Bad Boy Soy Boy Strikes Back

Once upon a time there was a biracial Korean and Jewish kid from the Riverdale section of the Bronx named Steven Park, who his friends called Bad Boy Soy Boy for unleashing his Nunchucks of fury at a block party on a bunch of black gangbangers who wore the same wife beater, corn rows and cut off jean shorts, looking like they were dressing up for Coolio Appreciation Day, who dared to call him a COIVD chink in his midst ever again, as he cracked one skull in 2 after another without breaking a sweat in a NY Minute. Son of Sam in the seventies was scary no doubt, but the surge in hate crimes against Jews and Asians in the boogie down Bronx Jersey City around the Island of Manhattan were at an all time high with no relief or added protection in sight.

Cops today, were younger, softer, and far less hardcore than their 9/11 predecessors, nobody in the force today has the balls to make on the side like 99 percent of the force in the movie Serpico. Bail was banned in NY, garbage filled the streets, rats grew the size of Lena Dunham during Restaurant Week after challenging Leslie Jones to a Junior’s Cheesecake off. But even these woke large in charge funny woman, couldn’t believe what a scary shithole their cherished concrete jungle of yesterday had become in 4 years flat.

Crazy talk slogans punctured the air such as, “Ban ICE”, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destruction years. It’s no excuse to mug Chinese grandma in Chinatown, yet the Wuhan made virus, had made New Yorkers at large crazier than ever, placing misplaced faith in a news media hellbent on feeding more unregulated hate and fear into the nation about black men in America being America’s most hunted, despite not one enlightened BLM member encouraging their fellow brothers to just stop resisting arrest, God forbid.

Every day, Bad Boy Soy Boy worked at his parents deli in the South Bronx, despite living in the leafier, more snuggle soft confines, of Riverdale in the Bronx, where abandoned torched, burnt down buildings to salvage a semblance of ROI from the insurance company were less common than a B plus Korean student at Bronx Science.

Bad Boy Soy Boy had to bite his lip at the deli every time some brother would come in there talking endless shit, yelling, “COVID Chink, this, COVID Chink that,”, despite him being fucking half Korean and half Jewish. It didn’t make a difference because cum bucket dumpsters such as Cardi B today were deemed heady, culture enriching, poets from the street, whose gaping, sloppy 3rds snatch couldn’t be beat, allegedly.

But one day Bad Boy Soy Boy, decided enough was enough, so he opened a medicinal speakeasy weed milk bar in Bergen, New Jersey as a front to offer Nunchuck self-defense classes for Asian Americans based in any of the 5 boroughs willing to make the schlep to fight for their life to live out the protracted, rapidly fading American dream with a semblance of peace of mind as they raged, raged against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas lives, holla, thank very much.

Now, Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class, became the number one tourist destination in Bergen history, not that there was stiff competition in this department. But Bad Boy Soy Boy had a college roommate from UPENN who he’d talk to on the phone every day who worked as a rock star chef for a Korean food truck in old city in Philly, known for their Korean eggroll cheesesteak hot pocket breakfast treats that had to invest in a bullet proof vest covered food truck in what was once the only really safe area in Philly outside of center city on Chestnut street. But safe spaces for Asian Americans were now deader than Jeremey Lin’s chances of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated 7 times in a row again, especially since JR Smith bitched to Knicks management about the golden child Harvard grad who plopped in their lap out of the freaking blue, because he was hogging the Garden spotlight and bike lane all for himself.

Asian Americans including Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, who never bothered to study martial arts, thinking, it wasn’t necessary to learn from 1994 to 2020, were flocking to Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class. Bad Boy Soy Boy’s grandfather, Michael Kornbluth was a Holocaust survivor because when all the brown shirt ANTIFA members of their day banned guns, he used his own Nunchucks of fury gifted to him from his Korean father in law, and cracked NAZI skulls hyped on crystal meth all his way to freedom from Nazi persecution in NY to later establish a family of his own with his former reflexology wife therapist as a proud 1st generation deli owner, getting Jewish New Yorkers hooked on Kimchee for more reasonable outs to ever slip their wife the tongue ever again. Both young and old Asian Americans no longer had to live in helpless, paralyzed fear, all thanks to Bad Boy Boy Soy Boy teaching them the infinite beat down possibilities, using the all mighty Nunchuck strikes of fury to ensure they were never fucked with again in the name of the COVID Chink virus or not, because Bad Boy Soy Boy was on a mission from God to prove Bruce Lee’s weapon of choice, is nothing to fuck with.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Secrets Of My Soy Boy Success

Soy Dogs, get lost, not interested, they possess zero snap, never looking healthy, resembling flaccid impotence to me. I don’t care if you microwave Soy Dogs in a wet paper towel for 1 minute or throw them on the grill, the saved points on Weight Watchers aren’t worth the taste of boundless, zero thrills yuckiness throughout. Plus, soy dogs on the grill burn faster than Hitler’s desire to annihilate whenever his old school herpes sores pierced through his precious stash again. When the best thing you can say about a Soy Dog is, “I like the Ketchup on it, because if I ever needed a palate cleanser to erase the depressed, doughy, middle-aged malaise I’m trying to desperately avoid right now through forcing myself to eat this rubbery fake news conjuring hot dog, it’s now.”

But soy dogs aren’t reflective of the flavorful, absorption potential of soy either nor do soggy soy dog links compare to the scrumptious, splendidness of Morning Star’s soy nuggets, which got me into adopting more soy-based meals into my diet. I even put my sales hat on in Morning Star’s honor and sold the shit out their soy based frozen products on my own mock advertising portfolio for junior copywriter roles after my daughter was born, when my Stay-At-Home Comedian journey began, such as Morning Star Nuggets, “So Good You’ll Eat The Crumbs”, which I also billed as the “Best Piece You Never Had.” My favorite print ad in my portfolio was reserved for breaded Morning Star burgers: Fuss Free + Guilt Free +Mess Free=Zero Regrets.  Soy Dogs were a long distance memory now, offering less titillating interest than Hello Kitty trying to lip-sync Surrender by Cheap Trick for Karaoke Critter Appreciation Night.

There’s a vegetarian restaurant by NYU called Bamboo, which does tantalizing, recreationist wonder with soy, especially in the form of fried chicken replication, somehow magically transforming soy into real deal Holyfield tasting fried chicken, compelling even Iron Mike back in the day to chew off more than a nibble, passing the bad boy soy boy test in my book, holla, thank you very much. Again, Guilt Free +Fuss free +Mess Free= Zero Regrets, especially, when A) You get to devour huge mounds of protein rich soy based fried chicken, without feeling like a lazy brain, fast food junkie whale B) Don’t have to concern yourself with breading anything or worry about the concentrated shots of estrogen in the soy based fried chicken, knowing your 9-year-old daughter has nothing to bare upstairs yet. Plus, if my daughter fills out like mommy, chances are she won’t become another busty beauty like Jennifer Tilly. And C) It’s impossible to regret ordering soy based fried chicken when it tastes like an airy light version of the real thing, especially knowing that a block of soy was never a living breathing, claustrophobic, nerve damaged chicken who died of a heart attack the time Pedro Martinez showed it a cockfighting fight on YouTube to see if Chicken Little was ready to fight up a weight class after he promised to pump  her up with chicken liver schmaltz hormones with his signature breaking balls speed.

I got my 2 boys into soy dogs for a bit, before I introduced them to the highly superior Hebrew National Jumbo Dogs, draped with spicy brown mustard, whenever we ran out of ketchup again, because I plopped out every last drop to make soy dogs still eaten by daughter on occasion, edible tolerable, from start to finish.  Last night, I decided to slay Tofu The Terrible again and make my best batch of Golden Child Tofu Pitas, made in a yummy, barbeque sauce, consisting of fried sweet red peppers and red onions, promoting my daughter to declare, “Daddy, I want the recipe for your Golden Child Tofu Pitas. Eddie Murphy lives, through a random, yet not direct quote from the Golden Child, which is “I, want the knife”. What Gen X Dads understand, holla, thank you very much.

First, you must dehydrate the soy wrapped in paper towels to soak up all the water weight lost from a hilly, 45-minute Peloton ride through a no-go zone in Germany, holla thank you very much. Then, you must cut semi substantial squares of dehydrated soy to fry up in vegetable oil later on a high flame, only to be a tad fussy about using thongs to flip over each golden child cube of glistening perfection over individually to ensure the golden-brown crackling crust or else the soy cubes resemble deflated, smooshed, pieces of torn of airplane pillows.

But make sure to caramelize the red peppers and red onions separate 1st, before mixing it with the too cool for school golden child cubes, which you must splash with soy sauce throughout to give it the much needed salty, funky kick throughout if you don’t want the bubbly soy pieces to taste like chewy, flavorless soy gum either.  

Adopting soy into your diet won’t be life changing but you’ll be amazed at soybeans potential for recreationist splendor, where the thought of soggy soft day afternoons, fade faster than Daddy, next time his kids try to show him what lunch they’re making for Hello Kitty on their Amazon Fires Tablets next.

Never forget. Guilt Free +Fuss Free + Mess Free= Zero Regrets. My 7-year-old son caught a kid in his class cheating off his math quiz at school, but my son isn’t Chinese. So if my son takes after me at all, I’m not as mathematically challenged as I think.

Michael Kornbluth

The Secret Of My Soy Boy Success

Soy Dogs, get lost, not interested, they possess zero snap, never looking healthy, resembling flaccid impotence to me. I don’t care if you microwave Soy Dogs in a wet paper towel for 1 minute or throw them on the grill, the saved points on Weight Watchers aren’t worth the taste of boundless, zero thrills yuckiness throughout. Plus, soy dogs on the grill burn faster than Hitler’s desire to annihilate whenever his old school herpes sores pierced through his precious stash again. When the best thing you can say about a Soy Dog is, “I like the Ketchup on it, because if I ever needed a palate cleanser to erase the depressed, doughy, middle-aged malaise I’m trying to desperately avoid right now through forcing myself to eat this rubbery fake news conjuring hot dog, it’s now.”

But soy dogs aren’t reflective of the flavorful, absorption potential of soy either nor do soggy soy dog links compare to the scrumptious, splendidness of Morning Star’s soy nuggets, which got me into adopting more soy-based meals into my diet. I even put my sales hat on in Morning Star’s honor and sold the shit out their soy based frozen products on my own mock advertising portfolio for junior copywriter roles after my daughter was born, when my Stay-At-Home Comedian journey began, such as Morning Star Nuggets, “So Good You’ll Eat The Crumbs”, which I also billed as the “Best Piece You Never Had.” My favorite print ad in my portfolio was reserved for breaded Morning Star burgers: Fuss Free + Guilt Free +Mess Free=Zero Regrets.  Soy Dogs were a long distance memory now, offering less titillating interest than Hello Kitty trying to lip-sync Surrender by Cheap Trick for Karaoke Critter Appreciation Night.

There’s a vegetarian restaurant by NYU called Bamboo, which does tantalizing, recreationist wonder with soy, especially in the form of fried chicken replication, somehow magically transforming soy into real deal Holyfield tasting fried chicken, compelling even Iron Mike back in the day to chew off more than a nibble, passing the bad boy soy boy test in my book, holla, thank you very much. Again, Guilt Free +Fuss free +Mess Free= Zero Regrets, especially, when A) You get to devour huge mounds of protein rich soy based fried chicken, without feeling like a lazy brain, fast food junkie whale B) Don’t have to concern yourself with breading anything or worry about the concentrated shots of estrogen in the soy based fried chicken, knowing your 9-year-old daughter has nothing to bare upstairs yet. Plus, if my daughter fills out like mommy, chances are she won’t become another busty beauty like Jennifer Tilly. And C) It’s impossible to regret ordering soy based fried chicken when it tastes like an airy light version of the real thing, especially knowing that a block of soy was never a living breathing, claustrophobic, nerve damaged chicken who died of a heart attack the time Pedro Martinez showed it a cockfighting fight on YouTube to see if Chicken Little was ready to fight up a weight class after he promised to pump  her up with chicken liver schmaltz hormones with his signature breaking balls speed.

I got my 2 boys into soy dogs for a bit, before I introduced them to the highly superior Hebrew National Jumbo Dogs, draped with spicy brown mustard, whenever we ran out of ketchup again, because I plopped out every last drop to make soy dogs still eaten by daughter on occasion, edible tolerable, from start to finish.  Last night, I decided to slay Tofu The Terrible again and make my best batch of Golden Child Tofu Pitas, made in a yummy, barbeque sauce, consisting of fried sweet red peppers and red onions, promoting my daughter to declare, “Daddy, I want the recipe for your Golden Child Tofu Pitas. Eddie Murphy lives, through a random, yet not direct quote from the Golden Child, which is “I, want the knife”. What Gen X Dads understand, holla, thank you very much.

First, you must dehydrate the soy wrapped in paper towels to soak up all the water weight lost from a hilly, 45-minute Peloton ride through a no-go zone in Germany, holla thank you very much. Then, you must cut semi substantial squares of dehydrated soy to fry up in vegetable oil later on a high flame, only to be a tad fussy about using thongs to flip over each golden child cube of glistening perfection over individually to ensure the golden-brown crackling crust or else the soy cubes resemble deflated, smooshed, pieces of torn of airplane pillows.

But make sure to caramelize the red peppers and red onions separate 1st, before mixing it with the too cool for school golden child cubes, which you must splash with soy sauce throughout to give it the much needed salty, funky kick throughout if you don’t want the bubbly soy pieces to taste like chewy, flavorless soy gum either.  

Adopting soy into your diet won’t be life changing but you’ll be amazed at soybeans potential for recreationist splendor, where the thought of soggy soft day afternoons, fade faster than Daddy, next time his kids try to show him what lunch they’re making for Hello Kitty on their Amazon Fires Tablets next.

Never forget. Guilt Free +Fuss Free + Mess Free= Zero Regrets. My 7-year-old son caught a kid in his class cheating off his math quiz at school, but my son isn’t Chinese. So if my son takes after me at all, I’m not as mathematically challenged as I think.

Michael Kornbluth

Fussy About Fungi

Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.

For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.

But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”

No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”

The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight.  Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.

The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.

Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like the fucking help.  Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake,  I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”

Michael Kornbluth

Fussy About Fungi

Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.

For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.

But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”

No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”

The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight.  Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.

The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.

Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like the fucking help.  Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake,  I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Triggered Tearjerker

“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy?”, Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy 45-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie doc.” Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think your incapable of experiencing joy for others.” Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past 2 hours?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York and a Victorian Mansion in Mount Vernon, NY, Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground by the way and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself, that’s how I know motherfucker.” Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already and we just met. Look, I’m only hear because I just got remarried yet my kid from the previous marriage is already causing a strain in our marital relationship. All the melatonin gummies in the world, can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace mommy with or not. My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy happy movies like Rudy to and questions whether I really want to have a do over baby with her after all.” Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?” Matt says, “I don’t know doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit. I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless, if The Lord of The Rings franchise being huge for his career or not. I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint as a kid than helping me develop a half away decent hook shot or believable pump fake in the post. I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother instead. I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother, to realize she uses a nickname for me Scoops, for my younger brother to. If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, would you have issues crying at the end of Rudy to?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel to learn your mom uses the same nickname on younger brother? Matt he furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman, a nobody, an unwanted futon with bed bug bite marks after college. I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy doc, I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife. Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer, yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away since giving me a daughter because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life, when she’s barley around to help with my kid in the 1st place.  Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?” Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida, or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug, which saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess. Fuck radical empathy Doc. My mom’s default sour puss mode around my happiness spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east, after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish. Either you’re excited about your 1st born raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video or not.  I get it mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for 4 decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, yet somehow blames it on him being lactose intolerant. When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror to change your depraved ways, just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking, wish fulfillment at it’s finest. And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited after insisting, “I get a maid, which I can’t afford or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever. Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with, got it. All I know doc is my mother would never break into constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.” Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married? Matt says, “I love her doc but it’s not role to criticize my daughter so soon. 4 years down the road sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then. So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my 1st marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference really.”

Doc says, “Looks our time is up.” Matt replies, “So what movie magic do you have planned for me next week doc, Remember The Titans, Hoosiers perhaps?” Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper’s fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home waddling in drunken squalor prior before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you dad”? Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.” Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you piece of shit deplorable.”

Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the Furniture salesman from Nyack, which made him feel like a fluke, another vastly depreciated, average nobody to, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equal distributed encouraged love. Now, Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straight jacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once during outdoor play. Who spends all his days now in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face, chanting with increasing force, Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know, I’m not among the walking dead yet, ” Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”  

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Crowd Pleasing Peasant

It’s hard to feel like a peasant at the posh, outdoor Grove mall in West Hollywood when you spot Broadway star Nathan Lane leisurely suck down his drink from Jamba Juice, in a pink jump suit from head to toe, without a worry wrinkle in sight, especially around 2002, before flashy Angeleno’s were being jacked for daring to sport Rolexes on Melrose in broad daylight.

Buying your 1st panini grill at The Grove to make high end grilled cheese sandwiches, using homemade aioli’s from scratch based on the cookbook from LA famed chef and founder of nearby La Brea Bakery, Nancy Silverton, doesn’t make you feel chained to a lifetime of thankless, zero high, serfdom either. Still, when you’re a Stay-At-Home Koshetarian Comedian at 44 years old, whose still not in the Writers Guild of America yet, despite writing for TV twice, you get looked down upon with huffy, disgusted disdain if you ask the cheese monger at Whole Foods if they have Landa Lakes American Cheese or tell your mom how you use onions in most of your meals, which the kids love, only to hear, “Onions are peasant food, you know.”  Based on my mom’s sucks to be an elitist buzz kill reaction, you’d think, “I shamed my mom by reopening my account on Facebook, only to tag all of her friends, with nothing but onion loaf sandwich recipes on Wonder Bread, holla, thank you very much.  At the same time, inheriting money, marrying into it or earning plenty yourself, doesn’t always overcompensate for certain hard to shake hick tendencies such as insisting on drinking chardonnay before it cools, or for proclaiming Meghan Markle is anything less than a race pimping, royal pain in the ass.

Some would argue the American grilled cheese is college freshman peasant food or your standard white trash trailer entre, yet it doesn’t have to be that way. Don’t get me wrong, Landa Lakes, yellow American cheese on Wonder Bread was fine growing up, despite my mother being weak on monitoring burnt toast detail. Still, what I learned in my mid-twenties as a proud panini owner in Sherman Oaks, CA at the time, working as a bartender for a bit at a fancy 4-star French restaurant on La Cienega before I got canned for breaking too many wine glasses on the job as the Mexican bus boys snickered at me, with dumb white boy derision as deserved, is that assuming ownership of making a grilled cheese a notch better than mom’s burnt ass, 3 bite edible ones, will help ensure you no longer feel like a slovenly dirty white boy no more. Foreigner lives, holla, thank you very much.

A great tip I learned from my panini book by big deal chef Nancy Silverton was to rub a peeled off bulb of garlic and rub it sensuously all over both pieces of bread you’re using to make a more substantial, elevated grilled cheese than what you’re reared on in the past, which miraculously imbibes all the garlicy, yummy essence you need. Personally, sourdough is my favorite bread of choice for grilled cheeses yet dare I say, peasant bread will get the job done to. I’ll also kick up the excitement factor by transforming the standard grill cheese into a bomb veggie panini melt of sorts, by adding super fresh local Mozzarella from any Italian grocer or from Whole Foods for that matter while also slathering on a semi-homemade basil aioli, consisting of nothing more than chopping up some fresh basil, mixed with peeled off pieces of garlic, interlaced with a little pinch of salt and pepper mixed in a premade mayo, and your perceived days of peasantry dissipate faster than the sandwich, assuming you also add some fresh, borderline emerald green leaves of spinach and olive oil drenched, diced up, seasoned cherry tomatoes, which is the ultimate cherry bomb popping, topping on top. My kids loved this last batch of grilled cheese so much, there wasn’t a single crumb left between them. Are you getting yummy dances from your grill cheese creations? Are your kids going out of their way to announce at the highest possible decibel, between more scrumptious, shishy bitch bites, “Delicious Daddy, absolutely delicious?” I didn’t think so, you peasant shaming cunts. This Koshetarian Comedian continues to bang out more sheets of comedy gold with no clear payday sight, yet if I keep generating rave reviews like this, I’m bound for an eventual pay hike.

Michael Kornbluth

The Maudlin Mermaid Waffle

I’m doing sight words with my 7-year-old son Art Show, documented as Arthur Morrison Kornbluth on his Social Security Card, which looked more bad ass than it sounds when I received it in the mail. Coming up with the middle name Morrison for my son was a divine blessed miracle despite Sam Harris’s snippy claims of belief-based hogwash otherwise because Morrison creates an actual flow to Kornbluth, which is easier said than done. One time I considered naming my 1st son Arthur Brooks Kornbluth in honor of funny man Hebrews who have inspired me to become a professional funnyman one day such as the perpetually smug dour, Albert Brooks. Bu then I changed my mind because I didn’t want to give my son the permission to be a victimized plagued, Jewish pushy. At the time, I also liked the idea of pissing off my dad, with the name Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, so he could say to me, “Morrison, isn’t very Jewish genius.” Only for me to reply with, “But up and coming Jewish comedians who want to break into show busines have changed their last names since the dawn of time to come across as less overtly, kvetchy, pushover Jewy, like Jonathan Leibowitz, who changed his name to Jon Stewart or Andrew Silverstein, who went with straight up Dice, after jacking the Buddy Love asshole persona from the original Nutty Professor and Elvis’s puffed up pompadour hair due while also pumping the entirety of Mother Gooses rhymes for all they were worth.  So, it’s ok for self-motivated, scrappy comedians on the rise to change their names the way Rodney and Joan did but it isn’t kosher to give my son the middle name Morrison because it reminds you too much of Toni Morrison, Van Morrison or Tommy Gun Morrison from Rocky 5, Dad? I don’t get it. I know you prefer Dylan’s word dumps over Van Morrison or my own for that matter. Still, I’m not giving my son permission to drink himself to death by the magic 27 the way Jim MOJO Motherfucking Rising did. Instead, my son has an effortlessly cool, larger than life name to live up to, who won’t lie to reporters about his parents dying in a car accident, discovered by Indians to avoid talking about his disapproving Dad, despite being the dark price of poetic rock of his day.  

I never considered changing my last name in a sneaky, misleading attempt to break into show business in a more palatable, less in your face Jewy fashion although I did experiment on stage during my years on the open mike circuit throughout dumpy towny bars in the talent agent free hinterlands of Northern Westchester County, by having the MC introduce me as Michael Rocker for a bit. I had good sets with that name to but stopped using it because the stage name Michael Rocker started sounding like an easily discarded 1st name idea for the new porn up and comer actor to replace Dirk Diggler as the new face of VHS tape porn in Boogie Nights. Paul Thomas Anderson lives, holla, thank you very much.

Since I’ve become a practicing Koshertarian comedian, the idea of changing my last name, to blend in better with our Christian dominated nation at large, fails to give me sustained stiffage to, just to give the MC an easier last name to annunciate than Kornbluth. Kornbluth is a total mouthfeel I get it. Kim Kardashian can’t wrap her mouth around it. But now Kim is going to become a Social Justice Lawyer. Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now, What Makes Sammy Run? on Amazon, not so much.

Also, after just watching Mank on Netflix, the stubbornly depressing, factual based reality of the Jewish Moguls such as Louis B Mayer being hesitant to pressure Washington to stop Hitler from franchising Concentration Camps like Johnny Rockets throughout Poland and Germany out of fear of hurting MGM’s profit’s from the number 1 overseas market of it’s time, the China of its day, drains me of any lingering leftover desire to becoming a woke chameleon to play nice with the Dream Factories founded by Jewish moguls complicit in being engaged in the Nazi profiteering business, making them no better than Joe Kennedy in my book.

For my daughter’s 10th birthday, a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to make Kosher barbeque Brisket sliders, yet my wife got tense about the concept. I said, “Why are you tense about telling your mom about our family rocking the Koshertarian Diet? Oh, yeah, she performed eucharist on my 3 kids behind my back. I totally forget it for a second. We don’t want to advertise any affiliation with the Jewish faith in our own home, got it.  It’s like forcing your mom to eat a shit sandwich with Biden’s mask nappy on while gagging on such rancid, unpleasant in your face Jewishness. It’s borderline suicidal triggering offense, on par with Meghan Markle being forced to balance the Queen’s Gin and Tonics on her head for charm school posture 101, when she wasn’t lounging in the VIP box at Wimbledon, having it all to herself, while banning all reporters from the premises, thinking, “Even Beyonce isn’t white looking enough, to get away with this shit.”

Yeah, so if Meghan Markle was ever really suicidal while nursing a thumb sprain for losing a thumb wrestling match to Michelle Obama after a post Wimbledon party which got out of hand, over who got  1st dibs on pegging Archie from behind, before his face got rammed into royal tapestry rug to the point where his freckles got smooshed off in process, she never would’ve written a passive aggressive not on par with the one Kate Spade left for her only daughter, which read, “Dad will explain.” Kate Spade’s widowed husband reads the suicide note out loud at the time and screams, “Dad will explain. Dad will explain, what Kate? I, was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate.”  Holla, thank you very much.

So, I’m doing more sight words with my son Arthur Morison Kornbluth this morning and he only gets 2 wrong, still prompting me to call him a “Fake News Genius” and “Bubble Tape Brain”, after he failed to the recognize the word “saw”, despite me acting out using a handsaw to chop off his femur in half as he howled shrieks of endless joyous, angelic delight. But believing in a loving God is equivalent to believing in an indifferent alien psychopath like Predator, Sam Harris? I know Scientists can’t prove God exists despite you building a successful podcast career playing a pseudo brainer, punch free, zero gravitas exuding version of Bill Maher for a living, for daring to accuse Christians of killing, torturing and enslaving in name of the original, super Jew of his time, got it.  Also, I hate to burst your meditative, vastly spiritual bubble Sam Harris, but the Torah wasn’t written by Tony Kushner either, because then it would come across as excessively wordy, even for Kevin’s Smith’s tastes. Get Kevin Smith away from those damn Tablets. Punching up Good Will Hunting isn’t the same as the punching up the old Testament, Mallrats lives, holla, thank you very much.”

Later, my son’s ecstatic high was short lived after mama presented her Kellogg’s brand of purple Mermaid waffles. Don’t get me wrong the whip cream and blueberries was a nice touch on top, but it couldn’t remove the scarring of image of what Grimace puked after a group of kids gave him a barrage of leg jumps in the eighties in the ball pit at Mcdonald’s during the height of Hulkamania, assuming he was a secret lush, who drank too many vodka laced, Lavender Smoothies between bathroom breaks in between.  So much for running out of ideas for new chapter entries for the Koshertarian Comedian, despite my total non-involvement in mama’s Maudlin Mermaid Waffle bust or not. Although my wife trying to upstage me as our new in-house Koshetarian Comedian failed to materialize in her favor, when she kidded about the frozen Mermaid waffles being made of Mermaid blood, or something gross like that. In related news, did you know Neil Young left his wife of 25 years for the actress Daryll Hannah. Talk about a match made in hippie heaven. Neil Young’s Publicist told Rolling Stone off the record, “Neil is going through a post midlife never banged a mermaid crisis. What Gen X Dads understand, holla, thank very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Crowd Pleasing Peasant

It’s hard to feel like a peasant at the posh, outdoor Grove mall in West Hollywood when you spot Broadway star Nathan Lane leisurely suck down his drink from Jamba Juice, in a pink jump suit from head to toe, without a worry wrinkle in sight, especially around 2002, before flashy Angeleno’s were being jacked for daring to sport Rolexes on Melrose in broad daylight.

Buying your 1st panini grill at The Grove to make high end grilled cheese sandwiches, using homemade aioli’s from scratch based on the cookbook from LA famed chef and founder of nearby La Brea Bakery, Nancy Silverton, doesn’t make you feel chained to a lifetime of thankless, zero high, serfdom either. Still, when you’re a Stay-At-Home Koshetarian Comedian at 44 years old, whose still not in the Writers Guild of America yet, despite writing for TV twice, you get looked down upon with huffy, disgusted disdain if you ask the cheese monger at Whole Foods if they have Landa Lakes American Cheese or tell your mom how you use onions in most of your meals, which the kids love, only to hear, “Onions are peasant food, you know.”  Based on my mom’s sucks to be an elitist buzz kill reaction, you’d think, “I shamed my mom by reopening my account on Facebook, only to tag all of her friends, with nothing but onion loaf sandwich recipes on Wonder Bread, holla, thank you very much.  At the same time, inheriting money, marrying into it or earning plenty yourself, doesn’t always overcompensate for certain hard to shake hick tendencies such as insisting on drinking chardonnay before it cools, or for proclaiming Meghan Markle is anything less than a race pimping, royal pain in the ass.

Some would argue the American grilled cheese is college freshman peasant food or your standard white trash trailer entre, yet it doesn’t have to be that way. Don’t get me wrong, Landa Lakes, yellow American cheese on Wonder Bread was fine growing up, despite my mother being weak on monitoring burnt toast detail. Still, what I learned in my mid-twenties as a proud panini owner in Sherman Oaks, CA at the time, working as a bartender for a bit at a fancy 4-star French restaurant on La Cienega before I got canned for breaking too many wine glasses on the job as the Mexican bus boys snickered at me, with dumb white boy derision as deserved, is that assuming ownership of making a grilled cheese a notch better than mom’s burnt ass, 3 bite edible ones, will help ensure you no longer feel like a slovenly dirty white boy no more. Foreigner lives, holla, thank you very much.

A great tip I learned from my panini book by big deal chef Nancy Silverton was to rub a peeled off bulb of garlic and rub it sensuously all over both pieces of bread you’re using to make a more substantial, elevated grilled cheese than what you’re reared on in the past, which miraculously imbibes all the garlicy, yummy essence you need. Personally, sourdough is my favorite bread of choice for grilled cheeses yet dare I say, peasant bread will get the job done to. I’ll also kick up the excitement factor by transforming the standard grill cheese into a bomb veggie panini melt of sorts, by adding super fresh local Mozzarella from any Italian grocer or from Whole Foods for that matter while also slathering on a semi-homemade basil aioli, consisting of nothing more than chopping up some fresh basil, mixed with peeled off pieces of garlic, interlaced with a little pinch of salt and pepper mixed in a premade mayo, and your perceived days of peasantry dissipate faster than the sandwich, assuming you also add some fresh, borderline emerald green leaves of spinach and olive oil drenched, diced up, seasoned cherry tomatoes, which is the ultimate cherry bomb popping, topping on top. My kids loved this last batch of grilled cheese so much, there wasn’t a single crumb left between them. Are you getting yummy dances from your grill cheese creations? Are your kids going out of their way to announce at the highest possible decibel, between more scrumptious, shishy bitch bites, “Delicious Daddy, absolutely delicious?” I didn’t think so, you peasant shaming cunts. This Koshetarian Comedian continues to bang out more sheets of comedy gold with no clear payday sight, yet if I keep generating rave reviews like this, I’m bound for an eventual pay hike.

Michael Kornbluth