Holy Time Shines

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth

















Holy Time Shines

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.

Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.

When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Recess Passes Matter

Instead of giving criminals get out of jail free cards, which is what no bail laws do.  We should institute a recess pass system that my teachers used on us to discourage bad behavior growing up except these Recess Passes are used for Cannabis shops in New York City. Latrel Sprewell’s kid chokes out a cop’s white privilege and he gets his recess pass to the cannabis shop taken away. Thugs Lives Matter Most, start having panic attacks on the Subway. Where am I going to get my gummies now? Stink free plus ash free equals zero regrets homey. Plus, I don’t want to share a blunt with your ass just out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.”  Recess Passes Matter, Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Last Licks Lasting

How do you fuck with your Atheist wife? Be serious about expressing your desire to adopt a kid with Down Syndrome. But they can die at 40 from cancer. Athletes are dying from the clot shot in their twenties now. So, 40 is the new 90 really babe. Plus, your username on the Peloton is Flowers and Babies. Shouldn’t all kids enveloped in our circle of love in our comedy estate home come up roses in your eyes? You work in the NICU checking for vital signs. All I check for is for retweets. You want me to prove I’m not an A Plus Narcissist and break the curse of my family tradition. Then this is it. Huey Lewis and the News live, Challah. Thank you very much. Although leave it to Uncle John, AKA Sir Snort A Lot to contaminate our air of holiness at home, the one time he offers our adopted son with Down Syndrome some blow and says, “You don’t always have to be down kid.” But who’s going to look after him? You still don’t have a job. He’ll help me sell my new gum invention Hop-O-Rama Chew. Who’s going to say no to a kid with Down Syndrome? What, I want to disrupt the job market for young adults with Down Syndrome. Most kids with Down Syndrome are highly creative. Plus, they possess highly developed senses of humor like Phil Rosenthal’s cousin in Somebody Feed Phil or the guy in Something About Mary. And who could resist our adopted kid with Down Syndrome going to door to door in Brooklyn selling Hop flavored gum to overweight Stay At Home hipster dads who identify more with Lena Dunham since she morphed into the Hunchback of Bushwick during Restaurant Week? We can call him Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, which gives him immediate hipster cred after he introduces himself and some immediate breathing room to pitch. I want to out Hipster the shit out of these guys. Door to door sales would do wonders for this kid’s self-esteem. At the same time, nobody is slamming a door on a kid’s face with Down Syndrome, especially if he’s blowing the biggest bubble, you’ve ever seen while holding up tape recorder that plays our pre-recorded radio jingle for Hop-O-Roma Chew. Blow your blues with away some Hop-O-Rama Chew. Our bubbles are easy to blow. Even kids with Down Syndrome can blow big bubbles while chewing on a daily nugget of wisdom wrapped inside each burst of bright-eyed flavor inside.  Hop-O-Rama Swami says, “Beer Bellies give self-love a bad name. And Sarah Palin is better than you. So, add some extra bounce to your step with some Hop-O-Rama Chew.”

“Also, your best friend Sara will feel like a more self-involved narcissist for only having one kid versus our 3 plus one adopted one with Down Syndrome. And our 4th kid being an adopted one with Down Syndrome would really piss my parents off. Just think of what a big deal they made about putting up a pool fence. But I don’t view a kid with Down Syndrome as an eye sore but as angel light and their laughs are the purest. Plus, when a kid with Down Syndrome smiles it could light up a youth hostel in a no-go zone area in Germany with no-WI Fi during the Chinese planted plague made in Wuhan delivered through remote controlled drone bats, next day delivery. Supply Chain problem solved because everyone will be dead. So, what difference does it make? Except that our best of 4 worlds family, that being all 4 kids, because were not family without them, will be able to bask in some angel light before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. As we sing in a beautiful, truthfully tuneful harmony, “It’s the end of the world, and we know it, and I feel fine. Because Samuel needs a younger brother to look after. And denying him the opportunity to be the biggest hearted big brother ever would really blow more than being denied the chance to see if your mother would terminate her Nazi dog Heidi over a more playtime consideration with her grandchild with Down Syndrome. Will see how God blessed she’ll act in the face of our new kid with Down Syndrome who will do abortion jokes in my honor over Christmas. One kid only means your diaphragm is for walls after all Baba. Plus, how could I ever be sad in the presence of Dad? Funnier dad, happier baby. Thanks Dad. For giving me the confidence to do more than dig ditches for non-biodegradable masks at McDonald’s before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. Burning Mask Party return, 121 comedy records later, Challah. Thanks for the laughs, Dad, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Triple Crown Winners

Nothing Rotten

Giving up Adderall is a return to energy independence.

Calling Zelensky a Jew is like calling Annie Leibowitz a mensch.

Also, why is Annie Leibowitz taking pictures of Zelensky and his wife for Vouge magazine?

Was the Vanity Fair Hollywood issue too vain for Zelensky’s tastes?

Posing in the same magazine with Wes Anderson’s pocket watch collection from Louis Vuitton is where I draw the line Annie, no offense. Tell your sister Judy Gold, she’s a no talent hack for me, thanks.

Zelensky takes orders from Azov Nazi’s. He’s like George Soros with a better barber.

Trump’s the Anti-Christ, not your dad, Liz Cheney?

But you unlike your deathly dickish American Dad, you aim to please?

Also, doesn’t Jesus’ return from heaven to defeat the Anti-Christ in the Bible part 2?

So have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you, people.

Imagine Jesus returning and his only request is that we give up social media for a whole year.

Trump tweets on Truth Social.

Don’t worship false idols.

Sorry, I didn’t realize that former Trump supporters were tweeting that about Trump on Truth Social before giving up social media for Lent. In other words, fuck off already Trump, you left us for dead and push operation death speed with the same verve as Trump Vodka laced with killer doses of Fentanyl. Condemn the kill shot and post our bail already motherfucker or you’re rotten to the core like the rest. What’s the point in passing prison reform if you can’t even bail out your supporters who didn’t kill anything but the veneer of Q being your alter ego in the form of JFK Junior who you were destined to team up with to take out the Deep state which took his father out, who wanted to share our alien DNA stool staples of Gore Vidal with the Russians. Let Blow Hard One Mark Levin let you off nice and easy. And if Ronan Farrow is really Frank Sinatra’s kid, then why hasn’t Woody Allen woken up next to the head of Secretariat yet? The Great American Songbook lives, now eat my butt carrots Amy Barrett. You’re Mia Farrow with better husband selection, Challah. Thank you very much.

Supply Chain Solved

You want to solve our supply chain crisis? Require every dreamer crossing our border to work as a delivery driver for UPS for one year. It’s good paying union job, you get to wear shorts all day and in New York state they’re already given a license to vote anyway. Plus, UPS drivers similar to illegals are exempt from getting the clot shot, so they’ll be healthy enough to do more ballot stuffing for UPS during the mid-term election season. Plus, did you know that in New York State, you can be fined 250,000 dollars for using hate speech on illegal aliens? Such as, No Speak English? Whose translating these insults for Juan exactly? Now illegal immigrants flown into the New York on Jet Blue courtesy of the Democratic party, get a License to vote and a hate speech translator to bankrupt Apu at a bodega in Flushing. What a country, Yakov Smirnov lives, Challah. Thank you very much.  

Recess Passes Matter

Instead of giving criminals an endless supply of get out of jail free cards, which is what no bail laws are. We should institute a recess pass system that our teachers used to punish our bad behavior in elementary school growing up. Speak out in class, Recess Pass gets taken away. Place dog food on Beth’s desk. Take a Recess Pass away. Choke a cop on the subway because you feel like it. Take away a Recess Pass away. You get 5 per week from the state, which can be scanned from your phone. So, every time you can get a Recess Pass taken away it means, you get a point on your license. 5 points results in your medicinal weed card being permanently revoked in New York state. You want to talk buzz kill fellas. New Yorkers have been waiting for weed dispensaries since the dawn of time. But now you can’t access it because Latrel Sprewell’s kid choked out a cop’s white privilege despite him deserving it according to Thugs Lives Matter Most. Thugs start having panic attacks on the Subway, I can’t breathe motherfucker. I can’t go back to smoking that shit skunk weed on the street. Gummy Edibles don’t stink up my breath. I don’t want to share no blunt with your ass just out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.” Recess Passes Matter, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Last Licks Interlude

What am I naming my last free comedy record with new material Last Licks?

Because it’s about soothing past hurts through comedy.

So, I can inspire others to think toward the future after licking off their wounds with comedy to. So, you’ll be in a more exalted, wiser position by forcing yourself to reflect on how to avoid the same old shitty situation.

Last licks, double album special, is for those still fighting for dignity, self-respect and bragging rights of some kind, so they can get pumped up about flexing their stuff in the future with the intention of winning over the crowd and hitting their target goals with resounding, big guns blasting authority. So, you can feel not smug secure like Uni Brow Maddow but be more prideful pretty for not letting past disappointments, rejections and non-stop offenses get you down. Today, we get our last licks in, before pouncing on our prey with feline quickness and big-eyed glory for refusing to accept selective tenderness shown our way, no more, no more. Get your flying wings on bitches. Aerosmith lives. Last Licks listening party, top priority of the Summer. Dream Doing On, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Ungodly Reasons

Call me elitist. But I like eating Kosher because it makes feel less common and ordinary blah. Deli guy says, “No Bacon, with that?” “Is my egg and cheese order not manly enough for you, Dominick, I ain’t no Fag Scholanti?” Plus, I can watch the Showrunner of Everyone Loves Raymond, Phil Rosenthal on Somebody Feed Phil, squirm with discomfort around the actor from Treme went he told him to put more “swing” into whatever French creole named sausage he tried to annunciate with divine powered glee knowing my commitment to upholding a Koshertarian diet comedian lifestyle would allow me to make fun of it with detached bemusement soon after. Although in terms of comedy, nothing could beat the Treme actor explaining his learning process about cured meats, “Oh, so Pate is like hog’s head cheese.” Hilarious, prior he explained his use of a blood bucket growing up in Louisiana used in the making of Blood Sausage. And I’m thinking, Phil Rosenthal has less in common with this actor’s roots than white man’s disease. At one point in the episode, Phil attends a non-Kosher seder, with a giant Gefilte Fish stuffed with Shrimp. And Gefilte Fish slop plop is so old world Jewy disgusting in Microsoft Word’s eyes, autocorrect doesn’t even acknowledge its existence. Actually, I was being a self-loathing, paranoid half Jew, who was spelling it wrong. Reality is, my mother was raised Catholic I think in Kentucky, she never talks about it really, before she converted to Judaism after my dad nailed her with his Hebrew hammer, I guess. Seconds later, mom says, “Jesus who, never heard of the guy. But anything beats eating Squirl soup, so fuck off Christian nation, I’m moving to Jew York into some shitty tenement in the Bronx, that’s not Riverdale, I’m out of here.”

I love the south. My favorite summer wind was Katie King, who was from Winston Salem, North Carolina. We met in Kennedy country in Chatham, Cape Cod, the 1st time I asked God for anything by the beach. I say, “God, I don’t need Marilyn Monroe, but just a summer romance of some kind, so I can have someone to think about while playing I Remember You by Skid Row although Sebastian Bach sporting a shit that read Aids kill fag Dad is an extraneous exclamation point at that point in the sentence.” God delivered with resounding authority and gave me the scent of the south in Katie King. Outside of my great, great, great, Grandfather Austin Gollaher saving his boyfriend friend from drowning while running home late for some racoon soup, this will go down as the greatest save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby. But what was God saving me from exactly outside of more ordinary blah? Easy, he saved me from non-stop hurt, because good loving is what I got, Sublime lives, Challah, thank you very much. More importantly, until then, I never knew or had any clue about my capacity for being a joy spreader for others. During one of our last night’s together after another legendary kiss, that went on for years in a good way, my dear Katie King said, “I never knew somebody could make me so happy.” Being a New York Yankee who sported a circumcised schlong versus the ant eater look tipped the laws of attraction in my favor to. So maybe, my mom converted to Judaism because settling for the ant eater look between some southern gent’s legs would’ve circumcised her happiness also.

I fell in love with crawfish and all its succulent manifestations while working as a waiter at a Creole style restaurant in Park Slope ages ago, back when Lena Dunham has much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself. Before birthrates in Brooklyn had reached an all-time low due to overweight hobbit hipsters pulling out early from excessive meat sweats. At the same time Lena Dunham’s encouraged arm flapper look wasn’t encouraging more porking over pounding more pork buns either. Crawfish, you know shrimp with personality. Think Madeline Kahn over Samantha Bee. I had crazy sex with a girl from St. Louis during Marti Gras on my friend’s couch in and out of a black out powered haze although I remember sucking face with her after drinking a Hand Grenade prior and she tasted fantastic. So, I have plenty of love for southern accentuated fun. You can’t beat southern loving hospitality like this. So why forsake more drunken revelry down on the big easy, where banging random, giving girls you just met is easy? Because my dick would fall off from overexertion and pop out of its joy socket. Either that, or I’d wake up in 2 months without a livable liver because of my own self-inflicted wounds.

But what are my ungodly reasons for sticking with the Koshertarian Diet for the home stretch of my life? For starters, abstaining from pork shields me from future charges of Islamophobia. Especially, after a smartphone catches one of my future performances a Carolines on Broadway, when I say, “A 2 state solution is never ending as long as Hamas keeps fucking.” I’m also drawn to bragging rights for one upping Dad. Did we eat Kosher in the house for 22 years? Yes, but we ate Chinese and bomb veal parm in the Bronx outside the house, which isn’t the same thing. I’m not against swinging both ways, but for once, I’m committed to a monogamous relationship with Kosher law, and I don’t mind being feeling like a slut in a strait jacket in this instance, which is a welcome change of pace. I also like forward, upward motion, which is why I’m doing my year without beer, so I can drop whatever deadweight that’s preventing me from achieving Do It All Dad dunking out glory. So, working towards being a Koshertarian Comedian lifer that’s constantly striving to reach a higher spiritual place of fulfillment is a soul cleansing place to be, after pleasuring yourself to 3rd, legged beauties.com prior. Being a hit blasting Koshertarian Comedian for the bast 13 months, 121 comedy records later, beats Jolting Joe’s 56 game hitting streak by a mile. So that’s an ungoldy reason to stick with my funny man Koshertarian Comedian path that gives me a leg up on my competition, knowing how God’s hooking me up with more sheets of comedy gold in return. And like Ron Shelton wrote in Bull Durham, “You don’t fuck with a winning streak.” Plus, at this late in the game, I don’t want to cheat myself out of the holiness I feel from upholding my Koshertarian diet. I think my kids would be more disappointed if I carried on a new love affair with a fan on my WordPress blog than breaking my Koshertarian vows really. Have I made a vow to honor my Koshertarian Diet till my last dying breath? No, but self-imposed restrictions make me feel like a more in control beast similar to my year without beer so far. And it’s no longer just about my own self-serving needs but inspiring my kids to rise above being slaves to your give me now desires. The Metallica album Master of Puppets is about being a slave to drug dependence. Fine, eating a Shrimp Po Boy isn’t in the same league. Still, I miss the idea of having that option more than the action of inhaling a shrimp boy itself. But ultimately, sticking with the Koshertarian Diet has provided good restrictions that have forced me to be more creative that’s resulted in my primo, heavily workshopped, 2nds demanding Farfalle pesto with no cheese using a mixture of pecans and pistachios, always being the best, while throwing in some diced up Kosher chicken breasts from the air fryer in addition to some well salted, thinly sliced, cherry tomatoes top.

Other ungodly reasons to stick the Koshertarian Diet is ensure my book the Koshertarian Comedian gets published one day, in spite of the masked bitch at the bookstore in Rhinebeck, who acted grossed out, perplexed, when I asked, if they had a Kosher cookbook section. She gives me an immediate, “no.” And I say, “What if I asked for you for a Hallal cookbook section that gave shout outs to Allah in honor of all the porking you get do in Allah’s gangsta paradise as a reward for killing more infidel bitches like yourself, hashtag, hacking hymens to shawarma shreds.” Ungodly Reasons, Challah. Thank you very much.

It’s tempting to break my Koshertarian diet when I visit a semi-close bud from college in St. Louis later this summer to see George Thorogood and the Destroyers, Sammy Haggar is the opening act. I hear his Tequilla goes down Van Halen light. Will I be able to turn down smoked Brisket and burnt ends in St. Louis away from my beamish 3 kids for 2 nights with no restrictions outside of abstaining from bourbon and banging some random chick without passing out in my condom 1st? Will see, but I’m looking forward to some man-on-man bonding company more so than suckling down some Pit master made Brisket while pitching my bud new ideas for my screenplay Gum King Of New York, about a stay-at-home dad who reinvents himself as a pitchman star on the QVC during his year without beer while hocking his new brand of hop flavored Gum Hop-O-Rama Chew. I plan on selling the action-comedy adventure as a cross between Pineapple Express, Joy and The Founder except its origin story takes place in St. Louis in 2022 with some Midwest Jewish mobsters in Kansas City ala Casino thrown in between.

Ultimately, though I just don’t want to fuck up my winning streak on the keyboard. Call me spiritually superstitious then. At the same time, I also enjoy my slimmed down physique that’s a direct result of a veggie loaded Koshertarian Diet and I refuse to let Phil Rosenthal look more wide eyed happy slim for having less of a need for fostering a divine connection than the need for edgier, funny man commentary on his tour of Copenhagen for Somebody Feed Phil. “Copenhagen is known for its inclusive diversity embedded in its architecture such as these Moroccan titled fountains and fake news no go zone areas over here.”

Every morning, I thank God for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And sticking to the Koshertarian diet has allowed me to do that although Bill Maher would prefer to call him my imaginary friend, so be it. Rocky’s been Stallone’s imaginary friend for 4 decades straight and it’s paid off handsomely for Sly. Although learning that 420, the national pot smoking holiday is on Hitler’s birthday, was a total bummer man equal to when learning how Sly snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. I also close out every morning prayer session with thanking Hashem, the most high, for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And I feel that sticking with the Koshertarain diet is a nice tender touch that helps keep our love connection alive, versus my wife rolling over to the other side of the equator whenever I try to snuggle her for old times’ sake at night.

Is the Koshtertarian Diet my life preserver needed to achieve publishing glory or just a cute, gimmick fad to create a niche in on LinkedIn? Time will tell, but for now I’m all in on God, no more in and out of God shit, call me Superstitiously Faithful, I don’t give a shit. All I know, is that my son, the other day, says in a semi-joking manner, “I don’t like life”, to make me laugh before camp. But wish you were here vibes are easy to sense. And I say, “What you mean Samuel is that you don’t like your life when Daddy isn’t in it as much since you started camp. And you’re pissing in your bed again, because camp is ending soon and you’re scared about missing on more hangout time with Daddy once Kindergarten starts, correct? Son tears up a tad and says, “You’re not such a moron son, after all Daddy. But once camp is over, I get to sell your books and comedy CDs with you like Flipper Bird Baby, Daddy, deal?”

So, why I would want to give God sloppy second consideration for the sake of crawfish pie, when he continues to bless me with such an endlessly growing love life like this? Especially knowing how anger is normally a realer emotion than love, but not in this instance. For example, how often do you hear your wife or girlfriend say I love you without it sounding manufactured hoarse as if she’s forcing the issue to avoid a divorce? On the other hand, when you say, “I hate what New York City has become, because no bail policies have turned the Big Apple into OZ without any Proud Boys to bail your ass out of trouble in sight. When my son says, “I hate hanging out with mommy.” What’s he’s really saying is I really like hanging out with you that much more because he’s gets bored around her too easily. I always knew he was a quick learner. But what makes one parent more loveable than the other? Selective tenderness maybe, but I think it comes down to involving your kids in your life, which is easier to do when you’re Stay At Home Shemale Comedian for 5 years in row since my lucky 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born. Kids tend to love back with boatloads of tenderness because you make them feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Having your father’s shoulder’s collapse when you go in for a hug gives you the distinct opposite impression. Plus, funnier dad, happier baby. Victor Borge says, “Laughter is the shortest distance between 2 people.” So, if you can find a way to make your loved ones, especially your kids laugh more, you’ll grow closer to them for it. When your children laugh, especially from your own efforts, you grow closer to the divine, which for me is the cherry on top. And who doesn’t want a piece of that pie? And there’s nothing common or ordinary blah about that. Spiritually Superstitious, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Endlessly Right

English muffins reminding me of the time alcohol prevented my son from dying a premature death.

“So, Arthur, one time, I went to Fire Island with an old work bud, who wasn’t a complete Long Island hack like the rest, when I used to sell online ads for CitySearch in Manhattan. Our primary target audience was gay men searching for who gave the best facial. I had just met mommy, yet we weren’t in a committed monogamous relationship. Son interrupts my flow. “What’s monogamous daddy?” I say, “Decoupling in reverse.”

“I was semi-seeing this Filipino girl at the time who co-owned a restaurant in the city. She showcased way too much upper gum for my taste. But she was the 1st one I ever did phone sex with because of her instigating encouragement. Son says, “What’s phone sex? I say, “Kama Sutra talk without getting naked, so there’s no harm in it really, assuming you have her consent to give her endless dick over the phone that is. Still, she pushed me to write a Family guy spec during one of my brooding moods, after asking point blank, “What’s going to make you happy?” And I said, “Writing a Family Guy Spec, so I wouldn’t feel like such an ineffectual jerkoff outside of what sporadic laughs I was getting throughout the open mike stage outside of a semi-reliable opener at the time, which was, “So far, my claim to fame was an appearance on the show Blind Date. All I got out of it was a free meal and herpes.” Son says, “What’s herpes?” I say, “Worse than long COVID, next question. And just when you think you’re in the clear, it keeps breaking out from within.”

“Yeah, so back to Fire Island. I made Avocado toast on a toasted English muffin with melted Munster and turkey bacon and all the yenta breaths went hog wild over it. All of a sudden, I felt Jerry Seinfeld minus the career, which reminds he just sold one his vintage Porsches for charity. I just hope that half the proceeds went to Larry’s kids.”

“So, for my 1st time on Fire Island, I was feeling semi-cocky, already had some living under my belt after living in LA for a bit. I didn’t miss driving in LA. But I did miss road head. Son says, “What’s roadhead? I said, “Primo pole position all the way.” Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.”

One time I did that joke at the Comedy Cellar and addressed a banger pretty NYU girl sitting close to the stage with, “Did you just call shot gun?” And the crowd screamed touchdown. Yeah, so I wasn’t married to any one fun hole just yet, my days of being a slut-in-straight jacket hadn’t happened because I didn’t get mommy pregnant by mistake.” Son says, “How did you get her pregnant by mistake? I say, “By being a stoner who forget to ask if she were on the pill. Or from being too much of a chicken shit in a post feminism world to inquire about whether the pill still made her “nauseous” or not, which is code for, run for the hills if you don’t love the bitch.”

“So, I hit on this beautifully, sexy gal on Fire Island who was sunbathing all by herself. She was a better stacked, prettier faced Phoebe Cates with longer luscious hair than the sexless, dike cut she sported in Gremlins 2. All the yenta breaths surrounding us, got their panties in a bunch over the new big headed Heeb in town hitting on a far sexier Barbara Stanwyck without breaking a sweat because girls this sexy are normally dating some alpha man jock who lettered at 3 varsity sports, which I didn’t, who most likely didn’t run down the basketball court, looking like he was sporting high heels instead of high tops. At the time, I didn’t know that she broke up with her boyfriend. Chances are, he banged her hotter friend because guys are scumbags like that, always interested in doing the next best thing. So, I bump into her on the dance floor at some random bar later that evening. We grind on the dance floor as I flexed my magic mike love stand behind her love buns to Moby from what I recall. I’m also on incredibly strong E and have been drinking for 5 hours straight, which is a blackout combo waiting to happen.” Son says, “What’s a blackout?” I said, “Your southern hick DNA sabotaging your chances of getting laid again.”

“Eventually, she says, “Want to take a walk by the beach. I follow her lead. Shit, I would’ve followed her into a glory hole at a Chicago bathhouse during Arafat Appreciation Month. Son says, “What’s a glory hole.” I say, “Russian Roulette with your dick.”

“So, we sit on the sand together but now I’m light-headed. So, I recline back on the sand to look up at the stars. And I feel a bump. She says, “Did you just pass out?” I can’t believe we came that close to fucking.” And that’s how my crazy hick DNA prevented your premature death. Crazy Hick DNA lives. But endlessly wrong produced endlessly right in you kid.”

Endlessly wrong produces endlessly right, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Captain Fruitcake

My honeymoon phase with my daughter is waning. It only took 11 years, which lasts longer than most. It died with my wife after a stream of milk squirted out of her nips on our honeymoon in Australia, especially, after I nibbled on them for old time’s sake while totally blanking on how they now tasted like a regrettable non-fate latte. Our plan was to get married in Australia on Mother’s Beach, where my wife grew up around, yet my mom.crashed that concept real fast. Mom calls, “Fuck Australia Scoops. Australia is a long flight from New York. And your father doesn’t love you that much. You’re the sloppy second son for a reason, remember?” I console my wife later and say, “Babe, assuming we have a boy, instead of hiring a Rabbi for the circumcision, will hire Crocodile Dundee. Just so we can hear a roomful of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”  Most honeymoon phases fade after their sweaty sex period anyway. Where the bed achieves blast off despite perpetual poundage downward, which defies all laws of gravity all together. 

So, I’m not sweating the prospect of my honeymoon phase coming to a deflated end with my daughter at 11 years old. She has breast buds now, so I know she can’t remain my little girl forever. It’s not as if I identify with Woody Allen in my late forties now either. Who pines for the days of keeping naked pics of a 9-year-old Soon-Yi in his top sock drawer to tap for future script ideas on scripts such as Crimes and Misdemeanors the Early Years or was it The Plowing Field? Shit, the only crusty pic missing from Woody Allen’s top sock drawer was Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine. Still, 11 years old feels early for breast buds, don’t you think? Wife says, “Matilda and Shannon are the last girls in their class to get breast buds.” And I said, “Then why haven’t yours sprouted yet?”

I’m cooling on my daughter because of her overuse of the word “Nice.” Had a pothead friend Cling in college cool dude, worked as chef in Nantucket during the summer to pay for his high-end hippie lifestyle. But he could also throw down like Leo and went to Berkshire, a boarding school that got printed up in the NY times in 96 after a student sold 90 doses of acid to a student population of 300, although I’ve been told nearly every student there was tripping balls, including some of the professors. Headmaster calls in the dealer. “You really thought you’d get away with this shit? Are you smoking coo-coo puffs or what? Who’s your supplier?” Student breaks out into the giggles and can barely muster, “You, said, coo-puffs.  That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.” Headmaster adds, “I knew that hiring that English teacher from Berkley was a bad idea. O Captain, my Captain Trips was his quote in his high school yearbook for Christ’s sake. He quoted that fruitcake Robet Frost to. I bet those woods were lovely, dark and deep on 5 hits of acid, when the Maple Tree morphed into Aunt Jemima ordering you to sodomize each other with your lacrosse sticks because the ghost of Jim Brown will shit on your dreams of breaking his scoring records at the University of Syracuse regardless.”

Yeah, so Cling, the same guy who rolled perfect joints, who’d blow smoke rings that shaped into the contours of the skeletal shape seen on Deadhead shirts, would use the word “nice”, if you said something he liked. For example, “Hey Kling, saw 311 live last night. They kicked total ass. I practically touched the rafters. For once I no longer felt whiter than White Man’s Disease.  And Kling says, “Nice”, despite it being way more momentous than nice.  And I didn’t have to compete with an I-Pad in front of him for his attention. So, when I say, “Matilda, Daddy’s final comedy record, Last Licks, will be my Siamese Dream, Too Fast for Love, Appetite for Destruction and American Idiot, all wrapped up into one.” Only to hear back in return, “Nice daddy.” In other words, “Sell some comedy records later summer whether it be Last Licks or Billionaire Brain in my honor, and I’ll give a bigger shit. I’m sure I can find you an emoji for that. Just let me get back to being a budding pre-teen already, who doesn’t have to suck off the totality of your ego every two seconds. Besides, isn’t that what mommy is for? I get it, making comedy records at home is like playing with yourself. You can only spend so much time jerking off your own material without wanting others to do it for you. Is that what Brian Wilson meant when he sang, Wouldn’t It Be Nice? Anyway, let me plan my 1st sleepover with Kendel at our house with the tent in our yard Daddy. Just be glad I’m not pushing for more horse riding lessons that you can’t afford because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review.  Just make enough money for a Bat Mitzvah trip in 2 years to France, so I can practice my French while ordering you some high-end Rose from Provence, Captain fruitcake. We can toast my official entry into fully budding womanhood, and you finally making it a semi-working artist writer comedian of some kind, so you can stop freaking out about not having enough new lovers of you yet. Nice enough Captain Fruitcake? Nice lives, Challah. Thanks for the stroll down memory lane Kling, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

MILF Fang

I don’t like serious looking dog walkers at the park. You’re not Jack London, trekking through Alaska with an army of sled dogs in search of gold-plated dildos with Marla Maples initials on them buried in Sarah Palin’s backyard. After Trump gave them to Sarah as a high-end souvenir the 1st time she rode with Trump on his gulfstream while campaigning in Juno, Alaska. Trump says, “You’re the gold standard in US populism Sarah. I appreciate your endorsement for President. And as a token of my appreciation, I’d like to give you these golden tipped beauties in honor of your nationalist loving nips. Bury them in your backyard for a rainy day, in case the Deep State takes over our country and bans drilling for oil in favor of selling more Telsa’s to tech executive cucks in Silicon Valley. Did Elon Musk ever try to titty blast you in the back of a Telsa Sarah? Sarah Plain says, “Gross Donald. I’d rather grab a moose in my backyard for a reach around. People gave me shit for birthing a kid with down syndrome at 43. But at least, Trig has a fucking excuse. So no, Donald, I’d rather jam Burt Reynold’s signed hockey stick up my snatch when he was up here filming Mystery; Alaska than come close to draining Musk’s pasty batteries dry.” MILF Fang lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth