driving us to the Manhattan to go skating at 30 Rock once for my birthday and he points out the new Yankee stadium off the Deegan and says, “Look Matilda, the new Yankee Stadium, the house that gentrification built.” I knew all about Reggie Jackson otherwise known as Mr. October, who hit not one but 3 first pitch baseball homers in 1979 to clinch the World Series for the Yankees at the original Yankee stadium, otherwise known as the house, that Ruth built. I also knew that Babe Ruth had the most homers during his day but had the most strike outs to, because there was nothing half ass about the Babe who went down swinging, coming through in the clutch with his back against the wall like the great Messier, Derek Jeter, Andy Petite, Eli Manning and Frank Sinatra all the way. Daddy imparted the lesson of why New Yorker’s have big time egos for a reason. When Daddy actually contemplated moving our family to Texas during year 2 of COVID, I said, “Daddy, how many great comedians are from Texas? Daddy said, “Bill Hicks and Sam Kinson.” I say, “Bill Hicks only made me laugh once. And Sam Kinson had one good comedy album from start to finish that was pure standup without the cheesy Wild Thing cover song on it, that’s it. Now, name me star comedians from New York? Daddy says “Rodney Dangerfield, Andrew Dice Clay, Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Greg Giraldo, Joan Rivers, George Carlin. Have I mentioned myself yet? Alright you’re right, Texan comedians suck compared to native New Yorkers, Joe Rogan included.”

For some time, I just wanted to be a singer and write my own songs, singing in pubs like Amy Winehouse without developing the heroin addition, yet my dad insisted I become an A Plus student and accept no other goal acceptable, so he could boast to his new comedy manager and rapper friends in South Africa, where his new record label was located, that his daughter went to Williams College, which rocks the old world King Solmon Royal purple. And my Do It All Dad thought the deep purple look exuded an edgy deep suave vibe similar to Jimmy Hendrix’s head tripping beanbag within the mixing room at Electric Lady Land studios in Manhattan. Daddy also had a black and white picture of famed writer director Bill Wilder in his old office where the famed writer, director of Ace In The Hole and Fortune’s Cookie, was marching in his office with his talking stick of sorts as his famed screenwriter partner Charles Brackett is on the writer’s  couch in letting him go long again, who is another Williams alum that helped co-write Sunset Blvd, which is good work if you can get it.  The other line Daddy would always pound into my cranium growing up was from Stephen Sondheim, which is, “God is in the details”, and the famous Broadway composer lyrist graduated from Williams to, so dumb, dumb burn outs didn’t even bother to apply. Reality is, I almost never got into Williams College nor ended up becoming the female Carl Jung of my day post COVID damage done after graduating Magna Cum Laude after triple majoring in English, Psychology and Philosophy, achieving the trifecta of liberal arts lunacy, I know. But believe it or not, my fate at William’s became sealed, not because of my college essay where I insist Carl Sagen was mothered by a starless atheist cunt who gave Booger face Behar on the View a whiff of semi-respectability in comparison for a change when she asked Don Lemon why he was nothing more than another race war inciting scumbag like Jussie Smollett minus the SAG card after she got red pilled by Russell Brand from turning her on to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast during bi-sexual pride appreciate month, I think. Actually, pursuing the harder, less shit laden path started by Daddy posting an ad on Craig’s List for a jerk buddy in search of more than a friend.  

“Why did I post an ad for a jerk buddy on Craig’s List? Because I thought it was healthy alternative to laughing at my own material on the couch after my daughter was tucked in, before breaking up with my wife off 11 years, again and again”, A 45-Year-Old divorced Comedian says to his chesty, red headed, Psychologist who was an English and Psychology major at Willaims herself. Mara Weitzman, the Psychologist from Williams says, “What if I jerk off your ego instead of some random stranger on Craig’s List, who would give Jim Norton the creeps?” Do It All Dad, now a divorced still struggling comedian, living on the couch of his Film Grip bud in Ridgefield, CT who wants to be the Bill Graham of Death Metal festivals in Upstate New York one day, says, “Does my health insurance cover that added expenditure on my behalf?  Psychologist Mara Weitzman says, “Remember, the time you talked about that 1st hand job you got from Carolyn Verdichio, in Cotswold Park, which you nicknamed Actionless Park in your bit at the Montreal Comedy about how you’re no gentle giant or else why would you insist on staying home to ignore your kid for the privilege of writing more jokes while choking your wife too hard financially, again and again? You described your 1st hand job as a throbbing extension of your brutishly rough personality, to the point where she almost skinned your pussy wrecker rearranger alive, while your jeans kicked wildly in the mud like a hardheaded hog in heat. Well, what if we reenact the moment right now? I played the steel guitar growing up in Plano Texas, so I’ve got stronger hands that most. Let me if see if I can yank out that rough side out of you for good. I’ll even put in a good word for your daughter at the Williams College during admissions season. Do It All Dad drops his pants and says, “I don’t feel like such a self-centric jerkoff anymore. Mara Weitzman, you’re the only masturbator equalizer for me. Now rip off that top and start jerking it like its 1999.  I’ll give those busty beauties a liberal load to boast about it when you pump up my long-term endowment potential to your fellow alum members after I blow you away with a blast of teen spirit of my own. Kurt Cobain lives, Challah. Mara screams in extreme anticipatory ecstasy, “Nirvana, come reign on me.” Minutes later, Psychologist Mara Weitzman buttons up her top and puts her murky stained glasses back on and says, “See you next Tuesday Do It All Dad. Williams College will be lucky to have your daughter attend next fall, if she follows after your money blasting footsteps. Thank you, very, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Dangerous 3rd Grader Minds

3rd grader hipster spawn reared on Lou Reed records in Park Slope, Brooklyn says, “Mr. Gay, I know beastality isn’t exclusive to gay teachers like yourself according to Dr. Kinsey’s book Sexual Behavior in the Human Male, whose hard data studies suggests how men’s sexual histories are gay, dull, or completely full of shit all together. But what I’m wondering about today is why aren’t Mooses getting top billing in Beastablity flicks over horses? And you thought Meatloaf being excluded in the Oscars 2022 Memoriam after 43 million records sold was a slap in the face. I went on Youtube thinking Northern Exposure was an independent film parody of Midnight Cowboy, directed by John Waters, about a Moose who flashes for money in Times Square movie houses in the seventies when Peter Frampton came alive all over your daughter’s face. Divine already ate shit in Pink Flamingo’s in 1972, so she he sporting antler regalia, while sporting a replica of a John Holmes moose link dick isn’t too far flung of a concept to wrap your head around is it Teach? Also did you know that antler growth is based on testosterone levels? Yeah, I’m not getting any sustained stiffage with Scarlett Johansen as the voice of Alexa who sounds like she’s between estrogen throat blocker treatments either.”

3rd Grade Teacher, Mr. Gay says, “Retirement can’t come soon enough. Lucky for me, Florida is flush with anti-aging clinics, grooming schools are us, not so much anymore, Disney’s new theme park attraction, Land Of 3rd Legged Beauties, excluded. Challah, 2 Live Crew lives, being funny enough naughty as I want to be, Challah! Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Positively Moron

Being under house arrest post COVID isn’t a radical departure for a Stay-At-Home Dad like myself. I’m used to limited freedoms in life, especially when my wife’s smartphone sends her an alert after I make another questionable purchase. Wife calls, “Hey babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?” I was already used to being treated like a sheltered bum from grandparents who are never around to help out with the kids anyway for 8 years before COVID. I still can’t get enough of social distancing personally. Because if the grandparents do visit, they fade faster than Hunter Biden after a three-day bender with the Sons of Anarchy cast and crew, despite only hearing last call from the bathroom stall. Unfortunately, Facebook has made Baby Boomers the laziest grandparent generation of all time, so they can act like their slacker offspring for a change. Lifting a finger for Grandpa is liking a new hiking pic on Instagram, despite living in Arizona for 10 years and not once visiting the Grand Canyon. And I thought Neil Young was a fake news hippie, who’s dating Darryl Hannah now because he’s going through a post midlife never banged a Mermaid crisis. You live in Arizona for 10 years and don’t visit the Grand Canyon once, you’re a fake news hippie, that’s no better than Neil Young who thinks Joe Rogan is the evil siding, misinformation machine, not CNN, and Fuck Face Fauci, who are more than ok with forcing clot shots on our kids who are breaking suicide records left and right due to inflated death count talk, increased drug dependence and prolonged social isolation for kids who never got to be cool like the kid who fought back with the brass knuckles in 3 O’ Clock High. Instead, our kids have been forced to hide in perpetual fear in a mask, which has drowned out their collective age of innocence, one Karen deafening freakout at a time. Wear the damn mask. Suck the misinformation out of my chosen schlong 1st Karen. Pretend Obama ordered you to leak it. Remind me to get you a Trump Voiced GPS system for your birthday that says, “On your far left is Mohegan Sun, Elizabeth’s Warren’s home away from home.”

Neil Young told Spotify to censor Joe Rogan or get his music off their platform because of spreading dangerous misinformation about the COVID vaccine. Pointing out record high suicides among kids used as pawns to peddle an evil enshrouded, blatantly dishonest narrative about a rebranded flu with a 99 percent survival rate to distract the world long enough from a stolen election is a scary guilt trip to handle on extra strength boomers Young, I agree. Hundreds of quoted peer-to-peer studies proving how natural immunity is 40 times superior to your bullshit booster shots, which at best provided you the fleeting feeling of smug superiority till you catch COVID. Feeling duped by Big Pharma, when you’re a singer songwriter expert on needles and damage done, would enact plenty of damage to my big government siding, trusting psyche to Young, fake news hippie.

What other debunked damaging falsehoods were pushed during Joe Rogan’s interview with Dr. Malone Young? Unvaccinated Palestinians have resumed digging UN sponsored death tunnels to kidnap Jewish kids in Israel because they’re not experiencing any debilitating side effects from the clot shot like hypertension, narcolepsy or temporary rock throwing arm paralysis. And enough with downplaying Dr. Malone’s infectious disease credentials. He helped develop the platform used for MRNA based vaccination technologies and knows Dr. Gnocchi personally. Shit, Dr. Malone fluffed the monkey with the rotating banana driller that they created Aids for Christ’s sake. Ooh, Dr. Malone questioned the effectiveness of the vaccine that works less than Kareem Adul Jabbar as a parenting thought leader on the Good Men Project after his twenty-year-old son was caught stabbing his neighbor to near death over a trash dispute outside his driveway. Apparently, the neighbor triggered Jabbar’s son when he said, “How do BLM leaders that helped cause 2 billion dollars’ worth of property damage in honor of Thugs Lives Matter Most, who can’t afford 2nd homes in Topanga Canyon honor their moms on Mother’s Day? Take out the trash and move out of the house for good? I know, looting the Gucci store ain’t a thing, but a payback reparations thing, got it America’s Most Hunted.”

What else did Dr. Malone say to Joe Rogan that’s a ticking time bomb waiting to go off? Oh yeah, millions were hypnotized into believing the vaccine worked better than Russell Westbrook bringing back the Triangle Offense to the Showtime Lakers, despite the ESPN propaganda machine that makes the CCP blush in their coordinated effort to ensure the NBA remains a safe space for Lebron James ego. When Lebron’s chosen team loses in the playoffs this year, do you think Obama will console himself by grabbing his secret stash of Almond Joy’s hid behind a giant box of duct tape from Costco. Joan lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Why is every harmful reported side effect from the COVID vaccination shots, including hundreds of pro athletes dropping dead in their prime instantly derided as misinformation? Are reporters for MSNBC and CNN bribed with bitcoin, Hamilton tickets, or just tipped off to Hunter’s primo coke connection in LA that turns you into the Pablo Picasso of blow painting on accelerated speed? You can’t even sue big pharma for lethal side effects? Yet were supposed to trust Pfizer over Johhny Depp in blow? What has Pfizer done to earn the public’s trust? Or were millions shamed into getting the vaccination because their parents wouldn’t pay for a trip to Disney World on their dime without making you succumb to all the fear mongering, moral grandstanding bullshit because baby boomer arrogance never dies?

Superintendent of my kid’s school sends an email to address the recent court ruling that ruled mask mandates unconstitutional. Mr. Blue Balls incarnate says, “But the Attorney General of NY appealed the Nassau County’s Supreme Court’s ruling. Because who cares about what some Long Island hack judge rules in yenta breath county anyway? So based on the Attorney General’s appeal and our Commissioner of Education insisting we drag out this never-ending shit show some more where all the former smart kids at Bronx Science freak out about Study Hall being a super spreader event, the use of masks inside school buildings remains mandatory and is not optional at this time.” In other words, fuck your easily avoidable trauma. Were Karen’s with real life power motherfuckers and we like it, like it. And for all those parents who oppose our mask mandates, your domesticated terrorists who should be thrown in containment camps for not pushing clot shots on your kids because emergency use authorization trumps all and baby boomers still in power with their cushy tenured positions in academia and guaranteed pensions on the horizon want to perpetuate the deceptive delusion behind them really caring about our kid’s mental health over their own faltering state of smug filled superiority till their last dying breath, you lesser deplorable pieces of shit.”

I email the Superintendent back, ” Why do I sense more sneering annoyance than exalted relief from this court ruling in favor of smile rich tomorrows post burning mask party asshole? You’re fake news, loving hippie like rest. If you think the FDA denying anti-viral drugs like Hydroxychloroquine that’s resulted in 500,000 deaths because Trumpy Poo endorsed the product gives you the moral high ground, then you’re a fake news loving hippie through and through CCP sell out man.”

You know rock and roll is dead when the best protest song our country can come up with, F Mr. Groper, remixed by Kid Rock no less.

I love Bob Dylan’s scathing writing especially in song Positively 4th Street . Still, Blowing In The Wind is arguably his most childish sounding song from his miraculous song book. How many years can some people exist? Before they’re allowed to be free. That depends if you can get a good paying job in Florida or not. In Desantis we trust, Florida, gotta to love it, Challah, thank you very much.

Why is the left so scared of Tucker Carlson’s Vineyard Vines boxer briefs? He named his book of political essays Ship of Fools, which is a Grateful Dead song from Mars Hotel. The new spokesperson for Vineyard Vines, dress for new success, doesn’t have one pot head bud left from Boarding School since he took the job at Fox News.

The state motto for Vermont should be changed from the Green State to CBD Oil Only. Positively moron is any pothead celeb like Eric Andre for endorsing Bernie Sanders because Bernie Sanders couldn’t even make Vermont great for Pot Heads on vacation.

6 million hits later, I learn that 4/20 , the national pot smoking holiday, is Hitler’s Birthday. The last time I felt this betrayed was when Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.

I stopped smoking weed till I discovered edibles, stink free +plus ash free equals zero regrets when my kids are still up. I recommend Edible Nibbles to prevent you from being positively moron around your kids, especially when your daughter asks, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? “God went back in time, in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.” Daughter says, “That’s really convincing Daddy. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.”

This is Ziggy Marely being interviewed by High Times Magazine. Journalist asks, “How did your dad have 7 kids Ziggy? Doesn’t ganja drain your life blaster dry like the COVID 19 vaccine?” Ziggy Marley replies, “Fake News, Man.”

I miss Trump’s relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship. If F Face Fauci ordered one of his goons from the CDC to prick Trump with the dirty needle used by the Deep State to take out Easy E, Trump would tweet the next morning on whatever hate speech platform he’s allowed to make nicknames on next like Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi, and Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, “Do I have HIV yes, but my t-cell count numbers have never been stronger. Plus, Rosanne was correct, Valerie Jarret does have ties to the Muslim Brotherhood. I prefer to call her Obama’s live in Arabian Horse Whisperer but that’s just me.”

If Biden got more votes than Trump despite Mr. Groper’s miniscule rallies barely filing out the Little Mermaid’s clam shell bras. Then, Michelle Obama regretted pissing on the Lincoln bedroom ceiling fan before Trump’s inauguration, so he’d eventually get peed on for real. Hours later Trump takes a piss in the Lincoln Bedroom to mark his territory, gets a golden shower gift from Michelle above and says to Melania, “Is this what Michelle meant when she-hulk said, “When they go low, we aim high?”

And if Obama is such a good basketball player. Then why did he ride the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii? Growing up my dad called me a waste of height because the highlight of my senior year was scoring a whole ten points against an all-Japanese team that attended a private school within the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County. They thought the pick and roll meant their choice of fish. Every time I drove to hoop, their players scurried away like frazzled movie extras in a Godzilla film, except instead of saying, “Look Godzilla.” They’d say, “Look Hugh Grant on Stilts.”

Forget the total abandonment of admission standards among the elite public schools in New York City like Bronx Science. Because guaranteed money in the NBA regardless of never having to establish a reliable move to the left is so oppressive. Now, you can’t steal the basketball in a scrimmage during gym. Just for that I’m going to get my wife pregnant by mistake again and name our kid John Stockton Kornbluth after the all-time steal leader of the NBA. But my kid’s superintendent is ok with stealing my kid’s age of innocence by injecting fake new death concerns for 2 years, turning every day into an Ingmar Bergman retrospective on IFC while forcing my kids to wear masks like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain. Sounds like fair trade off to me. And we wonder why the US is China’s ball gagged bitch for life. China helps the Democrats steal an election through releasing the bat shit crazy virus, to push for mail-in-voting while ANTIFA and BLM get to cause 2 billion dollars’ worth of property damage, making every day for the cops standing down day, unless they have to get off their ass to ask cripples in wheelchairs for VAX cards at Bubba Gump Shrimp but no hands up on defense. State sponsored Chinese hackers can steal information from our Patriot missile systems, no problem kids, play along, democracy is dead since the Supreme Court abandoned its constitutional duty to enforce election laws since Amy Barrett got nominated whose Mia Farrow with better husband selection. Obama Be Good publishing a classified report on Medium about Israel’s Nuclear program in addition to posting photographs of Israel’s hidden nuclear sites on Al Jazeera Earth is kosher in the Muslim Brotherhood’s book, who rule our county anyway since the mongoloid moron mask shaming craze has made every day, Sharia Law Appreciation Day, got it kids. Now hands down on defense and stick to starring down at the floor on defense like a battered Muslim housewife shopping for pipe cleaners to clean out their husband’s hash pipes Infidel.

You’re thinking, stop being such a paranoid Jew. Obama only gave Iran 1.5 billion in unmarked bills in the still of the night as a parting gift for promising to take a time out from building Nukes used primarily for overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear, to make the Iranian economy less reliant on the sale of Hair Wax removal cream for the Kardashian’s.

Side note, Bruce Jenner wasn’t asexual when he was married to Kris Jenner. But I bet Bruce stayed harder longer after he talked Kris Jenner into cutting her hair short, so she’d look more like a dolled-up Ralph Macchio.

And stop saying Queens is hot, it’s not. Queens compared to Manhattan and Brooklyn is the sloppy third Kardashian sister. You know the one that’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a Lamb Gyro in Astoria.

I wanted to name my son Arthur Brooks Kornbluth, but I didn’t want to honor Mel Brooks or Albert Brooks anymore since they insist on sucking off Obama Be Good till their last dying breath or risk being branded as racist. So, naming my son Arthur Brooks Kornbluth would give my son the permission to be a Jewish pussy, who would never been deemed anti-establishment enough to get kicked off Twitter permanently like his daddy because I dared to tweet how China has resisted Wuhan lab leak investigations more than Aquafresh. In the end, I named my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, which was fitting because he’s a star powered artist, whose mojo keeps on rising, rising. Plus, he’s so good at math the Asian students are cheating off him. Now I understand that it’s complete sacrilege to shit on the golden Jew Mel Brooks, pre-Adam Sandler, just for writing, “The Inquisition”, which was based on the real-life persecution of picky Jews who refused to accept Jesus Christ as the Messiah, who when forced to eat pork, had to push for pricier samplings of acorn fed prosciutto or saltier, svelte cuts of Serano Spanish ham instead. The same “Inquisition” that existed to torture, humiliate and exterminate all the wise ass Jew descendants of Don Rickles, responsible for heckling the romans into crucifying Jesus, the original super Jew to death.

You know your mom’s heart was never into converting into Judaism, when she insists on blatantly shitting on the origin story behind the Hebrew naming ceremonies for her grandsons in your own Jewish loving home no less. I say, “So I named Samuel Jermiah Mom, because Jermiah wrote the Book of Lamentations, and I’ve always been into sad jazz music like Chet Baker according to Dad. More importantly mom, I chose the Hebrew name Jermiah because he’s a popular prophet who receives major brand name recognition in the Koran. And I wanted to provide my son with a Hebrew name that makes him immune to charges of Islamophobia. Especially, when I joke in my act about how a picture that was concealed for 8 years when Obama was president, where’s he laughing it up with Farrakhan and other members of his posse looking like the Lamda, Lamda pic from Revenge of the Nerds but much more Muslim Brother happy, after the honorable minister just emailed Obama about a Somalian refugee running for congress in Minnesota called Baby Face Omar Gona To Work It Out to YourMamaObama@Gmail.com. Then for a topper I add, “Obama loves Hitler. Obama wished he was that organized. Mass extermination of every proud Zionist who dared to criticize his nuke gifting deal to Iran for Obama Be Good would be a gas.” And I gave Samuel the Hebrew name Issaac because it means to “Laugh” and more jokes Hardcore Hunga Zone makes like, “Eat My Butt Brownies”, is more jokes for my comedy records right, Samuel?” Samuel says, “I have more jokes than you putzy moron.” Plus, I Iove the story of a hundred-year-old Sarah getting knocked up well past her eggs’ expiration date, like Sarah Silverman 10 years ago. Mom says, “The Issaac birthing story is a myth.”, in front of my kids. I say, “No mom, a myth is that Hillary lost to Trump because of Russian collusion. Huma Licker Breath lost because she failed to sell 64 million branded racists on why baby boomer mom knows best. Plus, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lost to Trump because she’s an unhuggable cunt. Now’s that a fact like Hillary acting nice around baby Samuel the one time he was having lunch with mommy at the Crab Tree house patio in Chappaqua. I said to my wife, “Babe, of course Hillary acted nice and smiled at baby. Hillary was getting warmed for dessert.”

Israel has an Arab supreme court justice, gives free medical care to all and has 4 Arab political parties yet were supposed to listen to Saggy Tits Silverman claims of Israel being an extremist racist, colonial state? Because Sarah Silverman is a full- time social justice warrior these days to detract the world online and off from her tits sagging popularity.

Israel is an extreme racist, colonial state? What does England before Muslim grooming rape gangs took over their country have to do with it? You know the Palestinians aren’t the most desirable bunch to govern, when the British government in 1917 decided to relinquish their ruling power over Palestine and declare their support of a Jewish homeland for Jews. Despite those money hording Jews still controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. When the Brits finally decided to with withdraw from Israel, the Queen tells her royal butler after having one dirty martini too many, “Let’s be honest Andrew, a state two solution is impossible if Hamas keep fucking.”

Memo to Hamas today, if you launch 5000 rockets into Israel’s backyard without being provoked first, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return with a thank note written in Farsi, with all the hardened pineapple tops chucked into the Red Sea for Meghan McCain to spit out as her inner bellybutton sucks up all the floatation water on her own.

But you have to give Obama credit when it’s deserved. He did rebrand ISIS, ISIL, so they’d sound more startup friendly in Wired Magazine’s 40 Under 40 Saw Wannabe’s Go Pro issue. At the same time, any dumb fuck can hit their quota as a headhunter for ISIS. All ISIS Headhunters do is recruit other lonely virgins on What’s App and on Facebook, who wish their phones blew up.

And how does killing the 2nd head of ISIS make it easier for them to recruit? Like the next in charge would ever respect a non-compete with Al-Queda.

Can you explain to me why Islamic terrorists are so into deflowering virgins in Allah’s gangster paradise? Doesn’t Jihadi John have enough blood on his hands already? Can I get Challah for some primo Challah to get me canceled permanently? Charlie Hebdo lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth