Stand Up Staffer Hot Pitches

I’m relaunching my one-man IT staffing firm Stand Up Staffer to gain the creative freedom and financial resources necessary to self-publish 3 books bound for Do It Dad glory. Staffing fees amassed from Stand Up Staffeer will also give breathing room and fuck you edge needeeded to perform endless sheets of comedy gold in front of a paying audience for a change, whenever, whever. Shakira lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Stand Up Staffer Presents Business Card Branding Messages.

Stand Up Staffer

Inspiring Encore Pitch Performances Since Y2K

Stand Up Staffer

Creative Tech Recruiter Killing

Standup Staffer

Headhunter Writer Happy

Stand Up Staffer

The Creative Edge Staffing Experience

Stand Up Staffer

Headlining IT Recruiter Since Y2K

Stand Up Staffer

22 years, 20 million laughs, 20,000 IT jobs filled.

Not all by me, but you get the gist.

Creative Edge Recruitment for the digital age.

Stand Up Staffer

Another Standing O Performance

Talent Hooking IT Stars Since Y2K

Stand Up Staffer

One phone is all I need.

IT staffing hero since Y2K.

Stand Up Staffer

Top Headhunter Writer Since Y2K.

Stand Up Staffer

More than an IT Recruiter

Headhunter Writer Prose

That lures big fish pros.

Stand Up Staffer Hot Pitches, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Born To Woo

Hi Joe,

Joshua Kornbluth here, Recruitment Parter for the Human Edge, consider me a risk-free hedge.

Why are you experiencing hiring pains?

Is it the time sucking practice of sorting through resumes on weekends away from your friends and kids beyond lame?

Why can’t you find enough qualified candidates?

Is your job description blah that produces nothing but shruggish nah’s?

Why do you keep missing out on the best candidates for the job?

Is it overreliance on coding tests, or having a gun-shy recruiting partner who’s sloppy second best?

Why is your talent pool so shallow?

Does your recruiter watch reality TV shows at night in a permanently flatlined state of fixated wallow.

Is your recruiter not good at wooing?

Do they act immune to booing?

Have you considered removing interview steps?

Interview overkill is the kiss of death.

Only 30 percent of companies can fill roles in 30 days.

I’ll fill your role in 2 weeks.

Aggression pays.

The remaining companies take anywhere from 1-3 months to hire.

How are these hiring partners not getting fired?

Janis Joplin died a rock legend at 27.

I’ll fill your roles faster than it takes Janis to finish a bottle Southern Comfort in rock star heaven.

What special ingredient is missing from your team?

You haven’t worked with Headhunter Writer yet.

Your one-man pitch machine.

What’s preventing you from getting better company into your life?

You just haven’t worked with a recruiter with enough personality yet to woo Mr. Right.

Headhunter Writer excels at flirting with She Pronouns too.

Unlike your middle of the road meh recruiter.

I was born to woo.

Your Favorite Headhunter Writer,

Joshua Kornbluth

The Metal Edge

The mother responsible for her son’s developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at age two, called Torticollis (where the neck muscles contract, causing the head to twist to one side, as a result of too much newborn plopping time alone in the crib), summoned the gall to ask her son, who’s about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY, lounging on a monied polo lounge green Adirondack chair overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into fencing?”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, ‘Headbangers Baller’, is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed the Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their necks.

            “So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker, with the colossus wind power to match.  

            “Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden, is a championship fencer, yet his nerdy-hued Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge.

            “I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski, and Slash, all wrapped into one.

            “He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and will tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss-plowing play.

            “Force=Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indomitable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line (which will be recession-proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in a post-COVID universe gone wild ’till our last dying breaths, anyway).”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than basketball and baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old-school fencing decorum bullshit out the window.

            “Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, and you name it, so he could afford to pay any fines for inappropriate, hotdogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  

            “Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.            “Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before fencing matches, booming “Let’s get ready to rumble,” Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin” while ‘Kickstart My Heart’ by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surroundsound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair.

            “I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant; nor is he third-generation wrestling royalty like the Rock, nor has a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho.

            “So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible?

            “He also plays with collection of lightsabers now, more than he does with his cherished wrestling figures, and he owns the original rubber dog toy-size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat (among many others the with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off Ebay, to match).        “Kayne West is worth six billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for one grand and upwards; yet there’s no limited, in-demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all.

            “I envision a flashing middle F-You finger logo that sports the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred,” to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers and ripped jeans and shorts (obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red).  

            “He’ll have his own line of studded belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats, and tank tops to show off to his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise workout videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as ‘Moth Into Flame’ by Metallica plays at full blast is responsible for his shredded physique, once he steps into something more comfortable for post-fencing fight interviews.          “I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes, and Steve Vai for love-of-God, kickass metal guitar solos and for his metal-loving American Dad, who pushed him to shred for bread.

            “On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.    “I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale’s mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into fencing, Mom.”

            Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson; like football, for instance.

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “We’ll be sticking with Nerf football in yard, Ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, Mom—no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for nine years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once, yet. Case closed.

            “AlsoDad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock.

            “Because, if I bowed down to this belabored, weak-ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from boarding school, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody so Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt-right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a tiki torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in ’89.

            “And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all three of my kids, and my speedboat, Slashing Thunder.”

            Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?”            Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine-powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric-fueled comedy gold.

            “I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids; because they’re my kids, not yours. Especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis-correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time.

            “I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing the work I was good at, which made me feel the most kickass, happy, and alive.”

            Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer two fencing scholarships a year, max.”  

            Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing three times in a row, shredding every fencing record of the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords, now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion-dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops, and speed metal belts with his signature middle finger logo that sported a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred.”

            Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world, whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed-addicted seed or not. Shredders soar. Shredders fly high with the angels like ‘Three Guitar Attack’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird.

            Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip-strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

Shell Shocked Snappy

Wine Coolers, jello shots, and reluctant repeat sips from your first can of Budweiser help melt teen shyness away. But pet snapping turtles aren’t ninth graders in junior high who haven’t got into the puberty party yet, either.

            At this point, Matilda, a twelve-year-old entrepreneur and inventor of a suction sticking party ball strobe light machine called Party Magic, was willing to blow some of her Kickstarter startup money on a Past Life Regression consultation with an Animal Communicator at a nearby Crystal Shop in Ridgefield, CT to get her new pet snapping turtle, Snappy, to come out of his shell already, because changing his name from Waxy to Snappy wasn’t helping.

            More than anything, Matilda wanted to boogie board in Australia, her mama’s home country, along Mother’s Beach (30 minutes north of Melbourne) for her parents’ ten-year anniversary. Yet, she didn’t feel safe in those jellyfish-infested waters without a trustworthy snapping turtle to ward off attacks, by her side, knowing their preference for scarfing up electric, purple haze stingers.

            The seventy-something, bushy-haired, frumpy, shawl-strangled Sedona sun wrinkled transplant, Animal Communicator Talks With Toads, lounges out in her cubby-sized office within a crystal shop in nearby Ridgefield, CT, and takes of her bifocal glasses to examine Snappy The Turtle more closely.

            Matilda reveals hiding him in her old beat-up backpack, knowing his tendency to fart uncontrollably (especially around strangers, which she considered a reason for why Snappy The Turtle’s head was hid in perpetual shame, so often).  

            Talks With Toads says, “Matilda, over the phone you said that Snappy won’t come out of his shell around strangers.”

            Matilda says, “I’ve offered him lobster rolls from Stew Leonard’s, smoked nova from Russ and Daughters, and bought him the Tony Robbins audiobook box set (which wasn’t cheap, either), so I’m running out of options, hêre.

            “Our first Kornbluth family vacation to Australia is tomorrow, and I don’t know what to do, because Snappy is my second line of defense against all those jellyfish in Australia after the jellyfish nets (which aren’t even available in the beaches in Bondi, and that’s where all the serious boogie board action happens, anyway).

            “My parents wanted to get married in Australia, where my mom is from originally, yet my Grandma shot it down. She calls my dad and says, “Australia is a long trip from New York, Scoops, and your dad doesn’t love you that much.”

            “Then my dad made a compromise with my mom and says, “If we have boy one day, we’ll hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision, just to hear a room of Jews say, “Now, that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

            Talks With Toads spits out a deep, weighty laugh, opening up her throat chakra more than any downward dog pose ever could, and says, “Does Snappy ever come out of his shell around your daddy, or does he get intimidated by larger-than-life comedians, too?

            “I saw his performance at the Montreal Comedy Festival on YouTube and coughed up a lung in the process. He made such a strong, funny man impression the last time your family dropped by the crystal shop. And I don’t care for most stand-up comedy these days.

            “Plus, how creepy is the comic Anthony Jeselnik, knowing that he considers psychic surveys on how many missing children they’ve seen through their carrot cards as being the height of God-loving hilarity today?”

            Matilda says, “In Anthony Jeselnik’s defense, God commands his chosen people to forsake the counsel of psychics in Deuteronomy, but my dad told me it was Kosher to make an exception, in Snappy The Turtle’s defense.”

            Talks With Toads does her best to shrug off a smart-ass Jewess rubbing God’s law in her face with such effortless fluency, and decides to plow forward with her Past Life Regression reading for Snappy The Turtle so she can get back to watching some bestiality horse-on-man porn on her lunch break, which now can’t come soon enough.

            Talks With Toads grabs a sapphire crystal from a cramped, unorganized drawer that represents the entire kitchen sink of healing, past life reading gemstones known to mankind, and places it on Snappy The Turtle’s shell.

            Talks With Toads says, “I see a Deadhead at Giant Stadium in a soup truck RV called Terrapin Soup, blowing high grade, seventy-five-dollar-an-eighth weed into Snappy The Turtle’s face again and again as the live version of Scarlet Begonia’s ‘From Cornell 77’ blasts on the tape deck in the background.

            “I stopped going to shows after I stopped smoking weed, myself.”

            Matilda says, “After my second birthday, my dad took me to a Dead show in Bethel Woods, in upstate New York. I pointed at a dinged-up-looking Deadhead sucking down a nitrous balloon and said, “Birthday.”

            And my dad said, “No, Burnout Day.”

            Talks With Toads unleashes another full throaty laugh again and says, “Wait a minute. No, he can’t be.”

            Matilda’s interest in Talks With Toad’s Past Life Regression Reading has reached the peak interest and she says, “What do you see now? Is the Deadhead owner feeding Snappy The Turtle’s head with a sheet of acid, or what?”

            Talks With Toads takes a deep breath, doing her best to conceal her startled state as she pulls back her long, tangled grey hair and utters, in a whispery, barely audible tone, “The Deadhead owner is serving Snappy The Turtle’s family for dinner.”

            Matilda jumps out of her chair in a bewildered state of dísgust and yells, “I thought Deadheads ate grilleđ cheese sandwiches after Dead shows, when they got the munchies.”

            Talks With Toads says, “Munchies don’t happen when you’re on four tabs of acid, dear. Hold on—I see a line of Deadheads around the parking lot in Giant Stadium, waiting for this Terrapin Turtle Soup truck to serve bowls of turtle soup to cure more endless bad trips on Hęrculean amounts of acid. 

            “The Merry Pranksters used to spike garbage cans full of fruit punch with acid during three-hour Dead jam sessions back in the day, before you tripped over shit throughout the cable car-lined streets of San Francisco.

            “Eventually, the college dropout hippies who weren’t banking on replacing Santana anytime soon became howling, starved lunatics, left with no other choice but to eat stray cats behind the dumpster at Mu Shu York’s.

            “Soon after, a famed chef from New Orleans, Gumbo Greg, who went on to become the executive chef at the Philly Club for years before opening his own restaurant in North Beach (Chowder Panisse), gave Jerry Garcia the idea of serving one of his freaked-out tripping groupies some turtle soup in their house on Haight Ashbury to cure her bad trip, after doing the same for Dr. John during Jazz Fest once, after he curled himself up into ball on stage, thinking that he’d turned into psychedelic, night-tripping crawfish. “Crawfish (you know: shrimp with more personality) is similar to John Mayer teaming up with Grateful Dead and Company, injecting Scruffy Smooth with a dose of much-needed personality.”            Snappy The Turtle finally snaps out of his shell and yells, “Thanks for the flashback, bitch.”

Michael Kornbluth

Stand-Up Staffer

Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth lived for play dates with her best friend from Columbia Shannon, who turned her on to Shakira despite her Do It All Dad insisting, at first, that “Shakira is a belly-dancing lounge act for Saudi royals on holiday,” only for his daughter to fire back, in her standard hot pitch, effortless fashion, “Actually, Shakira is the most downloaded artist of all time, and those stats don’t lie, Dada.”

             Feeling good about being dejected in the presence of such all-natural sales star ease, Do It All Dad admitted defeat with playful, funny man charm by wrapping up a conversation he regretted getting into (for the most part) by now, saying back, “I wish Mama’s hips had concealed their ever-widening reality, already.”

            Do It All Dad also operated an IT staffing business, Stand Up Staffer, from home, placing front end developers, graphic designers, and now-UX designers throughout the Island of Manhattan. On Stand-Up Staffer’s business card was a long stage hook like the one they would use at the Apollo on Amateur Night; except in this pic, a bearded Millennial Mouseketeer stick figure hipster in glasses is getting hooked off into the loving, saving, life-enriching arms of Stand-Up Staffer.            The slogan for Stand-Up Staffer on the card states, “Been Talent Hooking Since Y2K,” before LinkedIn thought that leadership posts by Marc Cuban would make Jack Welch shake in his penny loafers, made out of Leprechaun gold teeth.

            Do It All Dad was also a part-time, open mike comedian in both LA and Manhattan before Matilda was born, so his daughter, Singing Rose Kornbluth (otherwise known as Grace In Motion) was bound to absorb her father’s always-on, constantly pitching leanings.

            When Matilda was only two, she could only string two words together, so her Do It All Dad would mold around those limitations, understanding the always-relevant adage “less is more,” especially when you’re in the pursuit of hooking a hiring IT Director’s interest in hearing about a hot-to-trot candidate over the phone out of the freaking blue, without making any contact prior or delivering a fumble-free first joke difference-maker, which determines whether you score a semi-respectable set with enough momentous, kickstarting oomph at another open mike in the East Village with five other struggling, aspiring stand-up comics stuck in their heads, rehearsing punch lines bound for comedic glory compared to your hack stabs at being professionally funny for five minutes straight at a time.

            Still, Matilda would always shine in the scripted lines her dad gave Matilda to score laughs with, at two, so she grew up trusting her Do It All Dad’s stand-up sales wisdom even more each day, yeah, yeah, yeah.

            Do It All Dad’s favorite routine at the deli back in the day, when Matilda was only two, was, “Hey, Matilda, what did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks?” And Singing Rose Matilda Kornbluth would take the nookie out of her mouth and say, “Bupkis, Daddy. Bupkis.”  

            When Matilda was five, her Do It All Dad enrolled his five-year-old in acting camp despite prolonged protests from Mama stating, with huffy, annoyed disgust, “But she can’t even read yet.”

            Do It All Dad snaps back with, “We’ll watch Rocky 2 together, for pointers.” Then, the next summer, Matilda co-stared in fifteen or more commercials uploaded on to YouTube for his Standup Staffer business, which later led to her Do It All Dad scoring a retainer staffing fee to place a VP of UX Design for a new food tech startup, FOODIEFRIEDNFORLIFE, based in the NOHO section of Manhattan. It billed itself as a lunch matching service for single working professionals who wanted to network with new business contacts over a shared ribeye for two, knowing that your vegetarian girlfriend never would.

            Plus, you could write off these pricy, big-deal-conjuring lunches as a new business development expense if you worked in B2B sales, account management for Madison Avenue, or as an Associate Editor for a major publishing business to woo literary studs on the rise who weren’t complete social spaz attacks off the page, who exuded more than 0.0 charisma off the page.

            Matilda’s favorite commercial for Standup Staffer included the one called Blonde Power, where she plays a star UX Designer who’s worked for twenty companies in five years, stating, “I fall out of love easily, like Trump.”

            Then, when asked why she decided to dye her hair blonde, Blonde Ambition says, “Guy software engineers prefer blonds, to feel smarter and superior. They’re nerds, remember? Plus, only ugly girls go to coding boot camp.”

            So, Matilda was no stranger to performing and selling as she started the 4th grade, especially knowing that her old-school go-to line (whenever her dear dada used to pick up her from daycare in Scarsdale Village after working for the man Robert Half in Manhattan) was, “Can I get a treat, Daddy? I was fuss-free today—fuss-free.”

             In short, Do It All Dad played a huge role helping transform his daughter into a supremely confident, effortlessly charismatic, logic-loaded, never too overtly wordy, dronish sales machine. As a result, it pissed off Matilda to no end when the Girl Scouts Of America denied her entry after se admitted to marching in the annual Israel Day Parade with her dear dada because it was insensitive to Arab Scouts in their troop (despite their alleged secular, wholesome girl-nextdoor leanings; despite there being a Planned Parenthood abortion referral fee patch in the works since full term abortions in New York State became Kosher in the empire state’s eyes under Governor Cuomo’s all-knowing watch, otherwise known as a cold-blooded Italian Reptilian, inside).

            Matilda fumes to her best friend Shannon over the phone about being denied more primo face time with her friend through the Girl Scouts Of America, saying, “Israel is not the country who fires rockets into their neighbor’s backyards, expecting nothing more than an Edible gift basket in return. Hamas terrorists in charge of their government are supposed to be trusted partners in peace, eight days a week, my chest.”

            Matilda’s also admitting to ‘Dude Looks Like A Lady’ being her most liked song on Spotify didn’t warm her up to the Girl Scouts Of America, either, especially since the Boy Scouts started admitting girl men like Juno into their ranks, too.

            Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was intent on revenge, now, for being denied more face time with her best friend in the universe, and launches Standup Sitter Club, an accelerated sales camp for kids which unmasks the power of cold calling for those interested in scaling their babysitting business to the next level. 

            Because of that, the head PTA mom calls for a sit down with Stand Up staffer who runs his own IT staffing firm from home, who gave his daughter the idea of recruiting burnt-out goodie-two-shoes from the Girl Scouts Of America in the first place.   Matilda started Cold Calling Camp seminar lectures with lines such as, “Smartphones Don’t Come With Balls To Make Cold Calls For You” and “You spent enough time on your ass doing more remote learning from home. The first rule of the Standup Sitter Club is: no chairs when cold calling.”

            Now the head PTA mom in charge of her local Girl Scouts chapter calls Stand Up Staffer to demand a sit down, threatening to report his daughter to the better business bureau for unfair recruitment practices, since Matilda’s Cold Calling Camp For Kids Camp depleted her group dry by offering commission-heavy rip profits.

            ‘Babysitter’ sounds so passé. Matilda’s stable network of enterprising babysitters were rebranded on LinkedIn as Creative Play Consultants.

            Stand Up Staffer meets the head PTA mom at a local coffee shop and says, “You can’t knock my daughter’s Cold Calling Camp For Kids. The only way to get ahead in life is to cold call yourself into stranger’s hearts.

            I wasn’t introduced to my wife of ten years through a friend. I didn’t swipe her over to my lap at a new cider bar opening in the east village. I didn’t overcome my zero confidence, shyness stutter from a fancy internship connection to the agent training program at the Creative Artists Agency.      I didn’t break through the soul-destroying, mentally crippling door of dependence on my parents to pay rent for my apartment in West Hollywood through being bequeathed some cushy IT Account Manger role to wine and dine IT Directors  who worked for wine distributor behemoth Southern Wine and Spirits, to secure more job orders to fill, without having to throw my balls on the line in the service of winning over the trust of new clients through sheer audacity and relentless, houndish delight while minimizing my sprinklings of spamish overtones until I became more polished inbetween.”

            Stand Up Staffer adds, “More importantly, your daughter Maya is making money at Standup Sitters, earning hefty referral babysitter fees up the wazoo.

            “Also, let’s not depreciate your daughter’s increased ability to listen better due to her hardcore cold calling camp training. That makes it easier for her to bear drawn-out conversations with you with more emotionally present awareness and concern the next time you start moaning on about your immovable belly rolls three kids later; or how life offers rapidly depleted meaning once your daughter outgrows the need for Mama’s nurturing hugs as you pop open another boozy mommy seltzer again, for head-lightening relief.”  

            PTA mom says, “If I can’t knock the cold call, then can I hit you in the face really hard, once? It might turn you on, actually.”

Michael Kornbluth

Crypto For Kids

Explaining crypto to my kids.

Remember when Samuel blew 1 million dollars’ worth of energy drinks in Toca Boca on Arthur’s account with digital tokens he worked hard to amass. Now, imagine those digital tokens were worth one million dollars in real life. That’s what cryptocurrency is, it’s tokens used to buy stuff in Toca Boca in real life. Plus, cryptocurrency isn’t controlled by the one world new order, including the Rothchild’s family, who control the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. Big Mouth Moses lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Uptown Balling

Brother says, “I wouldn’t move to Juneau, Alaska, too many Republicans.” I say, “Move to Oregon or Washington then man, ANTIFA apartheid, represent. You’ll find a dose off park community to identify with in no time, which reminds me. I’m tired of seeing kids in Steph Curry jersey’s today back east who never stepped over shit throughout the streets of San Franciso. How do these kids identify with Steph Curry exactly? Unless they’re mom won Mrs. Washington Heights and is hot enough to charge the price of Hamilton tickets per hour for some high-end chlamydia. Can I get holla for chlamydia from Steph Curry’s mom being worth 500 bones per pop? Uptown Balling, resist this Lin-Manuel, Hamilton is worse than Obama rapping, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Uprooting Somber

Every Carlin bit: Everything you were taught was bullshit. Plus, your dad doesn’t have a monopoly on the distant dad prick market. I’ll take your dad’s collapsed shoulders and torso while going in for a hug over an Irish kiss from Dad despite winning top toast at Toastmasters International before blowing his paycheck on Bushmills 20-year Irish Whiskey at the bar soon after.

“Toasting is for fat, drunk, Irish losers and bloated, blowhard Kennedy’s on speedboats off the coast Hyannis Port cruising for late night date chow rendezvous with Great Whites.”

These days, I can’t tell whether I like to hear any standup comedy besides my own material after performing more sheets of Comedy Gold on my Pause Daddy Podcast for free. I try. Robert Klein, I’m an annoying Jew who should be teaching American History at Hunter College for a living. Paula Poundstone is fine, if you want to hear her badger an audience for 5 hours about what they do for a living besides long for Fashion Police on Entertainment Television in her presence before Kelly Osbourne teamed up with Trans Chucky and ruined the show’s legacy forever.

Now, watching Gilbert Gotfried make an audience cringe and laugh whole heartedly at the same time never disappoints like the period out from having to bang your wife on her birthday again. A personal favorite bit by Gilbert the Great was telling a crowd at the Montreal Comedy Festival about learning how John Phillips from the Mama’s and Papa’s used to climb up to his daughter’s bunk bed and nail her for years. Then, Gilbert The Great says, “I can’t even get my daughter to hold my hand while crossing the street. All I want her to know is that her Barbie Dreamhouse didn’t pay for itself.”  Now this a shining example of uprooting somber and how comedy possesses the power to make flawless light from unfathomable abhorrence in this world by using his slight case of personal dejection in the service of getting a laugh for the greater good. Just like me adding, “So that’s why in the song California Dreaming when dad gets on his knees and pretends to pray, he’s just screaming, holy fucking Christ, I can’t bang my Lolita blues away on a Winter’s Day.” United we laugh.  Gilbert The Great proved it every day. Thank you, Gilbert The Great, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Funny Zone Day

Would Peloton instructor Jess King blame the clot shot if one of her tits froze during one of her summertime rides to get jiggy with it? After talking to her left tit, during a live ride of course.

“Why aren’t you moving Cabbage Patch Splat? Shit, this ride is live, I totally forgot. Yeah, so what Peloton, I call my left tit Cabbage Patch Splat. When you get paid 300 grand to pretend your comments about my bedazzled bicycle pants matter, I’ll give a shit about your designated Indian name pronouns used to address my lesbian rocker online like Strapped With Vape Cartridges, Dead Fish Flopping After 3 Hour Workdays or Doxes With Twitter Twat Wolves. Shit, Eric Clapton wasn’t really bullshitting us when he went on Instagram and claimed how his 2nd booster shot made his playing hands strung by the all mighty temporarily paralyzed almost immediately after. What, I used to bang an A&R rep for Island Records when I used to study Trance Gender Dance Studies at Borough Community College. My thesis was, “Libra Lesbians who adhere to a Pescatarian puss diet are finger licking good. Wait a minute, I can feel Cabbage Patch Splat get jiggy with it again. Thank God, I fake news believe in you again Lord. And FYI Peloton nation, my power couple lesbo baby is due in October. So, don’t expect me to me care about your upcoming training for the New York City Marathon while I’m too busy planning our 1st kid’s name together during my 2-week paid maternity time off, which is more than you make you in a year MAGA mom selling DeSantis Bobble Head Dolls on Etsy. And it’s don’t say gay, it’s happiest place on earth day, Deplorable Mom Bombing. The name Moderna is very modern, sheik sounding and full of social good, don’t you think? My Indy rock wife wants to go all in on high-end hipster cheek and name our foreign imported seed Polly Fume Blanc, she’s Frech Polynesian, in case you’re not following my killer clutch smoker flow. We’re going on a second honeymoon in Bora, Bora after I pump out this asinine Alabatros already. It was my wife’s idea, not mine. She doesn’t live in Austin Texas anymore because of the no abortion thing. Before it was Kosher living there, because the city of Austin still covers the cost health insurance for working musicians still living there like Gary Clark Junior who takes on the era of Trump Era Racism in the song, “This Land”, because prison reform for gang bangers and no bail laws, post-George Floyed riots, regardless of them resisting arrest or not or Lebron ever getting called for traveling is so oppressive. What, I was raised in a red state like Oklahoma, why else do you think I’m trying to piss off my Oil Rigger Manager Dad on purpose, now turned Solar Pannel Salesman/Caterer for Horse De Vores and Bugs on Bill Gate’s placenta Smoothie farm retreat next to a nearby military base that just housed a wrap up party for Tulsa King starring Sylvester Stallone this Fall, which reminds me. That A& R boyfriend for Island Records who turned me on to Jamaican Beef Patties for bit because he told me that all the pineapple smoothies he drank, would offset his greasy baster tip, also told me that 4/20, the national pot smoking holiday, because it grew wild around King Solomon’s grave man, is also on Hitler’s birthday. Tuff Gong Junior said, “Now, puffing to Bob on Tuff Gong, never felt so wrong. I was bummed to. I mean, the last time I felt this violently hosed was when I learned how Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson in Expendables 3. What, I’m half Jewish to. I thought my squeaky annoying voice, borderline okay-ness with working in New York and balloon size breast implants made in Miami were dead giveaways, you Jess Land hater hicks who call me a raver pig who stepped in glittered shit. I’ll dox your ass in a NY Minute if you make fun of my IVF kid like that, try me, homo hater nation. I’m a raver pig who stepped in glitter laced shit you say. I wouldn’t have been let near any aerobics instructor acceleration class in the eighties because it looks like my ass swallowed up Jane Fonda’s extended family down south on Ted Turner’s side. But Peloton is a judge free zone you, glitter hating motherfuckers. And I’m not married to giving a shit about your PowerPoint presentations any more than your hipster hobbit homo, Long Island hack breath husband is. Will you still love me tomorrow, Peloton? A red state reared Jewish Lesbo sooner from Oklahoma who identifies more with going down on premium, fast lane puss on Pelton Mats on top of Tapestries made in Paris, than housing those snooze feast fur balls in my rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side next door to Carole King. Because I’m a killer clutch smoker and you’re not.”

Who knew that off the list Jess had so much to get off her chest.

Killer Clutch Smoker lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth