Pro Bush Ellen

My kids getting jealous of Captain America. Captain America got moves. He’s like Collin Kaepernick 2 seasons in before he started sporting pig socks depicting cops thinking he was the 2nd coming of B Reel. Daughter, stop acting like he’s real.



Did you know the Mayans invented Chocolate?

Do It All Dad

Dada’s Double Imperial Stout, which I pounded in 5 minutes flat last night, was made with bits of coco was called Mexican Cake. It was a far cry from STD catching Mexicali Blues.

Morning Prayer: God, don’t let me get mad at my wife for wasting almost the entire fresh squeezed OJ on our 3 kids for lunch, the one day a year, I fast to atone for being a right minded, judgmental prick, for the comedic betterment of all mankind, Amen.



Look at this Palomino Dada, she’s so pretty.

Do It All Dad Are all Palomino’s blondies?


Daddy’s attracted to Palomino’s.

Do It All Dad

Do you think they’re lady like enough to pluck their face hair when men aren’t present?


Dinero harassing his VP of Production in a bathrobe. You had no problem with me flicking ashes off my bathrobe in Casino. Rodney could get away with it but I can’t. Have I told you how much Viagra I take to stay hard around girls I can’t shit on?

I feel like less all over the place Jew, whenever my son cries about mama cutting his fingernails to deep. Especially, knowing, how much pride she derives from her exacting, Nurse persona, responsible for keeping premature babies alive status.

Teenage girls who declare themselves as boys are allowed breast removal without their parents permission today. If my daughter takes after mama. It won’t be too much of load off her shoulders.

They have sex week in college now. It’s like spin the bottle with dicks during bum rush week.

Humanity is doomed if Global Warming isn’t reversed. Let’s start with CNN calling ANTIFA  out, for the fascist, anarchists paid, pawns of treacherous, shadow government insurgencies for starters.

The MAGA hat is a covert symbol of white supremacy, San Diego City College? I’d care about your adopted, non critical piggy backed opinion, if the Full House chick thought enough of your school to bribe her daughter into it.



My nurse friends work complain about their husbands expecting blow jobs more than once a year on their birthday.

Do It All Dad

Your vagina has fifty million more sensitive synapses. And greater drillage, dentage, toys to play with babe.



Do It All Dad

Matilda, how does a boy at 8 identify as Transgender?


Doesn’t Transgender, just mean gay in girl’s clothing? Does that mean Shakespeare was Transgender because he dressed like a girl in all his plays.



Do It All Dad

Matilda, how does a boy at 8 identify as Transgender?


Arthur shrieks like a girl when Baby clobbers him in the face. Arthur also fights dirty and pulls my hair. Maybe, he identifies as a fake news tough diva on Glow.



Do It All Dad

Matilda, how does a boy at 8 identify as Transgender?


Transgender is a boy who never outgrows playing dress up with his sister? Or a girl with short hair, who insists on wearing pants on a TV variety comedy show.


Michael Kornbluth

Melting Pots Of Diversity

Casseroles don’t have to be 100% American made. Although, adding mayo, a Paula Dean tip for added moisture works wonders. What’s Paula Dean’s new clothing line called, Plantation Nation?

God didn’t command, use Campbell’s cream of mushroom for family friendly casseroles only. Just like he never commanded us to bolster Obama’s resume for him. Make Michelle proud again and use an organic cream of mushroom brand instead.

Casseroles need more American cheesiness than you think. Understand, I’m not talking about Tim Allen, woman don’t appeal to me because they don’t know their way around a power tool the way I do. Shred your own blocks of Cabot cheese, alright.

Don’t half ass a Casserole or let your wife try to replicate your kitchen tested gooey dish of yummy dance sparking perfection. Or else, you’ll hate yourself for handing over your kid’s happiness to mama because expectations are the root of misery.

Casseroles shouldn’t be used for a mere frozen broccoli plop. Boil fresh Broccoli before blanching the bushy heads. Tell your kids Blanching is an ice bubble for Broccoli. It extracts the yuck, symbolizing mo money making good luck.

Use rigatoni over Penne for your cheesy casserole. It’s not a dish to count your calories for. And Penne is like anorexic rigatoni. It fails to deliver any semblance of big deal bite like any Nikki Glaser roast joke on Comedy Central.

Use meaty, sauteed pieces of Oyster Mushrooms in Maine made butter for your Asian American Casserole Drift. They’re more scrumptious tasting than Shiitake mushrooms and not as farm to table pricey woodsy as Chanterelle’s from France either.

So what makes my Asian American Casserole Drift a melting pot of diversity? Did Donna Reed use sauteed Oyster Mushrooms in her casserole? Before Martha Stewart became a lifestyle guru for single billionaire farmhouse fixer uppers in Bedford, NY.

Michael Kornbluth




Hot For Son In Law’s Brother

My parents are so selfish, they pushed for my family of 5 to move next to them in Arizona for east coast heat wave weather stretched out to 4 months a year. And had no plans to up the AC to drown out Uni Brow Maddow whenever we visit.

My love for the Knicks has been reduced to bemused, preverse scorn. Now, I’m aroused at MJ wrecking the Allan Houston, not every shot was so pretty Knicks on YouTube in 1997.

Giving my wife grief on purpose via text.
I’m not rubbing it in. But none of the kids are sun burnt from yesterday nor have they made any reference to their skin catching fire yet.

Planned Wedding Party speech for my younger brother.

My brother’s mother-in-law Honey, compelled my mother to pretend all the wonderful emotive superlatives Honey showered in my honor were an extension of her own sincere feelings about me.

This is me freaking out locals at the pool as I smash my 2 year old son’s knees into water after hoisting him up high in air, again and again.

Breaking baby.

More convincing pump fake.

Baby Samuel headbutts the sky.

Typhoon alert part 2.

English Kid
Your baby looks like a girl.
Do It All Dad
Yes, my son without make up is hotter than David Bowie minus being overtly glitzy creepy.
And Eddie Izzard is gross, make up on or off, Piers Morgan included on or off the Telly.
There’s nothing worse than the Kindle kid take away scream.

I thought Kelly Osbourne made entitled bitchery sink to new deplorable lows on Fashion Police.

My mom in Tahoe warping reality again over the phone.

In Tahoe, I always think of our time here with you and Natalia.

Before you disinvited us 2 kids later because my stay at home dad of shame didn’t warrant a family retreat.

Diversity is our strength. Like Michelle Obama invited Joan Rivers to the White House for Sponge Cake to break her Yom Kippur fast, she hulk scowl please.

Diversity isn’t always great because me marrying a gentile, resulted in my unhuggable cunt mother in law force feeding communion wafers down my Jew blood infused kids behind my back, which isn’t kosher in our book Michelle.

Do It All Dad
I always get. Your daughter looks like your twin. I reply. Yeah, once, I grossed out my daughter and said, “My DNA is all over your face.”

Younger brother’s future in-laws laugh long time.

Brother’s Future Father In Law
I respect your tenacity.
Do It All Dad
Your mom admitting in a letter she’ll never show an interest in your writing career propels your love of joke slinging into ridiculous speed.

This Pixar movie had this sensual love making scene on a beach in Cuba.
Do It All Dad
Saying adios to Burt Lancaster’s hairy spine was a welcome relief.

Honey laughs long time.

Brother’s Future Mother-In-Law
Move the flowers out of the way, so I can stare Michel’s handsome face.
Do It All Dad
My younger brother isn’t dealing well with me being your dream celebrity lay in the making Honey.

The kids are sun burnt to a crisp.
Do It All Dad
Their skin is being burnt alive as we speak despite me using lotion twice. But you nit pick because you hate I how entertained and bonded with your 3 kids during a heat wave without you.

Old School Cool Jew
There’s ways to prevent unwanted pregnancies.
Do It All Dad
I never mastered the art of the pump fake. All my dad taught me was a half formed hook shoot.

Old School Cool Jew laughs long time.

Michael Kornbluth

Unplanned Fan Favorites

MSNBC defending Joe Biden.
America needs a Joe Biden hug because Rape Wood’s most watched endorsed news channel knows best.

Beyonce walking out of a Reebok meeting because it’s not diverse enough. I don’t see enough light skinned Nubian beauties thicker around the waist and busted in the face compared to me makeup on or not.

Stay At Home Comedian
A practice putting green.
Now, my sons don’t have to get bored to death reading Jack Welch’s business book because I already did. In summary, rich business people play golf, so don’t suck at it.

Cher defending Joe Biden.
He’s a safe hugger. David Geffen who I used to bang turned into a full blown homosexual banging Calvin Klein models rejects left and right. So, I’m a real authority on the subject of pure intention based huggers.

Kids are putting together an extra long Duplo creation together.

Mrs. Russo
It’s so long.
Stay At Home Comedian
That’s what Pamela Lee said.

Mrs. Russo laughs long time and her chest wiggles with delight.

Great Aunt calls.
Left you a VM about meeting you guys for Brunch. I never listened to the message. If you don’t listen to your voicemails, you won’t know what messages you got. But you’re telling me now, right?

Good Will Hoodie, you know Zit Face Zuck proposes regulating political immigration speech. He’s worse than the Pope. How will you regulate political immigration speech? Declare Sharia Law on Facebook and rebrand it Hijab Book?

I was a big fan of your show.
Sometimes, you were a bit crude.
Craig Carton
Is this a sentencing or you trying to show the Bailiff you know what a parlay is without having to Google it?

In honor of Kurt Cobain. Who I love despite killing off Ratt’s brand of shimmering, hair metal sleaze.

Courtney Love is Mia Farrow with better husband selection.

1st time, long time.
Craig Carton
You’re not good with Twitter are you?
Sentence me already, you joyless wench.

Gillette’s latest and greatest campaign features obese Trans models. No offense, but my entire attraction to Trans Models stems from their zero percent stomach fat and statuesque long legs compared to my wife, no offense.

Interested in our mailing list for coupons?
Stay At Home Comedian
4 kids would really piss my parents off but I’ll pass.
Sperm implanter or Sperm terminator isn’t up to me.
I got no reproductive rights babe, remember?

The Doors by Oliver Stone could be his best film after Born on the Fourth. Platoon is great obviously but Charlie Sheen is no Val Kilmer. Plus, I read Charlie Sheen sodomized Lucas. So he can go fuck himself and get HIV again.

A Gyro burrito in a spinach wrap with feta, banana peppers, rice and bomb Tzatziki when you can taste the fresh cut dill is worth rolling a fatty for before housing one later. I enjoyed mine sober off adderall but still.

Stay At Home Comedian
The Emoji cookie where he’s grinding his exposed teeth looking like Jill Biden inside.
Bakery Lady
I like Joe Biden
Stay At Home Comedian
You should let him use your granddaughter for a stage prop then.

What’s your email?
Stay At Home Dad Comedian
My wife is pushing for a vasectomy.
So I don’t need any coupons for any future unplanned fan favorites of me.
Sperm Terminator is my future.

The End


Michael Kornbluth

Books on Fatherhood Blow

Not that there’s real stiff competition in this department. A Model World And Other Stories by Michael Chabon, The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky, yeah, I got 3 kids, not finding the time for that slog feast of a read either. I’ll stick to Cliff Notes voted on quotes from Thank you very much.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, yeah, I don’t recall blowing though that summer wind reading either. Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev, yeah Bukowski had a hard on for his sparse, bone dry Russian, not me. East of Eden by John Steinbeck, you got my attention. He could write circles around the Russian writer greats with more effortless, charismatic loaded, emotive, this land is your land grace if you ask me. Unto The Sons by Gay Talese isn’t gripping my attention past Gay trying to pull off the Tom Wolfe all white suit past Labor Day. Which is in similar poor taste to me rocking my white polo today in January. Wearing my white privilege on my sleeves. Although chances are, F Scott Fitzgerald never bought a Polo at the outlet store in Lake George either.

Stay At Home Comedian, my book of essays and jokes about fatherhood transforming me into a seriocomic author in the age of meto fake feminists, #shadowbanning and baby boomer grandparent busts is comparable to what?

If Gore Vidal, Tony Robbins and Lenny Bruce had a baby.

Think Saul Bellow if Woody Allen punched up the humor in it and it didn’t sound so sanctimonious, Joseph Heller boorish after a while.

Think Charles Bukowski cross pollinated with Bill Hicks and Rodney Dangerfield and Anthony Bourdain’s non-smack gritty using, 1st narrative, punchy, florid prose. That personality loaded, funny man emotive poetic dynamic throughout my debut parenting book about falling for fatherhood, Stay At Home Comedian is the best of the rest.


Think of my book as Stud’s Terkel’s Working for a Stay At Home Comedian/Father of 3.

Think of Tom Papa, Jim Gaffigan, Paul Reiser and Bill Cosby’s books on fatherhood with actual laugh generation, emotive feeling.

Every bio or autobiography I’ve ever read on comedians or writers failed to sing the inspirational, empowerment praise of their children. So my book Stay At Comedian is peerless in this respect, minus Sammy Davis Junior’s book As I Am, where he talks about touring with his father as a vaudeville act as early as 4. I know it’s the other way around but work with me people. In the book, Sammy’s father advice which lead to me writing this profit maker book is this. If you do entertainment without getting paid, then you’re just doing for ego expansion purposes or something like that.

Think my book NYC Lit Agent as a Field of Dreams for a knock kneed putzy Jew who couldn’t dunk a basketball if his life depended on it. So he gave IPA’s up for the winter and did.  A pic of me dunking on the back cover slamming a Torpedo IPA from Sierra Nevada will be worth the 27 dollar price tag alone. Oh yeah, on the cover I’m slamming my bum with a spatula, as my 3 looks kids look up to me in adoring fashion hysterics. Above them is the caption Stay At Home Comedian, Controlling My Kids With Comedy.

Stay At Home Dads getting no respect, Stay At Home Dads hating each other, fatherhood being a do over life improver, kids being better than you, attachment parenting and turning your bed into a 24/7 milk bar is all brand new territory which I mine for comedy gold all the way. Oh yeah, and I’d never hire my goons to punch out Jackie Mason in his hotel room for making fun of Frank, knowing he was probably twice as funny and cutting as Rickles.  Last, I’ve got plenty of Rickles in my writing also. Read Bob Dylan’s Background Check Reveals and tell me different.

The End



Michael Kornbluth







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

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 Bryan 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. For not feeling distinguished in any 1 particular field of interest like acting, writing, lacrosse or photography. This much I share in common with my younger brother from my experience in High School also minus the snorting Ritalin part. I had get 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.

At the same time, my younger brother showcased glimmers of leadership potential during summers with Wilderness Ventures. Leading his group mount, the glorious Gran Teton National Park in Wyoming. Whereas I wasted away summers, counting down the days for Summer Camp to end during Color War. Because I wasn’t leading our basketball team to victory despite winning “The Most Improved Basketball Player Award.” Still knowing I was the 2nd worst athlete at camp after the Sheik’s son from Great Neck. Had no intention of writing about younger brother 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.

Preparing is caring. Don’t get me wrong, my dad coached me in basketball when I was a kid. But in retrospect, I got the impression 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 in Scottsdale, Arizona, summer included. Versus playin and getting to know his 3 grandchildren better than he did for his 1st born. 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 way behind him. “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 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.” Because my younger brother is big enough to recognize the limitations of outsourcing your sons not only physical but spiritual and cultural education to strangers who aren’t family. 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 on the danger of weed abuse, when their brais are still developing in High School. Instead of merely relegating you’re own use of weed in college because you worshiped Bob Dylan, sold weed in college and glamorized telling the tale of waking up to Sly Stone at 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. Which as time drags on becomes a much harder habit to break. 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. At the time all I thought in response was. That’s pretty fucked up thing to say dad in trying conceal your blatant favoritism you showcase in my younger brother’s direction, time and time again, obviously. Throwing your youngest son under the bus like this. Who you shipped off to Boarding School at 15. Knowing he had zero clue on how to be self-reliant or even defend himself in any effective capacity because you never signed us for Martial Arts either. Plus, insisting Jonathan gave you a heart attack over me, makes complete sense. Knowing your heart was always more invested into what upside and return my younger brother gave you in terms of pride and joy after you downplayed my rec basketball stock in front other dads in order to recruit higher caliber players. And relegated your 1st born to mere penny stock status post Bar Mitzvah. Because till this day, the only accomplishment of mine, my father beams about it was me rocking my Haftorah portion at my Bar Mitzvah. Despite my cold brought on by his perpetual, belittling, dismissive, you’re soft putz tone, which left my nervous system in shatters. It also doesn’t do wonders for your self-esteem, 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. Despite me having more friends back then than I do now by far.

I was close with plenty of my buds like 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 making a dish which gets my 1 Capricorn to launch into repeats laps around the room. Otherwise known as the Yummy Dance as my son declares with endless topping glee, best daddy ever.

All of those relationships, even mine with Coop. Who I’d buy candy with before Hebrew School. So our group of friends could throw the Nerds candy 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. Albanian and Italian Guido’s of late eighties, early nineties fame, were the original metrosexuals really. So, by spending all of our free time in Yonkers at 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 in Danny Farbers face during readings of Exodus 1 bit.

Despite writing every Heavy Metal band we could think of or read about in Circus magazine with my friend Ari on our Jean Jacket Denium 3 ring binders instead of letting Rabbi Klein bore us to death. Jackie Mason, an ex Rabbi he wasn’t.

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 you. Plus, he emanates from your Tree Trunk. So he has a sense of humor and can laugh at my new naked nickname for him Pecker Wood.

My beautiful son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, my number 1 Capricorn, my all American dream. Can’t believe he’s real. 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 of 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, 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 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 to 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 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