What’s My Blog About Rapewood?

It’s about an ex pot head lost boy who found his mojo as a stay at home dad comedian.

It’s about falling for fatherhood hard and rising from slug to stud as a paid remote American writer on the rise.

It’s about proving I can deliver the funny and heart on both the universal and topical better than most.

It’s about showcasing my Neil Young productivity and Metallica brooding intensity.

It’s about not sounding too rehearsed or sounding too formulaic like every other jerkoff on the Twitter-Verse.

It’s about mining for comedy gold and exercising my freedom of speech, so my wife no longer treats me like such a treacherous leach.

It’s about getting laughs from strangers which is what comedians live to do but I have 3 kids now. So chasing down open mikes in the city aren’t as easy to do.

It’s about promoting the benefits of attachment parenting. Which is turning your bed into a 24/7 open milk bar. But my kids complexions glow as opposed to other kids who look like they took a load to the face with Elmer’s Glue gun so far.

It’s about calling out fake news racist charges against President Trump. Unlike Obama, he never drank, smoked or did bumps.

It’s about becoming a voice for the remote work revolution and stay at home dads who get less respect than IT recruiters.

It’s about doing my own version of Charles Bukowski’s zero bullshit poetic prose, Thomas Paine’s freedom of speech loving verse and Walt Whitman’s making love to the world through words.

It’s about becoming an unplanned parent of 3 and how it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

It’s about writing the funniest parenting book ever about working remote, falling for fatherhood and controlling my kids through comedy.

It’s about recycling my jokes on Twitter which shadow bans my material every time I get on another hot streak which has been 2 years straight.

It’s more than just a creative outlet babe. It’s the greatest do it all dad show on earth.  But I’m glad you’re making tomato soup grill cheese sandwiches with your boyfriend now to reduce your combined girth.

It’s not about bashing whitey because that’s more played than dedicating the song, We Won’t Get Fooled Again to the Clinton Foundation at the only local Karaoke bar in Hatti.

It’s not about getting noticed by a Creative Director in Manhattan for a Copywriter job anymore.

It’s not about just complaining about my parents abandoning me for Scottsdale, Arizona 350 days a year with 3 grandchildren back east with me.

It’s not about just entertaining myself or my own ego enlargement purposes although more likes than usual helps.

It’s about figuring out what writer I want to be.

It’s about writing my way into your heart, not whether I come across as a notch above learning disabled smart.

It’s about minimizing my intense, aggressive, NY asshole aura by emoting about how wonderful my children are and how much they adore me instead.

It’s about taking my writing career more seriously than ever. And revealing more about myself than my predominant tendency to bludgeon your ears to death with clever.

It’s about becoming an important voice for Gen X Dads. Who in the age of Meto, care about preserving their nads.

It’s about becoming a voice for do it all dad’s who don’t get enough props, who need me time entertainment to enjoy with their IPA hops.

It’s about I how I have to become a parenting author because capturing voices is my forte and getting inside my children’s is the most fulfilling form of child’s play.

The End


Michael Kornbluth


I Have To Become An Author

I have to become an author because despite all his success Rodney Dangerfield was still miserable.

I have to become an author because similar to Rodney at 42, I’ve got a duffle bag full of funny to capitalize on already.

I have to become an author because I really wanted name my 1st son Charles Bukowski Kornbluth.

I have to become an author because I ended up naming my 1st son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth.  Plus, I’m  15% Welshian according to Ancestry.com.

I have to become an author because it will score me a female lit agent I can flirt with over shrimp cocktail at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central guilt free because my wife will have her Black Range Rover already.

I have to become an author because my 7 year told daughter believes I’ll get a million dollar advance because putz face Christian Lander who wrote Stuff White People Like got 350 thousand for his white priveldege snooze feast.

I have to become an author because I’m too sensitive to become a road comic.

I have to become an author because my asexual Bruce Jenner material wouldn’t play well at Berkley and I can’t afford the security detail.

I have to become an author because Ann Coulter is one and she exudes 0.0 personality off the page.

I have to become an author because I survived 2 near accidental overdoses from Crystal Meth and lived to tell the world Crystal Meth can also look exactly like Cocaine.

I have to become an author because I cold called through my twenties and thirties as an IT Headhunter and only have my 2562 superficial connections to show for it.

I have to become an author because I live to create and feel like an ineffectual jerkoff when I’m not.

I have to become an author because my MATH SAT scores leave me no choice.

I have to become an author because Tom Papa wrote a book on fatherhood from on the road I’m assuming because his kids got minimal emotive mention.

I have to become an author because my chapter Birth of Pescatarian Comedian is funnier than Jim Gaffigan’s bug meat fish spiel.

I have to become an author because Bill Hicks was a comedy poet at heart and so am I.

I have to become an author so I can ask my mom next time she visits us from Arizona, “Too ambitious? Good thing, I took your advice and became a garbage man though.”

I have to become an author because I’ll have something to show for 10,000 jokes produced during my stay at home dad gap years.

I have to become an author because I’ve been working on my autograph signature since my 7 year old daughter started drawing more complete o’s than me.

I have to become an author because it will provide me with paid speech opportunities as the new face of the remote work revolution.

I have to become an author because Anthony Bourdain would demand it after I got my piece of flash fiction Anthony Bourdain Rips My Frozen Lunch Apart published in Fire and Knives in his honor.

I have to become an author because outside of Cameron Crowe, name another writer who has a picture of Hollywood screenwriter director legend Bill Wilder in their home office? Hoisting a cane high in air talking out dialogue with his Harvard grad writing partner on a coach in the Paramount Lot, hanging onto maestro’s every words back in the day.

I have to become an author because nobody ever became rich from being a salary man. Wyatt Earp said that East Coast elitist.

I have to become an author because it’s my fight for self-respect and I’m winning.

I have to become an author because I don’t have to obsess over delivering stand-up funny every 2.2 seconds.

I have to become an author because Paul Mooney told me, “I hear you’re funny.”

I have to become an author because I’ve lost all desire to write another TV Pilot and work in Rape Wood.

I have to become an author because I’ve got God and my 3 kids to keep my heart company inside.

I have to become an author because writing heartfelt funny makes me most high.

I have to become an author because it’s a decision that wasn’t made for me by my fucking parents.

I have to become an author because my daughter’s teacher thinks I should be hosting my own kids TV show already.

I have to become an author because David Letterman and Johnny Carson were such overrated personalities.

I have to become an author because Gary Shandling told me. “To keep writing and you’ll look like me.”

I have to become an author because I’m not a tough guy Jew from Brooklyn like Dice.

I have to become an author because in my writing I’ll prove how much funnier my kids are than Judd Apatow’s.

I have to become an author because Louie CK is just going to steal my spot at the Comedy Cellar anyway.

I have to become an author because it would impress Kevin Smith.

I have to become an author because I used to make up my own lines for national commercial auditions in LA before a real monster ego emerged.

I have to become an author because all I got out of my appearance on Blind Date in LA was a free meal and herpes.

I have to become an author so Charlie Daniels can kiss my Stay At Home Dad ass.

I have to  become an author because I blew off Canteen mixers at sleep away camp for more readings of Cracked Magazine.

I have to become an author so I can get my son, Art Show USA his own electric guitar and lessons so he can play Siamese Dream at his his Bar Mitzvah Party.

I have to become an author so I can go ice skating with my Daughter at Wollman Rink in Central Park and afford to splurge on tea and scones at Tavern on the Green.

I have to become an author so I can buy my family a new home with enough farmland for my Larry Bird size basketball court.

I have to become an author because my relationship with my mother couldn’t get any worse.

I have to become an author because Shel Silverstein would recommend me to his agent.

I have to become an author because Dr. Seuss peaked early.

I have to become an author because Gen X kids like myself are moody, alternative obsessed creators.

I have to become an author because it sounds a whole lot sexier than IT recruiter.

I have to become an author because I’m bored with just rereading my jokes on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast.

I have to become an author so my Obama jokes can get my book banned from Brooklyn bookstores like Henry Miller back in the day.

I have to become an author so I can see my kids wait on line at my books signings for my autograph.

I have to become an author because my gorgeous kids will score sports modeling and endorsement deals from Lulu Lemon and college won’t be necessary any longer.

I have to become an author so I can love my kids better with a more ravenous, joy spewing heart.

I have to become an author so I can drive my wife back from the hospital with our new baby in the back of our new Range Rover because 4 kids would really piss my parents off. And then, I earn a free pass from ever having to visit my in-laws in Delaware again because chances are, I’ll be too busy promoting my next best seller.

The End


Michael Kornbluth













My Cubicle Resistance

My boy screams. Mom says. “If you won’t brush your teeth, I will.” I say. “Or you’ll turn get ready for bed into a wall of cacophony sound. Like when Lana Clarkson told Phil Spector the Ronettes were high maintenance whiny Jews in weaves.”

Opening line for my personal essay about my old school cubicle resistance.
I want to work from home as a stay at home comedian paid writer because I’m better at empowering and entertaining than my wife is. And my kids take pride in who I am.

What’s the secret to keeping my marriage together? Making fearless, non-negotiable demands like insisting my wife deal with lumpy, batter tits until she finds a replacement for her Handmaid’s Tale bra giveaways on Amazon Prime.

This is the 1st year your parents didn’t send me a birthday card.
My mom was busy planning Jonathan’s 2nd engagement in 2 years for his big year, big year.

Pedo Jeffrey Epstein invited Bill Clinton to visit his virgin Island 20 more times than my parents invited my family to visit them in Scottsdale, Arizona. When they pay for you to visit on demand once a year, it doesn’t quantify as an invite does it?

Drop off my son with his teacher.
I knew it was going to snow. So much for mama being a nature love child in tune with the Rainforest.

Son’s teacher laughs long time.

Me turning my daughter on to Ecstasy unintentionally.
Ecstasy is ingenious marketing actually because your friends will say. Are you an anti-joy Republican? Ecstasy feels like a fairy tingles your spine with a feather from Pocahontas’s Head Dress.

New Chapter Title Ideas about the birth of my 3 kids.
Birth of an another American Beauty
F You Dad Baby
Birth of a God Loving Humanist

Personal essay title options about re-raising myself as a classical baby schooled in classic American literature and white European composer music.

The Latin Club
Reincarnating Myself as a Classical Baby
From Hendrix to Mahler

What’s Shadow Banning?
Big Tech suppressing pro-American content by banning your words or blocking their visibility because the fake news moralist nerd overlords of Silicon Valley sold their souls to communist controlled China and the Kennedy Killers.

Enough with investigations into Facebook’s knowledge of Russian election interference. Get answers on why they haven’t banned ANTIFA, or hate speech incarnate Farrakhan from the site yet insist on Diamond and Silk being the real menace to society. Nino Brown from New Jack City was a menace to society. Diamond and Silk are De La Soul in comparison Zit Face Zuck.

Luck eludes me like hangtime, no matter how I hard I try to move on up, to the stars.  I meet a former CIO of Nokia. He wants to do an interview on my Podcast yet he doesn’t know if he has Skype. So much for pumping Dino for an open job to fill and putting my old school IT recruiter hat on to feed my family, unbelievable.

Don Draper genius on display at Stop and Shop with my son. I pick up foot fungus cream before taking in the condom section to feel like a total scumbag inside and out. Jealous rage swims within me when I see. Skyn Condom, “Feel Everything.” If this isn’t the Devil tempting you to cheat on your girlfriend or wife to ensure the least collateral damage, I don’t know what is.

Personal essay title about getting a reluctant Vascetomy.
Sperm Implanter or Sperm Terminator?
Pulling the Plug on My Life Shooter
But 4 Kids Would Really Piss My Parents Off

How do I control my kids with my comedy? I tell them if they don’t let daddy get work done, I’ll get a sales job in the city, do open mikes after work and they’ll never see me again. Works every time because they’re in love with my company naturally.

The End


Michael Kornbluth

The Productive Stoner

I always wanted to be a functional pothead. But I had to stop trying 3 kids later.  I gave it my best shot. Don’t think I’m quitter.

7 years ago, my wife barges into our 1 bedroom apartment bathroom on a Friday night in a whirlwind of presumptive disgust because I was enjoying myself a tad too much as our 3 year old splashed in the bubble. And sang with me as we crooned with soul stirring,  shimmering glee to Bob Marley’s evil spirit conquering Duppy Conqueror. Understand, I puffed a one hitter in the bathroom with the window open before I got my daughter situated in there which got me feeling extra loose. Now, my wife barges through the bathroom door unannounced. Shoots off a final judgement hate stare in my direction and says with frothy, damnation dispiritedness. “You’re such a stoner.” Before slamming the bathroom door coming off the hinges.  Next my 4 year old daughter, Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth says. “Daddy, you’re not a stoner. You’re a rock star.” I say. “You’re right, Matilda. Because stoners aren’t doers and daddy is a doer. Granted, I haven’t done mommy since her birthday last year but that’s besides the point.”

So do I still smoke some weed? Squeeze in a puff of Florida Crippy’s for old times sake to celebrate writing the 1st draft of a new TV pilot like I did for my past creations including Don’t Laugh I Live Newark, Mr. Right and Mike Mates? I’m strong at banging out headline hookers I know. But no, I haven’t smoked the scrumptious, crystal specked green supreme goodness in 4 months now I think. Could be longer. So much for my short-term memory bouncing back with palpable, reverberating vengeance since my past podcast goodbye to my pothead plagued past in Episode 43 My Weed Exit Interview, on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast. I had my daughter do the intro for it. “Funnier, dad, happier baby, and I’m living proof of it. Can I get a Challah for some Challah?”

Ok, so back to the million dollar question, what drove me to take a permanent vacation from what I perceived as my best bud till my daughter Matilda was born? For starters, 3 kids later, I could no longer afford to feel like a bigger moron than I already feel around my comedic genius daughter. She’s a math nerd also which is a tad annoying. It got to the point, where I was disgusted at my belabored, ad lib replies to her super deep, out of nowhere questions about God.  My daughter asks. “So Daddy, if God created the Universe, then who created God?” I say. “God, went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.” Daughter says. “Real convincing Dada. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.” The joke doesn’t work as good if she says 6.

When you stop smoking weed after you’ve been a Stoner for 2 decades in a row, you start remembering your dreams because they’re so vivid crazy homes. You think you’ve been blackout drunk your entire waking life prior. What I’ve noticed in these dreams is old buds resurface. Who I’d either get stoned with or drunk with. But any semblance of a sturdier, brotherly bond past getting fucked up together, disintegrates under the unflinching, murky, glare of my dream undertow. Where old buds appear emotionless within the shadowy corners of my subconscious, REM catching up mind man.

I also compared my joke retweet stats on Twitter when I took an extended break on weed prior to my podcast Weed Exit Interview episode and was disgusted at the sobering statistical illumination revelation. I banged out almost ten times as many jokes off the weed than on it. Plus, my jokes on weed in comparison sounded like the dull minded, dim witted, dead brained drippings of a mentally strained douche-bag.


Trump has produced around 38,000 tweets compared to my 40,000 plus from my past. Proving native New Yorker’s hailing from Queens don’t have a hard time expressing themselves or ever run out of colorful things to say. At the same time, this doesn’t mean I’ve had burnout induced moments in my 20’s and 30’s when I was an awful communicative stoner, which haunt me till this day.

Once, I was cold calling a VP of Engineering as an IT Recruiter, doing new business development in Manhattan for a staffing company in One Penn Plaza right above MSG. And I could barely state my own full name clearly and at this point I only had 36 years of practice. “Hi, my name is Michael Kornbababluth, from Adam Jacobs & Associates. “Struggling with your own name I see” the VP of Engineering said with relished glee.

My own father stopped smoking weed after he met my mom in college. It was a deal breaker for her. Once, I recall watching the Knicks my Senior Year in High School when I started smoking plenty of weed after school from the Bronx, the cheap, sprayed kind that tastes like Windex. So I’m watching the game with my dad and out of nowhere my dad says with all knowing, dour disdain, “You’re not speaking well.” Translation, you’re smoking too much weed and you’re a learning disabled kid who didn’t crack a 1000 on his SAT’s. You’re not Bob Dylan, moron.

I always wanted to be a functional pothead. Getting my TV writing gig at VH1 Classic for Americas Hard 100, which was 12 years in the making felt great. Especially after I rose to the occasion and proved to myself I could get a high stakes writing job done well with all eyez on me pressure. I got stoned solo to celebrate in Manhattan off my prized one hitter and took a soulful, money, money, cocksure stroll from Times Square to my favorite craft brew bar in Manhattan on 10th Avenue to extend my feel good party in my honor. But then, I’m at the bar, being non-predatory flirty, feeling like a married slut in a straight jacket. Acting nervous around woman at the bar because I feel guilty about being free of my 3 year old girl for once and that was before my other 2 kids were born.

I continued to get high off the extra good green after becoming a dad because it still brought me pleasure and it helped my brain chill at night when I’d squeeze in a hit away from kids after dinner around 7. I’d love listening to the Grateful Dead, Europe 72 on it or Hair Metal ballads by Warrant, especially while reading new jokes of mine which come alive off the page a bit more on it. Plus, my evening reading performances for my kids in bed were more spontaneous fun for both the kids and me. Reality is though, weed is a poor man’s substitute for the American Hustler search and destroy, kill um all mentality  I needed to embody to become a major comedy success in this universe and continued weed use burns out my full throttle flame of creativity before I can take it even higher. I justified my weed use for long because I’d use the weed as a reward for getting a new script or blog done, but that’s a limited way of thinking, especially knowing, how I’m scheduling myself to be less productive the day after I get blazed.

My wife’s worse nightmare was me being stoned at night once she was in labor with our 3 child Samuel Teddy.  The birth of Samuel pushed me past my obsession with fulfilling all my self-serving needs. 14 months later I became determined to love myself better and be the healthier, wiser, friskier, funnier Dad provider my family of 5 needed me to be. Now, I’m pushing myself to maximize my time on this earth to make it as a writer on the rise after all. One my 3 kids can be proud of past their adoration of dad because they’re not teenagers in love with anyone else but me yet.

My book Stay At Home Comedian is a love letter about how my 3 kids finally got my act together. It’s a self-improvement story about how my 3 kids inspired me to replace bad habits with good habits. It’s a humor book about parenting, modern fatherhood and controlling my kids through comedy as a stay at home comedian podcast host blogger who works from home  It’s a memoir about my unusual artist family and how my kids have made me a better friend, husband, patriot, writer, leader and comedian.  Last night, my daughter asks. “Are you getting close to finishing your humor book on fatherhood, Stay At Home Comedian yet daddy? When you start selling copies of it through Amazon Kindle and at Barnes and Noble, I can call you a real artist because real art sells, right Dada?” I say. “I liked it better when you called me a rock star instead. Richard Belzer called all comedians frustrated rock stars at heart.”

The End


Michael Kornbluth





Number 1 Capricorn

Number 1 Capricorn squeezed out of mama on New Years Day in the big city, Manhattan to be exact. Chances are, Number 1 Capricorn won’t have a hard time hooking up on his birthday at a club in Manhattan when he gets older or struggle to rally his friends to celebrate his birthday on New Years Eve. By urging them to put down the VR Googles for a night when real life beer googles await.

I was also born on the Island of Manhattan. I share that in common with my son, number 1 Capricorn. Which gives you some insight into my son’s 1st nickname in my honor, Always Loud. If I was a Native American Indian, my son would call me Trips on Curbs.

My other 2 kids were born in suburbia, Number 1 Capricorn’s big sister Matilda Singing Rose, and his younger brother Samuel, Headbanger’s Ball. Does my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA, Number 1 Capricorn, posses my flair for the comedic? Obviously, or else he’s not telling me in the car on the way back from Pre-K to be funnier than Weird Al before Christmas. Or he’s going to kill me with our sharpest knife for real. Obviously, he’s inherited my leanings toward dark humor also.

Is Number 1 Capricorn a sweet, observant, thoughtful child who never causes his dad any crazed distress? Similar to myself growing up, not that my own parents take this into consideration when they’ve always blatantly built up my younger brother versus constantly tearing me down. Despite my younger brother’s multiple arrest record, 2 decades long of nose candy abuse, derailed wedding engagement 1 week before his wedding. And the fact my parents had to take out a home equity line of credit to pay for their prefered son’s Boarding School in the process. But I digress.

My parents outsourced the education of my younger brother to an all Christian, jock heavy boarding school in Connecticut from the 9th grade onward. He says it made him tougher. And made him deal with actual Anti-Semitism like when his classmates threw pennies at his shoes for Mass. But a putzy, semi-built Jew from Westchester County like my younger brother. Who only competed in basketball and football against other similar putzy, semi-built Jews and Asians in a Division 3, suburban athletics prior. Was totally primed and ready to distinguish himself among the other monster, athletic bigs similar to former boarding school alum legends like NY Ranger great Brian Leech, who broke the Cup curse from 1940, no problem.

My younger brother fell into the druggy crowd. I wasn’t any better. It did neither of us any favors. For me, it helped me come out of my shell a tad. And for my younger brother  his test scores improved from snorting Ritalin. But it was a crutch. And only deepened his dependence and addiction for chemical induced highs. To help boost a strangled self-esteem void in the core of his being. Again, I’m talking from personal experience also. Except I had to get accepted into the Roy H. Park School of Communications at Ithaca College. Before I became friends with kids to snort Ritalin with and become the beneficiary of such speed paper writing privilege. Ithaca is otherwise known as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But I  graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications. So after graduation, I could take a bong hit of the extra strong outdoor and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.

I didn’t plan on writing about younger brother at all here but it makes sense because the story I’m telling is about my desire to raise my son into a winner because preparing is caring. And settling for outsourcing your kids education to strangers prematurely isn’t. It’s bare minimum parenting and reeks of half ass effort in my book.

Preparing is caring. Don’t get me wrong. My dad coached me in basketball when I was a kid. But in retrospect, I believe he did it more for his own ego enlargement than for my own competitive evolution. It’s a damning statement I know. But even my younger brother who denies our dad is a narcissist. Despite our Dad having zero problem playing tennis 350- days a year in Scottsdale, Arizona, crazy hot Indian summers for 7 years in a row included. Versus cutting that time in half to spend more meaningful time playing with his 3 grandchildren back east instead. Now, I’d say my dad’s favorite activities in retirement in Arizona are playing tennis and jerking off to the Weather Channel. With news of more winter storms, slamming against the Eastern seaboard, again and again. But at least my dad’s feeling good about his developing ground game. According to my dad’s new instructor, his forehand has never been stronger.

But I’m being serious. Preparing is caring. I’m in Arizona with my younger brother and my family. And my younger brother says. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Again, let me stress the fact this advice was coming from my younger brother. Who rejects any fake news notion of our father being a narcissist. And this is coming from a kid who posts driving selfies of himself on Facebook. Proving how the road to objectivity is past the point of no return. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Is coming from a kid who sees nothing wrong with leaving a condom on a couch where my kids used to play. We ditched the couch once we moved. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Is coming from a younger brother who saw no problem asking me to get him high, when I granted him the opportunity to come through for me and look after my kids Arthur and Matilda before my lucky 3 Samuel, my flipper, breech baby was born. Which I just made the birth to in time because I had to call an audible at the last second and invite my in-laws to drive 3 hours down from Delaware to look after my 2 kids at our place because my younger brother’s heart wasn’t into being a class, non-selfish act for once his life, my chest. That’s not my expression. A friend of mine in high school coined it but it’s beyond pertinent to incorporate in this butter fingers, baby brother, dropping the ball case of biblical proportions. Similar to when God said to Adam. “Under no circumstances, turn the apple of knowledge into your personal bong. The magic herb already possess plenty of mind stimulant properties of it’s own. Who do you think created Maui Wowie in the 1st place?”

So when my younger brother of 3 years who posted a picture of himself holding my 3rd born in our home as his new Facebook photo without my consent. You can understand why I got enraged, thinking, great. Now, he’s stolen both my weed, Adderall and my life. How many times has he babysat my other 2 yet? So I can squeeze in an open mike God forbid. But feel free to use my newborn as a means to hide your sketchy surging side from mom to attract more maternal minded muff Sir Snort A Lot, my chest.

Look, even my own mother who worships the ground my younger brother walks on has admitted to me. “Son, you deserve a better younger brother.” So don’t think I’m being a melodramatic, caustic drama queen about it. I’m only mentioning my younger brothers’ serially self-centered behavior to highlight the contrasted sober sound advice he gave me in relation to my 1st son Arthur for a change. “Push Samuel more than dad did with us.” I think we can all agree. It’s family members above else, especially dads, who should have the most personally vested interest in ensuring his children establish good, healthy habits, versus spoiled, lazy, degenerate, mentally retarding ones. Who should make it priority to educate his children about the dangers of weed abuse. Especially, in High School, when your children’s brains aren’t fully developed yet. Instead of downplaying yet glamorizing your own use of weed in college because you sold it in college and woke up to Sly Stone during the original Woodstock, in a post Acid haze to , “I’m going to take you higher.”

I want my 1 Capicorn to get into the habit of winning sooner than later before losing becomes a complacent habit. My dad still smokes cigarettes. And has zero problem stinking up my kids or leaving his disgusting bits of gum on our table whenever we’re graced with his presence, all after his heart attack no less. He blames his heart attack and being addicted to sleeping pills on my younger brother after his drug cop sting arrest. After my dad blamed my younger brother for his heart attack over the phone last month. I thought. Insisting my younger brother gave you a heart attack over me, makes complete sense. Knowing his heart was always more invested into what upside and return my younger brother gave him in terms of pride and joy after my dad downplayed my rec basketball stock in front other dads in order to recruit higher caliber players. And  lost interest in me after my Bar Mitzvah all together. Till this day, the only accomplishment of mine, my father beams about was me rocking my Haftorah portion at my Bar Mitzvah. And I’ve written for TV twice for Viacom in Manhattan since.

It also doesn’t do wonders for your self-esteem, in junior high when your mother and father openly admit to fretting about nobody showing up to your Bar Mitzvah Party after the party happens. Only to learn they invited as many people as possible to cover their bases. And it’s not like I was friendless either.

I had Ari, John and Coop but all those past relationships during my age of innocence. When we used to dance like comedy buffoons to Man in the Mirror and get high off Shirley Temple’s alone at Bar Mitzvah parties galore fail to match the pure joy I derive from educating, empowering and entertaining my  1 Capricorn.

I’d buy candy with Coop before Hebrew School. So our group of friends could throw the Nerds and Gobbstoppers at the Scarsdale kids moments later. Because we attended nearby Edgemont High School and went to movies like New Jack City in Yonkers, NY during the height of Albanian Guido revolution. Both Albanian and Italian Guido’s of the late eighties, early nineties fame, were the original metrosexuals. So, by spending all of our free time in Yonkers, NY at the the movies around such spiked haired, fist flailing Albanian bad assess of yesteryear, we became a tad tougher than our Snuggles soft Scarsdale counterparts by mere osmosis. And didn’t sweat retaliation from raining cherry Nerds down on to Danny Farbers face during readings of Exodus 1 bit.

Despite writing every Heavy Metal band we could think with my friend Ari on our Jean Jacket Denium 3 ring binders instead of letting Rabbi Klein bore us to death in Hebrew School.

Despite all the time I spent in John’s driveway with him teaching me how to throw a tight spiral already. Despite all of those special, warm hearted memories amassed between these old school friends of mine. Who’ll I always love in my heart for loving my sweeter, sober, still way in his shy shell self. My relationship with my son Arthur, my number 1 Capricorn is far more magical and heart tingly than all of those past relationships combined. And we all saw Dice’s coming out party on HBO and Poison slay at the Westchester Country Center with Fallen Angel and Nothing But A Good Time together.

All of these friends mentioned above, came to open mikes and bringer shows I did in Manhattan after living in LA for six years after college. Our roots run deep. But having a son is different type of relationship because he’s a more beautiful, funnier, far sweeter manifestation of myself.

I adore my beautiful son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, my number 1 Capricorn, my all American dream. God really came through for me when I prayed for none of my kids to be afflicted with my knock kneed putz gene and boy did he overdeliver. But as I’m always emphasizing to my 1 number Capricorn, talent alone is no guarantee of greatness or transformation from nobody to somebody success. Is Kobe Bryant genetically gifted? Of course, but he’s gym rat and it’s his killer work ethic and his dogged desire to be the best like Larry the Legend and MJ before him which separates him from the Alpha Dog pack. I don’t want my son to get addicted to munchies and the giggles in High School. I want him to get addicted to winning and becoming a leader. Who helps turn other self-doubters into winning addicted believers.

Before Arthur was born, I said, babe, I got the perfect nickname for Arthur, we’re going to call him The Art Show. 1 second later, his big sister interjects Arthur Morrison Kornbluth’s swelling embryonic mojo. And says. “No, it’s my show.” Since then, I’ve also called my son Arthur, my All American Dream because he’s got blue eyes, blond hair and looks like a prettier Micky Mantle. If Leo played him in a movie before all the booze and coke drained him of his God given good looks like a non-fruiter sounding Peter O-Toole.

I think giving your kids confidence building nicknames are important because it gives them a high standard to live up to like Art Show USA or All American Dream or Number 1 Capricorn. I’d say those nicknames are a glaring contrast to self-esteem restricting nicknames like my father imposed ones such as Waste of Height in comparison.

The 1st founding father to sign the Constitution, George Washington said 99% of people fail because of their insistence on making excuses. And I refuse to raise my Number 1 Capricorn to be this way. Preparing is caring. So when I see my son on the playground at Pre-K if I pick up early. And see him running around with such athletic grace and confidence supreme because I pushed the monkey bars on him early like his sister and got him mirroring my kettle bell exercises at 3. This glorious sight of my son’s confidence on the rise puts me at ease. Knowing he’s so much more comfortable in his own skin than I ever was at his age. And he’s getting stronger at conquering his inner shyness, more everyday, yeah, yeah. “Life is on the other side of fear”, like Eleanor Roosevelt said. When you’re an unemployed stay at home comedian dad, you have plenty of time to look up life coaching quotes to use on your children I know.

Preparing is caring. In a sense, a fair share of the losing in my life has prepared me to become a more informed, empowering caretaker for my children to ensure their semblance of egos don’t get tripped up at the starting gate. Becoming a parent is a life improver do over by granting you the opportunity to do good through your children. By doing your best to make sure they’re aware of your mistakes and don’t repeat them to ensure they become addicted to winning sooner than later. And don’t end up an unemployed father of 3 with a very funny yet unbillable podcast and blog under their belt for the past year and change.

Preparing is caring. And more than ever, I’m determined to be the best winning role model I can be for my 1 Capricorn. And the only way I can do this, which is under my control. Is to keep banging out more retweet worthy jokes, unearth more heart warming blog chapters and finish writing my book, Stay-At-Home Comedian already. And settle for nothing less than family inspired comedy gold. So I can become funnier than Weird Al and don’t die a nobody before Christmas. I told you 1 Capricorn got his dark sense of humor from me.


Michael Kornbluth


Wife’s Birthday Party Gone South

Nationalist is a loaded word. The N bomb is a load word. ANTIFA lives matter is an oxymoron.

If I have to hear 1 more time. But the Israelis retaliate against the Palestinians with extreme force. What’s an acceptable response then? Poetry slams in a East Jerusalem coffee shop and dropping truth bombs about Hamas killing any shot of a 2 state solution instead?

You have Hypersexual Disorder. If a lower back massage leads to you ramming your pelvis into mama over the couch. I ask my daughter. You want to know how babies are made? Daughter says. Daddy, enough with “hump-backing” mama. Spare me the play, by play already.


My impersonation of Mike Birbiglia on Broadway
I felt so useless & sidelined after my wife gave birth to our daughter. So, I scribbled some jokes in my diary about how I get why Stallone left his wife in Over the Top. I’m feeling so vanilla vulnerable right now.


Michelle Obama says she stopped trying to smile at Trump’s Inauguration. Is like ANTIFA’s head of recruitment saying he stopped cashing checks from George Soros in his hidden Swiss bank account under Heidi Franz Krautpurgent.

Trump’s a white nationalist? But he moved our embassy to Jerusalem. So technically speaking, he’s a Hebrew Nationalist. Hebrew Hammer strikes his point home through his all mighty shtick again.

INT.  Home

Hub Guest

Louie CK is right. Most kids can be annoying assholes.

Stay At Home Comedian Dad

Mine are fuss free. But hipster husband talk of white nationalists turning America into an Aryan nation despite no Edward Norton, American History X knockoffs gracing the Oval Office feels like mainlining MDMA?

Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I enjoy mom’s friends over.
But do you know what I missed most yesterday kids?

What daddy?
Focused attention away from you 3 kids. My greatest gifts of all.
So everyday with us feels like Hanukkah, 8 days a week?

Stay At Home Comedian Dad
There’s funny & hilarious. Besides you being hyper-articulate Matilda.
You deliver naturalistic punchline words with extra personable pop and hilarious minded, expressive relish.

I never want this compliment to end.

Who could resist this?


The End


Michael Kornbluth

4 Halloween Jokes Is All You Need

This is my impersonation of a gay escort who shows up late for a date with Boy George tonight. I got tied up at this Halloween Party by a Boy George impersonator. He got pretty method on my ass.

Do you think denture mouth Pelosi gives out books like 1000 Places To See Before You Die for Halloween to taunt middle class trick or treaters dressed like Kayne West in sweats and MAGA hats tonight? Smart enough not to wear black face.

John Kerry’s executive mind at work.
Should I ask Julio to build a billboard of my wife’s rotten apple face outside our Beacon Hill townhouse or an ISIS flag tonight to scare MAGA hat trick or treater’s?

Best Halloween prop is.
My wife as Francine from American Dad holding up a Build The Pool Fence sign during our Instagram family photo op. After my son Samuel holding up a cut out picture of Roger’s face taped to a red plastic martini glass.


Michael Kornbluth

Birth of an American Dad

Once upon an asshole my dad used to be an asshole. Never to me personally. Outside the 1 time he pointed out how the penne vodka at Pizza and Brew was made with prosciutto ends after I only gave his green goddess essence Broccoli Penne Vodka a 9.

Dada added. Daddy isn’t a pescatarian. But when I cook for our family I am. So, excluding prosciutto ends to my penne vodka means I don’t have as much flavor flavorings working in my favor. Obviously, dada was a being a mini asshole oversharing with me like he tended to do back in the day.

In retrospect, Dada, should’ve just accepted my 9 rating of his penne vodka with blanched Broccoli green goddess essence and moved on with his life. Instead, of throwing the chef at Pizza Brew under the bus as we’re waiting outside our home sweet home. Hearing my bus coming.

Dada always waited for me by the bus, when we used to live in the beautiful hamlet of Croton Falls, NY. Right, off Route 22. You can drive on Route 22 throughout every bucolic hamlet from NY all the way up to Vermont into fake news socialist Bernie Sanders country.

I won’t apologize for making fun of Bernie Sanders. He didn’t make America great again. Plus, when we took a family spring break trip to Norway. Dada came back from a bar sampling some local Norwegian brew and was told by a bartender Bernie neve even stepped foot in the country for their annual smoked fish smear convention. Tremendous tap water, in the city of Bergen by the way. So, the beer quality was naturally Ithaca is gorgeous Ithaca Flower tap fantastic according to daddy.

Did you know only 2% of American children call their fathers daddy? We never had a normal American family. Mommy being from Australia originally and daddy being a stay at home comedian dad/native New Yorker from the rough section of Scarsdale, NY. That’s a joke obviously. All the Jewish kids who went to daddy’s Hebrew school were real pussies according to Daddy.

Daddy attended Edgemont High School. Which is right next door to suburban Scarsdale, NY. His friends braved going to Movieland to watch movies like New Jack City during the height of the Albanian Guido revolution. So, my daddy and his friends had pseudo tough guy bragging rights through osmosis in comparison.

You’re probably wondering, why I’m tossing around words like asshole and real pussies so loosely being a 27-year-old nationally syndicated comic strip illustrator and co-creator of Hear My Bus Coming. A comic strip that gave Dilbert creator Scott Adams, heart palpitations because it’s gotten so popular, daddy told President Trump to unfollow the creator of Dilbert, Scott Adams on Twitter. Because he’s an unfunny, low octane personality in comparison. Trump laughed. And unfollowed Scott Adams the next day, no questions asked.

Daddy predicted Ivanka would be president after Trump was done making ball busting without the hysterical, falling apart at the seam’s overtones great again. Daddy killed at the White House Correspondents Dinner. Still getting laughs out of making fun of Hillary Hammer Time Cankles. And her deleted emails about the yoga class coupons from Lulu Lemon and those others detailing funeral arrangements in case Chelsea’s Clinton’s fiancé increased his asking price at the last sec.

Yeah, so back to my liberal use of cursing. Understand, I only curse for emphasis the way daddy always did. Before his Do It All Dad Year Podcast blew up, got Gibson Guitar as a big time sponsor in addition to Lulu Lemon and an Israeli tech start up providing social media monitoring alerts for the FBI and NSA to thwart the surge of hate formation surging in the forms of all white nationalist, Neo Nazi Groups and of course radical Islam groups not too fond of our people either. At least, Farrakhan is having his wormy eyes being eaten by real life termites six feet under as we speak.

Farrakhan called Hitler a great man when he was alive. Not a great artist though obviously. Do you see Picasso ideating the swastika? When Daddy performed at the White House Correspondents Dinner, Dada said the swastika look like 2 stick figures doing a sixty on a see saw on Crystal Meth. Daddy is very funny. I couldn’t have done our nationally syndicated comic strip Hear My Bus Coming without his punchy might. Then again, daddy would also be screwed without my artist drawing supreme abilities. His handwriting till this day. No matter how hard he’s tried to improve still looks like Jared Leto with the shakes using a pen crazed glued to his stump arm in Requiem for a Dream.

Growing up, daddy always told us how heroin destroyed all the creative greats like Jerry Garcia and how it also led to premature deaths of other artistic giant personal favorites of his such as Janis Joplin and John Coltrane, Belushi included. Daddy showed me and my 2 brothers the movie Requiem for a Dream once a month from 10 through 17. Only to read us the druggy, brain raping destroyage tales from Allen Ginsburg’s landmark poem Howl for a night cap to nail his overkill message home. It worked. God bless daddy for not holding back in that instance time and time again.

So, I wasn’t a planned baby. Mommy was pregnant with me when she got married to daddy but barely showed. Technically, speaking I already traveled overseas to Australia for their honeymoon when I was only 180 days old. Customs in Australia thought mama was a Drug Mule. Patted her down and everything. Which I took personal offense to at the time. Daddy looked nothing like Leo from Beach back then. Especially since Leo’s looks took a nose dive off a cliff after draining his face dry from way too much booze fueled nose candy plagued nights according to daddy. Only hearing last call from the bathroom stall.

Daddy started his Do It All Dad Year Podcast to celebrate other do it all dads living the new remote work American dream. Which would make the focus less ego centric and help minimize his assholishness. It did. Daddy’s much smarter than Papa and Mimi ever gave him credit for. Before he became so big time with my assistance of course. Now, they can’t help but kiss his bum more than Uncle John’s. Not that Uncle John gave daddy much steep competition anymore in comparison. Still Uncle John made out alright. Becoming the VP of Expansion Sales for Shake Shack. Lots of expensing on the corporate account. Uncle John still doesn’t know the difference between a White Burgundy or a Polly Fume Sauvignon Blanc. But he never had dad’s flamboyant, shisshy bitch tastes or style either.

My baby brother Arthur is a world-famous architect who just built the 1st space model design for Trump Tower on Mars. Our youngest brother Samuel, AKA Chef Samuels continues to expand his restaurant empire of old school hip hop themed Pescatarian Gastro Pubs. With actual dance floors to get jiggy with it on called Hip Hops. Daddy gets 10 percent of the revenue for naming rights alone. Daddy always said headline hooker creation was one his few fortes.

Oh, and Mommy eventually got her PHD in Lactation and became an internationally acclaimed bestselling writer, with her book the Boob Doctor. Daddy got 10 percent of her book sales royalties based on his naming creation ability yet again. What, I never said, Dad overcame his assholishness altogether.

For my dad’s follow up book to the Stay at Home Comedian, Birth of a Pescatarian Comedian. The book cover says. Pescatarian Diet + Heaps of Funny Equals 1 happy family. And my family is living proof of it. It’s a tremendous honor to receive the Mark Twain prize for humor and for once my daddy let me do all the talking myself. All it took was winning the Mark Twain prize to shut the asshole up. Love you daddy. You became a stand-up mensch after all. I always knew you had it in you. Now give me another never ending hug. I never want this moment to end either.

The End


Michael Kornbluth

New Vasectomy Jokes Made Snippy

Opening sentence to my new chapter entry about getting a Vasectomy called Pulling the Plug On My Life Shooter.

Is men’s productive rights, fake news doc? Does Planned Parenthood offer kickbacks for referrals?

Or I can go with this one.

Is a Vasectomy really permanent doc? Or do you struggle untying triple knots without using your teeth?

Me explaining to my future , older son how pulling out is no sure way to prevent absolute damage from your life sprayer. After explaining to him how his big sister and baby brother weren’t planned at all.

Dad couldn’t pull of a convincing pump fake if his life depended on it.

Plus, I was never touched much as a kid. So daddy became a more excitable boy than most. I couldn’t even make it to 1 Mississippi.

Vasectomy Chapter Title Ideas for my fatherhood success parenting book the Stay At Home Comedian. Controlling my Kids with comedy.

Pulling the Plug on My Life Shooter
Sperm Implanter or Sperm Terminator?

You’re so off the Corporate America grid. When you’re found most under the search term homemaker on LinkedIn. My podcast episode Raising my Kids on Speed was a total giveaway, Artificial Intelligence or not. January Jones is so much hotter than me right now.

Whose conducting Homemaker searches on LinkedIn? Are Jacuzzi Sales Reps using it for desperate housewives to plug? Her schedule is wide open for me. I can squeeze in a quickie after servicing her neighbor in my territory on Friday.

But seriously, whose searching for homemakers on LinkedIn? The VP of growth for the Savage Nation? You know for southern housewives who like to picture Savage with Sean Hannity’s shoulders and Trump’s hair.

Chapter Title Options for my Do It All Dad Imaginary Interview with Andrew Dice Clay.

John Lennon, I fucked him, oh.
Mr. Mom I Fucked him oh.
Potty Train Mouth This
Pay Uncle Rodney Some Respect
Once Upon An Asshole

I like the Hodge Twins. Calling white girls trophies is funny. Too bad they’re aren’t funnier than Mike Epps, even D. L Hughley for that matter. Their tour date announcements are thumping though.

Hear My Bus Coming Column
Did you love my penne vodka with blanched, green goddess essence Broccoli? I give it a 9 dada. You do realize Pizza and Brew uses prosciutto bits for their penne vodka? For more flavoring in their favor.

My Non-Conformist Daughter
Mommy, I don’t want to wear a Halloween outfit for school because I’m dressing up as Haley for Halloween for the American Dad family motif we’re doing, remember? Plus, I’m going to hit the next person who asks me what a hippie is.

Counter attack lines for my 7 year old daughter to use on a boy in her class who questions her lack of protein intake. I’ve got a 4 pack Ryan. You’ve got a zero pack. Did your daddy, nickname you Deltoids Dawn? I didn’t think so.

More counter attack lines for my 7 year old daughter to use on a boy in her class who questions her lack of protein intake. I have zero body mass fat Ryan. Do you even have a core Ryan? Because I just punctured a hole through your argument.

Only humans have children on purpose.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad/Father of 3
So much for fatherhood making me less of an animalistic prick. You’d think after we banged out 2 accidental miracle babies. I’d ease up on pulverizing Blondie a bit.
Me starting shit with my wife. If you do a Vasectomy search on Google. What website shows up 1st, Web MD or Planned Parenthood? Wife says. Planned Parenthood. I say. They don’t have enough monopolized power over your Fallopian Tubes already?


Michael Kornbluth

Cascading Jokes On My Day of Rest

Vegetarians and Pescatarians don’t get enough protein counter punches for my kids to strike back with. Omnivores like yourself are more likely to get cancer. Increased hypertension knowing how much your parents mishandled your health isn’t helping you either.

In the brewery bathroom with 2 of my 3 kids. My 1st born is taking a number 2. Outside I hear. Who locks a public bathroom door? I reply. I got 2 kids in here. Take your Michael Jackson appreciation party someplace else

My daughter’s hilarious Mermaid deformity theory.
Mermaids are deformed and not fully developed women from head to toe because they ate too much seafood when they were pregnant. F you Louie CK. You wish your daughter was this hilarious. You to Rock.

Int. Used Book Shop
4 Year Old Son
Daddy, can you grab that book for me?
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
For Mr. Fantastic it wouldn’t be a stretch.
The puns just keeping pouring out of me today kiddo.

Texting funny to my friend.
Very proud of your sobriety bud. Natalia is taking the kids to the Bronx Zoo soon. I’ll be free to talk after I jerk off to mounting Pam Grier in Zebra print lingerie as an oversexed Zoologist.

What else are you banned from Daddy?
Besides the salon for my Hillary jokes. I got banned from the Comedy Cellar for going long because I was off to a strong start for once and invited my own caravan to attend.

I’m not 100% gay. I just never wanted to want to bang my wife too much. 3 kids later or not. What are my options now? Bang a German hooker the 1 time I had my wife agree to before we got married? Wear 5 condoms to extend my time in my occupied territory indefinitely?

INT. Coffee Shop
Older Woman
Your baby is the Gerber Baby come to life.
Stay At Home Comedian
Thank God I didn’t knock up Kathy Griffin instead.
Lately she looks like Clifford and Trans Chucky had a baby.

Int. Record Shop
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
Simply Red. Just the shot of testosterone I was looking for.
You don’t find that funny, UB40? At least the owner did to confirm my raging inferno inside.

Give my baby boy a pretend jump back breaker in the elevator. Wife freaks out in disgust despite my baby boy’s shrieks of pure, flowing joy. You’re going to make the elevator jam. Wife shrieks knowing her precious boy is never this loosey goosey in her arms.

INT. Brewery
Fish and Chips arrive as 1 plop of fried fish and fries on my plate.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
My fried fish looks like a Knish.
Waiter laughs.
Now, my Limey Aussie wife is going to tell me I’m being too difficult.

INT. Bagel Store
Old Recruiter Bud
I got into sales leadership.
Now, I mange a sales team for a literacy technology company.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
Kids use your platform to start off reading USA today in class instead of Sheraton Inn lobbies.

I hate Pizza tossers who tense around my beautiful offspring in their mediocre NY pizzerias. Your vodka sauce looks like brownish shit. Your marinara sauce is serviceable at best. And your Pinocchio nose looks like it got caught in a wood chipper Luigi.

Loved Joan Rivers on Fashion Police. Her story about Lenny Bruce saying they’re wrong, keeping her going after bombing for 2 weeks in a row was very inspiring for me. Still, her greatest hits on Spotify make Rodney feel the like classier, smarter, funnier act, sorry.
Madison Avenue is dead.
Some moron erects a billboard with KP and Durant saying “Make The Knicks Great Again.” Are you kidding me? Durant hates pushy, Jewy NY reporters more than 25 pound Kettle bell curls. Use your head morons.

Got the No Respect Rodney record on Vinyl today. Rodney was 43 when it came out. Which explains why my 3 kids to his 2 at 42 for me has produced such pressure packed gemry. Knowing I never had a lucrative paint sales career to fall back on in the 1st place.


Michael Korbluth