Parenting Genius

Parent Teacher conference was last night.  I open with, “You know Frank’s Pizzeria in town? Well, Frank just called Samuel our future President. What do you got?” Kindergarten Teacher, Mrs. Rudolph laughs long time. She adds, “He’s such a happy child.” I say, “Funnier dad, happier baby. You want a photo off old man? My son has more happy muscle memory to flex from than a young Leo on the set Growing Pains with Alan Thicke. Controlling our kids with comedy can make our kids great again, my 3 fuss free kids’ 90 percent of time are living proof of it.”

Mrs. Rudolph’s titillated esophagus secretes more laughter to fill the air, which feels like long lasting Lock Jaw Love in return.

Lock Jaw Love lasting, Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Spoiled Dumb Son

Do I believe in Climate Change?

I believe in never warming up to my asshole father.

Especially, after my son asks.

How much do you like Papa?

I say.

He openly questions how were related.

How much would you like him then?

Son says.

Does that mean you want to be an asshole too?

You’re not making any sense again, Moron Jewish Son.

Maybe he questions why your brain is so dumb compared to John Fetterman.

At least John Fetterman had a stroke.

What’s your excuse?

You’re spoiled dumb or just a medium suck son?

Who prepares more mock meat sandwiches that your dad would never eat like your Impossible To Top Cheesesteak.

What’s Impossible Burger meat made from again moron Jewish son?

Pea protein and synthetic enuchry?

Just busting your balls, I mean Nutsy Russells Daddy.

I’m just trying to make you tough because your father never did.

I loved the Sloppy Second Joes you made yesterday with Impossible Burger meat.

That’s named after Hair Plugs Sniffer, who resides in the fake news White House set, right Daddy?

Now write some more jokes for your last comedy record special from home, Spoiled Stupid Son.

At this point, you couldn’t write rotten dumb jokes if you tried.

Spoiled Dumb Son gets spoiled with more blood-on-blood love.

Bon Jovi, New Jersey lives, the beautifully good one, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”

            Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”            The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

            At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.”             Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”  

            Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.

            Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.

            Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.  

            Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.

            So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).

            Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.

            Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.  

            Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.

            “Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”

            ” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever. 

            “Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”

            Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.

            Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.

            Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.

            Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.

            “It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”

            Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

            Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”

            Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.

            American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.

            “Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?

            Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”

            Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).”      Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  

            Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”

            Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.

            “Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

            Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.”          Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”

Michael Kornbluth

Busted Beauty

Busted Beauty, otherwise known as Becca Kornbluth, was in no singing mood on Saint Patrick’s Day today, especially during the chanting portion of her Bat Mitzvah without a Torah Scroll to hide her nose behind, which she inherited from her mom’s black Irish side. Still, Becca wasn’t too green with envy on her 13th birthday compared to Ivanka Trump’s daughter, who most likely chanted her Haftorah portion in Mandarin. In fact, Becca was feeling a tad luckier than most since she struck up a platonic relationship with her best and only real friend, Joshua Prize, who turned her on to Phil Lynott’s soul man and a half’s stylings as the lead bassist and head front man singer songwriter behind Thin Lizzy, who actually looked black Irish from head to toe in real life, sporting the super-size, fly guy 70’s afro to match.  Getting Becca into the Thin Lizzy wasn’t the easiest sell despite Phil Lynott being considered Dublin’s answer to the biracial Bruce Springsteen of his day because she associated everything Irish with her busted looking nose with a bump on top, that no amount of Irish Spring when applied to it, could smooth her ruptured soul, after the time she was forced to feel excluded because of it during a game of spin the Guiness bottle on Saint Patrick’s Day on her birthday no less, which is the double whammy of in your face shame.

It was one year ago when Becca was forced to hide in the closet at Joshua’s birthday party, who was born on Saint Patrick’s Day top, so maybe there was some truth behind there being a thing called luck of the black Irish after all. Normally, Becca didn’t attend many birthday parties, instead spending her free time at home listening to Neil Diamond’s record Hot August Nights while reading Cracked Magazines as her black Irish mom who possessed a piss poor tolerance for even low alcohol lagers like Killian’s Red yelled at her dad, Michael Kornbluth for not “touching” her anymore, which made her feel like the busted, broken beauty inside. But tonight, was different because Joshua Prize was a transfer student from Park Slope, Brooklyn, and not having any friends in this new suburban hamlet otherwise known as Croton Falls, 45 minutes north of New York City, home of the ultimate Saint Patrick Day’s parade, he struck up a friendly conversation with Becca after the teacher announced the classroom birthdays, despite both of them refusing to wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day. Joshua Prize’s excuse was that he didn’t think green was the most flattering color on him. Plus, his Jewish father, who married an Irish lassie also, was beat up by Irish kids non-stop growing up in Brooklyn, who called him a Christ killer ad nauseum, insisting his ancestors 9 degrees separated from Don Rickles ancestry were responsible for heckling the indecisive Romans into crucifying Jesus to death.  So, sporting green on Saint Patrick’s Day didn’t make Joshua Prize feel so money mighty on beat up on the Jew day for being associated with alien blood colonizing blood suckers who controlled the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. So, when Joshua Prize was given the opportunity to make an impression when introducing himself to the class, he did. Joshua says, “You’re probably wondering, why am I not wearing green today? A classmate yells, “Because you’re a dirty gay Jew bastard.” Joshua says “I was going to say, Celtics shirts darken my inner light and look too regular drab for my taste, but close enough. Anyway, I’m having a Saint Patrick’s Day Birthday at my parent’s house tonight, which also happens to be my birthday. We dyed the pool green, hired House of Pain to DJ and imported a brick oven pizza hand tiled in Italy that will be serving all the pesto pizza pies you can eat. The party starts at 7, hope to see you all there, especially Becca. She’s an extra loosey-goosey live wire one, I can tell.” The entire class laughs with surging derision despite Joshua letting off a winkish smile at Becca from afar while looking directly through her soul which screamed, new love is in town. 

2 seconds into the party, the class bully Liam O’Reilly, insists they play game of Spin the Bottle, but only if Joshua and Becca hide in the closet, because they refused to wear a shirt that says, “Kiss me I’m Irish.” Becca and Joshua oblige. Becca hunches over in a rather spacious closet while fighting off hanging minks and leather jackets to get a clearer view of Joshua, whose father Steven Kornbluth, was a big time TV development executive in Manhattan for FX who greenlit It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Rescue Me. Finally, Becca fights through the endless jackets and her eyes meet Joshua’s piercing hazel lit eyes. She goes in for a kiss but Joshua backs away from it. Becca says, “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” Joshua says, “I’m just nervous about kissing you Becca because I’ve never kissed a girl before.” Becca says, “That makes 2 of us for now.” Joshua can sense he’ll wreck Becca’s surge of self-esteem for the foreseeable future if he doesn’t try to get into kissing her immediately. Joshua leans in to kiss Beca with his eyes closed and they clank their teeth together, almost shattering them into the smithereens. Becca says, “So I wasn’t born to be your main squeeze, Joshua. We can still be friends, right?” Joshua says, “I snuck in a bottle of Guiness, why don’t we split it together and play truth or dare.” Becca says, “Fine, but you to have to pick truth 1st.” Joshua says, “Truth, Becca is pretty with no makeup on. And I get along with girls better than boys, my mother excluded.”

Now, Becca stands tall over the bema, which is the elevated stage in Synagogue where she performs her speech to commemorate the completion of her Bat Mitzvah and says, “One time a dear friend told me, “Rejection toughens you up for more rejection”, yet I stopped feeling excluded from a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day since Joshua Prize came into my life. All of a sudden, my birthday felt pregnant with feel good possibility again. Now, I no longer wanted to bury my nose in AP chemistry books till science camp to hide my mark of shame. I’ve wanted a nose job for the longest time. Originally, it was the only reason I decided to study for my Bat Mitzvah, after my father bribed me with future Bat Mitzvah money to pay for it.  But I don’t mind my nose anymore since my friend Joshua gave it a positive spin after we were forced to sit out a game of Spin The Bottle in the closet at his parent’s house on his birthday no less. Joshua said, “Don’t blame your mom for your busted nose, Busted Beauty. Blame your gay closeted dad for getting too drunk to pull out again. But seriously, who cares if you inherited your mom’s busted nose or not? Your dad’s the one you should be pissed off at, especially knowing how’s he pushing you to use your own Bat Mitzvah money to pay for corrective nose surgery that was his glaring production oversight in the 1st place. At the same time, you can’t be too mad at pops, because he gave me you. Granted, our kissing chemistry is non-existent. But new love was in town the day we met in chemistry class, and we could always produce a test tube baby together if you’d like. Like the late great Phil Lynott said, “If you’ve got nothing but a sense of humor, you will survive.” And we’ve got each other’s back, no matter what. Who cares if you’re into kissing girls more, more than I am. Pervs stick together. Hey, we just outed ourselves while still stuck in the closet. Regardless, you’ll always be my favorite busted beauty Becca.” I said, “Joshua, stop being such a drama queen already. Your gayer than Allen Ginsburg during Fleet Week. Oscar Wilde wants his quilted pen used to ball tickle the ghost of Lord Byron back. Moments later, we emerge from the closet while the game of Spin The Bottle during party continues. Then, I go into kiss Joshua on the lips, but he arches his back away from me this time, before cracking his head onto the sharp corner of the wall, which required 13 stiches soon after. So, what’s the takeaway of this story ladies and gentlemen? He’s only a fag hag if you end up marrying the fruitcake. And sometimes, a gay boyfriend is a girl’s best friend.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Jewish Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist

Chosen, a 28-year-old black Jewish Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, required a COVID vaccine stamp on his passport for an upcoming summer tour in the US after sending Kayne West a demo tape with banging, killer rap songs such as ‘Me, My Mask and I’, ‘F The Mask Police’ and ‘Life After COVID’.

            The problem was, Canada had distributed the vaccine to only five percent of the Canuk population so far, enraging even the most stalwart, diehard, left-leaning government propagandist dirt rags of the far north. They now ran harassingly hurtful headlines about the anemic vaccine distribution numbers throughout Oh Canada such as “Operation Escargot Speed”, “Jagged Pill To Swallow” and “Flipping Out Over Florida” because Canadian caravans emerged, leading to a massive migration down south to score COVID vaccinations within swamp music country in Florida, to attain the digital proof of indoctrination necessary to work, travel, or take in a Toronto Raptors game again.

            This was despite Kwai Leonard taking his talents to LA to make mumblecore magic for the Duplass Brothers in a bunch of NBA short films for the Bleacher Report whenever he’d rest his nagging quads again.  

            Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, prided himself on being a funnier, less sadistically creepy Eminem. At the same time, he’d write record reviews and mail them to editors at the Source in LA, the hip hop Rolling Stone, for his own self-published rap debut album under COVID house arrest in Canada titled “Cosmic Chosen Perfectionists” in true cosmic-chosen perfectionist style while also proving that Kayne West didn’t have a monopoly on highly stylized, ego-topping, art rock God rap, either.

             Chosen would push album review lines in his honor to editors at the Source, such as, “Please don’t compare me to Drake for a fake news black Jewish rapper’s sake.  

            “I come from a line of hilarious Jewish rappers like Ad-Rock from the Beastie Boys, unlike fake news-persecuted Chuck D on Anthrax’s Bring The Noise.

            Chosen, the Canadian Rapper Conspiracy Theorist, had zero love for Good Wille Hoodie at Facebook for banning his budding fan page for so-called hate speech violations after dissing some of his primo targets in his rap such as Good Will Hoodie at Facebook, ANTIFA, Michelle Obama, Lebron James, and King of the Persecution Complex and Minnesota congressional rep Baby Face Omar for her support of the BDS movement against Israel, and for referring to death of Amy Winehouse on Twitter as, “Something happened, to a beehive-sporting, horn-hiding, satanic bitch who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.”

            Chosen got banned from LinkedIn, after getting banned from Facebook and Twitter, for calling Farrakhan a “Black supremacist who trolled Elie Wiesel on Holocaust Remembrance Day with termite emojis from dawn till night,” although what resulted in Chosen’s permanent suspension from LinkedIn was a truth bomb video link targeting the world’s largest resume database service when he did this gem-sparkling bit, “This is my impersonation of Dr. Dre discussing the recent merger of Microsoft with LinkedIn with his former protégé Eminem. Hey, Slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, “Wordddddddddddddddd, LinkedIn is lamer than ever yoh.”

            Then Chosen adds, “Eminem calls Trump Hitler, but he lifted the lifetime ban on Jewish membership when he bought Mara-A-Lago, Slim-On-Facts Shady.”

            Never getting enough of his punch-heavy, punctuated prose, Chosen goes in for the retaliatory kill against all the Trump-obsessed Twitter twats and states, “Tell me why I should care about Snoop Dogg’s political opinions, again? His brain hovers a notch below porn hood hell.            “Although I’ll still drink Old E, if it’s ice cold, at an AVN convention in Vegas. Party, Old E: you know Snoop Dogg’s Ho sprayer of choice from back in the day.

            “This was before Magic made HIV disappear, feeling exceptionally spry and swell for being an early-stage investor in Dell.

            “Trump is the Anti-Christ. But in the Bible, Part 2, Jesus defeats the Anti-Christ. So, have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you people?

            “I actually had to Google Anti-Christ. At the time, I thought, “that’s what Pig Vomit calls Howard Stern in Private Parts before he became weird, weak, woke Howard. So, how bad could the Anti-Christ be, holla, thank you very much.”

            Now Chosen was about to hop into his Toronto stripper girlfriend’s Porsche SUV. Her name was Cayenne, like the ride before their desperate dash across the border to score her some much-needed stripper work in Miami and much-needed vaccinations to keep their careers and balling lifestyle afloat.

            As Cayenne, a part-Haitian, part-French, striking, six-foot stunner hailing from the sultry Big Easy, pulls her champagne room-spewing ride out of Chosen’s driveway, she stops the car and says, “I don’t want to end up in a COVID Canadian jail, Chosen. How are we going to get past customs without showing them our vaccination IDs, Chosen?

            “I know you’re the best of the Beastie Boys all wrapped into one and are blessed with the funny Jew bone, capable of spitting out rhymes at will as if you were born to be in the perpetual zone.

            “But there’s only one Moses, babe, and I don’t see the Lord playing any part in getting the Canadian border patrol to part with their motion-sensing technology on your behalf.”

            Chosen takes in his stripper-scrumptious beauty, looking as if he could make love to her until his life blaster snaps in two, and says, “Stop talking crazy, Cayenne. We’re bound to Kayne, now, bitch. Plus, once I get that money on tour with Kayne, big tech and the Canadian mask police can’t tell me nothing.

            “Worst case scenario: I get arrested, record a new album in prison like Little Wayne, and Kayne West makes a trade for me in three years when he becomes President for Jim Carey, after he paints himself as a Chicago Rapper Conspiracist like the rest.

Michael Kornbluth

The Jolt Felt Around The World

It was 1986. Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with a badass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life.    Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the fourth grade, spending more time now stargazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid, because she saw how tweaky and sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did.

            Her younger brother Arthur would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later-discontinued Jolt Cola, which was the equivalent of six cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep-deprived first-grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store.

            But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage, because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss because she had to write a paper about it for class.

            Actually, Matilda’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, goody two-shoes square.”

            Now Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Ways from Halloween that she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again ’till 2061.

            By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous astrophysicist who would eventually go viral (despite the Internet not having been invented yet), where she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt, too.”

            Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt, and in a frenzied spurt, she darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite her inner square telling her that she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice-in-a-lifetime event (if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow up bigger than you-know-what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads.

            As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur, still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister; yet, unfortunately, she inherited her dear dada’s clunky, heavy feet (which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon, either).

            Arthur turns his head, spots Matilda, and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt—on a school night, too.”

            Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arthur. I’m not Matilda—you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation.  I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind, like Han Solo after Leia unfreezes him from carbonite in Jabba’s place.”

            Arthur adds, “Don’t BS, me ‘Tilda. Wait a minute. I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.”      Now Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green force field-enclosing, brain-eating alien bug. Arthur freaks out, as expected, yelling, “I got killed, ‘Tilda! I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m gonna get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”

            Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching it, Arthur. I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet.”

             Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins.

            As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each other, landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with the discarded Milk Way wrappers on it.

            Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over, baby.”

            Matilda, who has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain-drilling noogie, looks up to her Dad and asks, in perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet, Dad?”

             Dad says, “But, then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grow on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need.” 

Michael Kornbluth

The Zamboni Artist

“No friendship is an accident.”

O. Henry

If a husband googles an ex-girlfriend 3 kids later, does it mean he’s officially divorced from great expectations at home? At the same time, what man isn’t guilty of reflecting fondly on spoiled summers past? Especially, when you’ve had to suck up another frigid east coast winter in the face of permanent career stagnation suckitude again. The same winter and so-called comedy career that felt colder than Harvey Weinstein’s old casting couch at the 4 Seasons when you’re not laughing all the way to the bank yet. But at least, Harvey Weinstein’s wife of the past 12 years finally left him, to focus on her lifetime battle with amnesia. Now, Solomon Kornbluth, a proud stay at home podcast comedian was on thin ice with his wife of 12 years for failing to make any money off his sheets of comedy gold, despite him urging his accountant to write off such an awe inspiring, sparkly array of A plus gemry dissemination on his Do It All Dad Time Blog and Do It All Dad Time Podcast as a generous charitable donation. What 45-year-old non-industry represented, so called Comedian Solomon Kornbluth wanted was a win, but not just any win, like getting another comedy record Mega Dumb Daddy reposted on Soundcloud again by some random, faceless music promo service, but an actual trophy, symbolizing how in this instance Solomon Kornbluth was best of the rest.

Solomon Kornbluth had won some awards in the past, but they weren’t a result of superior mental toughness, sustained physical dominance or a result of outperforming his competition for number 1 champion bragging rights either. Winning Most Improved Basketball player at Sleep Away Camp was an incredibly moving moment for Solomon Kornbluth because despite not knowing the full extent of it yet, he was an overly sensitive, lonely, shy, nerve plagued fag, who blew off Canteen mixers with the fellow female camp members to shoot hoop and read his Cracked comics in bed alone instead after cranking one out to freckle face specked Alicia Rody, a counselor for the female camp who wore University Maryland boxer shorts, creeping up her supple, spry ass as Dice would say back in the day. And her mountainous cleavage formation was a thing of immovable, feast worthy beauty as those gorgeous melons dangled like luscious lobes of mouth drooling inducing perfection. Ok, so maybe Solomon Kornbluth wasn’t 100 percent gay yet, especially knowing how a fellow bunkmate tried to shame him once for owning a jar of Vaseline while having no idea what that meant. Bunkmate Jordan from New Jersey says in a crackling, just a day over puberty voice, “What do you need that Vaseline for Solomon?” And Solomon says, “I don’t know, for an itchy ass. My mom packed it for me.” Bunkmate Jordan laughs in a slightly demented, pseudo bellowing manner and says, “You can’t blame your mom for being a fudge packer dude.”

Later, on his Do It All Dad Year podcast, Solomon Kornbluth would do a routine about Sex-Ed in Sleepaway Camp throughout the late eighties before Magic made HIV disappear. He says, “Do 3rd graders today really need to know about scented lubes after using good old-fashioned Vaseline became passe already? When I was 13-year-olds at Sleepaway Camp, but still not into the puberty party yet, one of my bunkmates gay shamed me for my mom packing me Vaseline yet I still didn’t get gay lube joke connotations used at my expense till watching shemale porn decades later on 3rd Legged Beauties.com, if you really to know. It’s hard to develop any surge of self-esteem at Sleepaway camp, when you’re the 2nd worst athlete there after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck in yenta breath Seinfeld country. Seinfeld otherwise known as the “Joke Doctor”, just auctioned off one of his vintage Porsche’s for Charity. I hope half of those proceeds went to Larry’s kids. I also don’t want Seinfeld smirking for at least 5 years till he gives us a semi-credible excuse on being completely oblivious to Bill Cosby’s 4-decade reign of rape throughout fantastic LA, up high in those Hollywood drugging hills. Where were your powers of observation, then, Jerry? Also, why isn’t Barry Bonds or Roger Clemens in the Hall of Fame already? They were already Hall of Fame bound when I used to collect their cards at camp. Plus, if I took HGH, Testosterone shots or any form of performing enhancing drugs at Sleep Away Camp, I just would’ve struck out at a more accelerated speed.”

Solomon Kornbluth never got into collecting hockey cards until his friend Jared got him into the NY Rangers in 93, encouraging him to buy all the hockey cards he could so he could snag an Eric Lindros rookie card of his own, bound to be worth big money one day, who was being hyped as the new great one post Gretzky, who had a bigger mark on his back than Trump did after he triggered the Swamp with fits of despair for relegating good old Jeb Bush to another low energy, halfwit hack for hire like the rest. Solomon Kornbluth targeted Laura Bush in his debut comedy album Resist This when he said, “Fuck Laura Bush for thinking the world gives a shit about her memoir, Texas Librarians Know Best.” At least, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles was willing to get rich or die trying bitch. And this is an impression of Stevie Nicks backstage at MSG, “Hillary, tell me lies, only sweet little lies. Versus humongous bitter ones, like how you lost to Trump because of Russian collusion, involving fantasy tales of Drago Holograms emerging in your voting booth only to threaten you with impossible to ignore ultimatums like, “Vote Trump or I’ll break you.” I thought you lost to Trump because you’re an unhuggable cunt, my bad. You must have deleted that memo to Hillary. And why would Trump hire 2 Russian hookers to pee on him at a hotel in Moscow, when he can hire a bunch of Ivanka look-alikes to do the same thing at his hotel in D.C whenever pussy grabber likes?”

One time Solomon and Jared got caught shoplifting Hockey Cards at Child World, yet the security guard let them off with an ominous warning, when he said, “I’m going let you 2 go, but understand the only reason I caught you 2 was because you came back to steal again and got greedy.” This damning, ominous indictment of greedy self-serving behavior always stayed with Solomon Kornbluth who obviously didn’t pay homage to the commandment Thou Shall Not Steal one iota for some time after. Even his younger brother shamed him into stop stealing Turkey Jerky at Gelson’s as the ultimate Shishy bitch life enhancer back in the day. Little bro says,” “Never steal, it’s wrong bro.” And this is years after his younger brother, AKA. Sir Snort A Lot, was caught on a security camera stealing thousands from his parents ATM to buy more blow at 13 years old in Washington Heights from Julio Silver Blade The 3, which resulted in his parents shipping him off to boarding school with a bunch Jew picking on Hocky jocks in Avon, CT, which wasn’t really thought through on their part. So, Solomon Kornbluth knew what a steep price his parents had to pay for his younger brother’s crimes of incessant, serially serving selfishness like a pseudo slacker underachiever Hunter in the making, who never had the privilege of being able to collect 52 grand a month from a Ukrainian sports drink company for pushing Borscht as the new Kombucha.

One day Solomon Kornbluth got burnt out on making the world laugh for free on his Do It All Dad Time Podcast again and went to the local hockey rink for a cheap Happy Hour special and was greeted by an Italian bartender, Vinnie Zamboni the 2nd, who’s known to stir memories of ex-girlfriend’s past. Vinnie notices how Solomon Kornbluth is a tad low energy, hunched over his phone without much fiery glint in his eyes. Vinnie says, “Is that IPA stale champ?” Do you want something a tad lighter that’s more poundable like any yenta breath from Long Island on Spring Break.” Solomon Kornbluth laughs and asks, “What’s your story? Bartenders never make me laugh, unless they’re sporting a winter wool hat in summer.” Vinnie says “I’m Vinnie Zamboni the 2nd, my great, great, grandfather invented the Zamboni machine. I do the light shows for the hockey rink. My Zamboni driving days are behind me, cool job though when your 16. I plowed my fair of share of ice queen boxes on top of that puss plower machine. Solomon says, “What type of light shows do you produce? The one at Hayden Planetarium is boring, I felt asleep 2 minutes into it. Daughter woke me with a sharp elbow in my ribs and I yell, “What, God only made Neil Grase Dyson interesting for 2-minute spurts at a time.” Vinnie Zamboni The 2nd laughs and says, “You’re a pretty funny guy yourself. So, what’s bringing you down champ?” Solomon Kornbluth says, “Just longing for some fun in the sun again, 2 unplanned kids later. That’s what I get for being a degenerate pothead who keeps on forgetting to ask his girl if she’s on the pill. What’s bringing me down is realizing how I’m getting bored of my kid’s company and need to get back on stage again. Plus, my pinched nerve in my back is killing me since my wife forced me to see a Hate Speech Therapist since I stopped taking Adderall to focus less on how ahead of the curve annoying my wife can be after droppings lines such as, “I’ve sacrificed. She acts like an aspiring comedian in his early thirties wanted kids ever. I’m doing a Google search for a chiropractor, and I end up finding my ex in Hawaii who I met when I used to live in Hermosa Beach. How could I ever forget Summer King beyond those Hermosa skies? Then, I googled a comedy festival in Hawaii, but realized it’s been canceled because of this COVID damage done bullshit, so it got me down because I know I can win it. The only awards I ever won was Grooviest my Senior Year in High School and Most Improved Basketball Player at Sleep Away Camp. I was also wined and dined after leading my IT agency sales office in billing one month and got to party it up in the Sunset Room in fantastic LA once but that’s it. But I want to win that comedy festival and blast off away in my comedy gold mobile wave runner, which nobody will ever be able to take away from me. George Gershwin lives, Challah, thank you very much. If I can’t afford to get my son the SS Flag GI-Joe Aircraft Carrier for Hanukkah, at least I can let him ride my comedy gold mobile wave runner. How much would gas cost to ride that wave runner back to New York exactly? I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under Judicial Review.”

Vinnie says, “So I produce light shows flush with holograms of hocky legends both dead and new like Bobby Hull, The Mighty Messier, and reenact legendary fights like when Ty Domi fought Bob Probert in 94, when he poses with the belt around his waist, boy were those the days, pre-social media, before you had to hear lines on kids shows about some character being the Lebron James of stem cell research. What the fuck does that even mean? Is he a celeb Scientist that has his own brand of tequila spiked umbilical cord stump smoothies that he sold to Bill Gates for a cool 500 million or what? Can you believe kids today get Beyond Meat tattoos around these parts? I freelance as a Tattoo artist for my brother’s Tat Parlor in Danbury, CT called Body Art USA.”

Solomon Kornbluth says, “I’ve been telling my local Pizza owner Frank to make an artichoke slice using an alfredo cream sauce, versus just a boring white slice with flaccid, deathly off-white artichokes on it, that will inspire hipsters from Bushwick to make the schlep down to these parts just to Yelp all about it. Plus, I’m getting pissed about Bill Gate’s equestrian riding daughter already owning half the real estate in North Salem already. So, I love the idea of Frank being able to grab a meatier slice of that synthetic pea protein, beyond meat pie.” Vinnie says, “So whatever happened to your Summer Wind? Solomon says, “She smiled at me one day with her soul blasting eyes that screamed I love you, and for some strange reason, my eyes didn’t love her back. One time she died her blond, when I took her out to meet up with a friend of mine in Napa and everyone thought she was a high-end prostitute, because she dressed real classy sexy with the tight dress, creeping up her ass. I loved kissing Summer King. We’d do weed shotgun kisses together, which were the best. We made veal piccata while watching the Soprano’s together, drank Pyramid peach beers by Hermosa Beach and nobody sported prettier feet in the sand than Summer King. Vinnie says, “Summer sounds like a real trophy wife material.” Solomon says, “Yeah, she even said, “Why don’t we move to Santa Barbara so I could write books and she could day trade to make us money for the time being. Boy, did I fuck that one up. Vinnie says, “I hate to bring you down more than you already are Champ, but you’re right.”

Solomon Kornbluth says, “Summer liked Metallica, Wu Tang, the Sopranos and loved everything about me. She thought I could be a big-time writer just from reading my Friends spec script for Christ’s sake. Vinnie says, “I already told you fucked up bro. I’m known as the ex-girlfriend stirrer but you’re just progressively pissing me off for being such a dumb fuck for expunging her from your life jerkoff. You don’t think I want to kick back in the sand with a hot Asian gal from Hawaii in pebble free Hermosa Beach with a gal named Summer King no less for Christ’s sake? I had to suck up summers in an ocean full of seashells and fucking nets of seaweed in Norwalk, CT for Christ’s sake. Plus, my brother owns this rink and its our family tradition to keep it family operated. You’re a little old for it, but do you want a job riding a Zamboni? We’re already running around in circles, so why not take your sad sack sob story around the ice for a couple of laps because you’re bringing me down and enraging me at the same time. I’m paraphrasing but Mark Twain said writers write interesting stories who’ve possessed a series of interesting, varied jobs, so why not a give the Zamboni driver job a shot champ? You obviously have nothing else better to do with your time on a Sunday, ultra-wise King Solomon you’re not.”

Solomon Kornbluth took the job and smoothed over the rough patches with his wife at home before being promoted to chief Zamboni manager, who worked on his MC skills as the host of a weekly Karaoke night, rocking out renditions of Baba O’Riley with real deal star powered authority. Then, one year later, Solomon Kornbluth got his trophy and won the Aloha Comedy Festival, coming in 1st place and was able to take his wife, and mother of 3 children for endless, killer spins in his new comedy gold wave runner mobile for one memory rich victory lap after the next after delivering a killer set for the ages that was made for these times.

Solomon Kornbluth Kills

“It’s hard to keep cool when your kids were forced to wear masks like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain.”

“If Michael Jackson were alive today, how would he defend himself against all his Neverland accusers exactly? Would the King of Popping cherries say, “All the Beatles royalty points in the world, can’t buy me love?”

“Anyone try Snoop Dog’s new wine? According to Wine Advocate, it tastes like mouth wash used in porn hood hell”

“Actually, gave up drinking beer last summer. It got humiliating spending so much time, hungover, recycling, endless reminders of my lush, littered past, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by.”

“Did you know 4/20 is Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.”

“I stopped smoking weed till I discovered weed edibles, which are half CBD because I felt like a total moron trying to answer my daughter’s questions on the pure sticky stuff. Daughter asks, “Daddy if God created the universe, then who created God? I say, “God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk. Daughter says, “Do more edibles Daddy. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.”

“This is Ziggy Marely being interviewed by High Time Magazine. Reporters says, “Ziggy, how did your dad have 7 kids? Doesn’t ganja drain your ball sack dry? Ziggy Marely says, “Fake news, MAN.”

“And if Obama is such a baller, why did he ride the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii?”

“What if Bob Marley became President of the United States, so Obama didn’t have to? For starters, there’s no more trouble and it’d be a punky reggae party tonight and we’d be jamming in the name of the Lord, not in honor of Allah’s Gangster ruining paradise, especially since the hopeful one rebranded ISIS, ISIL, so they’d sound more start up friendly in the NY Times.”

“And ISIS Headhunters aren’t good recruiters. All they do is target other lonely virgins on Face Book Messenger like Good Will Hoodie/AKA Zit Face Zuck, who wish their phones blew up.”

“But how did killing the number 2 in charge of ISIS make it easier for ISIS to recruit? Like the head of recruitment for ISIS would ever honor a non-compete agreement with Al-Qaeda”

“And why are radical jihadists so into deflowering virgins in Allah’s hymen hacking Paradise? Doesn’t Jihadi John have enough blood on his hands already”

Solomon Kornbluth was later blown up into smithereens on his Comedy Gold Mobile Wave Runner in the Red Sea by Hamas terrorists after headlining a comedy tour there called, “Solomon Kornbluth Kills”, because a 2-state solution is impossible if Hamas keeps fucking. Still, what’s better than a 1st place Trophy is a new award in your honor, given every year at the Standing O Laughs Festival in Haifa called the Killer Set Kornbluth Award, which honors the most hardcore hilarious comedian who exhibited the most fearless, killer shtick from start to finish. All 3 of Solomon’s killer Koshertarian Comedian kids won the Killer Set Kornbluth Award in their dear dada’s honor. So comedic royalty in the mold of King Solomon Kornbluth did live through Do It All Dad’s big three after all.

And Solomon Kornbluth had his new Zamboni Artist friend to thank for his victory laps in his custom made, stretched Comedy Gold Wave Runner Mobile with his 3 biggest fans in the universe as they squeezed on to their dear dada with all their loving might. The same home team who always stood by his side, especially when his comedy career was ice cold, when mama would threaten to kick him out of the house if he ever gave his kids the common cold through COVID. And not even Hamas, despite them trying, could ever that away from thee. Unplanned favorites rule, proving once again how no friendship is an accident. O. Henry lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Family Friendly Pitch

November 15, 2022 

Dear Ramona Pina, 

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories is a comedic showcase of flash fiction stories that’s made for these punchline topping times. I wouldn’t mind being translated in France and beyond. According to my Soundcloud stats, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan. These stories are rooted in real life struggles yet also flush with magical realism within the crossover adult space, which is why I see this material hitting the sweet spot for you.  

My target audience for Waste Height are members of Gen X, who do more than audiobooks and the Joe Rogan Podcast. Who will relish my pop culture heavy references throughout Smackdown Satan, When The Shredder Frets and in Radioactive Resume Theories. Understand, I don’t shy away from media criticism in middle age reinvention tales such as Trucking To Zion and The Zamboni Artist. 

Being a busy mom of 2, I can you see you gravitating toward do it all parenting tales about wanting to raise drug free children in Regaining That Cuddly Feeling. 

Other stories of interest that are reflective of my queer leanings include Slut in Straight Jacket, Busted Beauty and Perverted Science.

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories, is broken into different story sections: Stand Up Short Stories, Do It All Dad Stories, Funny COVID Stories, American Made-Up Short Stories, Stand Up Staffer Stories, Sloppy Second Stories and Do It All Dad Does Kid Stories. I incorporate every genre from magical realism, The Headless Headhunter, YA, Trading Birthdays and absurdist adult humor, Hop Farm Footsie Scare of 1859.

I refuse to have Louie yuck up the space for funny man adult stories involving hyper articulate children, especially when his kids choke on my kid’s star dust, long time, all the time, Judd Apatow’s included. Challah, thank you very much. 

I’m looking forward to your reply. 

Best Regards.

Michael Kornbluth 

Marketing Manifesto Pitch

November 15th, 2022 

Dear Lindsey Smith, 

I want you to represent my book, The Koshertarian Comedians, which tells the inspirational tale of a Stay-At-Home Podcast Comedian who cleans up his act a bit during his year without beer while inspiring his wife and 3 kids to give the Koshertarian Diet a chance. Being married to a punk rocker, who’s also fan of voice driven narratives with some edge, I see no reason why you wouldn’t want to inhale the book whole from start to finish. I shed light on gender issues such as whether Stay at Home Dads can survive disdainful ridicule in between landing their next job eventually. They can’t. Although you’re able to ease the pain of scornful, degrative neglect in between with a little help from your Koshertarian comedian friends. How do I accomplish this miraculous feat exactly? Through earning more respectful impressiveness from the more laughs and yummy dance meal creations I make. All while growing closer to God and my 3 kids in the process for trusting in my God given powers of pleasure making dissemination. 

You’re an ideal audience for The Koshertarian Comedians considering your interests lifestyle, self-help, current events and pop culture references, which my Gen X target audience will understand. I also see you minting a publishing deal for The Koshertarian Comedians because it’s a self-help book about the self-empowering nature of creativity that instills pride of ownership. While also giving you the freedom to improve and perfect, whenever you’re making things with love, even if you’re not getting paid for it yet. Another important message imparted in The Koshertarian Comedians is the importance of not blaming the audience if your joke is a yuck yucker or if your latest dish creation bust is a suck, sucker, which is an important to message to impart among the younger, blame ready generation today.

I close The Koshertarian Comedians with a chapter called Exit Interview Day, which is my daughter’s exit interview from eating a strictly Koshertarian diet at home. Here, I lay the groundwork for a killer sequel, called The Pescatarian Comedians, where I declare to my daughter during our exit interview day, “If soulless shellfish was good enough for Jesus, the original super Jew, then it’s good enough for me.” 

Amazon has no books that are even close to being remotely interesting under the Koshertarian or Pescatarian realm, especially through a highly humorous family man lens. You can change that by selling a book James Beard and Anthony Bourdain wanted to read but never could. 

I’ve produced 136 comedy records over the past 14 months such as Brisket Mom Beater, Not Kosher Baby and the Liverpool Lip. The sales potential for these records sold in the form of audiobooks or E-Books, especially throughout overseas markets such as England, Canada, Australia, India and Israel are enormous. I also wouldn’t mind launching a new podcast platform with me as host called Do It All Coach Dads, which could provide the killer filler for our next best seller together. You can negotiate the digital rights with Spotify in between. 

We could also sell a pilot to HBO for The Pescatarian Comedians, delivering bits of food history, bit by bit involving my star seedlings, myself and other promising actors both old and new. Think Drunk History with a foodie minded twist.

Last, I also have 2 other books to secure six figure deals for, Waste of Height Really Short Stories and United We Laugh, all great titles I know. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his Stay-at-Home Dad Years. 

I resume my IT Headhunter career next Monday to finance self-publishing these book gems if I can’t find a lit agent willing to embrace the wild man leanings of the funniest Koshertarian Comedian who’s ever lived before the new year, God forbid. Because Florida and Anti-Semitism are so hot right now. 

Assuming, I haven’t turned you off with my supreme arrogance, thanks for giving The Koshertarian Comedians a chance.

Sincerely,

Michael Kornbluth

Master Set

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