Grinding Out Greatness

In the Woody Allen movie celebrity Anthony Mason grinds Charlize Theron on the dance floor at some swanky club in Manhattan. Woody decided to make the pic a black and white one after the test screenings to subdue Anthony’s Mason’s penetrating blackness. Because just waxed socialites from the Upper East Side would soak their stadium size seating whole, clutch their pearls off and scream rape me already, before fnger popping themselves with their Cartier plated rape whistles as the most obscenely wealthy non-essential socialite yells, “Fuck Spike Lee. Mason can stop and frisk my billionaire row box for Hermes silk lining anytime.”

Michael Kornbluth

Stain Of Shame

Signs your gay.

When you’re a married man who feels competitive with Suzanne Somers.

You buy her old Playboy spread for Hanukkah primarily to pump for comedic gold material for all it’s worth.

Someone on YouTube makes a comment about her looking like a haggard looking tranny, which gives you a mildly surging stiffy in the process.

You take a virtual tour of her former fuck pad palace shared with her manager husband of 50 years in Palm Springs and think, “It’s all gaudy, heavy, animal print clutter like Trump Tower on Safari.”

The moment you learn Suzanne Somers left Threes Company to become a nightclub entertainer in Vegas, you become a bitchy Twitter twat, feeling like a wannabe Rockette with bunions.

Once you learn how Suzanne Somers is in talks to star in a reality show with her husband about their amazing sex life 50 years later. All can you think is, “Who’s the target audience? Baby Boomers taking a load off after soaking up Uni Brow Maddow’s spewing’s about money shot tax return reveals? Which give blue balled diehard Democrats left a S&M branded name.

You contemplate buying a Thigh Master but don’t feel completely gay in the process while briefly indulging in the fantasy of burying your head between her stretchy, moisty snatch in between reps.  Then, you think, “I wouldn’t mind eating through Suzanne Somers spandex sweats to suck up a mouthful of sweaty, scrumptious snatch pie eight days a week.”

You obsess over Suzanne Somers bitching about how hurt Suzanne Sommers was from her 1st Playboy shoot. How did the photographer screw over Suzanne so bad? After declining his advances, did the Photographer get Suzanne back by photoshopping the moles of his English mother-in-law’s neck on to her previously gold ray spewing clit?

You fixate on the Playboy journalist for never questioning Suzanne’s alleged discomfort around her son discovering naked pictures of Mommy 10 years later? Positive Suzanne lost sleep over it like wanting to change places with John Ritter after Threes Company and beyond. I’d ask, “Who gives a shit about what your son thinks? According to Freud, if your son wanted to titty blast your eyes wide shut, you would’ve caught him licking your Thigh Masters clean already. And cut the bullshit Suzanne. Claiming Suzanne Somers cares about her son’s feelings about being raised by the most inhalable mom in Palm Springs is like Larry from Threes Company claiming to care if your replacement was still fuckable enough to cum in with a condom on by Quagmire’s standards during the latest summertime air show at Stewart Airport.”

You remain competitive with Suzanne Somers and start brainstorming products you can become a spokesperson for that will outsell the Thigh Master after you become a famous comedian one day like hot yoga naked classes for recent divorces called Spread Eagles.  

Suzanne Somers calling her husband the Johnny Carson of Canada for 2 years get’s your panties in a bunch, despite that claim not meaning much, considering the fact he never competed against Tom Green for Dice’s funny man respect on the Apprentice.

Suzanne Somers didn’t think the pictures of her 1st Playboy spread were very flattering. Get over yourself Suzanne. Lois Lane’s skeletal shape after Superman blasts through her bust with his X-Ray Vision you’re not.

How did Suzanne Somers nightclub act in Vegas break all attendance records, second only to Elvis? By singing Raining Men while prancing around on stage to an umbrella resembling her stretched out snatch? I’d schlep that umbrella to work every day. It would be a good way to create breathing room on the subway stop at Christopher Street down the block from the famed gay bar known throughout the underground gay world as the Cubby Bar Inn.

I’m not gay about those blown-up lips on Suzzane Somers. I wouldn’t mind her mouth to be my permanent resting place before my rocket launch blasts eventually flat lined to death.

I can’t be too gay if I’m pro pepperoni size nips. You can also argue, once a size queen, always a size queen.

Would a straight gay contemplate show names for Suzanne Somers pool side reality show in the works, co-hosted by her leering, older than Yiddish husband? Who’s constantly seen in pictures trying to squeeze the tits out of her chest as his Canadian Canuck cock rages against the dying of his light?  Similar to any other reality show showcasing highly bangable MILFS who boast tits that have withstood the erosions of time better than most, they might as well rename all these reality showoff shows, “Good luck keeping up with my orgasm count bitch.”

Suzanne Somers was embarrassed by her 1st Playboy spread. Try scrubbing off the stench of degenerate drunkenness off your soul after you wake up in your daughter’s bed after the 1st night of Hanukkah drenched in your own pee, fully clothed thank God. Been off the beer, wine and bourbon ever since. Don’t knock the stain of shame bitch. It helps us rise to the occasion to avoid more lushy powered playtime consideration.

Michael Kornbluth

Sexy Spiel Problem

Am I the only one with a sexy spiel problem, especially around my daughter?
I’ll say, “Doesn’t daddy look sexy in his new cashmere sweater from Banana
Republic?” Daughter says, “Isn’t cashmere expensive daddy? And I say, “Yeah,
but I charged it on my Banana Republic Card, and its only part cashmere and it was
on sale and the grey sweater makes feel me sexy in my navy Lacoste sneakers. Daughter
says, “Daddy, just come out of the closet as a Stay At Home She Male Comedian and bang yourself dry already. Become an opener for Mario Cantone. Little
Metrosexual Mario shouldn’t cause much of a dent while coming after you from
behind. You look at yourself more in the mirror than Cleopatra before your
nightly spearing from Julius Caesar. Andy Dick puffs out his chest in your presence.
You make Jim Norton come off as an alpha dog skinhead in Romper Stomper. At least, you bought the sweater to feel extra sexy only, not just to fish a compliment from your 11-year-old daughter. Positive, that will quell mama’s nagging concerns over you being gayer than your jokes about you being against Drag Queen Reading Hour, because fluorescent library lights don’t look flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator. Although, I’m sure you’d sit erect, and focus with rising interest while Vampy Marilyn read you Bi-Curious George on your lap with the lights down low in her studio apartment in Hell Hole’s Kitchen, that tells the coming-of-age tale about a sexually frustrated Hipster spawn from Park Slope reared on Lou Reed records. Stay At Home She Male Slayer Comedian slays on, in a natural born, arousingly assholish way, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth