Maui Wowie Mania

Did you know that Paul McCartney’s most romantic song is about weed? Got to get you into my life, was about running out of weed again. Fuck Linda’s avocado toast. Bean curd wasn’t getting Yellow Submarine finished. The 1st side of the Beatles Record Revolver is a total bummer because Paul’s out of weed again. Why else would they open their 6th album with a song about a tax man when they already had more money than God? Paul was just pissed at his accountant because he refused to write off his extra wide rolling papers as an office expense. He had the same accountant as George Harrison. That’s why Paul told John to let George sing his song Taxman to open Revolver with. Channeling the ebullient joy derived from falling in love with Linda’s tofu scramble was the furthest thing from Paul’s bummer mind at the start of Revolver man. Second song on Revolver, Eleanor Rigby, makes Pet Sounds feel like a feel good movie of the week on the Hallmark Channell or Poison’s greatest hits like Nothing But A Good Time on Prozac. I don’t think the song Eleanor Rigby is a song about all the lonely people and where they all come from. Paul isn’t talking about lonely cat ladies on the Upper West Side. He’s talking about all the friendless potheads who consider pot and rock and roll, their best friends till the very end. Jim Morrison rises again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Finally, on side 2, Paul is popping boners again on the song Gooday Sunshine because his Dealer just delivered him 5 ounces of Maui Wowie to his flat in Notting Hill. And he can tune out Linda’s wailing on about how they don’t dry hump enough trees anymore. Since they stopped touring and shacked up in Abby Road Studios from 1962 to 1970. But at the start of the Revolver on side 2, the entire band were in high spirits again with Linda not around to hock any of her mock meat meat pies. And it was goodbye Linda. Gooday sunshine, especially after John forced Yoko to hand over her last brick hash from Nepal for a merry Christmas and happy new year.

Maui Wowie mania shines on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Big Pharma Blues

1st word today kids.

Corrupt, something that rots from within.

Think of ancient hipster hacks like Patrick the musician.

Who thinks blowing off mama’s birthday early for band practice in his late forties is a jealous inducing hook.

Who thinks doing Enya cover songs on riverboats along the Hudson makes us in touch with the beautifying divine and dream alive hip hearts in us all.

Who thinks being in a band with a bunch of pharma tech developers and designers gives him the anti-authortorian edge to break on through to the cover of Rolling Stone in the sixties in no time. Then again, Steph Curry is on the cover of Rolling Stone these days, which is less rollicking than a young Cameron Crow being on the cover of Rolling Stone.

If you had a conflict with what drugs you were pimping big pharma websites for, you’d quite your job.

Yeah, and Dice would go soft on Neil Young on his podcast.

You ever want choke Joni Mitchell with one of her hippie haggard shawls to shut up long face Horse tooth for good?

Leaving your wife who survived cancer for Daryl Hannah is in poor taste, don’t you think Young? You going through a post midlife never banged a mermaid crisis or what?

You were scared during the height of Covid, Young? Didn’t you used to share heroin needles with Harvey Millk? You were scared of getting an itchy esphogus from Covid Young? I’ve been puffing Marbalo Reds since my twenties and my lungs feel great, since my bud Ari Shaffir turned me on to edibles and the weed pen; but you get the gist.

Not one big pharma company has spoken out against the clot shot.

Not one big pharma company has condemned the pushing of opiods in our coutry that have killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking it with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

Not one big pharma company has come to the defense of Eric Clapton confessing to experiencing temporary paralysis in his playing arm strung by the All Mighty by taking the Covid vax shot.

Not one big pharma company has commented on Justin Bieber’s frozen face or Katy Perry’s droopy eye twitch in Vegas or how the craziest thing about soccer is how my fellow Ameeicans still expect me to give a shit about soccer, World Cup or not.

The LA, Philly title game was the craziest thing that ever happened in soccer. I thought midfielders dropping dead midfield at a hard 30 from blood clot induced cardiac arrest through the operation death speed did the trick, my bad.

Flourish, to kick ass and take names, think Kari Lake once she teams up with Linda Hamilton and takes down The Dominion Machines, that being the new Skynet for good.

Fluky, think any hired hack replacement on Comedy Cental to replace Trevor Noah on the Daily Show, assuming he remains Bruce Springsteen’s gimpy bitch message boy for life. Insisting how all his blue collar fans 3 decades ago were n bomb dropping hicks, who only tolerated Clarence Clemon’s operatic, spine tingly sax work on Jungleland because jungle is in it and the song is West Side Story meets American Me meets New Jack City.

Just don’t call voter ID fair and inclusive. How else are you going to tell MS13 apart with all that shit on their face?

Practicing conflict resolution.

Samuel, don’t hit your brother in the spine when he’s not looking or you’ll paralyze him like Van Damne’s brother get’s paralyzed by the braided pony punk in Kickbocker. And when your paralyzed from the waist down, you can’t derive any prolonged merriment from futzing around with your schmeckel spot anymore. If you’re lucky your brother would feel a whiff of butt wind after going butt liquid in his pants but that’s it. You don’t want you brother in a wheelchair because he intentionally scared you in the morning by pretending to be a raccoon on the loose again, do you? Last, stuffing you in the trash and duck taping you in there with raccoons and your butt liquid nappies would be times worse, don’t you think?

Son says, “Stop stealing my butt wind, butt liquid jokes, Moron Jewish Son. Eat my butt rice, Challah. Thank you very much. And Patrick’s son is more boring than Patrick. Is that why you accuse his mother of micro dosing to make her kid more interesting because he takes after the father?

Big Pharma blues, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Headhunter Writer

Your LinkedIn connects are very sexy. I plan on pumping the Fin Tech ones for all their worth, assuming there’s any money left.

So my LinkedIn bio is written in the 3rd person like Kenny Powers. All men can’t be created equal, Challah. Thank you very much.

You have to check out the pilot for Tulsa King, Sly Stallone at 75 is better than ever in it. His performance makes up for sneaking Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. And for chucking more mango gummies at his suckalicious wife on a lazy Sunday afternoon in Beverly Hills.

“Hey Model Tits, it’s not about how hard you get hit, its about how much you can take and keep moving forward away from the gummy edibles store on Rodeo Drive that only sells high end Hawaiian, that’s how winning is done. You know the new edible store on Rodeo called, Sticky Icky Rich Bitch. That has a paywall made out of JR Smith’s abs in your wildest pot powered dreams. How can you expect our model daughters to follow your lead if you have less munchie control than JR Smith? The Cavs banned Blunted from conducting anymore topless interviews after games because he was high enough already. Glad we had this chat. Now let’s pose for a pic on Instagram holding hands, pretending I never chucked mango gummies at your head like your the second coming of Rebel Wilson before giving Harry Styles some pegtastic love from behind during Coachella. What, that fat bitch had to shred her fat suit one way or another.”

Hitting with my best shots, Pat Benatar lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Pitchwoman Of The Year

Aliens are capable of formulating and defending their own critical race theory, too. A bunch of Think Tank Alien Eggheads from Planet Scrambled Over Easy declared the American Dream dead and its entire race plain stupid for thinking otherwise, on both sides of the political divide, during its annual Brunch Expo address at their annual Northern Lights retreat on Planet Verde. It was known for its enormous avocado trees, tricked-out converted farmhouse party palaces, and was enveloped by hop farms galore and beautifully manicured baseball diamonds and fields of highly stimulating, brain-tickling weed.

            Even Think Tank Alien Eggheads need to cool off their hyperactive brains with some baseball, buds, and brews, from time to time.

            The Think Tank Alien Eggheads observed how unhinged and excessively biased the US media and Big Tech had become since the New Yorker from Queens exposed them for the feckless, misleading, self-serving, fear-mongering, deliberately divisive, commie sell out bastards they’d become.  

            Close Encounters Of The Third Kind was voted the number one-ranked sci-fi film for forty-four years in a row and counting, according to Egghead Alien Film Review Magazine, which still boasts an incredible print ad sales revenue because, on Planet Scrambled Easy, print is king and is considered the most prestigious medium, attracting the universe’s most talented writers, knowing they’re willing to pay up to three US dollars per word.

            There are no TV shows made on Planet Scrambled Over Easy except a hugely popular father/son alien cooking show called ‘Better Than Boobie.’ On this show, we learn the alien baby is a result of a mixed marriage between an alien and a busty, full-lipped, tan, Sicilian-blooded Italian, Barbera Bustiasti, originally hailing from Rochester, NY.

            On the show, our Stay-At-Home Alien Dad Host, Fried Brains Bourdain, a self-anointed in-house gourmand for the entire Planet Scrambled Over Easy, will ask his part-human, part-alien baby, Chef Samuels, what he thinks of his latest and greatest LEO Scramble Supreme, including smoked salmon lox, scrambled eggs, and sweet, not-too-bitter caramelized red onions.

            Normally, Chef Samuels will take a taste and pronounce the dish creation a double-fister instead of a yuck-yucker. But if baby Chef Samuels is totally enthralled with the dish, he’ll ask his cherished dada, Fried Brains Bourdain, to make the dish for him every day before he whizzes around the rings of Planet Scrambled Over Easy faster than Flash, in a high-calorie burning blaze of glory.  

            So, the reason Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy was smitten with the movie Close Encounters Of The Third Kind stemmed from the aliens portrayed in it being musical savant mutes, of sorts, like Holly Hunter in The Piano.

            The problem, on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, is how their recent open borders policy resulted in a gazillion different languages spoken at once at any given Farmer’s Market—enough to make C3Po’s language transmitter chip melt down from an intergalactic auditory sensory processing overload. So, the clamor in the streets had reached a fevered pitch, with no universal language in place capable of instilling a more melodic cadence.           And none of the star magazine writers on Planet Scrambled Over Easy were capable of banging out musical showtunes (such as West Side Think Tank Alien Stories), because Broadway tunesmith legend Stephen Sondheim declined the invitation to procreate with the alien civilization (because he was gayer about the prospect of lunging at the Othello backstage in tights, whenever asked to do his best Kevin Spacy impersonation by his cast and crew at Sardis for wrapup show celebrations, after hours.

            Stephen Sondheim gave the anal probe a shot after the Alien Think Tank Leader, Gershwin Goo, convinced him they were doing it the name of stool DNA sampling science in their long, hard, in-depth exploration pinpointing the exact genetic makeup roots responsible for sprouting such a mature musical genius out the womb.

            At six, Mozart was touring Europe, entertaining French nobles with the nimble quickness of a French prostitute who got two customers to spew with joy in one minute flat, each, so she could squeeze in her favorite customer, famed American Jewish writer Henry Miller, in one more, before closing hours, for the road.  

            So, not only was the roaring decibel of noise on the streets of Scrambled Eggs Over Easy consisting of every guttural, gross alien language imaginable, that collectively heard together sounded like the antithesis of French pillow talk in Eric Rohmer films such as Busted Burgundy Girls and Paris Dicks Are Burning, thereby making their home planet a highly grating, excessively annoying place to be; but there was also not a singe lone, beautifying voice to even sing their new planet anthem in an attempt to promote, celebrate, and unify the country behind a star’s beautiful voice in their own native tongue, Hebrew.

            What, you think the pyramids and the first great temple were built by the Israelites alone? I’ve known Jews who are allergic to Home Depot, who suffer from immediate panic attacks upon entry.

            On retreat, The Think Tank Aliens sucking down endless IPAs and puffing non-stop high-grade green over a killer double header of baseball surrounding the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, with a young, rising star egghead about to pitch his famous speedball splinter known to make most fellow aliens whiff more than Charlie Sheen at an AVN afterhours party, these days.

            An idea emerged. “Hey, fellas, instead of blowing up Planet Earth for our annual Fourth of July Celebration (to celebrate our freedom of banning the Internet in 2000, because we knew Y2K would serve as a slow-acting bomb to blow up Earth’s any last remaining capacity for critically thinking, mass-produced independent thought ever again), we convince Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth to become our permanent-in-house Planetary Anthem singer?

            “Granted, we have incredible leverage, knowing that if she refuses, we’ll go head and blow up the Earth for the best fireworks show we’ve ever seen. Bulldozing a casino is child’s play compared to planet blasting. Plus, I think the universe is ready for a new Earth to emerge, again (assuming God’s in the mood to give the human race another shot at redemption).”

            The Think Tank Aliens of Scrambled Over Easy Planet actually thought of Singing Rose Kornbluth immediately, the moment they coined the idea of establishing a Planetary Anthem in Hebrew, from eavesdropping from space whenever she’d recite the Shabbat prayers over the candles, challah, and wine.

            To them, Singing Rose Kornbluth was blessed with the most angelic-laced, beautifying, spiritually rich, jade-free voice of all time. It sounded ten times more soul-tantalizingly pretty sung in Hebrew, which she’d do in Synagogue, shining through the most whenever the Torah was taken out of the arc for the infamous Shema prayer “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”

            The Think Tank Aliens from Scrambled Over Easy Planet are able to eavesdrop into different galaxy systems due to their alien race being crossbred with Alien Hybrid Elephants reared by Alexander The Great. Alexander The Great would use those elephants to eavesdrop on his enemies or on Cleopatra the next time she plotted to roofie him, tie him up, and jam some precious gemstone beads up his ass for shits and giggles, to see if they came out looser since the last gender-neutral interkingdom orgy at her Luxor party palace.

            Now, Singing Rose Kornbluth is at home in her bedroom within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, fifty minutes north of Manhattan, brushing the mane on her new American Girl horse doll Lavender Love and singing her own made-up tune: “Lavender Love has beautiful hair, my brother Arthur better not threaten to turn him into fake news dog chow, if baby Samuel double dares.”      Then the Palomino American Girl Doll horse Lavender Love comes to life and speaks to her from the baseball diamond on the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, and says, “Singing Rose Kornbluth, don’t be alarmed. For starters, my voice can’t be any freakier than when you confuse your American Girl Doll Horse for an actual little person, on occasion.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Keep talking.”          Think Tank Alien says, “We think your singing voice, especially in Hebrew, is the most beautiful, God-loving, effortlessly sweet signing voice we’ve ever heard, without any deep vibrato rumblings (which ruin Adele and Demi Lovato’s chances as potential picks for us, if you really need to know).”     Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “And who is “we,” exactly?”

            Think Tank Alien says, “We’re Think Tank Aliens from Planet Scrambled Over Easy. Our natural tongue is Hebrew, and we just came up with our first-ever Planetary Anthem, and it needs work, because our alien civilization isn’t musically inclined whatsoever.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Do all aliens talk through American Girl Horses? I knew Aliens were real.”

             Think Tank Alien says, “Singing Rose, we love your voice. God made your supernatural voice for a reason. Still, we will be left with no choice but to blow up your planet, if you don’t let us use your gift of creation and singing love songs which touch the innermost sanctum part of the Divine.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “I’ll only help you out if you agree to take over control of our Internet, unleash virus worms to corrode all the software code for Twitter, Facebook and Google, and fill in that gaping voice of Internet bandwidth with my father’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast every Friday for another Meandering Shabbat Shalom Special.

            “My daddy is hilarious. He said, ‘Beyonce sat out the national anthem because Demi Lovato sounds like a white privilege version of Alabama Shakes.’”

            Think Tank Alien laughs a long time and replies, “We don’t have the Internet on our planet.”            Matilda says, “I’ll be your new best friend. And you’ll get one sleepover invite a year, deal? Think Taken Alien says, “Deal.”

            One year later, Singing Rose Kornbluth graced the cover of Time Magazine. On the top, the headline read ‘Pitchwoman Of The Year.’ She saved her country’s planet from being wiped off the solar system map for selling the Think Tank Aliens on making her Do It All Dad the most popular, downloadable, highly quotable podcaster in the universe.

            So, he could afford the opportunity to shine like the brightest rising comedy star in the galaxy and drive his family back from the hospital in his new Comedy Gold Porsche SUV with a new baby sister addition in the back, Lavender Love Kornbluth, to make his Do It All Dad year mission complete.

            Now Singing Rose Kornbluth could sing duets with her new baby sister, Lavender Love Kornbluth, for a double dose of beautiful wonderfulness on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, so she’d never have to feel homesick again.

Michael Kornbluth

Chosen Curls Kills

My son hasn’t ruined my life. But he did ruin veggie cream cheese for me. He says, “I don’t like Salad Cheese. Who wants salad in their cheese? I’ll chew on a baby carrot if I’m in the mood for a little nosh. But you can take your overpriced veggie cream cheese, shine it up real nice and jam it up your anus hole daddy. Smoked salmon or white fish on a pumpernickel bagel, moron son. Have I told you that your bad at life yet? Do you think Uncle John would like that material for your final comedy record this time, Family Funny Rules, Daddy? How does Uncle Jon have a harder stomach than you Daddy? Who does planks on heroin? And why did Uncle Jon flinch when you ordered me to punch him in the stomach again on July 4th? You let me hit you in the face with my boxing gloves as a form of flinch freeing treatment all the time. I thought boarding school made him tough. If he started out as a punk, he came out a 100 percent bitch. What’s my follow up punch? Please, after one gut punch alone, Uncle Jon lost all appetite for my triple decker sandwich.”

Family Funny Rules, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Icky Leaks

Note to self: Underwear prevents cum stains, on your only nice pair of dress shorts. So if you don’t want to feel like a leaky bitch during your Zoom call in 10 minutes in nothing more than a Polo and Hugo Boss briefs, then refrain from cumming like a racehorse the moment you spot an opening, Sea Jiz. Icky leaks leaking, Jerkoff moves, Jeffrey Toobin whacks on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kormbluth

American Made Prayer

Aaron Rodgers, Kyrie Irving and the gluten tennis guy enter the hotel bar at the Pierre just to make Michelle Obama uncomfortable while in town for the U.S Open.

Bartender says, “We don’t serve your kind.”

Gluten Tennis guy says, “I piss Beetroot brighter than you.”

Kyrie Irving says, “Still educating yourself on Hydroxychloroquine for Dummies, merchant of liquid death?”

Aaron Rodgers says, “Even my bud Joe Rogan thinks you smirk too much.”

Bartender says, “Deplorable douchebags, what will you do when Michelle Obama becomes our next President?”

After they’re all done laughing and coughing out lungs without any blood clots in them.

Kyrie Irving says, “Just what America needs, Obama’s, Five O’ Clock Shadow Part 2.”

Never forget the new terrorists that pushed Operation Death Speed on us, that’s ripped the heart out of our American Dream that’s barely hanging on to life support in front of our children’s undimmed eyes, if you’re lucky.

Bury these demonic shitbags and force Hunter to snort up their dusty remains and have LA famed street artist Babo spray paint the pic all over the Smithsonian in D.C. to hang for all eternity. God’s speed, Lord, God’s speed.

Michael Kornbluth

Sky High Again

Son climbs a tree 40 stories high. Random mom after camp says, “I’ve never seen anybody that high.” I say, “That’s what Hunter Biden’s dealer said. They don’t call him Sir Snort A Lot for nothing. On Hunter’s birthday when Jill said, “Blow”, he snorted the cake. Before he gave up blow for blow painting, no longer hearing last call from the bathroom stall. While his former biker buds from the Sons Of Anarchy yell, “Where’s Hunter? Who else is going to pay for this shit?”

Can I get a holla, for repurposing older than yiddish cocaine jokes about my brother in Hunter’s honor? Challah, sky high again. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Good Bite Marks

Year without beer has reconnected me with my man meat in public again.

At the bagel shop this morning, I noticed the sexy, smile faced Latina MILF working there, exuding a deeper, more penetrative fuck me eyes glare than usual. After I’m done ordering, her eyes dance with anticipatory delight and says, “Anything else”, as her panties secrete wannabe good stuff pleasure. And I say, “Yes, a sex life with you in it. I’ll give you a smear you’ll never forget. How else can I burn off these carbs in a NY minute? Let’s give each other every venereal disease together and suck face after reloading on onion and garlic bagels for round 2, before your swelled, spent, torn apart juice box, yells in a heat of drained beyond repair fashion, “No, mas, no mas.” Because Do It All Dad does dent marks good, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Gen X Comedian

I like coffee like my comedy, dark and bitter.

Nirvana didn’t kill Hair Metal. Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.

Courtney Love is Mia Farrow with better husband selection.

I want to get my wife pregnant by mistake again. Just, so I can name my kid Zevon Zappa Kornbluth.

According to Wine Advocate, Snoop Dog’s Merlot, tastes like mouthwash used in Porn Hood Hell.

Russell Simmons addressing rape allegations with Gayle King. Read my lisp, I didn’t rape any, of those vengeful, over the hill hos.

My daughter finally got breast buds. Wife says, “She’s the last person in her class to get them. I said, “Then why have your buds taken so long to sprout?” Titty shaming jokes are too offensive for your taste? Then, go woke yourself to, Challah. Thank you very much.

Book Store Worker says, “Are you in our system?” I say, “All of a sudden, I feel like a registered sex offender. And being busted with a Woody Allen’s autobiography in my hands isn’t helping. For what it’s worth, I’ve only allowed my daughter to watch Woody Allen films that came pre-Soon-Yi like Crimes and Misdemeanors, the Early Years, Challah, thank you very much. At the same time, I only expose my daughter to Michael Jackson music that came out pre-Jackson 5 to ensure my pedophile playlist stance is black and white. Book Store Worker laughs long time, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth