What’s Eating Gilbert  

NBA sharpshooter Gilbert Arenas claims nobody will care if Jokic wins an NBA championship.

Isn’t our country plagued with a white supremacy problem?

I thought all Christian conservatives who prefer pristine southern belle puss over stank hole anus holes were deemed worse than Nazi Kraut breaths tweaked on Crystal Meth.

If America does have a white supremacy problem, then shouldn’t the white Serbian nationalist winning an NBA ring be a cause for widespread jubilee?

Jokic’s new celebrity line of Raspberry Vodka from Serbia puts Puff Daddy’s Ciroc out of business.

Proud boys in Denver are sweating proposed rule changes like an extended three-point line less than BLM does getting audited.

Serbian Big Lives Matter gets painted in giant, bold print along Fifth Avenue outside Trump Tower.

Elon Musk blows more government grant money to patent a brain chip based on Jokic’s DNA that’s embedded with a basketball IQ boost guarantee.

Phones at Alt-right dirt rags like Daily Caller ring off the hook with requests for full-page ad spreads by anonymous eugenics enthusiasts to congratulate Jokic for breaking Wilt the Stilt’s triple-double streak with headlines like “Big Dipper Rating Dropping,” “White Men Dominate Again,” “Serbian Legends Live,” “Safe Space For Lebron’s James Ego Is Dead.’

Seattle Supersonics fans from Gen X still into Pearl Jam after they pimped for Hair Plugs Sniffer on the campaign trail throw their decrepit, older than Aids flannel shirts in the air in a deflated state of resignation to acknowledge the new big dog in town while bemoaning, “I know it, King of the Persecution Complex knows it, Eddie Vedder knows it too, in a post-Jordan rules universe, the NBA can’t find a better man.”

Interesting NBA fact, 4-time All-Star Tom Chambers, who scored 20,000 career points, is not in the Basketball Hall of Fame: white privilege my ass.

Caring about whitey again, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Roasting ANTIFA Again

How do Antifa foot soldiers for the DNC show love for Mom on Mother’s Day?

Take out the trash and move out of the house for good.

Yesterday I told my son. “Freedom of speech has its limitations. For example, you can get arrested for yelling fire in a crowded theater.”

Son says, “What if there’s only one person in the theater?”

I finish laughing and say, “And that one person is Christopher Wray in the FBI screening room jerking off with a handful of Paul Mitchell Mousse doing his best Beavis and Butthead impersonation yelling, “Fire, fire” while watching a mockumentary about ANTIFA written by Stephen King and Patton Oswalt called Fire Childs Gone Wild. Now that’s an idea.”

Fire Childs Gone Wild, Challah, thank you very much.

But diversity is our strength.

Or the latest hurler for Antifa wouldn’t require Tommy John Surgery next time he hurls a concrete milkshake at a journalist with a byline in the National Review.

Fire Childs Gone Wild, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

When America Winces

At a parent-teacher conference for my son’s Kindergarten class, his Spanish Teacher implores us to bring Spanish to our home. I raise my hand and ask, “Isn’t one home invasion enough?” 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

Self-Defense is deader than Kyle Rittenhouse’s prospects during pledge week at the University of Arizona. 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

I wish toothpaste tasted more like Bud Light. So, I wouldn’t taste anything afterward except Kid’s Rocks spurned tears. 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

Now Kid Rock can’t play beer pong with groupies on Spring Break in Daytona Beach without his gag reflex kicking in to the image of a Dylan Hepburn finger popping American Badass from behind to Devil Without Cause?

When American winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

10.8 million Tik Tock followers are ten times platinum. So, I’d lose my zest for pounding Bud Light on the front leg of my F Hair Plugs Sniffer Tour, Born free, my balls.

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much.

I’m guilty of wincing after asking Alexa how many followers Dylan Hepburn Mulvaney has on Tik Tok before finishing that joke. 

I didn’t wince because Dylan Mulvaney is trans. I winced because she’s hackier than John Mullaney’s act in Jerry Seinfeld’s Bar Mitzvah suit. 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

I also winced at the thought of how Dylan is the best American-made Trans talent Tik Tok offers these days. Our Chinese Overlords wouldn’t consider Dyland Hepurn Lady Boy gold material of any kind, especially since the price of the US dollar is more depressed than Trumpy Poo’s tits knowing that Operation Death Speed continues to cause more cases of cardiac arrest than torn condoms on Bill Maher’s party bus tour of Rio De Janeiro during Marti Gras, sponsored by Third Legged Beauties.com. 

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much.

I bet Dylan Mulvaney isn’t even real, just a CIA-made, augmented reality version of what a trans influencer spokesperson for Bud Light would look like based on John Mulaney’s stool sample alone.

How Dylan’s sex appeal alone is generate 10 million followers on Tik Tok? It sounds more prosperous than John Mulaney selling out Madison Garden because he had the balls to after Seinfeld for a change. Cosby was rapist for 4 decades in a row. What happened to your powers of observation then Jerry?

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much.

Click Farms in India wince at padding Dylan’s numbers more than they did for the creep Swede in Succession.

When America winces, Challah, thank you very much. 

Michael Kornbluth 

Headstart on Cancer

Do I immerse myself in comedy to avoid real emotional honesty Lord?

Am I fixated on getting the most mileage about of my funny side because getting laughs makes me feel most alive?

Can I ever overcome the thrill of scoring more crying emojis from friends old new after sharing my latest and greatest bits, fresh off the press, which make feel the most blessed?

Do I care about earning recognition points in the world of fiction or just care about getting paid to be professional joke killer on stage around the world?

If I hate the art of stand-up comedy so much or being around other people so much, according to my wife, then why would I dedicate the totality of my focus, brain power and time toward the art of laugh yanking entertainment, 142 comedy records later?

Do I love the art of standup comedy because it fulfills my needs to shred and feel like a rock star without having to master the art of playing my Fender Stratocaster ever?

Lord, when I prayed in Synagogue last Saturday, asking for the opportunity for my father to see me as a success before he dies? Was I talking about being a working standup comedian away my kids 300 days a year, a well-paid podcast host comedian or as a working TV writer who writes books on the side with no time to see his kids whatsoever?

Don’t you think the main conflict in my book of short fiction, Waste Of Height Really Short Stories is the urge to finance my return to the stand up comedy yet but can’t just yet?

I have all these jokes and want to capitalize on them so badly Lord.

Am I being a lazy brain for not wanting to write these short new stories that I have great log lines for?

Why do I just want to write jokes and killer job descriptions for startup clients to put Stand Up Staffer in business?

How can I survive the charges of softness by dad Lord?

Is digging ditches going to provide the dream life for my kids?

I’ve got specs of grey at 47, which are signs of wisdom right?

I don’t want to be married to any script anymore Lord.

I don’t want to hide behind a computer anymore Lord.

I want to kill on the Coliseum floor.

I want to get paid to kill.

I’m tired of hearing nobody reads anymore.

I’m tired of hearing get focused by dad.

But deep down, Lord, I know I must pick a race to finish 1st in at 47 already.

The kids want me to perform standup comedy again.

Once I start collecting unemployment, I could start doing that again.

I need think big, show conviction and reach out to big shot performers like Toby Keith who I admire and share my comedy records with.

My big ask is asking for a booker referral of any kind.

I need to be booked for shows.

I have 6 months left on a car lease that I’m not even paying for.

I need to cash in on my white privilege already.

This guy on LinkedIn who I admire says write stories that matter.

Well, my jokes matter too. They’re truth bombs specials, made especially for these times.

The hardcore hilarious of them is beyond debunkable.

I need to become a sales machine.

