Promoting & Emoting

How do you elevate enthusiasm? Getting paid to give a shit always helps. If my dad could only make money off my comedy, he could become my manager and have a vested interest in emoting and promoting in my honor for a change. Versus acting ho-hum in my presence since I became a Stay-At-Home Comedian, who takes extreme offense at me asking my accountant if I can write off my never-ending joke gem dissemination on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast as a charitable donation. What makes me such a world class enthusiast today outside of yanking off my own material again long time, all the time? Never feeling the need to prove my cultural cool cred by attending Hamilton, which is worse than Obama rapping or pretending to be a world class baller because he rode the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii helps.  Hamilton rapping isn’t divisive? But you were separated from 400 Benjamins before dinner, for the priveledge of hearing a play cited by Hillary Hamer Time Cankles at the Democratic National Convention, before she failed to sell 80 million branded racists on why baby boomer mom knows best.

Today, I’m giddy because a new broadcast audio app that allows fans and certain paid commentors to perform live running commentary for various sporting events is offering me an opportunity to shine as their new paid star comedic voice to rant and roll on my 1st love before Motley Crew and AC/DC, the New York Knicks. Actually, haven’t watched a Knicks game since the Knicks traded KP for a box of cotton candy because his Latvian brother agent made Knicks owner James Dolan painfully uncomfortable because he sounds too much like the Russian mob boss in 25th Hour. Prior, I never got over MSG management ordering security to escort Charles Oakley out of the world’s most famous arena for an alleged hate speech violation, despite Trump critics not having that silence treatment to squelch pro Trumpian trash talk just yet. From what I recall, Knicks owner James Owner biggest beef with Charles Oakley besides him openly criticizing many front office moves was an ex-Knicks player of Charle’s Oakley’s magnitude using his carwash owner and private barbeque catering money to pay his own way to floor seats at the Garden, without having to rely on any meager handout greeter jobs from Cardinal Dolan unlike Larry Johnson who had more mouths to feed last the time I checked.  Charles Oakley was always stronger at pulling off a convincing head fake from 12 feet out. If Larry Johnson wasn’t such an explosive player in the lane at UNLV and with the Charlotte Hornets soon after, he could’ve developed a more reliable pump fake in the driving lane earlier than later after he developed back issues from throwing it into every groupie south of the mason Dixon line. But the original super Jew Jesus Christ promoted the liberating power of forgiveness. So, I’m ready to give the Knicks another shot of love, which shouldn’t be a stretch, because I’m very confident in my ability to get paid to give a shit about emoting and promoting Knick fan enthusiasm again. Especially knowing how my future investors in me, are budding fans already and I’ve always performed with extra fiery gusto for those who took an effusive interest in my special sparkly brand of me.  Plus, the Knicks are stacked with youthful, versatile, ultra-agile talent this year compared to Knicks teams of winter break blur pasts, despite stand out moments such as John Stark’s jack in the box launch stuff over Air Jordan, back when Scottie Pippen rightfully bitched for getting paid less than BJ Armstrong’s nanny.  Bernard King huffing and stuffing, going to coast to coast like a bat out of Brooklyn on the A line express to Broadway happened a tad before my prime viewing on MSG time while soaking up the rhyming and styling profiling’s of the coolest, flyest color analyst to ever grace the mic, Walt Clyde the Glide Frazier. Sure, Latrell Sprewell showcasing some sporadic sprouts of spry dashing and dishing quickness in the lane after choking the crusty old white privilege out of PJ Carlesimo when he played for Golden State in a NY minute. Later, inspiring me to coin the New York Knicks Dictionary Modern Edition including such as hardcore hilarious entries such as Spree (V) To Flee from an impending choke hold.  Actually, used that 13-year-old punchline in my original cover letter that’s lead to my call back audition on Friday when I’ll be doing a live color cast broadcast for the Knicks versus the never scary Washington Bullets. No longer having to box out Wes Unseld under the boards could carry the masked Atlas on Five Avenue on his shoulders for Christ’s sake.

A new study says, Knicks fans are the most loyal fanbase, especially compared to Brooklyn Nets fans, who most likely never heard of Drazen Petrovic who would’ve manhandled Luka Donic like a 5-star Dallas stripper at Scores on audition night. I’m member of Generation X but have played no role in the garbage heap time suck the Internet has become. My generation has never been able to enjoy sex paranoid free despite Magic making HIV disappear. We’ve also lived through 9/11 in our twenties, multiple recessions going on 3, whose kids are forced to wear masks at school looking like Michael Jackson’s freak kids on holiday in Bahrain. Now, it looks like will pay more for monthly gas heating bills this coming dark winter than the electric bill tab for 311’s hydroponic farm in Santa Cruz for the year. As a result, members of Generation X like our comedy like our coffee, dark and bitter.  Any kid today sporting a Steph Curry jersey who’s never stepped over trolly tracks of shit throughout the streets of San Francisco is the apart of the bandwagon generation.

Anyone see the new doc on Dr. Fauci by National Geographic?  Did Ken Burns direct it or does he socially distance himself from mass murderers that have nothing to do with murder’s row on Yankee dynasty teams on baseball docs for PBS? Imagine Lou Gehrig breaking his iron man streaking after snagging an itchy esophagus from COVID?  Cal Ripken Junior wouldn’t have resembled Bea Arthur Senior on top, grinding out 5000 lifetimes to catch up with his extended playing streak already. Lou Gehrig had 25 bone fractures in his hand by the time he broke the all-time consecutive streak. So, I don’t see him quitting his rigorous playing steak over a severe case of the sniffles. They called him the Iron Horse for a reason, not Leo Epstein from Biloxi Blues. 

Daughter had after school Fairy Club today. One her classmates made fun of her for it. She said, “Fairy club is for little girls.” I said, “No it isn’t. Woke Superman is into fairies now to.”  Call me old fashioned, but I don’t want Superman speeding toward any hole of desire. He’s freaking Superman. Granted, Lois Lane was a fag hag if there ever was one. Still, aren’t superheroes similar to the Jedi because they reject the life of fleshy pursing passion, even if they’re capable of shooting off loads faster than a speeding bullet on a bullet train to an Octopus anime porn convention in downtown Tokyo, where only the hell hole dammed roam.  How would Superman today describe an uncircumcised penis? Would Superman say, “Picture the earthworm from Dune if you’re about to entertain Paulie Pine Nuts at Scores for a Saints of Newark after hours party.  Was it me or was the portrayal of a young Tony less arousing than Dr. Melfi in bellbottoms? Also, my friends went to bodegas to get forties of old English, when we were underage. Old E, Snoop Dog’s old school ho sprayer of choice. But for some frigging reason, a young Tony isn’t enterprising enough to score some beer without his connected uncle’s help?  Tony couldn’t have scored some malt liquor at a bodega in Newark, who wouldn’t mind poisoning the white boy with more demon drink for a change? I thought Tony was in fucking Mensa. Couldn’t have Tony made his own moonshine like an east coast version of Larry Flynt for Christ’s sake. At the very least, you’d think Tony would dick over some putzy Jew kid with a bag oregano without fearing any major beatdown repercussions. So, he could score enough money to have some wino score a bottle of Night Train. Axl Rose was a crazy hick from Indiana who was capable of enough to hustle for the stuff after being welcome to the Jungle. But the budding young criminal mastermind genius known as Tony Soprano couldn’t break into the football’s captains’ parents liquor cabinet to give Carmela a bada bing to sort of remember after cleaning out all the schnapps already?

I got an update from my oral surgeon on my wisdom teeth just taken out. He says, “I just spoke with your dentist Dr. Silver, and he’s thrilled with progress of your mountain dew mouth now? I say, “It’s a good thing, I didn’t wear my new Kyrie Irving jersey today or else I would’ve fucked up the party for everybody.” Oral surgeon doc laughs long time. Yeah, so back the drama free Knicks. Derick Rose proposed on the Garden Floor, and nobody blew the rape whistle on him in the process.  So let’s start promoting and emoting about the new and improved New York Knicks already and focus on our big 4 for now to get my Knicks smack talking mojo working again.

Kemba Walker

Even my younger brother texted me, “We got Kemba.” And were not Face Timing each other to sleep either ever. “We got Kemba”, is a great line though. It sounds like Knicks management snagged an alpha dog from Dikembe Mutombo’s village, who’s danced, pranced and romanced into our forlorn dreamy hearts before even stepping foot on to the world’s most famous arena that’s bigger, brighter and flat out cooler than Michael Jordan’s Zoom call displays of heart ripping out dominance. Michael Jordan was never deemed threatening enough to be murdered outside of his apartment in the Dakota building, OK.  Can you imagine John Lennon doing a fucking Hanes commercial? Like he’d actually reveal his shit stains after trying to snuggle off some CIA strength strong acid with Yoko.

Derrick Rose

Derrick Rose can still elevate and shove your hate in your face at a breakneck freshman phenom pace. I made a rape whistle joke prior, but he was cleared of all charges and kept by the jurors for autographs soon after. So how creepy of an impression did he make after all? R. Kelly he’s not.

J.J Barrett

Is a lottery pick done good, which is a rare event for the Knicks franchise like Patrick Ewing ever getting a coaching offer from them. J.J Barrett is a Duke grad stud, who plays in your face de while shooting 40 percent when launching way from downtown three’s. He’s dare I say without being accused as racist, a high IQ player. Meaning, J.J had a much better math SAT score than I ever did to get into the Harvard of the south, Duke, is all I’m saying. And I’m twice as pathetic, because my math SAT score was still abysmal, despite me being a) part Jewish, and b) taking the test untimed, to the point when I was done, my friends had already declaring their major’s sophomore year in college at Washington University.

Julius Randle

Just had his second kid, which is a great omen for more auspicious, hooping and swooping to come. He was voted an all-star last year and made Knicks fans believers in hardcore loyalty materializing sometime in our favor eventually again post 1999. Prince lives although Julius Randle has a stronger, fiercer handle than the prolific prince of pop art rock. I don’t care if black entertainer defender extremist Dave Chapelle tells me any different. I love Julius Randle’s smile and resent free chip on his shoulder to prove last year he was no fluke has been never was real deal all-star championship bound caliber player. He’s a less streaky John Starks in the making. Plus, the addition of two franchise player point guards in Kemba and Rose, will create easier buckets for his teammates to create more space than Octomom after push 5000.

Honorable Mention Supreme

Coach Tom Thibodeau

How does any hardcore Knick fan loyalist not love Tom Thibodeau even before he won Coach Of The Year honors last year and ushered the Knick fans back into dreamy fantasy land with greater do-good possibility than ever before man? Fuck Phish New Year’s Eve shows of MSG past. Coach Tom Thibodeau is the Knick fan faithful’s best chance of making that elusive parade down the Canyon of Heroes on Broadway possible while never sweating the possibility of Greek the Freak, dragging his big ass along the court like a Van Gundy off the rack rag doll from the nearby fashion district on 36th and 6th. Tom Thibodeau will ensure the Knicks play hardcore DEFENSE, which always makes your team more competitive than the rest, especially when he’s also giving this new stupendous team of young spry neophytes the green light to drain more balls than Led Zepplin groupies for the directors cut of The Song Remains the Same. Can’t wait to hear the Garden roar of old when Messier, Hogan and Dice were on top. New York needs a winner again. So, I have a good excuse to call pops. Go New York, go.  

Michael Kornbluth

Pitchwoman Of The Year

Aliens are capable of formulating and defending their own critical race theory to. Although a bunch of Think Tank Alien Eggheads from Planet Scrambled Over Easy declared the American Dream dead and it’s entire race plain stupid for thinking otherwise, on both sides of the political divide during it’s annual Brunch Expo address at their annual Northern Lights retreat on Planet Verde, known for its enormous Avocados trees, tricked out converted farmhouse party palaces, 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 3rd Kind”, was voted the number one ranked Sci Fi film for 44 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 considered the most prestigious medium, attracting the universe’s most talented writers knowing they’re willing to pay up to 3 US Dollars per word. Plus, there’s 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 on any given Farmer’s Market enough to make C3po’s language transmitter chip to melt down from an intergalactic mere 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 Othello backstage in tights, whenever asked to do his best Kevin Spacy impersonation by his cast and crew at Sardis for wrap up 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 of pinpointing the exact genetic makeup roots responsible for sprouting such mature musical genius out the womb. At 6 Mozart was touring Europe, entertaining French nobles with the nimble quickness of a French Prostitute, who got 2 customers to spew with joy in 1 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 beautiful voice in their own native tongue, Hebrew. What, you think the Pyramids and the 1st 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 IPA’s and puffing non-stop high grade green over a killer double header of baseball surrounding the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, 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 after hours party these days, an idea emerged, “Hey, fellas, instead of blowing up the Planet Earth for our annual 4 of the July Celebration to celebrate our freedom 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 if she refuses, will go head and blow-up 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 o give the human race another shot at redemption or not.”

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, which sounded ten times more soul tantalizing pretty sung in Hebrew, which she’d do in Synagogue, shining through 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.” 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 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, 50 minutes north of Manhattan, brushing the mane on her new American Girl horse doll Lavender Love, 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 say, “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, “Were Think Tank Aliens from Planet Scrambled Over Easy. Our natural tongue is Hebrew, and we just came up with our 1st 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 know Aliens were real. Think Tank Alien says, “Singing Rose, we love your voice. God made your supernatural voice for a reason. Still, 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 inner most 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 white priveledge version of Alabama Shakes.” Think Tank Alien laughs 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.”

1 year later, Singing Rose Kornbluth graced the cover of Time Magazine. On the top, the headline read, Pitchwoman Of The Year, who saved her country’s planet from being wiped off the Solar System 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

The Metal Edge

The mother responsible for her son developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at 2, called Torticollis, where the neck muscles contract causing the head to twist to one side as a result from too much newborn plopping time alone the crib, summoned the gaul to ask her son, whose about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian Mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY lounging on a money Polo Lounge green Adirondack Chair, overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into Fencing?” The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, “Headbangers Baller is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their neck. So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made Twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker with the colossus wind power to match.  Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden is a championship fencer yet his nerdy hued, Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge. I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski and Slash wrapped into one. He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss plowing play. Force =Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indominable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line which will be recession proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in post COVID universe gone wild till our last dying breath anyway.”

The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than Basketball and Baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old school fencing decorum bullshit out the window. Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, you name it, so he could afford to pay any fine for inappropriate, hot dogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.  Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before Fencing matches, boom, “Let’s get ready to rumble”, Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin”, while Kickstart My Heart by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surround sound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair. I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant, nor is he 3rd generation wrestling royalty like the Rock or have a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho. So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible? He also plays with collection of lightsabers now more than he does with his cherished Wrestling figures and he owns the original rubber dog toy size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat among many others with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off ebay to match. Kayne West is worth 6 billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for 1 grand and up ma yet there’s no limited, in demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all. I envision a flashing middle F-You, finger logo that’s sporting the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred”, to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers, ripped jeans and shorts, obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red.  He’ll have his own line of studded, belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats and tang tops to show off his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise work out videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as Moth Into Flame by Metallica plays at full blast, being responsible for his shredded physique once he steps into something more comfortable for post fencing fight interviews.  I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes and Steve Vai for love of God, kickass metal guitar solo’s and for his metal loving American Dad who pushed him to shred for bread. On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.  I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships, so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into Fencing mom.”

Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson like Football for instance. The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Will be sticking with Nerf football in yard ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, mom no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for 9 years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once yet, case closed. Alsodad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock. Because if I bowed down to this belabored, weak ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from Boarding School, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody. So, Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a Tiki Torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in 89. And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all 3 of my kids and my speedboat Slashing Thunder.”

Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?” Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric fueled comedy gold. I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids because they’re my kids, not yours, especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time. I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing work I was good at, which made me feel most kick ass, happy alive.” Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer 2 fencing scholarships a year max.”  

Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing 3 times in a row, shredding every fencing record in the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops and speed metal belt with his signature middle finger logo, sporting a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred”.

Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed addicted seed or not. Shredder’s soar. Shredder’s fly high with the angels like 3 Guitar Attack from Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird. Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive, because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

The Neverending Prick


“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort”, asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a 50 something well dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like. The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment within the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights from Julio Silverbade, the 3rd, before his co-op eviction trial began.

The Manipulative Prick otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot, loved doing cocaine, mainly on the weekends though, when he wasn’t working. So what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine to. Last month, when the newlyweds received their 1st of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a 40-year-old phone sales rep Verizon says, “Relax babe, our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me, because his life sucks compared to mine, that’s all. Wife Kate, a 35-year-old, one time divorced pretty yet worn-down looking ER nurse says with weary disgust, “You’re a 40-year-old cokehead who sells smartphones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of a hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about exactly, your tar stains on your 2 front teeth? Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career secure?  You think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at 4am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody free snatch? Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor for a Jewish cokehead, your Hebrew name is under judicial review? Maybe, he’s jealous about you being a no-show Uncle, whose more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from 5 years ago today, than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on News Years Day, moron.”

Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor, who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day and says, “First off, I take incredible offense, being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.” Then, a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke to get him erect with aroused interest at all these days.”

The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money here.” This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it. Now, the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion, during your eviction notice hearing already. You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name automatic fuck up, or what?” Now, the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

Co-Op Board Member 2, a wrinkly, diminutive yet feisty, retired realtor chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other 50 plus and over tenets when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion free during your final eviction notice hearing? Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, drugged out loud when consequences for your got to have satisfaction up my nose, whenever I want behavior have never been greater.”

The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him, the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior in addition to the realtor’s wig and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone when my wife works the weekend shit, especially since COVID hit these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils, which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much actually.”

Now, a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling, through a fancy schmancy chandelier, while looking more like the worm giant from Dune as all the Co-Op Board members duck for cover under their judgement table, as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction. Co-Op Board Member number 2 squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face screams, “What the fuck is that? The Never-Ending Prick.

The End  

Michael Kornbluth

The Flipper Baby Side

On February 12th, Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born, compared to his grandmother Mimi who was born on February 13th, which finally offered undeniable, certifiable proof that God wasn’t picking on Do It All Dad’s wife anymore. February 12th is also Abe Lincoln’s birthday, which held special significance within the Kornbluth family, especially on the southern side, where Do It All Dad’s mom hailed from, because their great, great, great, great Grandfather Austin Gallagher saved his boyhood friend Abe Lincoln from drowning, which is the greatest presidential save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby.  The worst part about this story is how after Abe tripped on a log cabin while crossing Knob Creek in a rush to get home on time for Racoon Soup Night, he pressured his dear friend Austin to never tell anyone about saving him from drowning to death because he a had a vision while gasping for air within the limestone laced waters of Kentucky, how one day, he’d be the man responsible for helping liberate the black man from the chains of slavery and he wouldn’t be looked upon as a serious saver, knowing he was a worst swimmer than they. One time, Do It All Dad held an Astrology Off among his 3 kids after Chosen Curls was born between his older brother and sister, Art Show USA and Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, meaning they compared famous men and woman born on their birthdays. Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo had Abe on his list and Arsenio Hall from Coming To America. Matilda’s other younger brother Art Show USA, otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day, had Mini Me and Paul Revere on his list and all she had was Peter Sarsgaard, prompting her to blurt out in progressively pissed off disgust, “I don’t like this Astrology Off anymore. Nobody I love like Shakira or Mel Brooks was born on my birthday.” Do It All Dad gives her added unwelcome grief, and says, “Pisces are very competitive.”

Now, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was stuck in the wrong way within his mama’s womb, with his feet facing down toward his exit hole. Normally, Breach Babies, who are positioned to be yanked out of their mama’s fun box, feet first, are either flipped by a doctor to be pushed out headfirst or excavated from the womb through a stomach lacerating C section, which most woman would prefer to avoid, because if you’ve seen one Alien movie, you’ve seen enough.

Chosen Curls was chilling in the womb for 9 months in the wrong way with his toes tingling with delight closer to mama’s vagina versus the way around, which he didn’t mind one bit, knowing he had great looking, inhalatory baby feet, which looked better than most gross, bald baby heads to come out crying out of most vaginas, not nearly as snuggly as this. Mama’s womb housing vagina was so snuggly, Chosen Curls could take endless naps in there on Crystal Meth. Also, Chosen Curls liked being a wrong way baby because it would give him bragging rights one day, when he eventually performed his 1st reverse somersault in the womb, knowing his Do It All Dad was a knock-kneed putz, who got penalized in gym class back in the day for toppling over to the side whenever he tried to sit Indian style while sitting out another game of Kickball on the sidelines for getting eliminated almost immediately again. At the same time, Chosen Curls didn’t want his Mama’s stomach ripped apart, because he refused to flip for mama’s love, out of blatantly premature spite for Mama never encouraging his WWE wrestling career soon after, in his pursuit to become the dreamy child offspring of Andre The Giant and Bruce Lee, while being billed as Hardcore Hurting Hunga.  

Now, it was showtime, Mama was ready to burst, and this birth wasn’t a walk in the park compared to his older brother Art Show USA, who popped out easier than a tin of Altoids in 1 hour flat.  The nurse encouraged mama to push, yet Chosen Curls was taking his sweet ass time to transform himself into a real deal, choke free Flipper Baby after all. Then, Chosen Curls heard his Do It All Dad’s booming voice more so than usual, pierce through mama’s cervix as he barked, “You can do it Samuel. If Rodney could do the Triple Lindy in Back To School, then you can flip for mama’s love to, knowing she remained freak out free from giving up wine for 9 months straight again on your behalf. Also, mama’s vagina is fairly broken in at this point, 2 kids later, in addition to my Hebrew Hammer leaving a substantial dent prior. So let’s get moving, before mama flips you the bird and curses your existence forever, for you denying her the beauty of being yanked out into her arms in one semi seamless motion, versus the Alien stomach mauling coming out birth, pretty please, with extra booger sugar for Uncle Jon, AKA, Sir Snort A Lot on top.” As the delivery doctor grabs Samuel’s head from outside mama’s belly, Chosen Curls performs a seamless reverse baby flip to show his Dada he wasn’t born to be a tense baby like a pubescent Albert Brooks in the making, in Defending Your Life, only for him to grow up becoming a perpetually wound up stress ball on 2 legs, with decades of fear plagued tension embedded within his frozen in time neck.  

Do It All Dad spots his son’s head emerge from Mama’s blessed box , flush with endless life enriching charms and cranks up the volume, blaring, “Homestretch, Samuel, one more push, and Made In The Shade, will be made in the shade. Now, slide out of mama’s snuggle snatch hard, Ricky Henderson style.” Doc pulls Samuel out this time, who emerges into this wildly, unpredictable, God graced, awe inspiring beautifying world, with a full set of hair, which puts Do It All Dad at ease, knowing bald babies with indentations on their heads are gross, all looking like Nurse Jackie dropped them on top of an anvil one too many times after getting the shakes because she’s out of methadone again.

The nurse hands Chosen Curls to his dear Dada to hold tightly to his heart and with his back turned toward Mama he starts bonding with his lucky number 3 saying, “Your big sister, Singing Rose, recognized my voice out of the womb to. I’ve been in love with you since you were a blip of an alien baby on mama’s Ultrasound photograph report. Your brother and sister are the coolest. They’re going to love you so good.”

Eventually, mama interjects and says, “You weren’t housing Samuel for the past 9 months, I was. So, stop boxing me out from my baby and turn around, so I can see the face of my beautiful baby already. Do It All Dad turns around and says, “You handled that well babe. I got carried away hearing my own voice again. At least, for now, we know it has a calming influence unlike a 10-year marriage, which is bound to unleash anybody’s flip-out side.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth