Leap for Murray Crocker

There was only one true friend in my life, Gus. Without Gus in my life, I never would’ve invented Rocket Science Cake for Dad. At least, that’s what Gus called my foray into Sponge Cake Science during the summer of 69, when NASA put Americans on the moon to work on their short game. I developed rocket fuel for Space Shuttles earlier in my career after serving time in the war as a medic. Dear Gus, a Holocaust Survivor who managed to remain squeal free after an SS officer stabbed a pitchfork through his leg while hiding out in a farm in Germany within a haystack also called me the boy who raised himself. Gus would always boast to his friends in the Garment district about me going to City College at 16 and how I sang Hebrew more beautifully than our rock star Cantor in the Bronx who gave Dion a good run for his money. But mainly Gus called me the boy who raised himself because my father had the misfortune of having no trade to fall back on after immigrating to New York from Germany. Horse Collar Makers in the Bronx like my father couldn’t afford to pay my tuition at Cornell even if the Budweiser horses are appearing in more print ads throughout Esquire these days.

I never contemplated tweaking my wife’s Sponge Cake recipe by using my rocket science background until her last batch drove away all the pigeons my dad used to feed in the park. Dad calls and says, “Son, I don’t know what your wife put in her Sponge Cake but all the Pigeons I used to feed in the park have gone AWOL since I fed them some leftover crumbs. Granted, your mom can’t bake either, baking is just not in our DNA, your wife included. I know that you have a kid on the way and enough to worry about Murray and that I was never the provider you and your sister Marian hoped for. I still thought the Candy Shop was a good idea. Who knew, I needed to pay protection money to the Genovese family on a monthly basis versus paying annual Synagogue dues if I didn’t want my store cleaned out every year on Easter Day. It’s just that those Pigeons kept me company Murray. They made feel less miserable than normal, until your mom moaned about how all the modern Orthodox woman in 1969 aren’t interested in upholding the Jewish tradition of sporting the shaved head look post Holocaust enough to buy her wigs anymore. So, without those Pigeons in my life Murray, my life is an endless slog like a plain Hebrew National dog with no sauerkraut or spicy brown mustard to relish on top.”

Soon after, dear Gus was over for Shabbat, before we went out for Chinese with our wives, our usual routine on a Friday night in the Bronx. I say, “Gus, my dad thinks Ethel’s Sponge Cake scared away the Pigeons he feeds at the park and he’s more miserable than normal without them. I wish I knew how I can help him out.” Gus says, “Why don’t you use your chemical engineering background and tweak Ethel’s Spone Cake recipe? You can call it Rocket Science Cake. Nothing’s better than great Sponge Cake. Tweak the sponge cake science Murray. Whatever Betty Crocker can do, you can do better.” “Fine, I’ll tweak the recipe. Who knows, if it’s a big hit, maybe, my dad can open a bakery business with it. 8 million New Yorkers can never get enough of great Sponge Cake.”

I tweaked and tweaked and finally made the perfect Sponge Cake. Man can’t live on his wife’s Sponge Cake alone. I think Maimonides said that once. Anyway, Dad never opened a bakery to sell them. Still, the recipe did become a source of urban legend. I never shared the recipe with anyone but my dad, who took to it his grave. On his death bed at the hospital, he said, “Son, I know you wanted to be an architect and design bridges and I was too much of a useless putz to make enough money to send you to Cornell to study it. But even the Brooklyn Bridge can’t compare to the godly grandeur of your Sponge Cake. Word must have gotten around town, because before I knew it, I was being hailed by the chess players in the park as the Pigeon Godfather. God really knew what he was doing when he made you kid. Nurse, come over and leap for my Murray Crocker. His Sponge Cake recipe is so good, Hitler would’ve called off the Holocaust for it.”

Michael Kornbluth

6 Types of Eggplant Parm

1) Sad, mushy, flavorless, middle-aged malaise.
2) Gross, burnt, disgusting veggies on borderline stale bread.
3) Scary to think someone would willingly buy that shit again.
4) Seething enragement for blowing 10 bucks on rancid breadcrumbs.
5) Complete shocked awe at not completely sucking for a change.
6) Full blown happiness attack because Frank’s Eggplant Parm is the bomb.  

Your kid doesn’t eat dead animals.

Then, take them to Franks for their Eggplant Parm.
And let the fussy free attack ensue.

Frank for President.

Croton Fall’s finest has blessed us with an Eggplant Parm that’s the best of the rest.

And his pizza pies are phenomenal.  Each bite is crackling sweet perfection.  

Garlic Knots will center you again.

And your chakras will no longer feel more clogged than your freshman one hitter.

Let blast off time begin.

Tell Frank, Too Tall Jew sent you, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

New Lover Hunter

Wife tells me that our daughter is the last girl in her class to get breast buds. I say, “Then, why haven’t yours sprouted yet?

What’s wrong about telling jokes about my daughter being the last girl in class to get breast buds?

She isn’t competing on America’s next Teen Tranny Prom Date for Bill Maher.

If my daughter barley fills out a clam shell bra like Ariel in the Little Mermaid, then similar to mama, she won’t have to worry about throwing out her vertebrae by lunging for lost royalty change from Spotify at a Fish Monger’s market in downtown Oslo like Lars Ulrich in town for the Monster Penny Pincher of Metal Tour.

The benefit of zero tits is my daughter never getting hooked on pain pills like Fentanyl from her back being weighed down by busty beauties like Jennifer Tilly.

Because Fentanyl has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking it with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

Did you know Lena Dunham was Hillary Hammer Time Cankles Social Media Community manager on her campaign? Only Lena Dunham could make Huma Licker Breath less likeable and relatable in one blubbery swoop.

Feme Fatales don’t have small tits either. So, I don’t have to worry about my daughter seducing an insurance agent to knock off her wealthy husband for the insurance money. Detective asks, “Where were you last night during the scene of the crime?” Feme Fatale says, “Betting on video game horse racing in Atlantic City. Actually, I was feeling myself up in the dressing room at Neiman Marcus, if you really need to know. I’m still sporting the squeeze marks if you’d like to take more than a bird’s eye peak detective. Did you just sneak a Bazooka in your pants Commando Joe? Or do you always get this stiff before raiding pantie drawers for a smoking gun to pin on a damsel in distress under the suspicion of blowing her husband away for the money because I’m cunty to the core like the rest, Prince Harry included. You don’t think scruffy Archie actually tried to kill himself, do you detective? Prince Harry hasn’t shaved in years.” Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth