Tag: entertainment

Glorious Assholes

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

U2 is cheesy Irish, right?

Van Morrison isn’t.

House of Pain wasn’t.

Dennis Leary never was.

Glorious assholes live.

Challah, thank you very much.

How was U2 ever considered the biggest band in the world?

They sound like the Rolling Stones after attending a woke retreat on Lobotomy Island?

I still haven’t found what I’m looking more is no Free Bird.

Did Lynard Skynyrd’s swamp music ever remind you of genetically modified cheese or toothless lab grown meat?

And with or without you is about who Bono?

An Irish Lassie with fucked up chompers.

Who swallows but grazes from time to time.

Especially on Sunday Bloody Sunday.

Glorious Assholes rule, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Man Meat Mojo Rising

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

I fell in love with a rosy-cheeked Irish Lassie last night. Any gay-leaning thoughts went poof in her presence. I never wanted to kiss a girl more in life than I did last night. I bet her box tastes like pinkoliscious-haired weed. She was saintly by tolerating this drunk, rambling older Irish Granny, who admitted to being part Irish and part Jewish. After pounding a Jack on the Rocks at an Irish bar outside Grand Central on a Sunday night with some time to spare before my train left, I say, “Part Irish and Part Jewish, that means she’s got the gift of gab on both sides. And if she has schizophrenia, she’d hit the trifecta.” Her entire Irish posse laughs long time. Almost immediately later, my rosy-cheeked Irish Lassie, bursting with poetic pouncing, juicing flavor, says, “You should be joining us.” And I declare my love out loud, “I want to marry you, which I was saying to myself after we crossed eyes prior.” I don’t call myself a slut in a strait jacket for nothing.

My year without beer is coming up with a miraculously strong finish, with only 15 days to go. Breaking free from the chains of addiction to Adderall for the past two months is kicking my flirty forward personality into perpetual rock-solid motion with fetching older gals into my man meat mojo rising in their presence too.

Man Meat Mojo Rising, Challah. Thank you very much.


Would Charles Bukowski drink alcoholic seltzers if his drying-out years in San Pedro extended till today? Or would all mighty Bukowski deride White Claw Seltzers as a too girly man for his tastes? Who toiled away at the Post Office too long to identify with a non-essential Betty Draper?

After a recruitment training seminar today, I got borderline flirty with my pretty, MILFY blond, role-playing partner from Jacksonville, Florida, by imploring her to practice her lines on me after work. She calls and says, “Lying to a candidate about having a meeting about them before calling them is next-level sketchy, don’t you think?”


I say, “Totally; only Hillary has a meeting about a candidate with the DNC about how they’d steal the nomination from Bernie.”

Florida MILF laughs long time.

Florida got to love it.

Bernie Bro Tugs live.

Man Meat Mojo rising, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Woody Killers

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, poetry, writing

The decline feature on LinkedIn-In Mail is designed to convey a semi-aggressive f off vibe, don’t you think?  

It’s the closest an IT nerd from a hedge fund in Greenwich, CT can get to hitting you over the head with NO.  

VP Of Product Engineering rumbles to his wife at night.

My team programs trading strategies for masters of the universe.

This Headhunter Writer couldn’t get into Hillsdale College early acceptance.

He’s a God damn disgrace.

You bet your ass, I declined his LinkedIn, In-Mail.

I’ve got no room in my life for another parasitical putz face.

We manage big Pharmas bankroll for Christ stake.

But seriously, the decline feature on LinkedIn Mail screams passive aggressiveness that’s out of breath.

How did this glamorized indentured servant who works on a draw, get the balls to hit on me?

I piss Benjamin’s as far as the eye can see, after my team polished off 2 kegs of Dog Fish 90 minute at our Company Retreat in Capri.

The decline feature on LinkedIn In-Mail is designed to rub in your short sighted loserness in your face.

Yeah, smart move hitting on me through a keyboard lame o breath.

Why don’t you cold call me like a man, so I could tell you to f off in real time with more resounding Shazam?

When someone takes the time to click on Delcine after you blow your load on a LinkedIn In-Mail.

It means, you got under their skin a bit.

So, it’s their turn to make you feel like shit.

If someone actually takes the time to click on decline after receiving a LinkedIn In-Mail in means.

Either A) I want to take a shower

B) Your confidence is off putting

C) You’re not hot enough to hit on me.

D) You’re too dumb to do what I do.

E) Everything you spat in my direction; I can articulate better.

F) Frankly, I don’t normally read LinkedIn Mails because most Recruiters are illiterate burnouts, but I don’t want to you feel sneeringly superior around your pathetic plagued peers.

G) My day just went from good to great, by putting you in your place.

H) Hacks are us, not interested. If I had an ugly stick, I’d beat you over the head with it, till you scurried off to cave underground with nobody else around, where you belong.

I) Idiot, nobody writes in complete sentences anymore. What makes you so special? #RookieRecruitersneverknowwhentothrowinthetowel

J) Jump off a bridge already. You hit on nerds for a living. If were still in high school, Alpha males in school, wouldn’t even waste their time acknowledging your bottom feeding, sexless existence.

K) Kill yourself. I went to the University of Chicago. You went to Ithaca, which is Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor, I win again.

L) Love yourself less. You’re desperate, delusional, dunz face for thinking this attempt to connect would impress.

M) You have no business feeling cooler than any millennial mousketeers who made twice what you make since they raised minimum wage their senior year in college.

N) Nudge your boss into firing you by wearing a xeroxed copy of your latest COVID test at work, so you can make more money collecting unemployment.

O) How do you feel outstanding doing what you do? You badger companies into hiring software engineers who are going to get a new job anyway. Regardless of you emailing their resume, which is your only way to sway.

P) Piss off, you predatory peon scrub. You’re only good at taking well enough to get another recruiter job, you’ve haven’t gotten fired from yet bud.

Q) Quit your recruitment agency career already. You obviously care more about entertaining yourself than your intended audience within the IT sphere, who aren’t known for their rolling senses of humor in the 1st place.

Y) Yuck it up Headhunter Writer. Have fun telling yourself that writing inspires the next time you get fired.

Z) Give your brain a rest and take some Z’s. I bet your sneezes are annoying too. So, f off already please. Do I have to get on my knees?

But Headhunter Writer inspires. So how you can decline further chats with me?  

Oh, yeah, you’re a deadweight conversationalist.

That’s what I get for pissing up the wrong tree.

Woody Killers live, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Busty Beauties

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, sex, writing

My wife works during the weekend as a Lactation consultant, which is why I call her the Boob Doctor.

During the week she works as a nurse in the NICU.

Checking blue faced babies for vital signs.

Which makes me feel like a full-time narcissist because all I check for is for retweets.

So, I’m out in public with my 3 kids during the weekend without her constantly.

Normally, grown men approach me and say, “You’ve got your hands full.”

My standard reply is, “If I get to perform Do It All Dad Does China as a headlining comedian at Radio City one day. Resulting in my wife agreeing to open marriage with Katy Perry. Then, my hands will be full.”

Only once did I hear, “Why Katie Perry?” while getting my wife a strap on with heart size balls for Valentines Day at the local art studio called, Pansexual Hearts Are US.

Why, Katie Perry?

Because you wouldn’t get my Susan Sarandon reference, Millennial Mousketeer.

Why Katie Perry?

Because I’d break Taylor’s Swift’s cervix in 2.

Why Katie Perry?

Because an open relationship with Raquel Welch is more up Tarantino’s ally.

Why Katie Perry?

Because Katie Perry is highly mountable in a pink wig. Which I can wear later, while she mounts me with my regifted Valentine’s Day gift from behind.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my wife is turned on by Orlando Bloom.

And I always wanted a 3 way with a pop star and a pansexual elf who ruined Cameron’s Crowe’s career.

Why Katie Perry?

Because Chelsea Handler is a full-time social justice warrior to downplay her tits sagging popularity.

Why Katie Perry?

Because nobody knows the name of the actress who plays Joan in Mad Men, busty beauties are us.

Why Katie Perry?

Because that chick from 2 broke girls would break my cock from assuming the mere plopping position.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my dick would get lost in porn star Gina Michaels and have to fill out a missing link report.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my wife wears earbuds to bed each night, which exudes less sex appeal than Lobot talking dirty to the central computer in Cloud City during the director’s cut version of Empire Strikes Back.

“I want to break your motherboard in 2. Send me a signal, telling me you want me too. We built cloud city on rock and roll. I’ll show you my central processing unit if you don’t tell Lando about it. Lando can’t light up your circuits like this. You want a nuclear leak that puts Chernobyl to shame, you got it.”

What, Cyborg’s get horny too.

Sex life matters, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth 

Sensitive To Stale

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

The technician from Optimum reconnects our Internet.

I declare.

“God is dead. Not today Nietzche, not on Optimum’s watch. God lives, Challah, thank you very much.”

And the Optimum Tech says, God lives. Can you include that plug in your customer service satisfaction survey?” Hashtag, #GoWokeYourselfNietzche.

Fresher is better, Challah.

Thank you very much.

I’m flipping 2 middle fingers to the Internet for being out for 3 days by playing a plethora of records at home on vinyl during our Internet fast such as Fats Domino, Warren Zevon, Miles Davis and Meatloaf. But then I try to inject artistic deepness into my life by buying Hunky Dory by David Bowie to play on a Saturday night which failed to give me sustained stiffage of any kind.

You know a David Bowie record is a chuck worthy offense. When you can’t even get through half of the second side without flicking the clunker at little Hudson’s face.

And say, “Stop bitching kid. Your hipster hack dad could’ve named you Bowie instead. Ziggy Stardust sucks when he reverts to being David Bowie again. Glam metal is no substitute for an enviable personality kid. That’s why your mom Micro-Doses with magic mushrooms to make you more interesting than your father pretends to be.”

Fuck David Bowie.

I want to dress my blond-haired son as Craig Ehlo for Halloween.

To celebrate a time, pre-social media when the NBA wasn’t a safe space for Lebron James ego before he anointed himself, King of The Persecution Complex.

Just so a dad from my Gen X generation says.

“Hey kid, are you dressed as Craig Ehlo from the 86 Cavs? I should call Child Services. I can’t tell if you’re dressed up to go Trick or treating or tea bagging with MJ? Hey kid, did you know that Tom Chambers isn’t in the hall of fame after scoring 20,000 career points? White privilege, my ass. ”

Fresher is better, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Hounding Down Happiness

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

You ever watch a Truvada commercial on Hulu. And say out loud, “Holy fuck, I’m older than Aids kids. When I grew up, Aids was a death sentence like Kurt Cobain’s shotgun marriage to Courntney Love. And Kurt Cobain didn’t kill Hair Metal, Aids did. Before Magic made HIV disappear.”

New plan to make money from home. Perform thick, meaty jokes on Only Fans topless, while sporting fancy pink Hermes ties like a gender fluid Rodney Dangerfield. Instead of I get no respect being my catchphrase as a stay-at-home shemale comedian. My modernized catchphrase is, “I get no ball tickle Emoji love.” What, it beats waiving my dick around on Only Fans like I’ve got so much free time on my hands 3 unplanned kids later because I never mastered the art of the pump fake. The Trans community could support my new Reisling drinking bills alone for my Shabbat Shalom Friday night specials. What’s gayer? Buying a Kirby Pucket jersey when you’re 12 because Minnesota was Jason Priestely’s fictious hometown before moving to Beverly Hills with Heather to Beverly Hills, in Beverly Hills 90210. Or developing a surging stiffy at the thought of pleasuring myself in front of the mirror after each set? Because my rapidly devolving core exercises on the Pelton app have gotten me horn dog horny after basking in my reflection from my half naked Only Fans performance. After delivering more mouthful streams of hardcore hilarity for my rapidly expanding Only Fans base, long time, all the time, Challah. Thank you very much.

I love the idea of hounding happiness from home. I can afford to buy myself a new Polo hoodie from my new fan base on Only Fans. Because you know the Pedo label doesn’t stick, when you can’t wear your favorite Polo hoodie after your daughter wears it in an unintentionally provocative way. Daughter exposes her shoulder, wearing only a skimpy tube top underneath, with short shorts on no less at 11 years old. Understand, my daughter has legs that go for miles and miles already at 11. Plus, her hips already hit the ceiling. In other words, my fancy Fagala, deep blue Polo hoodie is officially ruined now. If Pricsila Pressly was wearing my long sleeves button down polo like she does in the Naked Gun, it would be different. Come to think, Elvis romanced Priscilla a day after her Baptism. I think the King’s pickup line was, “Mama tried, but Hound Dogs hound baby. My lip only furls for pubescent, dent free trim baby. And making me regular peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, aren’t going to cut it bitch. Are you ready for my banana in your tail pipe because I love you too much baby, to deny you so much houndog love on tap. Hounding down happiness, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Lopsided Love Remedy

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, humor, writing

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.

Michael Kornbluth

Stumped On Blockers

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

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.

Michael Kornbluth