Either I’m selling jokes on stage or during the day selling my headhunter writing services as Stand Up Staffer, Creative Tech Recruiter Extraordinaire.

I’m tired of spending money on writing contests only to lose again.

I should’ve won the at Press 53 contest for short fiction, I was only competing against 250 writers for Christ’s sake.

I want to get a talent manger or lit agent to get me a book deal after seeing my talent for being the quickest punchline blaster in the US.  

Donald Trump’s father said, “No man ever became rich from sitting behind a desk.”

I’m tired of repeating myself Lord.

I hate to abandon goals for writing contests, like the Big Break One for Gum King Of New York.

But I’d rather write that script at my own speed this year or enact that business idea for Hop-O-Rama Chew with somebody more than just an imaginary friend courtesy of Final Draft.

I need to get on other people’s podcasts.

I don’t want to be a crying mess on birthday again like I was this year, Lord.

I heard from an old friend on my birthday, who said, “May you always kill on stage.” He tells me to sent audition tapes to Fox.

I know that my true friends still want me to succeed on stage.

They know I was made for it.

I want to please them.

I love them.

I want to please my kids.

My daughter says, “Daddy, do whatever you do be happy, just get me the mansion in North Salem that I desire.”

But I got to get of the house to make contacts and make that happen.

I’m talking circles.

This was supposed to be a story for a short fiction contest about getting head start on cancer, but it is.

Cancer can be waiting around the corner.

My dad might have lung cancer.

He has a biopsy next week.

This had supposed me to a chance to tell him, I’m gay about laugh yankage and I’m finally going for it all the way and that writing books, blogs and doing more comedy records and podcasts isn’t enough to keep my fighting spirit alive with the Gods of comedy anymore.

If I was making money off it, I don’t think so, not anymore.

I crave applause, I crave respect.

I have to finance my dreams my way, Stand Up Staffer is here to say.

It’s the only way I can finance a trip to France for my daughter’s 13th birthday, the big bash in her honor, and I’ll feel like a big macher for once in my life.

And I’ll have you to thank for giving me the strength and courage to take on the world despite feeling like a designated slow poke in elementary school.,

I’m going for it but got to be Standup Staffer Hero first, and doubts remaining of my willingness to what it takes to make this reality happen is beyond debunkable.

Thanks for the fighter’s chance to prove my worthiness and for the head start on cancer, being a late bloomer and all Lord, very, very much.

Head-Start on Cancer, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Samuel The Prophet

With all that relief money in the world, you’d Zelensky could spring for a new shirt. Now I know why they call them Army Fatigues. 

What is Louie guilty of besides failure of imagination? 

Especially on his shirts sold during his Apology Tour, which said nothing but “Sorry” on them.                                                                                                                                           

I wouldn’t beat around the bush and be more offensively apologetic with my T-Shirt design ideas. 

I’d unload with something that sticks to the ribs like “Sticky Life,” “Got Wipes,” “Hornier Around Hacks,” “Get A Grip You No Name Bitch” or “Coming In A Green Room Near You Minneapolis.” The Muslim call to prayer on state-of-the-art Bose speakers in the Town Square always gets me in the mood before another killer set. 

Lazy Man Sex Lives, Challah. 

Thank you very much.

Charlie Day from Always Sunny talks about his old NYC apartment during his Today Show interview. 

At least he had an apartment in Manhattan. 

Who paid his deposit and 1st month’s rent?

Did the Gang Go to Plumbing School? 

Hey D, you wear the damn mask. But suck the hate speech out of my super soaker 1st.

Pretend Obama ordered you to leak it. 

Has the Always Sunny crew done the episode, The Gang Goes Election Fraud, yet?

Or did lawyers representing Dominion issues a gag order on that pitch after they scrubbed their profiles clean after the stolen election on LinkedIn? 

Have they done an episode called The Gang Get’s Vaccinated yet? 

And get Andrew Cuomo to play the fake news mayor of Philly when Chris Rock was pimping the vaccine that gives you blood clots on TV; that worked less than Russell Westbrook running the Triangle Offense. 

Remember when Cuomo was considered a fawned-over sex symbol who pushed his clot shots harder than his gender-fluid pink ziti recipes on Pinterest? 

Despite Cuomo looking like the Thing and Mama Fratelli had a baby. 

Cuomo getting paid to write a book on leadership is like Hitler writing a book on Anger Management, Woody Allen writing a book on hands-off parenting, or Kevin Durant getting picked to a Ted Talk on how to block out the sound of Cyberbullying.

I don’t know what’s weirder. 

My Dad asking me how work was going on my Birthday, when deep down, he knows I just got fired. 

Or my mom, playing hot potato with her smartphone with my dad before he finally got on the phone to pseudo-sing me Happy Birthday. 

It was a stutter step move because he started singing solo, but you can tell his heart wasn’t in it. 

He mustered to belt out a raspy, gutted, Happy Birthhole Day, in a half-hearted manner. 

For comedic purposes, I remained silent after he barely got out Happy Birthole Day, which shook him out of his comfort zone, which was already nonexistent. 

My Dad suddenly has a mini-heart attack on the spot after realizing he isn’t equipped with the voice or drive to sing me Happy Birthday in full without my mother chiming in to lead the way. 

Dad says in an incredibly awkward, stilted way, “I was singing you Happy Birthday.” 

I reply. 

I heard Dad. 

I remained quiet to see if you’d commit to singing multiple choruses in a row. 

But don’t worry; I wasn’t holding my breath. 

Since you wrote me off in your heart for supporting Trump on my Podcast for free before he let the Dominion Machines kill Democracy under his Operation Death Speed plugging watch.

Comedians hate it when common folk disrespect laugh yanker giants. 

For example, I’m in the Post Office and ask if that Stamp on display was of Redd Foxx. 

The Post Office Worker laughed off my inquiry with huffy, patronizing disgust. 

So, I fire back with, “He used to sell weed with Malcolm X. He opened his comedy club in Hollywood as Rodney Dangerfield did on the Upper East Side, close to Scores. 

I’m saying that without Redd Foxx, Eddie Murphy isn’t banging out 12 kids without batting an eye after getting paid 20 million for the Vampire of Brooklyn. 

I bumped into my younger brother’s ex-girlfriend, whom he’s banging again but chose to pass on initiating a conversation. 

What was going to be my icebreaker? 

Banging you when I had the chance would’ve been gross because that would be like getting HPV from my brother. 

So, how do you feel about your brother logging more face time with your one kid versus my 3? 

You should’ve seen how my mom’s face lit up when she showed me a pic of your kids on her smartphone. 

You’d think Biden, AKA Hair Plugs Sniffer, beat Trump and Cancer on the same day without having to nuke Sloan Kettering Chemo Ward for refusing to sell their radiation reserves to Ukraine to keep Putin on his toes. 

Stephen A Smith doesn’t like to be challenged by Jewish New Yorkers who are more intelligent than him. 

Or else he’d still be doing 1st take with Max Kellerman. 

Who’s more inclined than Skip Bayless to call out bullshit. The next time another pro Athlete like Deshaun Jackson goes on record about educating themselves on Hitler. 

Who’s more included in calling out bullshit? The next major black entertainer, like Kayne or Kyrie Irving, plays the Black Israelite card to deflect charges of anti-Semitism. 

You can’t be anti-Semitic if you’re a Black Israelite. 

Yeah, and I’m sure your DNA shows up on King David’s ancestry.com, Shaka Zulu. 

Always trust your instincts. 

I wrote in my notebook, avoid wife on your Birthday. 

But what I do, is share my beers with her when I’ve denied myself all year during my year without beer. 

I got 47 handpicked to represent my circle of life for my birthday bash occasion. 

Only to blow off my plan to play hooky with my son and have lunch at the Oyster Bar in Manhattan. 

Later that day, my son quoted the movie Copland and said, “Daddy, I gave you a chance, and you blew it.” 

At the same time, a moment like this lessens the sting of regret. 

I hate New York more than ever since ANTIFA and BLM were deemed righteous upholders of law and order. 

Yeah, and Turbo Tax is culturally biased software. 

And ANTIFA aren’t a bunch of Punisher Vigilante wannabes who never outgrew their pyro phase. 

Diversity is our strength. 

Is that why those crazy white boy meth heads in ANTIFA require Tommy John Surgery every time they hurl a concrete milkshake at a gay Vietnamese journalist with a byline with the National Review? 

If Miles Davis’s lonesome trumpet voice sounds like a floating ice burg, then Joe Biden whispering to a girl scout, “Suck my tongue, before the Dalia Lama asks you do it assuming we pump you full of puberty blockers and get you a hair cut at Short Cuts, then his voice sounds like a snoozy poltergeist. 

The morning before, I get fired from my IT Headhunter job,

My son says, “Keep your sleeves rolled up so you get fired and find a job that pays you more money.” 

Samuel the Prophet was correct in his vision. 

I got fired later that morning. 

On my way out, I said, “Trump won, and I’m clot-shot free. At least my heart isn’t a ticking time bomb waiting to happen.” 

Samuel the Prophet lives, Challah.

Thank you very much. 

Michael Kornbluth

Skunk City More Than Ever

I love New York, more than ever. Since when, all lives matter became the new N word, in honor of Thug Lives Matter most.

What’s my crime prevention solution? Take away medicinal weed cards like recess passes next time Latrell Sprewell’s brother from another mother tries to choke out a pasty cop’s white privilege on the Lex line.

All of a sudden, Thugs Lives Matters most has a full-blown panic attack on the Subway.

I can’t be cut off from my Mango gummies homey.

Yolanda don’t like my skunk ass weed breath.

Edibles are ash free, plus, stink free which equals zero regrets.

And I’m not sharing a blunt with you after just coming out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.

The city always smelled like stale beer, especially around the lower east side, but not now it reeks of skunk weed, not the most flattering scents in the world.

I’d rather go down on Cardi Bi’s yeast infection.

Skunk City More Than Ever, Challah!

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Aw Sucks

Honestly, fellas, how much do you hate a dumpy older woman who uses the word Aw concerning your heartfelt expressive emotion?

Aw sucks my asshole after suicide sprints with Mineral Ice creeping up my balls.

Aw sucks limp dick around varicose veins with the lights on again.

Aw, sucks, putrid pussy. Think Stormy Daniels cleaning tuna cans out of her snatch.

Aw sucks the cocaine cobwebs out of Zelensky’s nose on Good Friday.

Aw sucks worse than watching the floral print dry out Jill Biden’s long-lost sex appeal of yesteryear, small-town townie ho fishnet stockings on or not.

Aw, it makes the do-good meaning behind the cancel hate hashtag yucking up my LinkedIn feed inconceivable.

Aw is a dumb fuck default for an emotionally retarded expressionist who speaks in empty platitudes like do what you love because that option in Corporate America is so readily available on tap, you blah breathed hack for hire.

Aw, is code for thanks but no thanks for the compliment faggot.

Aw, that means you’re desperate for compliments today, aren’t you, Lord Bryon light in the loafer light?

Aw is a passive-aggressive alternative to the unverbalized directive; get a fucking life, alright, I’m not even a 5/.9 by old school My Space standards. You still put woman on a pedestal as if your mother cares about your love life outside of pushing a premature marriage to conceal your default faggot pushover position.

Aw screams it’s springtime for fruitcakes.

And I’m old enough to be your mother and past my fag hag years prime, thanks.

Springtime For Fruitcakes, aw sucks lives, Challah!

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth