Pizza Maker In Heaven

Pizza Maker In Heaven

“There is no sincerer love than the love of food.”
George Bernard Shaw

Daughter takes one bite of my homemade Burrata, creamy filled mozzarella bomb pizza, with roasted, fresh basil flecked, roasted cherry tomatoes on top of a cornmeal dusted bottom and practically faints, before delivering the most kindhearted, emotive compliment in do it all dad’s honor ever. “Daddy, I know you still really want to be a headliner standup comedian. But can’t you be a Pizza Maker in Heaven instead? Uncle Rodney will be your favorite customer. Remember how much he likes pizza in Easy Money? You’re money in the bank daddy, money in the bank.”

Pizza Maker in Comedy Heaven has an even nicer ring to it. I can bust Frank Sinatra’s balls for hanging out with Don Rickles, so some personality can rub off through osmosis. I’d also give him grief for ordering one of his goons to knock on Jackie Mason’s hotel room in Vegas, only to break his nose, for making fun of Frank too much. After Frank’s goon shatters Jackie Mason’s nose. Jackie replies with, I told Frank Don Rickles was hitting him with kiddie gloves compared to me.

I love cooking for my 3 children, wife included, but it’s their palpable joy which I derive the most amount of giving pleasure from because all my dishes are made with love. That’s my new line I deliver around my wife whenever I feel like her dinner performance was halfhearted, non-thought through, ordinary dinner assemblage. Thing is, my wife is a good cook. She can even make Lentil Soup scrumptious and visually appealing. But mama isn’t racking up as many yummy dances around the downstairs floors as I do.


My attitude is if you’re a stay at home dad or mom, whether it’s your choice or not, make the most of it, by making the family meal great again. Wash the table cloths with the intention of making the family meal a springboard for special memories attached to your home forever. Telling Alexa, never play Barbara Streisand duets with Frank Sinatra again through the Alex app and requesting Send in the Clowns versus just play Frank Sinatra helps maximize the enjoyment factors from these family, forming meals also.

I’ve injected my 3 children into grown up activities I’ve missed out on since becoming a father such as going to any rock concert I wish. Took my kids to see Kid Rock in Hartford, CT. A faded groupie of old was well meaning when she said to my kids, “That brings me back.” And I’m thinking to when?  Your dad ditching your mom for a friskier looking fox half way into a Lynyrd Skynyrd’s cover band version of Free Bird at a local Hartford bar when the Wailers weren’t in town?


Thing is, most rock concerts venues are far removed from being considered “family friendly.” For example, when I took the entire family to see Foreigner, Cheap Trick and Jason Bonham’s band in Bethel Woods, my kids were treated with immediate eye scolding, sacrament destroying disdain as if I was intentionally trying to freak all the old timer speed freaks by sneaking my kids into a concert like Michael Jackson’s kids concealed in burkas from head to toe.

Also, I can’t even go to a random pizzeria these days in NY, without being treated like an off-duty Ice Agent in North Face. So where else can a do it all dad attain an ideal mix of tunes and bonding through doing time with his children than in the kitchen at home? Not convinced yet at the bonding rich potential of cooking with your kids even if you’re not self-proclaimed shishy bitch who used to shop at Trader Joes back in the day in LA, only to get Vermont cheddar for his homemade Tuna Melts with avocado, before Vermont cheddar went mainstream.

My youngest child, lucky number 3, Chef Samuels will point at a red onion at Stop and Shop and say, “Eyes”, before rubbing his eyes from the crying produced from cutting onions in the 1st place. I don’t call my son Chef Samuels for nothing folks. He also already eats primo smoked salmon with no adornment whatsoever in addition to eating bits of anchovies pre-Puttanesca. Puttanesca is actually pussy in Italian, so in another lifetime my son obviously had zero problem muff diving before inhaling Sophia Loren scrumptious lobes of perfection whole, hey now. Living out my sexual fantasies through my son is  solid reason for you to call Child Services on me, I agree.


Yeah, hello, Child Services, I follow this comedian, I think on WordPress and he’s projecting his Sophia Loren motor boat fantasies through his 2-year-old son which is going over the line in my book. Before you know it, he’ll start smelling his other son’s Pre-K teacher’s hair in his jerkoff fantasies, Mrs. Russo, before titty blasting her in the face. Don’t get me wrong, child services, I’m also a married slut in a straight jacket. But I don’t utter my sexual fantasies through the guise of my children for the entire world to read on the Internet forever either. I am truly testing my editors open minded nature today.


When else can dad enjoy a family friendly environment among his favorite people in the universe than at a meal at home? You make sure there’s no Hulu on demand to contend with. It also helps when it’s a passive aggressive free zone, assuming the resistor grandparents aren’t in attendance.


If you truly feel your kids are superior company than most, then wouldn’t you care about blowing them away with your homemade peanut Thai sauce minus the coconut cream with a mixture of Lo Mein and Pad Thai noodles, with primo priced, peanut oil, fried, dehydrated, rectangular bits of soy because you schlepped to the zero smiles Chinese grocery store in White Plains, for the peanut oil in the 1ast place?

Who doesn’t want to outshine mommy in the kitchen? For once, the white man, doesn’t have to apologize for being an ineffectual jerkoff. What makes your kids love you more? More Duplo purchases, to keep them busy, so you can read comments on Breitbart, to catch an occasional summation of all Obama’s fuckups. Or, taking the time to teach your kids how to cook, feed themselves, learn to trust their instincts in the kitchen, massage their garbanzo beans with olive and lemon juice in the most sensual, giving a shit about foreplay way possible to solidify deep rooted bonds with your children far past when you’re gone? Because Pizza Makers in Heaven don’t grow on trees and I need to hear Rodney state, “Pizza was good kid but your jokes are perfect.”
The End,


Michael Kornbluth

Motor Mouth Disease

It’s hard not to get defensive when your son’s Pre-K teacher accuses of him being hard to understand. Because “laughter is the sound of comprehension”, and I didn’t score any laughs my 1st year of open mike stand-up.
I want my son to develop male friendships deeper than the eighteen hole. So, I’m bound to get tiffed when his Pre-K teacher implies his speech problems are preventing this from happening at 5. Wrestling Team members spit in their cups at lunch together.
Yea, so for my Son’s Pre-K Progress Report, I was told he’s difficult to understand. Did I mention he’s 5? Aren’t kids at this age barely competent Mimes at this stage in life? You’re not expecting Junior to bail you out in Charades is all I’m saying.
I hate my son’s Pre-K teacher saying how my son’s speech problem is preventing from making more friends. Because I know how much it sucks for zero friends to show in the hospital for your kid’s afterbirth party. Which feels like a pre-cursor for your funeral.
Arthur’s speech problems make it hard for him to develop positive relationships. Relax Teacher, I already told him about Dale Carnegie’s, “How to Win Friends and Influence People. ” Fake interest in others as long as possible.
Arthur’s speech problems make it hard for him to develop positive relationships with his peers. I’ll tell him to tone down his express genius. Like Henry Miller said. Nothing is more depressing than a genius scrounging for work.
Arthur’s speech problems make it hard for him to develop positive relationships with his peers. But my friend from college JT called me a Social Genius. And he’d hated how successful my people, New York Jews were in general.


Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
But he isn’t an out of work blogger for Buzzfeed. President Trump isn’t showering praise in their direction.
Arthur’s speech problems make it hard for him to develop positive relationships with his peers. But Arthur doesn’t resort to calling his classmates Little Hitler, every time he calls BS on their on their moral grandstanding.

Arthur’s speech problems make it hard for him to develop positive relationships. But I’m raising a drug free son. The burnouts in High School will have to resort to Yearbook Grateful Dead quotes to articulate their inner most feelings the most.


Arthur’s speech problems make it hard for him to develop positive relationships with his classmates. Is he sprinkling his conversation with too much Yiddish for the local townies to comprehend. North Pole is a schlep Billy.

Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.

Turn the kids on to John Coltrane records, during his super-frenetic period. So, they can keep up with his motor mouth already.
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
Is Janey crying because Arthur called her a fake feminist for never offering to pick up after her Crayola station?
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
But he can run and jump without falling. So, nobody is calling him a knock-kneed putz. Which is a step up in life over daddy at his age.
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
Is Billy’s roundups of Sponge Bob Square Pants so much more absorbing to hear?
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
But I thought wearing a #MAGA hat to school would prove he’s a bad boy soy boy. Was the Pink Polo shout out to Kayne West overkill?
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
Native New Yorker’s talk fast because like they Dave Matthews they have so much to say. Bad example, Dave Matthews makes no sense to me either.
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
He’s a better-looking River Phoenix. Plus, he’s funny. I don’t see him having to hound playmates here.
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
Is he expected to be more fluent in Spanish for shared Taco Tuesdays already?
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
Arthur’s speech problems make it hard for him to develop positive relationships.
He writes love Mia more legibly than I could. My penmanship looks like chicken scratch Hebrew. You’d think I write deli reviews for the Kosher Planet.


Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
That’s because he’s a peerless communicator like Howard Stern after his puppet show gang bang display phase.
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
Because he’s demanding commission money from selling more Girl Scout Cookies than Mia? I sold the most, why shouldn’t I get a cut of the pie.
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
Do you think a 5-year-old James Woods went out of his way to explain the importance of American Exceptionalism over finger painting red, white and blue?
Arthur’s speech makes it difficult for him to form positive relationships with peers.
Sure, if he was a tech support worker from Mumbai trying to get a job at the Genius Bar in Manhattan. But Oscasio Cortez makes sense.

Arthur’s speech problems make it hard for him to develop positive relationships.
You’d think my son was impersonating Bill Maher. Why does a Black CIA agent cross the road when he’s already standing under a Popeyes Chicken?
I’m very sensitive to charges of talking too fast. Are you amazed, I haven’t run out of breath yet?
The End

Michael Kornbluth


Ensuring Genius Doesn’t Become Toxic

Nothing is worse than being reminded you’re not as smart as others, especially when it’s your younger brother. I’ve never had this problem because my younger brother asks my mother questions such as: Is the St. Louis Arch like the Eiffel Tower? In a pathetic, feeble, half-hearted, fake news deep flail of a stab at trying to show genuine interest in another one of my mother’s blood facing draining, historical site overviews from her trip cross country back to Arizona last summer.

Yesterday afternoon, 5-year-old, baby brother Art Show USA won the winter bouquet adornment contest over his 8-year old big sister by unanimous decision. Daughter asks. So, daddy, whose winter bouquet do you like better? Art Show’s artful placement of pine needles and ferns is a more impressive assemblage of winter land forestry Matilda. But you had more empty space to fill, in your regular vase compared to the IPA glass, Art Show made burst with over the top in your face, beauty greenery. Daughter blurts in a fumed, semi-playful disgust as a form of self-defense from not crying on the spot, “Goodbye.” Seconds later she storms toward my direction and ends up wailing me in the back 4 times in the row at least. I try to diffuse big sister’s bruised ego in the face of her younger brother’s more impressive showing of florist, foraging genius on display. “Matilda, you’ll have to find a way to accept you not always being so equal to your younger brother after all. Get used to it. Big Sister gets up from her seat to wail on my back again with more menace this time around and says in true feminist fighter fashion. “I don’t want to get used to it. You can’t tuck me in for a whole month.”
Reality is, this wasn’t the 1st time big sister has come face to face with her younger brother’s towering genius at work. Forcing big sister to contemplate her diminutively diminished creator stature like every time they’ve had a LEGO DUPLO, builder off. Before each build off, I’ll command, “show me genius”, the way Sid Ceaser did to his dream team of comedy writers back in the day on the Show of Shows, showcasing, an all-star cast of whose who, in American Comedy in their infancy, including, Neil Simon, Woody Allen, Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks to name a few. Now, my increasing concern is about making sure my son’s rising tide of genius doesn’t sink big sisters spirits anymore, leading to more self-defeating thoughts, which can derail their love boat of a relationship forever.
I never had a love boat of relationship with my younger brother. At the same time, smooth sailing has eluded our blood on blood journey through the winds of change, especially when younger brother attempts to take the wind out of your sails, by accusing his unemployed comedian/father of 3 of accomplishing nothing but birthing 3 genius babies. And this is after I’ve written for TV twice. You can blame the lash out on the Adderall all you want. The insult was intended to get a rise out of me. Instead, I replied with: Have a nice day. Thanks to endless airplay of Bon Jovi’s greatest hits in our family SUV. The wonders of getting CD steals at Target as a Stay at Home Comedian/Father of 3. Plus, there’s no denying how my 3 kids keep me young at heart. Why else would be I getting asked for ID at Target with 3 kids in tow at 42 years of age? Whenever daddy can’t resist a 12 pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for only 12.99 a pop. Getting asked for ID with 3 kids makes me feel like a teen mom dropout from Tallahassee. When I get home, I feel compelled to change my LinkedIn Headline to Crystal Meth Homemaker.
So recently, my younger brother got fired from a solid job, which paid 75K, they poured plenty of training into him also. Plus, the name of this company is a solid resume builder also. Naturally, both of my parents did their best to prop up his deflated ego, by backing his assertion of being “sandbagged” at work. Which is victim virtue signaling, loser lame language of the lowest order. Odds are, my parents will still hold my younger brother up on a higher pedestal as usual because he’s got “demons” in his closet. Which possessed him to steal their ATM card in junior high to take more of their mo, mo money for more of his daytrip nose candy visits to Washington Heights, ensuring he only heard last call from the bathroom stall years later in college, before flunking out of Ithaca otherwise known as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. I would know, I attended Ithaca College myself, but I studied hard to get accepted into the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications. So, I could rip a big hit of strong outdoor and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds. My point is back when my younger brother and I were spoiled, self-indulgent, burnout degenerates, there wasn’t a sibling rivalry of much substance to toxify our relationship any more than the drugs we were destroying our brains with already. What used to bother me before my 3 kids was born, was my younger brother making me feel like inferior company to his countless girlfriends and boys he partied with. It bothered me because I never asked to hang out with them, I had my own crew. Girlfriends would have to wait a bit later till a summer wind in Cape Cod. When I no longer had to whack it till my fingers bled, it was the summer of 95.


I always resented the idea of my younger brother acting as if he operated on a cooler plane of existence than me, knowing, he didn’t win the International Award during his Masada Teen Tour in Israel nor was he voted Grooviest by his Senior Year Book Staff, last time I checked either. An award, which I inspired into creation, because there’s no way blah breath Sharon Blonder, produced even close to the infinite joy my nickname chants of Bud Man, Bud Man, engendered to the entire senior slump slacking class at large.

My other source of resentment was my younger brother hitting puberty before I did. As a result, I’ve been stuck in a game of perpetual catch up in life ever since. I remember getting a book called 12 Stages of Puberty for Chanukah one year. I bemoan to my mom: Great gift mom, 12 stages of puberty. Can’t wait to confirm how behind schedule I already am. What’s the chapter about losing my virginity called, “Deep Impact?” Hey mom, did you consider, how demoralizing me getting this gift in front of my younger brother would be? Knowing, he got into the puberty party already. And can play with himself, whenever he wants. My mom replies. But you play with yourself all the time upstairs with your GI-Joe figures. If I played with my younger brother a kid it was over Nintendo games of Tecmo Bowl. He’d use the slant passing play with the Chicago Bears for an automatic 1st down every time, which bludgeoned the fun left in more primo brother bonding time soon after.


Big sister, Matilda and baby brother Art Show USA have a far deeper, infinitely more giving, loving relationship, free of any jaded, bile laced jealousy, enshrouded in most sibling rivalry relationships and I’m determined to keep it this way. They’ve been bunkmates for 2 years now. Matilda is the dream big Jewish sister I never had. She’s funny, sweet, wise beyond her years, super athletic but never too Tom Boyish, where she loses her effeminate wonderfulness all together. Picture Tatum O’Neil from the Bad News Bear cross bred with Punk Brewster. Is big sister Matilda into her Barbies a tad much for her younger brothers’ taste? Sure, but I was obsessed with my fantasy land with my epic GI-Joe, wood block constructed battles for the ages, so I get the infinite appeal in getting lost into imaginary playland. I’m still writing blogs for free at 42 with 3 kids to feed for Christ sake. Apparently, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the Daddy’s Long Leg’s Tree of creatively jacked life over here.


Sibling rivalries can be healthy, look at what the Manning brothers have accomplished. Till this day, the image of Peyton in the Skybox with his Hall of Fame Dad, Archie Manning, pumping his fist, cheering his baby bro on as he marched the G Men down field against the undefeated Pats to ultimately derail Brady’s perfect life/season still brings chills of good, good vibrations down my spine today. I want big sister Matilda to always be her younger brothers’ go to pumper upper, regardless if he ends up being commissioned as the futurist architect to build the second coming of Central Mark on Mars one day. I hear Elon Musk will be the 1st to move there, to avoid his clingy model girlfriend in San Francisco because maintaining long distance relationships from Mars is always a stretch. Ensuring genius doesn’t become toxic and ruin the one of a kind bond baby brother and big sister have won’t be a stretch if I continue to pound in their craniums the importance of building each other up versus constant belittling and tearing each other down. Matilda also had her 1st grade teacher admitted to wanting clones of future students molded in her honor. So, her ego isn’t down in the dumps with her winter bouquet creation bust just yet.



Michael Kornbluth

Stay At Home Dads Can Be Trophy Wives

Stay At Home Dads can be trophy wives without leaning on our wives for startup money to flip homes and spend anymore time with our retired contractor dads than we have to.

Is your book going to look like this?
Buzz Kill Wife
Put the book back where it belongs my sweet.
Sound more like your buzz kill blob mother babe.
Good to know you haven’t stopped believing though.

Alexa, should I divorce my wife MacKenzie?
Is she still modeling for Bud Light commercials?
Those commercials were in the late eighties.
Fine, then seek out tighter, new filling.
Leave me out of it already Micky.

Darth Vader is the Draymond Green of Jedi Knights. Instead of going toe to toe in a Light Saber match with Luke, Darth Vader hurls flying Death Star debris to throw Luke off his game instead. How low can you go Darth?

You know you’re wife doesn’t care about being a sexual object of desire anymore when she chooses to pluck her blond face hairs, bent over, out in the open in broad daylight. Knowing I can catch in her the act every time.

I love how every NBA Broadcaster under 40 feels compelled to be Lebron’s ego guardian protector like it’s some noble undertaking. He’s Obama with talent. Who only now made his school contributions public. Who was never as dominant as MJ, yay!

Lebron James would beat MJ in one on one because he moves better latterly is the weakest argument ever. Granted, he’s got plenty of experience getting out of the way for other superstars to close the deal for him.

I don’t even know why Scottie Pippen gives a measured response in relation to Lebron being the greatest. Well, MJ never had to compete against Lebron? Yeah, he had to enforce his will on Bird, Magic and the body slamming Bad Boys of Detroit player.

Caravan already sounds more dated than Lizard King, I can do anything. But keep fit in a 34 waist past Waiting for the Sun.

Samuel is your new favorite.
Stay At Home Comedian
Just because Chef Samuels slays your fear of eating Tofu again after he fires up Tofu the Terrible with XO peanut oil. We call can’t be Pescatarian Heroes Matilda.

Anyone who wants to work can get a job in Trump’s economy. Exit packages from my stay at home dad stint with the possibility of zero parole on the horizon are flying out of my ass as we speak. Happy the economy is no longer anemic but chill people.

Anyone who wants to work can get a job in Trump’s economy. Sounds more presumptuous than recommended writer on the rise on my resume, with no agents or paying gigs in sight yet. Or maybe, I’m just being a paranoid, shadowbanned Jew about it.


Me sabotaging an interview for a blogger job at Infowars.
I’m a soy boy. Who says stay at home dads can’t be trophy wives to? I’m a soy boy. I never grew up. I’m a soy boy. I have no idea who the Eagles traded for Sean McCoy. I’m a soy boy. You will hire one, yes you will. And we can thumb wrestle all the time.

The End,


Michael Kornbluth

What Happens to Stay At Home Comedian?

He scores a lit agent and a big time publishing deal for his follow up smash hit book, Birth of a Pescatarian Comedian, Family Meals Reviews one rant at a time.

He celebrates by taking his daughter skating in Wollman Rink in Central Park this winter before they nosh on primo high end smoked salmon tea Sandwiches at Tavern on the Green soon after. Giving his daughter a taste of the big time for a change.

He helps co-write a book with the 11 year winner of Shark Tank, Jack Bonneau about financial literacy for aspiring young entrepreneurs deciding to be their own best role models called, Trillionaire Baby. And Betsy Devos makes it mandatory reading for all US high school students graduating the 6th grade.  Opener reads. 7 year old daughter asks me. Daddy, how many zeros are in a trillion? Daddy, do you really have to Google that? Daddy, are you financially illiterate? Is this why you call yourself a degenerate Jew? Dad replies. I did have to partner with a 12 year old with enough profit making prowess and working financial credit to write a book on the subject kiddo.  I only wish my Math SAT scores were sealed like Obama’s college records.

He takes his family to Copenhagen next summer for a book signing tour, becoming the funniest, most outrageous, spokesperson for the wonders of attachment parenting and how working remote in addition to controlling our kids through comedy can make our kids great again.

He buys his son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth his own guitar already and befriends a guitar teacher. And write a book together about the greatest guitar shredder history teacher of all time. Who wants to make guitar shredding pop metal sheik fly high with the angels for old times sake.

He renews his vows to his wife, Natalia Anna Duffy, but writes them on his own this time. Obviously, only being in charge of the wedding playlist 7 years ago was his only capable contribution.

He buys his wife the wedding ring based on his own earnings, not his parents because his wife Natalia, future Boob Doctor, Lactation Consultant for the stars deserves to be showered with love for her endless investment post three children in his funny man writing paying huge dividends already.

He starts hosting his family meal review cooking show Double Talk With Chef Samuels, his Gerber baby incarnate 2 year old son on YouTube, scoring Ninja blender as their 1st major sponsor in the process.

He takes his Do It All Dad Year podcast to new heights by becoming a medium for dead famous dads, conveying their must hear messages, resolving unfinished business for tremendous, hilarious, moving impact.

He writes a thank you letter for every sales manager who ever fired him,

He flies out to LA to celebrate with his best bud Jay, who always believed in him making it, despite coming home from work, watching him tell a bomb show of joke stabs in front of the mirror again and again.

He goes on Tucker Carlson to shower love on Barnes Noble and his publisher Harper Collins for keeping freedom of speech alive and for not shadow banning him yet.

He goes on Howard Stern and makes fun of Howard for paying his writers shit.

He goes on the Joe Rogan Podcast and get’s stoned for old time sake because he’s really earned it this time around.

He appears on InfoWars and says Joan lives after every punchline he delivers.

He appears on the Russell Brand podcast and suggests they do a movie together about getting banned from England and pissing off the royal family royally.

He performs at the White House Correspondents Dinner in 2020 as a 2 time best selling author. And does 20 minutes on Michelle Wolf and Raggedy Ann go to a bar material alone.

He get’s out the house more than usual to take his old friend Chaim out to lunch in Manhattan for encouraging him to do a podcast which lead the launch of his successful author career.

He reconnects with his old high school friend Ari who told him to keep writing on top of saying, you can be great.

He takes out his copywriting teacher at Media Bistro in Manhattan for pushing him to write a pilot for Amazon which lead to his TV writing break at VH1 Classic in Manhattan for America’s Hard 100.

He takes his dad out in Arizona for a round of golf on his dime for a change. Mom asks: Why are you acting like such a big deal all of a sudden son? Stay At Home Comedian replies: You wouldn’t be interested. Mom says: Why not? Stay At Home Comedian responds. Remember, the letter you sent me stating, to never expect you to show any interest in my writing career as an unemployed comedian/father of 3? Silence ensues. Yeah, like I said, you wouldn’t be interested.

The End


Michael Kornbluth






No, He’s My Daddy

My 4 year son old Art Show USA was born on New Years Day. So, he’ll never be hard pressed to recruit boys out on his birthday. Before the inevitable last minute desperate dash toward whatever non-hoarded around muff in attendance.

My son’s real name is Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. Your move Judd Apatow. That’s right, you were blessed with too overly heady, nerdy girls. Google death was funny though. Albert Brooks saved This is 40 from being passable as a comedy film Woody.

So my son’s name Arthur Morrison Kornbluth is fitting because he was born in the true spirit of f you parental rebellion. After my dad urged me to refrain from having more after Matilda. Enjoy more Indian Summers in Arizona without us pops.

Arthur was the only planned baby of my 3 but certainly not in the wholesome loving sense. My dad says on my birthday. Don’t have a 2nd kid. I can’t afford it. I pulverize my wife’s vagina 2 hours later. Now Art Show is 5 in 11 hours.

Art Show USA was the easiest birth ever and he’s a a dreamboat existence since. He slipped out of mama easier than I do from behind her doggy style 3 kids later. Paging Doc Hollywood. Vag Tighten up in aisle 1.

After I had Arthur, I remember my dad saying. Coaching you in basketball is a great memory of mine. Strangling my self-esteem like a non-touchy feely Bobby Knight by calling me a soft pussy constantly did wonders for my self-esteem also.

No he’s my daddy screams, I’ll be in no rush to join a Fraternity to prove my manhood to strangers in baseball hats. Who can’t wait to exact revenge on pledges because they wanted easy access to fresh off the press puss.

No he’s my daddy, means, he doesn’t give me middling, less slovenly, sloppy seconds treatment compared to virtual grandparents on both sides of the bare minimum grandparents divide.

When Arthur and Matilda fought over dad ownership rights as I tucked them both in. By each one out pronouncing each other. No he’s my daddy. No he’s my daddy. I felt like Hugh Hefner minus the mansion, sex life and cashmere slippers.

It’s very flattering to have your 2 kids fight over ownership rights of you. No, he’s my daddy, no he’s my daddy. I think it’s safe to say I don’t have a future Magic Mike or girl from the Fallen Angel video on my hands yet either.

To hear my son say, no he’s my daddy screams, back off big sis. I hate girls being 1st. I don’t care what NPR says.

The End


Michael Kornbluth

Better Than Loved

What’s better than loved Dada? Being looked up to with your pure good blasting eyes, Female Flash.

My 1st born Singing Rose is my sweeter, funnier, ten times smarter twin. Compared to her 2 brothers, she looks like me the most. Although you’ll never hear Baba give daddy long legs credit for my star making gene power.

I hate hearing. Kids ruined my life. Like you had to decline so many invitations to the Playboy Mansion afterwards. Besides, it’s not my fault your daughter is a blah brained, dimmed projection of your borderline catatonic, lobotomized personality.

Kids ruined your life. Stop acting like your Whiteboard rehash reiterations at the Phoenix Airport Executive Lounge made such riveting lore to begin with.

Kids ruined your life. Yeah, I don’t see your daughter’s 1st grade teacher fantasizing about cloning more versions of your dumpy dour twin during your next parent teacher conference either.

Reality is, my Kettle Bell dense strong, effortless hilarious, daughter, Sweet Clone Matilda. Is an out of this world, life giver, infinite upgrade upper. She’ll take anyone in touch with her orbital spin of supreme loveliness higher.

I got my TV writing at Vh1 Classic in the big city when she was 2. Then, Matilda could only deliver 1 word punchlines for our comedy act at the deli. “Matilda, what did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks?” Daughter says. “Bupkus, daddy, Bupkus!”

Now, my 7 year old daughter is picking out and checking out Ivy and Bean chapter books with her own library card. Because she has to make up for her dad’s reading shortcomings. Whose never read a book of fiction in his life according to her.

I just learned how my dad was the headliner speaker at his best friend’s funeral, not his 1st born daughter. This upset me tremendously. Knowing my own daughter has admitted prior to murdering Uncle John, if he’s a no show at my funeral.

I don’t care what the daughter’s eulogy about her dad was about. A daughter is a dad’s special baby forevermore. Who outshines whatever purported, killer set eulogy you delivered on your best bud’s behalf. No offense Dad.

My parents describing themselves as involved, affectionate grandparents 8 days a year is a prime example of good grandparent derangement syndrome. But their horse shit pool net in place of a fence 8 years later makes up for it.

I’d drop Matilda off at daycare once a week when she was 2. Tear up and say. I have to get more writing done Matilda. Because my mock copywriting ads for Woodford Reserve, “CLASS IN A GLASS”, is no cash crop to bank future earnings on anytime soon.

Better than loved is the never ending hug with your 7 year old daughter at home, prompting her to say “Daddy, I never want this moment to end.” But ease up on my rib cage a bit. Is this what mama means about you being too rough with her?”

Better than loved is your daughter taking one bite of your Burrata bomb, roasted homegrown cherry tomato basil specked, cornmeal meal dusted pizza and saying, “Daddy, I know you really want to be a comedian. But can’t you be a pizza maker in Heaven instead?”

Better than loved is a daughter who makes this do it all dad feel like the luckiest man on earth. For being the sweetest, most emotive, comedy bud giver superior I never had.

The End


Michael Kornbluth




Birth of a Boob Doctor

My nurse wife says I can’t call her a Boob Doctor till she gets her PHD.
But I’m not one to follow the rules and this is an overdue birthday poem for just her and me.
She was born in Brisbane, the site of a former British prisoner colony.
I only know this because I’m reading up on my National Geographic with my kids along with 30 second read books on Theology.
Natalia Anna Duffy is most happy cultivating her garden outside. Her greatest triumphs like her towering Sun Flowers in Pleasantville are impossible to hide.
Natalia Anna Duffy is now a proud mother of three. Which is a big deal because it’s 1 more non-screwed up kid than Me, Me.
The Boob Doctor has turned our home into a temple of suburban, Norwegian sheik. We wouldn’t have it any other way because our new granite top table, Danish Nome Tea Cups and ecofriendly chairs can’t be beat.
It makes me happy knowing the Boob Doctor had a nice birthday with her friends. And still forgave her husband’s hot head behavior and made amends.
The Boob Doctor’s parents are very proud. Of the beautiful home and family life she’s created. So please, take a bow.
The Boob Doctor can’t wait for her birthday next year. So, her husband can pay for a night out from his book sales in their New Range Rover that can jump over deers.

Happy Birthday Snuggle Shine


Michael Kornbluth


Number 1 Capricorn

Number 1 Capricorn squeezed out of mama on New Years Day in the big city, Manhattan to be exact. Chances are, Number 1 Capricorn won’t have a hard time hooking up on his birthday at a club in Manhattan when he gets older or struggle to rally his friends to celebrate his birthday on New Years Eve. By urging them to put down the VR Googles for a night when real life beer googles await.

I was also born on the Island of Manhattan. I share that in common with my son, number 1 Capricorn. Which gives you some insight into my son’s 1st nickname in my honor, Always Loud. If I was a Native American Indian, my son would call me Trips on Curbs.

My other 2 kids were born in suburbia, Number 1 Capricorn’s big sister Matilda Singing Rose, and his younger brother Samuel, Headbanger’s Ball. Does my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA, Number 1 Capricorn, posses my flair for the comedic? Obviously, or else he’s not telling me in the car on the way back from Pre-K to be funnier than Weird Al before Christmas. Or he’s going to kill me with our sharpest knife for real. Obviously, he’s inherited my leanings toward dark humor also.

Is Number 1 Capricorn a sweet, observant, thoughtful child who never causes his dad any crazed distress? Similar to myself growing up, not that my own parents take this into consideration when they’ve always blatantly built up my younger brother versus constantly tearing me down. Despite my younger brother’s multiple arrest record, 2 decades long of nose candy abuse, derailed wedding engagement 1 week before his wedding. And the fact my parents had to take out a home equity line of credit to pay for their prefered son’s Boarding School in the process. But I digress.

My parents outsourced the education of my younger brother to an all Christian, jock heavy boarding school in Connecticut from the 9th grade onward. He says it made him tougher. And made him deal with actual Anti-Semitism like when his classmates threw pennies at his shoes for Mass. But a putzy, semi-built Jew from Westchester County like my younger brother. Who only competed in basketball and football against other similar putzy, semi-built Jews and Asians in a Division 3, suburban athletics prior. Was totally primed and ready to distinguish himself among the other monster, athletic bigs similar to former boarding school alum legends like NY Ranger great Bryan Leech, who broke the Cup curse from 1940, no problem.

My younger brother fell into the druggy crowd. I wasn’t any better. It did neither of us any favors. For me, it helped me come out of my shell a tad. And for my younger brother his test scores improved from snorting Ritalin. But it was a crutch. And only deepened his dependence and addiction for chemical induced highs. To help boost a strangled self-esteem void in the core of his being. For not feeling distinguished in any 1 particular field of interest like acting, writing, lacrosse or photography. This much I share in common with my younger brother from my experience in High School also minus the snorting Ritalin part. I had get into the Roy H. Park School of Communications at Ithaca College. Before I became friends with kids to snort Ritalin with and become the beneficiary of such speed paper writing privilege. Ithaca is otherwise known as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But I graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications. So after graduation, I could take a bong hit of the extra strong outdoor and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.

At the same time, my younger brother showcased glimmers of leadership potential during summers with Wilderness Ventures. Leading his group mount, the glorious Gran Teton National Park in Wyoming. Whereas I wasted away summers, counting down the days for Summer Camp to end during Color War. Because I wasn’t leading our basketball team to victory despite winning “The Most Improved Basketball Player Award.” Still knowing I was the 2nd worst athlete at camp after the Sheik’s son from Great Neck. Had no intention of writing about younger brother here but it makes sense because the story I’m telling is about my desire to raise my son into a winner because preparing is caring. And settling for outsourcing your kids education to strangers prematurely isn’t.

Preparing is caring. Don’t get me wrong, my dad coached me in basketball when I was a kid. But in retrospect, I got the impression he did it more for his own ego enlargement than for my own competitive evolution. It’s a damning statement I know. But even my younger brother who denies our dad is a narcissist. Despite our Dad having zero problem playing tennis 350- days in Scottsdale, Arizona, summer included. Versus playin and getting to know his 3 grandchildren better than he did for his 1st born. Now, I’d say my dad’s favorite activities in retirement in Arizona are playing tennis and jerking off to the Weather Channel. With news of more winter storms, slamming against the Eastern seaboard, again and again. But at least my dad’s feeling good about his developing ground game. According to my dad’s new instructor, his forehand has never been stronger.

But I’m being serious. Preparing is caring. I’m in Arizona with my younger brother and my family. And my younger brother says. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Again, let me stress the fact this advice was coming from my younger brother. Who rejects any fake news notion of our father being a Narcissist. And this is coming from a kid who posts driving selfies of himself on Facebook. Proving how the road to objectivity is way behind him. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Is coming from a kid who sees nothing wrong with leaving a condom on a couch where my kids used to play. We ditched the couch once we moved. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Is coming from a younger brother who saw no problem, asking me to get him high, when I granted him the opportunity to come through for me and look after my kids Arthur and Matilda before my lucky 3 Samuel, my flipper, breech baby was born. Which I just made the birth to in time because I had to call an audible at the last second and invite my in-laws to drive 3 hours from Delaware to look after my 2 kids at our place because my younger brother’s heart wasn’t into being a class, non-selfish act for once his life, my chest. That’s not my expression. A friend of mine in high school coined it but it’s beyond pertinent to incorporate in this butter fingers, baby brother, dropping the ball case of biblical proportions. Similar to when God said to Adam. “Under no circumstances, turn the apple of knowledge into your personal bong. The magic herb already possess plenty of mind stimulant properties of it’s own. Who do you think created Maui Wowie in the 1st place?”

So when my younger brother of 3 years who posted a picture of himself holding my 3rd born in our home as his new Facebook photo without my consent. You can understand why I got enraged, thinking, great. Now, he’s stolen both my weed, Adderall and my life. How many times has he babysat my other 2 yet? So I can squeeze in an open mike God forbid. But feel free to use my newborn as a means to hide your sketchy surging side from mom to attract more maternal minded muff Sir Snort A Lot, my chest.

Look, even my own mother who worships the ground my younger brother walks on has admitted to me. “Son, you deserve a better younger brother.” So don’t think I’m being a melodramatic, caustic drama queen about it. I’m only mentioning my younger brothers’ serially self-centered behavior to highlight the contrasted sober sound advice he gave me in relation to my 1st son Arthur for a change. “Push Samuel more than dad did with us.” Because my younger brother is big enough to recognize the limitations of outsourcing your sons not only physical but spiritual and cultural education to strangers who aren’t family. I think we can all agree. It’s family members above else, especially dads, who should have the most personally vested interest in ensuring his children establish good, healthy habits, versus spoiled, lazy, degenerate, mentally retarding ones. Who should make it priority to educate his children on the danger of weed abuse, when their brais are still developing in High School. Instead of merely relegating you’re own use of weed in college because you worshiped Bob Dylan, sold weed in college and glamorized telling the tale of waking up to Sly Stone at Woodstock, in a post Acid haze to I’m going to take you higher.

I want my 1 Capicorn to get into the habit of winning sooner than later before losing becomes a complacent habit. Which as time drags on becomes a much harder habit to break. My dad still smokes cigarettes. And has zero problem stinking up my kids or leaving his disgusting bits of gum on our table whenever we’re graced with his presence, all after his heart attack no less. He blames his heart attack and being addicted to sleeping pills on my younger brother after his drug cop sting arrest. At the time all I thought in response was. That’s pretty fucked up thing to say dad in trying conceal your blatant favoritism you showcase in my younger brother’s direction, time and time again, obviously. Throwing your youngest son under the bus like this. Who you shipped off to Boarding School at 15. Knowing he had zero clue on how to be self-reliant or even defend himself in any effective capacity because you never signed us for Martial Arts either. Plus, insisting Jonathan gave you a heart attack over me, makes complete sense. Knowing your heart was always more invested into what upside and return my younger brother gave you in terms of pride and joy after you downplayed my rec basketball stock in front other dads in order to recruit higher caliber players. And relegated your 1st born to mere penny stock status post Bar Mitzvah. Because till this day, the only accomplishment of mine, my father beams about it was me rocking my Haftorah portion at my Bar Mitzvah. Despite my cold brought on by his perpetual, belittling, dismissive, you’re soft putz tone, which left my nervous system in shatters. It also doesn’t do wonders for your self-esteem, when your mother and father openly admit to fretting about nobody showing up to your Bar Mitzvah Party after the party happens. Only to learn they invited as many people as possible to cover their bases. Despite me having more friends back then than I do now by far.

I was close with plenty of my buds like Ari, John and Coop but all those past relationships during my age of innocence. When we used to dance like comedy buffoons to Man in the Mirror and get high off Shirley Temple’s alone at Bar Mitzvah parties galore fail to match the pure joy I derive from making a dish which gets my 1 Capricorn to launch into repeats laps around the room. Otherwise known as the Yummy Dance as my son declares with endless topping glee, best daddy ever.

All of those relationships, even mine with Coop. Who I’d buy candy with before Hebrew School. So our group of friends could throw the Nerds candy and Gobbstoppers at the Scarsdale kids moments later. Because we attended nearby Edgemont High School and went to movies like New Jack City in Yonkers, NY during the height of Albanian Guido revolution. Albanian and Italian Guido’s of late eighties, early nineties fame, were the original metrosexuals really. So, by spending all of our free time in Yonkers at the movies around such spiked haired, fist flailing Albanian bad assess of yesteryear, we became a tad tougher than our Snuggles soft Scarsdale counterparts by mere osmosis. And didn’t sweat retaliation from raining cherry Nerds in Danny Farbers face during readings of Exodus 1 bit.

Despite writing every Heavy Metal band we could think of or read about in Circus magazine with my friend Ari on our Jean Jacket Denium 3 ring binders instead of letting Rabbi Klein bore us to death. Jackie Mason, an ex Rabbi he wasn’t.

Despite all the time I spent in John’s driveway with him teaching me how to throw a tight spiral already. Despite all of those special, warm hearted memories amassed between these old school friends of mine. Who’ll I always love in my heart for loving my sweeter, sober, still way in his shy shell self. My relationship with my son Arthur, my number 1 Capricorn is far more magical and heart tingly than all of those past relationships combined. And we all saw Dice’s coming out party on HBO and Poison slay at the Westchester Country Center with Fallen Angel and Nothing But A Good Time together.

All of these friends mentioned above, came to open mikes and bringer shows I did in Manhattan after living in LA for six years after college. Our roots run deep. But having a son is different type of relationship because he’s a more beautiful, funnier, far sweeter manifestation of you. Plus, he emanates from your Tree Trunk. So he has a sense of humor and can laugh at my new naked nickname for him Pecker Wood.

My beautiful son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, my number 1 Capricorn, my all American dream. Can’t believe he’s real. God really came through for me when I prayed for none of my kids to be afflicted with my knock kneed putz gene and boy did he overdeliver. But as I’m always emphasizing to my 1 number Capricorn, talent alone is no guarantee of greatness or of transformation from nobody to somebody success. Is Kobe Bryant genetically gifted? Of course, but he’s gym rat and it’s his killer work ethic, his dogged desire to be the best like Larry the Legend and MJ before him which separates him from the Alpha Dog pack. I don’t want my son to get addicted to munchies and the giggles in High School. I want him to get addicted to winning and becoming a leader. Who helps turn other self-doubters into winning addicted believers.

Before Arthur was born, I said, babe, I got the perfect nickname for Arthur, we’re going to call him The Art Show. 1 second later, his big sister interjects Arthur Morrison Kornbluth’s swelling embryonic mojo. And says. “No, it’s my show.” Since then, I’ve also called my son Arthur, my All American Dream because he’s got blue eyes, blond hair and looks like a prettier Micky Mantle. If Leo played him in a movie before all the booze and coke drained him of his God given good looks like a non-fruiter sounding Peter O-Toole.

I think giving your kids confidence building nicknames are important because it gives them a high standard to live up to like Art Show USA or All American Dream or Number 1 Capricorn. I’d say those nicknames are a glaring contrast to self-esteem restricting nicknames like Waste of Height in comparison.

The 1st founding father to sign the Constitution, George Washington said 99% of people fail because of their insistence on making excuses. And I refuse to raise my Number 1 Capricorn to be this way. Preparing is caring. So when I see my son on the playground at Pre-K to pick up early. And see him running around with such athletic grace and confidence supreme because I pushed the monkey bars on him early like his sister and got him mirroring my kettle bell exercises at 3. This glorious sight of my son’s confidence on the rise puts me at ease. Knowing he’s so much more comfortable in his own skin than I ever was at his age. And he’s getting stronger at conquering his inner shyness, more everyday, yeah, yeah. “Life is on the other side of fear”, like Eleanor Roosevelt said. When you’re an unemployed stay at home comedian dad, you have plenty of time to look up life coaching quotes to use on your children I know.

Preparing is caring. In a sense, a fair share of the losing in my life has prepared me to become a more informed, empowering caretaker for my children to ensure their semblance of egos don’t get tripped up at the starting gate. Becoming a parent is a life improver do over by granting you the opportunity to do good through your children. By doing your best to make sure they’re aware of your mistakes and don’t repeat them to ensure they become addicted to winning sooner than later. And don’t end up an unemployed father of 3 with a very funny yet unbillable podcast and blog under their belt for the past year and change. Preparing is caring. And more than ever, I’m determined to be the best winning role model I can be for my 1 Capricorn. And the only way I can do this, which is under my control. Is to keep banging out more retweet worthy jokes, unearth more heart warming blog chapters and finish writing my book, Stay-At-Home Comedian already. And settle for nothing less than family inspired comedy gold so I become funnier than Weird Al and don’t die a nobody before Christmas. I told you 1 Capricorn got his dark sense of humor from me.


Michael Kornbluth

Early Hanukkah Gifts Galore

Watching my mother-in-law reluctantly spin a Dreidel at our dinner table because her granddaughter gave her one to spin was like watching Moby being pressured into spinning Animal by Def Leppard by Kid Rock at gunpoint.

7 Year Old Daughter hands me Make Your Dreams Come True book I got for her. And says. Read this. It will get you a job. So you can start bringing home the bacon. And I’m not talking about the veggie kind either.

Do It All Dad’s plan to make my make gentile in-laws tense today. We place the Oy Vey headband we got yesterday at Party City on my daughter’s stuffed animal Pineapple Pretty because she pulls of the jappy girl persona the best.

Trump’s a White Nationalist retort for Thanksgiving.
Obama had Jay Z call Meek Mill to talk him out of meeting with Trump to discuss educating changing prison reform. Sorry, African American brothers got 99 problems but Trump isn’t one son.

INT. CAR-Outside of Target
Daddy, do people ever shoot arrows at Target?

Explaining consent to my 7 year old daughter.
So Jerry Lee Lewis married his cousin when she was only 14. Yuck. I know.
Plus, when she went moved in with him at 14. All she had to pack her cloths in was her Fisher Price Farmhouse.

White Nationalists run the White House reply for Thanksgiving follow up. Obama’s the enemy of black people. He did nothing about gun violence in Chicago. He imported inner city jobs to illegals and his best celeb bud is the ex-crack king of NY.

White Nationalists run the White House reply for Thanksgiving part 3. Are you telling me you know more about face to face racism than Jim Brown? Who Richard Pryor picked to help run the 1st black owned film production company back in the day.

Trump’s a White Nationalist retort for Thanksgiving part 4.
Then, why didn’t denture mouth Pelosi stand during his state of the union after he mentions record low black unemployment numbers? I prefer a President who stands for Americans 1st and delivers.

White Nationalists run the White House reply for Thanksgiving for the remaining kill shot. But your wife isn’t a hippie nurse from Australia. So your chances of scoring a Work Visa in the land down under is on par with those from the Spanish Caravan. Fake news hippie, man.

Manchester was named best Christmas Market in Europe.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I prefer Mariah Carey Christmas songs over Adele.
You could’ve had it all. You mean all 800 pounds of you, Mary Ploppins?

Stay At Home Comedian Dad
You don’t mind me wearing my Knicks shirt for your parents?
No, they love that we live in New York.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
Don’t move to Delaware on our behalf gave me that impression also.

You made this Alfredo sauce yourself?
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
Act more surprised like Huma licker breath on election night.

Jida, I learned Pisces like me can read emotions.
What’s daddy feeling?
Annoyed he can’t submit book proposals to agents including chapters such as Grandparent Bad Manners because you’re here now. If I had to guess.

Stay At Home Comedian Dad
What if you flew us all out to Manchester next year for Christmas?
Mother In Law
We’d have to quarantine the dog for 6 months.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
Why, did you rescue it from Hondrus?

My Buzz Kill Wife
Hey babe, the kids and I are making Low Rider Fredo Homes. We’re using lime zest & cilantro instead of parsley and lemon used in the traditional Fettuccine Alfredo. She says. Cilantro is strong. Angel Dust is strong bitch.

Do It All Dad’s plan to make my make gentile in-laws tense today. We put a Menorah Hat on Matilda’s new big sized Hello Kitty stuffed animal. English Mother-In-Law stares at Kitty quizzically. Daughter says. It converted.

Johnny Cash is the Frank Sinatra of country. The man in black is peerless in terms of charisma loaded phrasing, sardonic baritone based, killed around the world man bravado, tingly clear annunciation & cover topping grace.

My Non-Committal In-Laws
I say. We should celebrate Christmas in Manchester as a family 1 year.
Crickets ensue. I’m thinking. You would think I’d suggested us crashing the Royal Halloween party as the Hasidic Diamond stick up men in Snatch.

Daddy, are any banks evil? You know like the one Obama uses.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I think he uses UBS in Kenya.

Hanukkah starts early this year.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I know. Your people are used to dominating the entire month from December from start to finish. Your own red wave really. I can’t tell if I nailed that analogy or not.

The End


Michael Kornbluth