Set List: New Work Banter, Nitpicky Lame, Year Without Beer Film Premise, Selectively Suspicious, Qatar Rocks, Big Pharma Blues, Headhunter Writer, Lame Love Lives.
What’s my lopsided love remedy?
Text my brother on his birthday with this.
Happy Birthday bro, despite you not acknowledging my birthday since I came out as a Stay At Home Shemale Comedian outside of texting happy birthday bro once in 7 years.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, don’t do heroin on your birthday.
And get Hanukkah gifts for all 3 of my kids if you want to rekindle any semblance of a relationship with them ever again.
You’re getting the entire inheritance anyway, once you share this text with mom soon after.
And when you give thanks for Thanksgiving with mom and dad in Arizona without me, my wife or 3 kids, thank your demons for convincing mom and dad that your ex-wife was the driving force behind your decision to add heroin to your resume into your early forties as if doing blow for 4 decades straight, after only hearing last call from the bathroom stall wasn’t enough.
I don’t care about being the sloppy second son anymore.
I don’t care about mom and dad betting against my capacity to achieve full blown independence again.
I don’t care about you being a sketchy, sniveling, drug addict bitch who can’t even muster the class to wish me good luck at my new job on Monday, which is the 1st full time opportunity I’ve had to feed my family in 7 years.
I don’t care about your life always being deemed more important in mom and dad’s eyes because of your innermost need to feel special, compared to the other mere spoiled, dumb son over here.
I don’t care about your opinions on anything, including mom and dad’s judgement of my talents, direction or beliefs anymore.
I don’t care that mom and dad would do dick for me if I wanted to get divorced.
I don’t care that mom and dad don’t treat you like the regrettable dumb fuck one.
I don’t care that you talk shit behind my back in the service of preserving your drug money from mom and dad.
I don’t care that dad gets an extra glint in his eyes when trying to upsell your endless fuckitude again.
I don’t care that mom made Yom Kippur all about whether I’d help you move.
I don’t care that mom wasn’t feeling the need to wish me a happy Jewish New Year in return because she was all over your morose dick again.
I don’t care about how you’re the sorry excuse for why and mom and dad, never spend more than a week or 2 back here every summer to see the kids.
I don’t care that your legal fees and divorce lawyer fees are the reason they reneged on taking the kids to California for Spring Break allegedly.
I don’t care about you not being a conspiracy theorist.
I don’t care about you playing the forced intermediary on mom and dad’s behalf anymore, whenever they want to meddle in my life again.
I don’t care about mom breaking into cankers sores on your behalf anymore.
I don’t care about mom only focusing on the center of your existence whenever she visits back east to see the grandkids allegedly.
I don’t care about lopsided love anymore because God put me on this earth to ensure I don’t make the same mistake with my 3 Pescatarian Comedian friends, that being my children, Matilda, Arthur, and Samuel.
That’s right, like mom and dad you refuse to acknowledge the fruits of my labor, in this case being my book The Koshertarian Comedians, which will sell huge, mark my words, no thanks to any emotive encouragement from you, mom and dad, that’s for damn sure. The follow up sequel hit book will be the Pescatarian Comedians, forget about it.
I don’t care about trying to impress you, making you laugh, or making you feel special anymore, because you’re just going to focus on you and not my kids.
Mom says, you’re making money now. I say, “Take the boys out to a baseball game.” And all I get is more bullshit promises in return.
I don’t care that you, mom and dad are A plus narcissists times infinity compared to me anymore.
I don’t care that lying, deceiving, downplaying, and minimizing has become second nature to you all.
I don’t care because I’m the star parenting genius and your enablers aren’t.
I don’t care because come Monday at my new job, will mark the greatest recruiter winning streak of all time.
I don’t care because I’m taking my family to fucking Jamaica man for Spring Break and you’re not, because you don’t have a family, but I do despite mom yearning for versions of you the most inside.
I don’t care because all of my kid’s teachers want to clone future versions of them.
I don’t care because I’ve got 3 masterful books to self-publish or sell.
I don’t care because I get to work for an older Jewish woman with style, class and a sense of humor now, who’s a loving, local, involved Grandma no less.
I don’t care because I’ve got 136 comedy records to convert into 99 cent E books for sales while having my genius artist son design all the covers after his 3rd grade teacher last night described him as the best art student she’s ever had. Especially, after she laughed long time when I said. That’s why, I call him Millionaire By 10 for a reason, Challah. Thank you very much.
I don’t care about lopsided love from mom and dad anymore because I’ve endless sheets of comedy gold, endless a plus, laugh yanker nicknames for my 3-fuss free, pitch perfect children and Dad doesn’t it, Waste Of Height, because it’s a term of affection but a great title lead for my all-star collection of funny man flash fiction stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories. I like getting milage about my dad’s endless assholishness on my behalf.
I don’t care because I’ve got one more final comedy record special to record from home on Sundy called Spoiled Dumb Son before I start cashing checks 20K commission checks on the regular while you’re hooked up to a weed pen on a forklift.
I don’t care because my Shabbat Shalom Ramble is going to kick into extra fucking high rollicking gear tonight.
I don’t care because before my birthday in April, I’ll have a screenplay Gum King Of New York to blow Tarantino away with.
I don’t care about your hurt feelings of dejection in the face of my towering genius anymore because now I live for watching hacks cry.
I don’t care about lop sided love because this is the winter, I don’t drink a drop of alcoholic, even hard fucking Kombucha, so I can finally achieve Do It All Dad Dunking out glory on my lucky 47th to make Dragon’s Lung’s year finish on fire.
I don’t care about lopsided love anymore because it only illuminates what beautifying magic the opposite can be.
Like Ayn Rand said, “New love is always waiting around the corner. And I plan on being its biggest spreader as I become the Relo King Recruiter of North White Plains as I scurry to score jobs and monster commission rips for any remaining in demand tech talent who hasn’t gotten the fuck out of New York, yet. As Jimi sang on Jimi Hendrix Blues, “I hear my train coming, and pretty soon I’m going to buy this town and put it all in my shoes. That’s what I’m going to do.” Jimmy lives, Challah. I might even pretend to give a shit about my freedom buying success that will allow me to kill on stage eventually down the line too.
Lopsided Love woes in my bruised heart are the off the fucking list, starting now, forevermore.
Thank you, sweet Lord, for my lopsided love remedy blog post very, very much.
Why do kids today want puberty blockers again?
Growing up, puberty couldn’t come soon enough.
Especially when younger brother of 3 years hits puberty before you do, in addition to banging the 3 hottest girls in his class. That I tried to jerk off to at the time but couldn’t. One year for Hanukkah I get a book from my mother called the 12 Stages Of Puberty. I freak out immediately.
“Mom,why would you present me this book in front of my younger brother? Jonathan can play with himself whenever he wants?”
Mom says, “But you do that all the time upstairs with your GI-Joe figures.”
If I caught my son playing with his big sister’s Barbie Dolls, I’d think banging my GI Joe figure way past the acceptable age was incredibly gayer, especially while I had Gung Ho manhandle Cobra Commander like his gimpy bitch in Pulp Fiction.
“Welcome to my Terror Dome dick, Major Blood.”
“It’s Cobra Commander.”
“You wish bitch, bottoms away. Yoh Joe! Hasbro lives up your gaping anus hole.”
Challah. Thank you very much.
COVID The Clown enters the room doing a half-formed Cartwheel to Everybody Needs Somebody To Love by the Blues Brothers, blasting on his old school Radio Raheem conjuring boom box from the Spike Lee joint, Do The Right Thing. Matilda’s friend, nerdy yet sassy friend Devon, who suffers from premature, puberty disease, forcing her to wear heavy sweaters to conceal her awkwardly, mountainous formations underneath and says, “Who taught this clown how to a cartwheel? Is he drunk on discontinued Trump vodka or what?” COVID the Clown launches into his standup comedy act and says, “Who’s excited for a Burning Mask Party? All the kids cheer in unison with maximum glee. Rachel the BLM hat sporting Grandma interrupts a solid attempt at crowd work and says, “But you’re not even wearing a mask Bozo the Clown. Plus, you don’t annunciate to well in the 1st place. So why would wearing a mask be such a muffled disservice to your act in the 1st place? I have a Doctorate in Speech Pathology from the University of Chicago and was kept on retainer by the Obama administration to instruct him on the best ways to help minimize his ums, ah’s and resurgent lisp off the teleprompter. Plus, I was instrumental in reversing President Obama’s awful habit of referring to his wife as Michael for some odd reason.” COVID Clown replies, “Maybe, Obama wishes the former 1st lady were more camera friendly like Mike or performed cooler under pressure after she threatened to break her arm up his ass ass if he offered Beyonce some Paul Newman’s lemonade over her own homemade Kombucha ever again.” Matilda’s father, howls with laughing approval as deathly silence engulfs everywhere else in the room, as the Stay-Home-Dad nearly bites off his lower lip in the process. COVID The Clown says, “Have you ever heard of divorce immunity during COVID? It’s a fake news to, doesn’t exist actually. I used to believe in divorce immunity during COVID, until my commercial agent dropped me after Twitter banned me for life for all those Wuhan lab cover up tweets. I also thought divorce immunity during COVID held out some applicable promise, after I got kicked out my Second City troupe, after killing on the main stage for 3 years straight since another cast member doxed my personal info the Chicago Tribune and had ANTIFA show up to door man apartment in the Loop after they shared my old tweet screenshots about Obama that said, “Fuck Trump, Obama’s the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Mass extermination of all his pesty, hook nosed critics who criticized, his time out nuke deal with Iran would be a gas.” I’m banned from using Lyft and Uber now to because I went on the Gateway Pundit Podcast in attempt to sell some tickets for my one man show, Resist This, which isn’t happening now obviously and on air said, “Deplorable is anyone whose glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.” Rachel, the BLM hat sporting grandmother says, “I don’t think this material is child appropriate. If we were in the UK, you’d be arrested for flagrant violations of hate speech already.” COVID The Clown says, “I went to London against my will with my nurse wife before we got divorced and lost custody of my daughter, the brightest star in my universe. Wife got us tickets to see Bjork. I wanted to see Petrified Forest personally. Now, my choice is either entertain arrogant baby boomer grandparents on the kid birthday circuit as orange faced COVID The Clown or pack up my tricycle bag of clown noses and fly Southwest to Arizona to take a job as a Nurse Recruiter, next to parents’ estate in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my head between my legs, in search of my balls every dropping by for a surprise encore appearance again. Recruiting nurses for a living, based on their teamwork and ability to buy into synchronized Tic Toc dance routines for their Chinese spying masters is just what the doctor ordered.”
Matilda, the 10-year-old birthday girl chimes in and says, “I’m sorry to hear about your ex-wife COVID The Clown. And I think it’s really sweet, how you don’t want to move so far away from your little girl. But can you stick to the burning mask party material? Because my friends would rather play with my new American Girl tent set, then spend one more minute listening to your sad sack life story, with no comedic relief on the horizon in sight, no offense.” Rachel the BLM hat wearing grandmother adds, “I agree with Matilda. They’re already more people in this room than I feel comfortable with, knowing this birthday bash is a super-spreader bound to happen. Why don’t you just go home and call it a day? I’ll pay you whatever you were promised, just to stop you spreading such vicious lies and toxic disinformation about President Obama and Hollywood’s biggest overseas market today. COVID The Clown says, “I’ll give you a super spreader bitch”, and squeezes his flower lapel on his shirt which squirts a stream of Orange Crush into the BLM hat wearing, grandmother’s eye. Everyone in the room finally laughs together in unison. Matilda’s father says, “What’s wrong Rachel? Would you feel more morally outraged if COVID The Clown shot grape soda into your eye instead? Because then you could’ve accused him of being a racist dictator clown, guilty of racially profiling your BLM hat, according to Trevor Noah. Ever notice how for 8 years when Obama was president, you never overheard anyone online at the Post Office, announce with sincere, palpable glee, “I love Obama.” Comedy Central Executives felt the same way when they decided to resign Trevor Noah for the foreseeable future.”
Chosen, a 28-year-old black Jewish Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, required a COVID vaccine stamp on his passport for an upcoming summer tour in the US after sending Kayne West a demo tape with banging, killer rap songs such as ‘Me, My Mask and I’, ‘F The Mask Police’ and ‘Life After COVID’.
The problem was, Canada had distributed the vaccine to only five percent of the Canuk population so far, enraging even the most stalwart, diehard, left-leaning government propagandist dirt rags of the far north. They now ran harassingly hurtful headlines about the anemic vaccine distribution numbers throughout Oh Canada such as “Operation Escargot Speed”, “Jagged Pill To Swallow” and “Flipping Out Over Florida” because Canadian caravans emerged, leading to a massive migration down south to score COVID vaccinations within swamp music country in Florida, to attain the digital proof of indoctrination necessary to work, travel, or take in a Toronto Raptors game again.
This was despite Kwai Leonard taking his talents to LA to make mumblecore magic for the Duplass Brothers in a bunch of NBA short films for the Bleacher Report whenever he’d rest his nagging quads again.
Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, prided himself on being a funnier, less sadistically creepy Eminem. At the same time, he’d write record reviews and mail them to editors at the Source in LA, the hip hop Rolling Stone, for his own self-published rap debut album under COVID house arrest in Canada titled “Cosmic Chosen Perfectionists” in true cosmic-chosen perfectionist style while also proving that Kayne West didn’t have a monopoly on highly stylized, ego-topping, art rock God rap, either.
Chosen would push album review lines in his honor to editors at the Source, such as, “Please don’t compare me to Drake for a fake news black Jewish rapper’s sake.
“I come from a line of hilarious Jewish rappers like Ad-Rock from the Beastie Boys, unlike fake news-persecuted Chuck D on Anthrax’s Bring The Noise.
Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, had zero love for Good Wille Hoodie at Facebook for banning his budding fan page for so-called hate speech violations after dissing some of his primo targets in his rap such as Good Will Hoodie at Facebook, ANTIFA, Michelle Obama, Lebron James, and King of the Persecution Complex and Minnesota congressional rep Baby Face Omar for her support of the BDS movement against Israel, and for referring to death of Amy Winehouse on Twitter as, “Something happened, to a beehive-sporting, horn-hiding, satanic bitch who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.”
Chosen got banned from LinkedIn, after getting banned from Facebook and Twitter, for calling Farrakhan a “Black supremacist who trolled Elie Wiesel on Holocaust Remembrance Day with termite emojis from dawn till night,” although what resulted in Chosen’s permanent suspension from LinkedIn was a truth bomb video link targeting the world’s largest resume database service when he did this gem-sparkling bit, “This is my impersonation of Dr. Dre discussing the recent merger of Microsoft with LinkedIn with his former protégé Eminem. Hey, Slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, “Wordddddddddddddddd, LinkedIn is lamer than ever yoh.”
Then Chosen adds, “Eminem calls Trump Hitler, but he lifted the lifetime ban on Jewish membership when he bought Mara-A-Lago, Slim-On-Facts Shady.”
Never getting enough of his punch-heavy, punctuated prose, Chosen goes in for the retaliatory kill against all the Trump-obsessed Twitter twats and states, “Tell me why I should care about Snoop Dogg’s political opinions, again? His brain hovers a notch below porn hood hell. “Although I’ll still drink Old E, if it’s ice cold, at an AVN convention in Vegas. Party, Old E: you know Snoop Dogg’s Ho sprayer of choice from back in the day.
“This was before Magic made HIV disappear, feeling exceptionally spry and swell for being an early-stage investor in Dell.
“Trump is the Anti-Christ. But in the Bible, Part 2, Jesus defeats the Anti-Christ. So, have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you people?
“I actually had to Google Anti-Christ. At the time, I thought, “that’s what Pig Vomit calls Howard Stern in Private Parts before he became weird, weak, woke Howard. So, how bad could the Anti-Christ be, holla, thank you very much.”
Now Chosen was about to hop into his Toronto stripper girlfriend’s Porsche SUV. Her name was Cayenne, like the ride before their desperate dash across the border to score her some much-needed stripper work in Miami and much-needed vaccinations to keep their careers and balling lifestyle afloat.
As Cayenne, a part-Haitian, part-French, striking, six-foot stunner hailing from the sultry Big Easy, pulls her champagne room-spewing ride out of Chosen’s driveway, she stops the car and says, “I don’t want to end up in a COVID Canadian jail, Chosen. How are we going to get past customs without showing them our vaccination IDs, Chosen?
“I know you’re the best of the Beastie Boys all wrapped into one and are blessed with the funny Jew bone, capable of spitting out rhymes at will as if you were born to be in the perpetual zone.
“But there’s only one Moses, babe, and I don’t see the Lord playing any part in getting the Canadian border patrol to part with their motion-sensing technology on your behalf.”
Chosen takes in his stripper-scrumptious beauty, looking as if he could make love to her until his life blaster snaps in two, and says, “Stop talking crazy, Cayenne. We’re bound to Kayne, now, bitch. Plus, once I get that money on tour with Kayne, big tech and the Canadian mask police can’t tell me nothing.
“Worst case scenario: I get arrested, record a new album in prison like Little Wayne, and Kayne West makes a trade for me in three years when he becomes President for Jim Carey, after he paints himself as a Chicago Rapper Conspiracist like the rest.
It was 1986. Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with a badass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life. Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the fourth grade, spending more time now stargazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid, because she saw how tweaky and sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did.
Her younger brother Arthur would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later-discontinued Jolt Cola, which was the equivalent of six cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep-deprived first-grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store.
But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage, because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss because she had to write a paper about it for class.
Actually, Matilda’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, goody two-shoes square.”
Now Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Ways from Halloween that she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again ’till 2061.
By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous astrophysicist who would eventually go viral (despite the Internet not having been invented yet), where she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt, too.”
Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt, and in a frenzied spurt, she darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite her inner square telling her that she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice-in-a-lifetime event (if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow up bigger than you-know-what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads.
As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur, still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister; yet, unfortunately, she inherited her dear dada’s clunky, heavy feet (which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon, either).
Arthur turns his head, spots Matilda, and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt—on a school night, too.”
Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arthur. I’m not Matilda—you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation. I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind, like Han Solo after Leia unfreezes him from carbonite in Jabba’s place.”
Arthur adds, “Don’t BS, me ‘Tilda. Wait a minute. I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.” Now Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green force field-enclosing, brain-eating alien bug. Arthur freaks out, as expected, yelling, “I got killed, ‘Tilda! I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m gonna get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”
Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching it, Arthur. I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet.”
Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins.
As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each other, landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with the discarded Milk Way wrappers on it.
Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over, baby.”
Matilda, who has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain-drilling noogie, looks up to her Dad and asks, in perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet, Dad?”
Dad says, “But, then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grow on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need.”
Set List: Royal C Word, Chipmunk Hucksters, Nitpicky Lame Backfire and Debunking Dunking.
Do It All Dad freaks out George Soros lickers at large.
Free Kathy Griffin.
Pass the barf bag, Trans Chucky Nation.
I wouldn’t fuck Trans Chucky with Chaz Bono’s Mr. Potato Head appendage.
Twitter is Brooke Shields.
Kathy Griffin wants to be her fawned over bestie so bad.
But Brooke Shields never gave Trans Chucky the time of day anyway.
Not even Bravo wants to be followed by Kathy Griffin on Twitter.
Andy Cohen bemoans.
Go back to the Luna Lounge and reenact the time Joan Rivers called you a no talent never was bitch to your face. At least Chelsea Handler knows how to tell a joke. Since she became a social justice warrior to downplay her tits sagging popularity. All you do Kathy is use your hands on stage like Archie in drag at a Trump rally on Fox News.
Andy Cohen adds.
Is Jill Biden our 1st scarecrow lady? Oh yeah, I went there, I’m a gay Jew, I got diplomatic immunity bitches. Suck on it and weep Chappelle and friends. But Elon Musk banning impersonations is gayer than Aaron Carter dying with Monkey Pox from Dr. Gnocchi’s man-made Aids monkey.
Elon Musk wants nothing to do with Zit Face Zuck.
So, he’s outlawing impersonations or anything creepily resembling his meta verse bust.
It’s also not hard to impersonate Elon Musk.
Just look deep in thought about defending Joe Rogan’s defense of joke integrity, skip tanning and leave bronzing to Trumpy Tits.
I love Elon Musk exerting technical power over d list hack celebrities.
For him, desktop support is kicking his feet up on a bust of Walt Disney’s head on top of his new ice tomb desk for Christmas.
Howard Stern fears a second Civil War if Hershall Walker wins.
You’d think core exercises on the Pelton App with Ashton Kutcher would make you less of a pussy Howard.
Placate to your Pedo Joe fan base left, so you’re not disinvited from any more 2 bite chicken parm dinners at Jimmy Kimmel’s house.
Attended an Owl demonstration at a local farm. Guide described pigeons as slow. I said, “So stool pigeons are the John Fetterman’s of the animal kingdom in hoodies.”
Later, we dissected an owl pellet for bones and found nothing. I say, “It’s like high school all over again babe, I’m bone free.”
My daughter just got a water bottle from Lulu Lemon and is ecstatic. She acts as if she was water bottle shamed at school prior. “
Mean Girl says, “Target water bottles are so deplorably depressing don’t you think? You’re better off just reusing the same bottle of Coconut water and refilling it with regular tap water instead”.
Attended a Bar Mitzvah in New Jersey. The female Rabbi was such a hack. Female Rabbi spent every 2 seconds talking about climate change and there not being an earth left. And how her side preserves while other one destroys. Canter interjects to point out how the climate activist Rabbi is from California. And I’m thinking, it shows. Surprised, she didn’t plug Nancy Pelosi’s jugs as taps of divinity, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles would love to go motorboating with.
Will be relaunching my IT staffing career soon under my alter ego, Joshua Kornbluth, which I have no problem with. I have enough egos to go around. A Plus Alter Egos Rule, Challah. Thank you very much.
What’s an anti-social impression? Recording 103 comedy records from home after producing 500 plus solo Do It All Dad Year podcasts over the past 5 years without much adult interaction outside of getting almost black out drunk to see Aerosmith in Vegas 2 summers ago with an old bud from California while resenting him inviting other friends to participate in the fun despite them all becoming fans of you almost overnight, certainly qualifies.
But what does it take to get shocked into sobriety exactly? Is it from pissing your pants while passing out in your daughter’s bed for the 1st night of Hanukkah? Or is it from not touching the stuff again till May on a Saturday getaway at a Casino in the Poconos with your wife’s friend and husband, only to learn from your daughter the following day how you blacked out while taking forever to say goodnight to her after being kicked out of the bar prior for drinking 5 double bourbons in less than an hour knowing how you polished off a bottle of wine and multiple Arnold and Palmer’s with vodka earlier that day to overcompensate for the fact that it’s your year without beer while throwing in multiple weed edibles in between?
Does it even matter that your wife’s friend husband was buying your drinks, despite you having no intention of drinking any booze or becoming black out drunk whatsoever? No, it doesn’t. At the same time, it’s safe to say most blackouts are accidental blackouts. Nobody sets out to have a good time only to blank on what they did prior. Then again, nobody ever starts drinking in high school with the intention of failing at adulthood into their mid-forties either. Nobody wants to feel like they got 10,000 morons stuck in their head for taking so long in life to realize what a bat shit crazy friend alcohol is because alcoholism and multi-tasking don’t mix, neither do hangovers and parenting for that matter.
I don’t care if you’re a weekend alcoholic or not. If you’re getting bombed after God blesses you with 3 beautiful, pitch perfect children, you’re running away from something. In my case, it’s been money troubles, new friendship formation woes and major angry laced resentment issues stemming from wanting to receive more credit and praise for the good writing and comedy I’ve dedicated the entirety of my life toward producing with relentless fury for the past 5 years and counting. I’m trying to get jobs with companies to do copywriting for them because I’m good at creating compelling content. I’m good at crafting click bait headlines. I’m good at sticking to main points while going on inspired comedic laced rants to. I’m good at building up my kids. I’m good at cooking yummy dance worthy meals for my family. I’m good at complimenting friends and praising artists who inspire me to strive for originality like Miles Davis, Bill Hicks and Bob Marley. I’m good at creating a funny man impression on my Do It All Dad Year Blog. Although, one could argue that despite all the likes my comedy records, stories or blogs receive, I’ve haven’t excelled at creating plenty of meaningful interactions on my blog based on the scattering of actual comments in between because those people might be discouraged from interacting with an anti-social pariah comedian who displays psychopath tendencies such as laughing hysterically whenever one of Dexter’s victims squirms in discomfort before meeting their maker, tapped to his kill table, never ready to die, just yet.
But in the spirit of anti-social awareness month, I wanted to discuss my anti-social impressions in person here at the Father Expo, not by launching my own social media platform like Truth Social, but by stating my commitment to make friends with sobriety. Sobriety is my new friend resolution because if I can’t get high off the presence of loved ones, especially my kids who still believe Daddy can make it as a successful comedian and businessman writer entrepreneur of some kind, then I’m a lost cause who will never be capable of paying back his debut to his parents, wife and friends who have done nothing but encourage me to pursue my funny man path with all of my God given might along the way. So, I’ve decided to make a year without beer, not just about a self-serving desire to achieve dunking out Do It All Dad Glory by giving up what’s preventing me from flying, which is hop juice. What I’m also giving up that’s preventing me from flying is anti-social impressions by declaring my independence from alcohol forever. I want to become the most engaging, hardcore hilarious sober living personality on planet earth, even more so than Russell Brand, who can make sober living a sexy lifestyle to pursue. Plus, I’ve got way fewer grey specs of wisdom on my beard than Russell Brand does. Plus, he’s English and the Declaration of Independence was signed in Philly, not in Buckingham fucking Palace. Bill Hicks gave up all drinking and produced his best work on Arizona Bay as a result, so did Amy Winehouse on the Rehab record and I will to. So later this week on Shark Tank, I’ll be presenting a new brand of Hop flavored gum called Hop Licious Chew. It’s a killer trade off worth taking. They say rehab is about recovering your former, authentic self before you sought pleasure and escape through alcohol and drugs, and what better way to reconnect with our glorious of age innocence before social media ruined everything than through embracing gum that comes with an adult flavored twist. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t cum in my pants after my 1st sip of Budweiser, because beer is an acquired taste, just like espresso or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale ale that never gets stale, until that lifestyle gets played out in your heart. I don’t want to be bitter anymore. But I wouldn’t mind the taste of hops in gum to remind me why being a lushy alcoholic degenerate dependent blows more than being stuck on Meghan’s McCain’s lost Cheeto stuck in her belly button detail on the View either.
Because let’s be honest folks, sobriety monogamy is sexy. Sobriety monogamy gets me harder than a new porn installment of Trans Sitters on Third Legged Beauties.com. Sobriety monogamy never leaves you feeling like a dirty scumbag for sucking down whatever anybody is willing to buy you. Sobriety monogamy comes with a happy ending guarantee, where you don’t have to question whether you’re an awful for person for making jokes about requesting only older happy enders knowing they weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday. Sobriety Monogamy makes you feel better than Mormons who voted for Mitt Romney twice. Sobriety Monogamy should be a no-brainer commitment when you can’t manage being a good role model for your kids by blacking out on tucking them in. Sobriety Monogamy will allow me to make sober friends. And let’s be honest, were all a tad jealous of those who have AA friends, who’ve been to hell and back but still emerged victorious while you’re still stuck in the doldrums of your do dick profitless existence. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking because you’ll show some steady backbone and prove you’re worthy of funny man redemption. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking, so you can have a positive impact on others while never coming across like a goody fucking two shoes who only dealt with a crippling mental addition to weed, alcohol, Adderall or painkillers for one year max, compared to 10 or more. Sobriety Monogamy is the best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions by passing out prematurely at the party again, because you’re in no rush to bond or learn from others. The best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions is through sobriety monogamy because how much empathy do you really have for other’s people’s problems when you’re the loudest one at the bar, yelling, “Nobody gives a fuck here, we’re in New Jersey”, but you’re actually in Pennsylvania? Sobriety Monogamy ensures you don’t become another no-show bum on the grand stage of life like Lenny Bruce would say.
Do Sobriety Monogamy for Lenny, knowing how he was denied a living at the end. Do Sobriety Monogamy because despite your fucked up degeneracy, you’d never blame a disparaging tweet you made about Valerie Jarrett on dropping a fucking Ambien no less. Shit Roseanne at least bang out a funnier tweet on Ambien allegedly by calling Valerie Jarett, Obama’s live-in Arabian horse whisperer. Do Sobriety Monogamy, so you’ll exude a sincere, palpable good-natured vibe, that doesn’t’ feel forced like Ellen DeGeneres after she comes out on her show as friends with W because she’s pro Bush all the way. Do Sobriety Monogamy because by becoming a gum mogul in New York you can actually act your size among all the other towering personalities in the Big Apple post weird, weak woke Howard these days. Do Sobriety Monogamy because New York is deader than Yiddish anyway, so who gives a shit about partying in NY anymore anyway? Do Sobriety Monogamy because it will represent an actualization of your best self, the most giving, emotionally present, less jaded, always criticizing self, you know, the standard New York state of mind. Do Sobriety Monogamy so you can feel superior to bartenders in wool hats in July. Do Sobriety Monogamy to claim victory over conquering your crazy Hick DNA from Kentucky after all. Do Sobriety Monogamy to give other dads something weighty to chew on while struggling to balance the demands of being a star provider and involved father teacher life coach sage all at the same time through the advent of Swami Says sayings that come with each pack of Hopo-Licious Chew, designed to add a brighter glint to your eye and greater bounce to your step. Daily Nugget of Wisdom today is, “Beer bellies give self-love a bad name.” Because Hop-O-Rama Swami Knows Best. You want more nuggets of daily wisdom from Hop-Rama-Swami, my new sober best friend? You got it.
Hop O Rama Swami on Success:
Swami says, “Be better than best or be nobody worth giving a shit about.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Life:
Swami says, “Live life in fear and you’ve got less to live for than a monologue joke writer for Stephen Colbert. It’s too bad Bill O’ Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least Bill O’ Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Love:
Swami says, “Loving the one you’re with is an overrated experience, especially when they resent being expected to suck off even an inch-ling of your existence every other 6 months ever again.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Creativity:
Swami says, “If you’re mom doesn’t laugh at your jokes nobody will.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Attachment:
Swami says, “Don’t get too attached to flashes of alleged genius that came out of your creatively jacked dome if they’re not embraced online or off the way you envisioned as usual.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Status:
Swami says, “Status updates on LinkedIn scream respectability straining.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Money:
Swami says, “Money grants greater middle finger power, just ask Stone Cold or Adam Carolla on his podcast.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Fame:
Swami says, “Doing anything for fame alone is gayer than Roger Ebert’s aghast fueled review on The Foot Fist Way, Danny McBride’s 3rd hardcore hilarious movie by the way.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Choice:
Swami says, “You’ll be fucked over by life with your face rubbed in your feces if you allow others to push you in whatever preferred direction they choose.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Want:
Swami says, “Stroke yourself if nobody else will do it for you.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Self-Love.
Swami says, “Overpriced IPA’s only leave you bloated with self-importance inside.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Your Problems.
Swami says, “Find a new lover of you and they’ll go away.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Darkness.
Swami says, “The extent of your impact on this earth can be writing disposable ad copy for a big pharma pimping marketing firm in San Diego. So, stop acting more depressed than your Euro-Pass being rendered useless once Europe transforms into one seemingly endless no-go zone without any access to WI-FI in your Youth Hostel after the next man-made plague made in Wuhan is released to finish off our collective pursuit of happiness again.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Unnecessary Suffering:
Swami says, “I didn’t tell you to vote for Mr. Groper. And you call the other side mongoloid morons, douche bags are us.
Hop O Rama Swami on Facing Fears:
Swami says, “I’d triple wrap by super soaker before playing around with Madonna’s kick the can clit to.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Pain Management.
Swami says, “Take up blow painting and leave me out of it.”
Hop O Rama Swami on Bullshit.
Swami says, “If it sounds like bullshit, it means the person is underselling distressment again. ”
So, stop bullshitting yourself dads. Trade in the dad bod in exchange for dunking out in do it all dad year glory. We can form our own 3 on 3 Do It All Dad League together.
And never forget, funnier dad, happier baby. So, reconnect with your original, starring self, before you allowed alcohol to drive the asshole component of your personality into hyperdrive.
Dependence sucks so don’t give into it anymore. And Michael Jordan admitting on the Last Dance doc about getting into drinking later in life after winning 6 championship rings was freaking weird. That’s like Charles Barkley taking up Adderall to study for law school like Kim Kardashian because social justice lawyers are so hot right now. And Sir Charles using manufactured speedy time pills to hit the books instead of more crab legs with Shaq and Ernie at Maestro’s after work for another raise dinner on TNT doesn’t mix.
Do It All Dad didn’t get funding for Hop-Licious Chew on Shark Tank, but he finally got a talent agent after doing a joke about KP on the broadcast in front of Marc Cuban when he said, “There’s no way KP raped the neighbor in his apartment building, the same day he tore his ACL, right Marc? Because going strong to the hole was never KP’s forte. Plus, Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein would never try to rape Gal Gadot in her trailer on the set of Wonder Woman 3 on only one good leg. Plus, Do It All Dad did sell a screenplay to Hollywood called Gum King of New York where he comes out as the King of All Sober Living Media and develops a new best friend in AA, who becomes his talent manager, agent confidant, who made him a higher paid podcaster than Joe Rogan on Spotify while never coming across as a smarmy, CBD Oil evangelist, social media deferring apologist in the process either. Ok, so maybe becoming friends with sobriety doesn’t remove your complete frontal asshole lobe all together.