Do It All Dad drops the 1st Shabbat Shalom Ramble.
Pause Daddy Podcast Set List: Hunter’s Hell, Ditching Dangerous, Wow Show, Deplorable USA, Big Stick Talkin and Clown Shoe Blues.
What do Tour Guides of Delaware say about Biden now? Hair Sniffer Plugs, used to take showers with his daughter here, wherever Corn Pop’s fluffing services weren’t available. What’s inflation? Jill Biden barely scraping by, without any combs or brushes in use since 76. What do you call her hair style exactly? Freeloading ho bag with a townie thrashy twist. But nice fishnet stockings Jill. I bet Jill sucks dick for Bitcoin behind Joe’s back at Hotel Dupont. Jill says, “I’ll suck your untraceable dick. But you look a tad fruity, so put a rubber on. You’ll last longer than Joe at a Brownie sale in Brentwood.” Deplorable USA, Challah. Thank you very much.
Remember when your mom walked in on us Singing No Mosey No Cry for my final goodbye? You were in the bubble again, sparkling like the Lion cub of Judah under the hot Ethiopian sun with your chosen curls dancing in the name of the Lord. And your mom asked in semi-hurt disgust, “What does Mosey no cry mean Mosey?” I say, “Were just humming some Bob Marley love songs for Michael’s bubble, nothing new here, Ms. Kornbluth.” Your mom being a banker for Chemical Bank had no idea who Bob Marley was, so she couldn’t feel too burned yet over our Lazt Waltz together before your parents moved to the suburbs so you could cry it out in your crib upstairs, which always makes the more muffled moans of despair easier to bear. Then, there was the time, when your mom walked in on you calling me mommy in the Bubble, which hurt her much more inside. She says, “Did my son just call you mommy?” And I say, “It sounds like Mosey doesn’t it.” That’s probably why your mom calls herself Me-Me around your children now. Your mother added, “Son, your being raised in Forrest Hills, Queens, not Jamaica, Queens.”
The sun wasn’t shining in my heart that day. I mean, Jamaica, Queens is fine if you don’t mind dirt weed blowing through the air as you push your son on the swing to chants of, “I’m going to take you higher.” Your dad never cared for that joke reference despite him always telling me the story about waking up in a post Acid haze to hear Sly Stone serenade 400,000 hippies with I’m going to take your higher at Woodstock only 9 years earlier because I was Jamaican, and he assumed I smoked weed at some point in my life before I decided to clean my act up and become a nanny for the prettiest boy in Forrest Hills. You were such a gay baby, Michael. You’d even choke on the rattler for fun. But I’ve been sobor for 40 years and I have you to thank.
You see I grew up in the prosperous part of Jamaica when my father was a big-time record producer for Island Records. Peter Tosh was my Godfather and taught me how Marco Polo introduced the Europeans to Lassie Soup after traveling to China, who also believed in evil Spirits like Rastas do. Bob was a was Duppy Conqueror, meaning an evil spirit conqueror, which means one who conquerors worried plagued fear. My dad never conquered his Duppy spirit and got addicted to the hell water, thinking it was only way to conquer his doubts of having golden ears, after he passed on signing Bob Marley and The Wailers. So, once the fire water rum took over his life, he was forced to become a Janitor at Ska parties in Trenchtown on dirt roads with no electricity as he scrounged for roaches at the end of Punky Reggae parties to lift his sagging spirits, which is where the term dirt weed arose from actually. At first, I dated a Rasta bum who sold coconut water on the street in Times Square during the summer before it became available at your local 7/11 but that was it. I fell in love with his falsetto voice, he reminded me of a young Bunny Wailer really. But he smoked so much ganja, his handwriting wasn’t even legible anymore whenever he tried to write me love songs, but this before Apple had come out with their desktop computer in 76, because he wasn’t the best speller on the typewriter before either. Plus, he insisted on calling White Out, colonial imperialism against commas to break up his killer flow, or something like that. He was higher than Richard Pyror at Freddie Prince Junior’s funeral, far from looking good. But I cut him out of my life and fell in love with a black Israelite Marcus, who became a public defender for the DA’s office, who taught Shofar lessons to rich kids in Riverdale, to pay for our wedding in Israel by in by a resort beach town in Eilat. Marcus wanted to visit King Solmon’s grave, who was known to have a steamy affair with the Queen of Sheeba. Bob Marley mysteriously inherited the ring King Solomon possessed, that tracs back to the time he tapped Queen Sheeba’s ass on the regular, did you know that? Anyway, your father always called you cleanest boy in Forrest Hills, so my obsession with cleaning up my life spilled into me giving you 3 bubbles a day, Michael. You were so happy in that bubble, as I hummed you more Bob Marley love songs, which was permanent rainbow country for me. And I passed the dreaded typing test before getting a job at Apple in 76 before becoming the VP Of Sales for their floppy disk game division. I made the game Oregon Trail, the best-selling floppy disk game in America before Carmen San Diego came out as a flasher perv stalking Bill Walton at Padres games, whenever the Grateful Dead were in town. I know that you’ve been suffering from night screams, feeling evil spirits strangle the life out of you in your dreams lately. But recently, those dreams have abated, and that’s because you haven’t lost faith in the sweet Lord being your protector, defender and celebrator, or else you wouldn’t have produced all these amazing books and comedy records to move, touch and make the universe laugh with, coming together as one. United we laugh, you prove it every day. I’m your biggest fan, always have been. Although I like this idea of you selling furniture for Bob’s Furniture in Norwalk, CT. I think this 1st interview will materialize into more good fortune for you. You’ll be inspired to get back on stage once you get out of the house again. Your soul is too pure and big for the cramped office life. Plus, I want you to write that story about triggering a furniture designer who designs bookshelves for Chelsea Handler, only to tell him face to face, “Bob’s Furniture has way better stuff than this shit. And you’ll have a leg to stand on, which will be an empowering, duppy spirit conquering place to be Michael. Don’t give up on your dreams of making a living off comedic song for a living eventually. Bob worked at the Chrystler factory in Delaware before he became Bob Marely. No money, no cry for now, but earning some for a change will help remove those talking blues. Deep down you have to believe your funny enough to fill out those clown shoes.”
Do It All Dad gets you off long time with #GenXMasturbationRecordComedyRecord129
Killer Set for 9/18/22
True Detective Moment
Far From Slacking
Love Juice Lore
Cinco De Mayo Mope
Pulling For Howl Master
Sweet Summer’s Gone
No More Mr. Sly Guy
Nazi Rock Historian
Clinton Groupies Moaning
Dr. Seuss Is Tony Robbins For Kids
Manhandling The Truth
Killer Set List for 9/12/22
Royal Bottoms Away
No More Mr. Sly Guy
War Of The Hoodies
Fabulous Gang Bangs
Vaccinated Buzz Kills
Hair Plugs Sniffer Day
The Mental Irish Patient
Love Juice Lore
Cinco De Mayo Mope.
Why does Obama get one more presidential portrait than every other cracker ass President?
Does he get all the calls like MJ now?
But if Obama is such a baller, then why did he ride the bench at an
all-Asian private school in Hawaii?
Or did Mr. Groper give his 1st portrait a presidential pardon after Michelle
bitched to Dr. Jill 1st?
I’ll string you up by your fishnet stockings, you small town, townie ho.
Barack gets one more presidential portrait than hair plugs sniffer, got it
I’ll spear your rack into the White House Garden like the black Goldberg if
poopy pants calls Barack his boy again, got it?
Barack gets one more of everything, including these nuts, you dig?
Prince Harry is lucky to get one when we play Twister Tea Bag Party during July 4th weekend in Martha’s Vineyard.
But I’m sure the Queen of England lauded your style past Scarecrow
Appreciation Month, Jill.
Jill Biden says, “Fuck off What’s Talent Got To Do With It. Order a
bigger propane tank to power your next Tea Bagging Party barbeque bash. It’s a bad enough look when Joe gives Zelensky more duffle bags of billions to take naps on in St. Barts, without sporting for a new shirt. Now, I know why they call them army fatigues. But I thought you loved the gender fluid artist who painted your pegging pal’s last pic, when he wasn’t inspiring W to paint a pic of Portia De Rossi’s white privileged laden clit being hacked to Shawarma shreds during Ramadan before George Floyd Appreciation Century became a thing. What does your gal Ellen even do with W after being caught palling around with the feel-good Messiah at Cowboys home games? Does W text you, “Shoulder Pads, Ellen is here, come on over for a game of Operation, Gender Reassignment Edition.” Clearly, Ellen is
pro Bush all the way. But seriously Michelle, what was the problem with the 1st presidential portrait of Barack? Was the portrait of Obama Be Meh, sitting down for a number one outside the Ivy restaurant on Robertston Blvd across the street from New Line Cinema in LA not manly enough for your tastes BABY? Plus, wipe that bitch face scowl off your face already Michelle. You’re rich bitch. And your daughter at Harvard is only a pot head slut who gets high with dad to humor his idea of being a fake news deep bi-racial Bob Marley for Halloween. When I told Hunter to make a wish and blow on his birthday, he snorted the cake. At the same time, Barack is looking ghastly skinny these days Michelle. At least, Hunter gave up blow for blow painting. The only thing it looks like Barack has given up is AZT drugs during a crack cocaine bender with Jussie Smollet after Empire replaced him with Stephen Baldwin in Blackface. He can’t stand a worst shot at causing a race riot than big brother Alex attempting to teach financial literacy to the head of BLM because Turbo Tax is some culturally biased software shit. Obama rules, my balls. It’s Mr. Groper’s world
now, you better recognize Too Tall Jones.”
America’s Team cracking, Challah. Thank you very much.
I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.
Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”
Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.
They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.
But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”
But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?
You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”
Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.
“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”
You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.
Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.
But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.
Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.
Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”
But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.
But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.
On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.
Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.
When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.
Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.
A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can get by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.
So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.
Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.
Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.
Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.
Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.
Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.
Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.
Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.
Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”
Holy shine time is holy bonding time.
And that’s as good as it gets.
Holy Shine Time shines on.
Watching Hacks Cry.
Lennon lives, Challah.
Thank you very much.