The Eunuch Sentimentalist

Listening to Steve Perry’s new album on Spotify this morning made feel like the eunuch sentimentalist in Game of Thrones. But why am I so hurried desperate to relink with my age of innocence again?  Granted, anyone who remains a stay-at-home dad on purpose wants to remain a eunuch for the time being. At the same time, why do cocksure heterosexual men or gender fluid shemale comedians like me feel compelled to deride some sappy sad downer power ballad songs as eunuch sentimentalist music at all? I think it’s because as we get older and get a tad more jaded around the edges of a broken heart, we don’t buy into the irrefutable, absolute truisms behind certain famous sing along lyrics by Chicago such as, “How can I go on?” How can I go on? Find a fresher, tighter snatch to fall in love with for starters, who doesn’t deride the workshopped over, comedic genius behind iconic, FX shows such as Rescue Me as being merely sexist. Just because a bunch of hot chicks throw themselves at Dennis Leary’s fireman character, which isn’t a radical departure from reality considering the post 9/11 times it was made in. Understand, before 9/11, Firemen as a whole in New York were derided by the NYPD as mere cat tree snatchers, burnt out line cooks or Magic Mike wannabes. 9/11 changed all that. That’s why DeBlasio shooting down the Freedom Tower tribute ceremony this past year over alleged COVID concerns was ridiculously stupid. Because out of the blue, I don’t think 9/11 1st responders were sweating the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus. Now, regardless of the NYPD being defunded or not, they’ve lost the moral high ground over New York City Fireman, since every day now for the cops is standing down day. Cops in NY have so much free time on their hands now, they’re the ones taking how to make ravioli from scratch classes at the 92 St. Y. Cops who insist on taking a knee today proves how undercover cops who haven’t retired yet prematurely from the force are still down with wearing Nike sweats no matter what.

But momentous, hair standing on the back of your neck tingly songs like the Flame by Cheap Trick still sway my heart toward more promise filled tomorrows than any shitty, melodic free rap song by Nipsey Hussle ever could, which is a testament to the timeless appeal behind emotive, heartfelt, male articulated lyrics man. Versus most radio friendly rap songs both old and new, which deride woman interested in riding a rapper’s joystick out of its socket as mere money grubbing, stupid ass, over the hill hos. Sebastian Bach, original lead singer of Skid Row claims only teenage girls bought their debut record because of their monster rock ballad hit, I Remember you. So, you’re a twinkle toe bitch boy for pretending you bought the debut record Skid Row to hear Big Guns and Rattle Snake Shake again and again, otherwise. Reality is though, the soaring guitar solo in I Remember You, is exalted high end heartfelt rock at its finest.  That sounds even more kick ass melodic special over time, because it’s my eunuch sentimentalist music, that came out in my time, when I didn’t even hit puberty yet, let alone have a clue on how to exert my manhood if it finally bloomed under my Fruit of the Looms after feeling like the last kid to enter the puberty party in school.  But that’s ok, because I grew a sack eventually, and some hair on it to or else I never would’ve dared to make it through my never ending pain period as a cold calling IT agency headhunter at 22 in LA, a long, long, way from home nor would’ve I ever contemplated trying open mike standup at the Rainbow Lounge on Sunset, where Hair Metal sleaze incarnate Ratt once reigned supreme, getting endless perfect tens to let their bodies do their talking for them. I also wouldn’t have hit on my future wife and mother of my 3 pitch perfect sounding kids after hitting on 3 other girls prior with relentless, horn dog crazed, wheel and deal zeal without the power ballad soundtrack of my youth pulsating through my on with the show heart.

 

So why are underlying hopeful power ballads that prove men are capable of being deeper than the eighteenth hole considered soft core girly again? Men in long hair and makeup back in the seventies and eighties singing songs starting with Barry Manilow didn’t counterbalance that perception one bit. Meanwhile, Ronnie Van Zandt sang Free Bird, which was considered an original power ballad of its day and he’d make Neil Young his Canadian cunt in the can without breaking a sweat while yelling, “More shriekish wailing Young. I’m not buying you being whipped on a southern man being all free and up in your jail bird ass just yet.”

Power Ballads are considered soft girly because most men are too chicken shit to spill their innards out to a woman in person let alone on wax after a record company fronts them 200,000 thousand dollars to make it for millions to hear. Power Ballads will always woo because they burst with romantic longing for more hopeful filled tomorrows, which hold out the promise of soothing the tissue torn teen hearts in us all, especially among us gun shy dudes plagued by our frozen with fear pasts. But I don’t buy for minute the horseshit premise which insists that the era of Internet porn on demand, flush with tatted out white girls on Crystal meth has completely stripped our need for the comforting lift, that great power ballads provide us all.  Hair Metal Nation on Sirus Radio doesn’t exist without the power ballad hits, that never lost the pull they have on Gen X guys and gals because it’s Eunuch sentimentalist music that hit big in our hearts in our time, it belongs to us, and nobody can ever take that away from WE. Also, when we all fell in love with the soft, soothing sounds of 9pm clock radio music by REO Speedwagon, we weren’t fixated on the singer or image from the video but on our aching, incomplete hearts, longing for a willing recipient of our love bursts already. Big tits are great, but they don’t overcompensate for an ok face or an even worse bitch laden, one note heart that fluctuates from softcore bitch to full-fledged, scowly cunt in a NY Minute.

What makes power ballads so powerful? Featherly light finger tapping by CC on Every Rose Has Its Thorn is great, no doubt. For me though, what makes power ballads so powerful, is the rousing, never say die attitude for giving love another shot with all you got like the late great Jani Lane from Warrant sings with such soul stirring feeling on Sometimes She Cries. Holding out the hope of more pregnant filled tomorrows is what makes power ballads pack some extra exalted, it’s not over yet asshole, oomph for me. Is it time to move past 14 yet? Not even close, because like the serially underrated Britney Foxx screeched back in the day with ultra throaty, soul metal verve, “It’s a long way to love.” So don’t give up on your storybook romance life just yet. You dream the fuck on, until you make your new dreams to remember come true, or else love really does bite if you allow it to get into last lacerating lick and stop believing in your right to live a fulfilling life, flush with your own fair share of Heavy Metal highs to cherish forever.  Save the week like Britney Foxx did. Hound down your innermost love. And never allow anyone the power to damper your special spark shine inside, that gives you more than a feeling. Boston lives. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Eunuch Sentimentalist

Listening to Steve Perry’s new album on Spotify this morning made feel like the eunuch sentimentalist in Game of Thrones. But why am I so hurried desperate to relink with my age of innocence again?  Granted, anyone who remains a stay-at-home dad on purpose wants to remain a eunuch for the time being. At the same time, why do cocksure heterosexual men or gender fluid shemale comedians like me feel compelled to deride some sappy sad downer power ballad songs as eunuch sentimentalist music at all? I think it’s because as we get older and get a tad more jaded around the edges of a broken heart, we don’t buy into the irrefutable, absolute truisms behind certain famous sing along lyrics by Chicago such as, “How can I go on?” How can I go on? Find a fresher, tighter snatch to fall in love with for starters, who doesn’t deride the workshopped over, comedic genius behind iconic, FX shows such as Rescue Me as being merely sexist. Just because a bunch of hot chicks throw themselves at Dennis Leary’s fireman character, which isn’t a radical departure from reality considering the post 9/11 times it was made in. Understand, before 9/11, Firemen as a whole in New York were derided by the NYPD as mere cat tree snatchers, burnt out line cooks or Magic Mike wannabes. 9/11 changed all that. That’s why DeBlasio shooting down the Freedom Tower tribute ceremony this past year over alleged COVID concerns was ridiculously stupid. Because out of the blue, I don’t think 9/11 1st responders were sweating the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus. Now, regardless of the NYPD being defunded or not, they’ve lost the moral high ground over New York City Fireman, since every day now for the cops is standing down day. Cops in NY have so much free time on their hands now, they’re the ones taking how to make ravioli from scratch classes at the 92 St. Y. Cops who insist on taking a knee today proves how undercover cops who haven’t retired yet prematurely from the force are still down with wearing Nike sweats no matter what.

But momentous, hair standing on the back of your neck tingly songs like the Flame by Cheap Trick still sway my heart toward more promise filled tomorrows than any shitty, melodic free rap song by Nipsey Hussle ever could, which is a testament to the timeless appeal behind emotive, heartfelt, male articulated lyrics man. Versus most radio friendly rap songs both old and new, which deride woman interested in riding a rapper’s joystick out of its socket as mere money grubbing, stupid ass, over the hill hos. Sebastian Bach, original lead singer of Skid Row claims only teenage girls bought their debut record because of their monster rock ballad hit, I Remember you. So, you’re a twinkle toe bitch boy for pretending you bought the debut record Skid Row to hear Big Guns and Rattle Snake Shake again and again, otherwise. Reality is though, the soaring guitar solo in I Remember You, is exalted high end heartfelt rock at its finest.  That sounds even more kick ass melodic special over time, because it’s my eunuch sentimentalist music, that came out in my time, when I didn’t even hit puberty yet, let alone have a clue on how to exert my manhood if it finally bloomed under my Fruit of the Looms after feeling like the last kid to enter the puberty party in school.  But that’s ok, because I grew a sack eventually, and some hair on it to or else I never would’ve dared to make it through my never ending pain period as a cold calling IT agency headhunter at 22 in LA, a long, long, way from home nor would’ve I ever contemplated trying open mike standup at the Rainbow Lounge on Sunset, where Hair Metal sleaze incarnate Ratt once reigned supreme, getting endless perfect tens to let their bodies do their talking for them. I also wouldn’t have hit on my future wife and mother of my 3 pitch perfect sounding kids after hitting on 3 other girls prior with relentless, horn dog crazed, wheel and deal zeal without the power ballad soundtrack of my youth pulsating through my on with the show heart.

 

So why are underlying hopeful power ballads that prove men are capable of being deeper than the eighteenth hole considered soft core girly again? Men in long hair and makeup back in the seventies and eighties singing songs starting with Barry Manilow didn’t counterbalance that perception one bit. Meanwhile, Ronnie Van Zandt sang Free Bird, which was considered an original power ballad of its day and he’d make Neil Young his Canadian cunt in the can without breaking a sweat while yelling, “More shriekish wailing Young. I’m not buying you being whipped on a southern man being all free and up in your jail bird ass just yet.”

Power Ballads are considered soft girly because most men are too chicken shit to spill their innards out to a woman in person let alone on wax after a record company fronts them 200,000 thousand dollars to make it for millions to hear. Power Ballads will always woo because they burst with romantic longing for more hopeful filled tomorrows, which hold out the promise of soothing the tissue torn teen hearts in us all, especially among us gun shy dudes plagued by our frozen with fear pasts. But I don’t buy for minute the horseshit premise which insists that the era of Internet porn on demand, flush with tatted out white girls on Crystal meth has completely stripped our need for the comforting lift, that great power ballads provide us all.  Hair Metal Nation on Sirus Radio doesn’t exist without the power ballad hits, that never lost the pull they have on Gen X guys and gals because it’s Eunuch sentimentalist music that hit big in our hearts in our time, it belongs to us, and nobody can ever take that away from WE. Also, when we all fell in love with the soft, soothing sounds of 9pm clock radio music by REO Speedwagon, we weren’t fixated on the singer or image from the video but on our aching, incomplete hearts, longing for a willing recipient of our love bursts already. Big tits are great, but they don’t overcompensate for an ok face or an even worse bitch laden, one note heart that fluctuates from softcore bitch to full-fledged, scowly cunt in a NY Minute.

What makes power ballads so powerful? Featherly light finger tapping by CC on Every Rose Has Its Thorn is great, no doubt. For me though, what makes power ballads so powerful, is the rousing, never say die attitude for giving love another shot with all you got like the late great Jani Lane from Warrant sings with such soul stirring feeling on Sometimes She Cries. Holding out the hope of more pregnant filled tomorrows is what makes power ballads pack some extra exalted, it’s not over yet asshole, oomph for me. Is it time to move past 14 yet? Not even close, because like the serially underrated Britney Foxx screeched back in the day with extra throaty, soul metal verve, “It’s a long way to love.” So don’t give up on your storybook romance life just yet. You dream the fuck on, until you make your new dreams to remember come true, or else love really does bite if you allow it to get into last lacerating lick and stop believing in your right to live a fulfilling life, flush with your own fair share of Heavy Metal highs to cherish forever.  Save the week like Britney Foxx did. Hound down your innermost love. And never allow anyone the power to damper your special spark shine inside, that gives you more than a feeling. Boston lives. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Roasting Fat Vegetarians

Why are fat vegetarians so pathetic? Is it their dumpy physique, droopy eyes or inflated sense of self-worth, because they’re still pastier than a formula baby under house arrest during Covid? Does a meat free diet, make your complexion look a tad less oily? Yes, but fat vegetarians not so much, knowing, their added layers of blubber weigh down any glow filled, glint to their step.

But how do fat vegetarians get so fat exactly?  It isn’t from Turkey meatballs served on toothpicks from Mark Wahlberg’s personal chef.  So, what’s preventing good intentioned vegetarians from feeling better about their humane promoting diets, despite it making their pale icky, round faces look like murky, greyish, shaved Elephant balls?  From personal experience, double IPA’s inhaled in rapid succession doesn’t help, nor does frying up Beyond Meat burgers in butter whenever you want, because you’re taking a break from drinking double IPA’s during the work week again. Also, the overreliance of cheese in your average fat vegetarian’s diet stems from the lack of eating options at the bar, which is limited to Jalapeno Poppers, French Fries and French Onion Soup. So chances are, you’ll be inhaling an eggplant roll and a Grandma slice from your local pizzeria far after 10pm, which is a big no, no, in Ryan Reynold’s book, according to Men’s Journal favorite pinup to paste inside your gym locker year after year. An eggplant roll alone is 456 calories, which eaten after 10, slows your metabolism to a screeching halt, wiping out your combined calorie loss from your past 2 days on the Peloton, which isn’t getting your body into tip top, Woody Harrelson shape on the set of Natural Born Killers either. Did you know Cheddar Cheese possess 7 times more fat content than a bite of chicken breast? Ryan Seacrest’s daily diet of egg whites, chicken breast wraps isn’t so easy to disparage with such rock solid, self-righteous, all knowing glee so much anymore, is it? That’s a humungous reason why fat vegetarians should consider giving The Koshertarian Diet a chance.

Understand, most vegetarians are vegetarians for humanity purposes, even more so than the healthier heart aspect, because those same vegetarians have zero problem taking more hits from their old school glass bong, singing, “Got to have Kaya now, because tripping on acid in a Covid masks outside will make me feel like I’m trapped the middle of a Biological war for my soul man. So, The Koshertarian Diet should appeal to the fat vegetarian within us all, because all Kosher meat is sliced with a Chalaf knife, designed to kill Ben and Jerry’s cows on spot with one seamless motion, by cutting through their jugular veins, which eliminates any painful, drawn out death. Just think the opposite of Saw 1 through 7.  Also, the Kosheterain Diet forces vegetarians to get creative without the use of the cheese, involving Kosher chicken breast meals, which forbid the mixing of dairy and meat such as the time I made a cheese-less Quesadilla with diced up chicken breast cooked on the grill, later sautéed in high grade, cold pressed, extra virgin olive oil, always the best, on top of caramelized, sweet red peppers and red onion, in addition to peeled slices of garlic, and generous sprinklings of Kosher salt, and fresh ground peppercorns for extra peppy pop. After one bite of this reimagined Chicken Quesadilla, the urge to drop your customary, shredded mounds of spicy pepper jack cheese on the top of the diced up chicken breast between the fried-up flour tortillas dissipates faster than Dominion employee profile pages on LinkedIn after Sidney Powell released the Kraken after election night. Another night, I used the same batch of leftover chicken breast chicken, diced up some more, and made a pesto out of basil, pecans, garlic, Kosher salt and olive oil, mixed with a scrumptious pappardelle pasta  while topping it with some thinly sliced, cherry tomatoes on top, for some needed color and cooler texture contrast to transform this dish into some big time summer loving, having a blast, with the entire house to myself, with my wife and 3 kids in Delaware for Baba Camp for a pleasant change of pace.  Who needs meat lasagna, when you can follow Martha Stewart’s lead and perfect your version of Mexican Lasagna without having to get too carried with the cheese distribution plopage in the process? Especially, when you use baked corn tortillas as the base while stacking a couple of layers of sautéed black beans, red onions and Jalapeno peppers, with your homemade cherry tomato based salsa, encasing the entire dish with a wall of impenetrable, impossible to resist, Cilantro specked flavor, making it hard for you to separate from your plate if La Bamba is on HBO without the use of on demand cloud technology for old time’s sake.  Plus, child separation is overrated, because if Coco never got separated from his parents, he never would’ve became a miniature Los Lobos in the making. I know, making fun of a cartoon character storyline is worse than Carlos Santana claiming President Trump has “dark energy”, despite Hillary being the best-selling voodoo doll in Hatti year after year. Plus, President Trump doesn’t need to take Acid to see who’s full of shit Carlos.

So, what’s my overriding take away message, fat vegetarians, besides turning off every lit agent imaginable who believe Hiding Biden won fair and square?  Simple, eat more Kosher chicken breast-based meals and give The Koshertarian Diet a chance.  Nothing is worse than being a fat vegetarian, besides being a fat cokehead, who lacks total self-awareness or shame, by blaming their constant stomach pains on Landa Lakes.

Michael Kornbluth

Hot For Hummus

Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review.   Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.

Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahini flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for Hummus but only after I started making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese’s Pieces Peanut Butter Cups, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.

If you never tried Hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought Hummus or homemade Hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.  

Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing.  So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day.  At the very least, your kids will love you more for putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.

Michael Kornbluth