Do It All Dad Does Mormonism

“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

Toni Morrison

Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of 3 was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height already.  He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him, yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be?  Do It All Dad had gorgeous looking jump shot yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league knowing, his ball handle was weak and could only dunk out with a mini basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process.  One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student, still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie in the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters, there, who mostly came from the boogie down Bronx, versus his more snuggle soft secure upbringing along the Tudor housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked over Hebrew National Dog from, assuming your uncontrollable putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again or you just dropped spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed puffed at increasingly rapid rate. One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad then known as simply Josh was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages Phonebook and launched high with zero hesitation for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority as the lost 20 year old college senior, without a passion to latch a career on to yet, miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating on the top communications schools in the country, that being Ithaca College, which he’d call Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later, thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So, I scored 10 points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor. It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge then, consisting mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint, knowing whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away scared from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla. “Then, after Julio’s raise the roof, in your face, I’m the man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking out himself, saying, “Your turn Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it player.”

Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension knowing his less than lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his Varsity playing basketball days, when he used to run on this tippy toes instead of high tops, looking like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model instead. If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach, he’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did, he’d joke about his in act when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the great. He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck up Jenny from the block. 2 minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-hoo Bottle, doesn’t spin itself bitch.”

Now, Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline who gives an encouraging fist pump raising, signaling, you can do this champ. Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he started running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff, which stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim. It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing fear prevented him from flying high again. Julio approaches Josh, as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, I’m such a worthless putz, deflated state and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly B.”

Now at 45, what was holding Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels?  Assuming ownership of his original birth name Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua, knowing Michael was considered partially God like in the sense he packed enough fire power to kick Lucifer’s ass out of Heaven wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.

Do It All Dad loved his IPA’s, yet after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut, which most would say was done in extreme poor taste, he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPA’s had to offer his rapidly depleting, voided world, without his 3 beamish, wonder kids in his life anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay at home comedian years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match after the next.  Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior. One quote, which always weighted heavily on guilty plagued conscious was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison, stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that’s way you down.” Now, Josh was divorced from what descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly. On a less psychic mumbo, jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini beer belly, which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking out glory, where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good. The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.  

Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife, like at 2 drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC for starters. After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or 2, to enjoy the post kill rush among a sea of new touch feely female fans? Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild. If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle, by giving up his precious espresso pods, IPA’s and focus on shedding the extra 20 pounds holding him back from flying with rock powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks at amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame Induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself, he was a capable of being better a man after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet he at a Seattle coffee shop.
But what would Josh do for money to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute? Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again, to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again. No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which made him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years. Josh was blessed with a booming, motor mouth to, who was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his 2nd oldest in swimming and his 3rd into volleyball, all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each, so how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child supports up?  Because getting another 50 K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at 45 wasn’t going to get the job done either.

Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blond mom in tight ripped jeans, normally, who was caught staring at his swelled package, the 1st time he gave her the greenlight to give him his spikey haired, lean mean, machine makeover, an idea emerged. Josh says to the chesty, sweat drenched, chesty, perfect feet manicured, Julie in bed,  “I can’t make a living a working comedian or as an author yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time suck in my life, which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore in life, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin, if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow, so I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Pelton riding instructor because they all bore me to freaking death. I don’t care how tan ripped solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leaderboard every time without completely coughing out a lung either. Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison in addition to becoming a star provider for my family after all, which is what I pray to God for every morning anyway. The most popular Peloton Instructors make 300 K a year. No wonder why their smiling so fucking much because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning. Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor to look stylish and be cheeky, bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Pelton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home to. Plus, I wrote the entire script for Vhl Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kick ass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time. Plus, I know enough about hard rock to know Foreigner kicks way more ass than fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could, my chest. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”

Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?” Josh says, “Mormon Moms, they’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US, even more than Beverly Hills. I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.” Julia says, “Look Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks, which I’m not complaining about one iota either, but let’s be honest, I’m your divorce rebound lay, nothing more, nothing less. Although sometimes, a divorce rebound lay, can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”

Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA for the back cover pic. I think I finally found a way to do it on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion national park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla, thank you very much. Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, can be sold as self-help, mid-life crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down, that being beer and a nagging ex-wife, who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer, which is bullshit all the way. This would prove her wrong and I could become the star provider for my family after all. Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything, for this part like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?” Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink free edibles for claiming PTSD after learning my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my 3 kids behind my back. The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello wresting wife night. Plus, I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism, because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it. I could thrown in a line how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into Heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor, who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to blocks the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the 1st place. Ban ICE, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destructions years, my chest.” Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big time, Peloton Instructor, maybe, I’ll fly to visit you.” Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay career revitalizing muse of sorts with steamy, inhalatory glee and says “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers from Yonkers, NY. Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition. So how about I pump up your box one more time for the road instead.” Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and says, “I’ll take that has a hard yes.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth  

Do It All Dad Does Mormonism

“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

Toni Morrison

Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of 3 was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height already.  He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him, yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be?  Do It All Dad had gorgeous looking jump shot yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league knowing, his ball handle was weak and could only dunk out with a mini basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process.  One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student, still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie in the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters, there, who mostly came from the boogie down Bronx, versus his more snuggle soft secure upbringing along the Tudor housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked over Hebrew National Dog from, assuming your uncontrollable putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again or you just dropped spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed puffed at increasingly rapid rate. One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad then known as simply Josh was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages Phonebook and launched high with zero hesitation for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority as the lost 20 year old college senior, without a passion to latch a career on to yet, miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating on the top communications schools in the country, that being Ithaca College, which he’d call Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later, thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So, I scored 10 points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor. It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge then, consisting mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint, knowing whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away scared from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla. “Then, after Julio’s raise the roof, in your face, I’m the man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking out himself, saying, “Your turn Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it player.”

Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension knowing his less than lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his Varsity playing basketball days, when he used to run on this tippy toes instead of high tops, looking like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model instead. If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach, he’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did, he’d joke about his in act when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the great. He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck up Jenny from the block. 2 minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-hoo Bottle, doesn’t spin itself bitch.”

Now, Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline who gives an encouraging fist pump raising, signaling, you can do this champ. Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he started running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff, which stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim. It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing fear prevented him from flying high again. Julio approaches Josh, as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, I’m such a worthless putz, deflated state and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly B.”

Now at 45, what was holding Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels?  Assuming ownership of his original birth name Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua, knowing Michael was considered partially God like in the sense he packed enough fire power to kick Lucifer’s ass out of Heaven wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.

Do It All Dad loved his IPA’s, yet after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut, which most would say was done in extreme poor taste, he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPA’s had to offer his rapidly depleting, voided world, without his 3 beamish, wonder kids in his life anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay at home comedian years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match after the next.  Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior. One quote, which always weighted heavily on guilty plagued conscious was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison, stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that’s way you down.” Now, Josh was divorced from what descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly. On a less psychic mumbo, jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini beer belly, which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking out glory, where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good. The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.  

Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife, like at 2 drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC for starters. After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or 2, to enjoy the post kill rush among a sea of new touch feely female fans? Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild. If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle, by giving up his precious espresso pods, IPA’s and focus on shedding the extra 20 pounds holding him back from flying with rock powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks at amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame Induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself, he was a capable of being better a man after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet he at a Seattle coffee shop.
But what would Josh do for money to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute? Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again, to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again. No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which made him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years. Josh was blessed with a booming, motor mouth to, who was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his 2nd oldest in swimming and his 3rd into volleyball, all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each, so how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child supports up?  Because getting another 50 K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at 45 wasn’t going to get the job done either.

Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blond mom in tight ripped jeans, normally, who was caught staring at his swelled package, the 1st time he gave her the greenlight to give him his spikey haired, lean mean, machine makeover, an idea emerged. Josh says to the chesty, sweat drenched, chesty, perfect feet manicured, Julie in bed,  “I can’t make a living a working comedian or as an author yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time suck in my life, which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore in life, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin, if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow, so I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Pelton riding instructor because they all bore me to freaking death. I don’t care how tan ripped solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leaderboard every time without completely coughing out a lung either. Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison in addition to becoming a star provider for my family after all, which is what I pray to God for every morning anyway. The most popular Peloton Instructors make 300 K a year. No wonder why their smiling so fucking much because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning. Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor to look stylish and be cheeky, bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Pelton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home to. Plus, I wrote the entire script for Vhl Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kick ass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time. Plus, I know enough about hard rock to know Foreigner kicks way more ass than fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could, my chest. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”

Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?” Josh says, “Mormon Moms, they’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US, even more than Beverly Hills. I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.” Julia says, “Look Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks, which I’m not complaining about one iota either, but let’s be honest, I’m your divorce rebound lay, nothing more, nothing less. Although sometimes, a divorce rebound lay, can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”

Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA for the back cover pic. I think I finally found a way to do it on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion national park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla, thank you very much. Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, can be sold as self-help, mid-life crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down, that being beer and a nagging ex-wife, who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer, which is bullshit all the way. This would prove her wrong and I could become the star provider for my family after all. Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything, for this part like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?” Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink free edibles for claiming PTSD after learning my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my 3 kids behind my back. The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello wresting wife night. Plus, I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism, because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it. I could thrown in a line how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into Heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor, who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to blocks the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the 1st place. Ban ICE, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destructions years, my chest.” Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big time, Peloton Instructor, maybe, I’ll fly to visit you.” Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay career revitalizing muse of sorts with steamy, inhalatory glee and says “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers from Yonkers, NY. Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition. So how about I pump up your box one more time for the road instead.” Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and says, “I’ll take that has a hard yes.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth  

Racist Alien Attacks

“Nobody ever wrote the song, Waiting for A Fallen Angel Alien Like You”, tweets a frenzied, 10-foot-tall alien, RH Negative 5000, from a Mars espresso bar, with excellent WIFI, as he looks down on Earth with a mix of surging envy and desperate urgency, knowing if he can’t find a virgin earthling with RH negative blood to get him pregnant by midnight tonight, then his race of Fallen Angels Aliens from Mars will disintegrate into the cosmos, as would’ve been super angel contenders forever.

This secret race of fallen angels on Mars aren’t allowed to abduct and rape any old earthling into getting them pregnant either, despite Andy Dick’s repeated offers on dating sites such as, Intergalactic Beams Up My Anus Hole.com.  Finding a virgin earthing with RH negative blood is hard enough, knowing those creatures are normally emotionally evolved, blessed with superior physical prowess in the sack compared to their medium length earthlings, including stars such as Leonardo DiCaprio, Jim, MOJO rising, Morrison and Bob Marley for starters. “Bob Marley banged out 12 kids, but isn’t ganja supposed to drains your life shooter dry?  It’s fake news man”, RH Negative 5000 tweets in a race against time to save his race of fallen angels of imminent ruin, knowing all the weed in the world won’t get Seth Rogan’s kid brother to knock up RH Negative 5000, even though he could transform his body into any dream physique he wanted, despite looking like an erect Serpent and guitar God Steve Vai had a baby, when he didn’t have to change his appearance to get a virgin earthling into sticking it his alien, procreation hole.

The other problem being for RH Negative 5000, is how only 10 percent of the earth population was RH Negative, and due the advent of the Internet, dick pick swiping sites and online porn, virgins are pickier and more selective than ever before, and I don’t recall Alien porn being a popular hashtag category on Youporn.com nor was Pete Townsend ever caught clicking on Soapy Alien Bottom Boys.com, in the name of new song research about a Pinball Wizard who gets probed by a race of white , pure blood, RH negative aliens, for his out this world, old school arcade game prowess because playing Guitar Hero on the XBOX get’s played out fast, when you can do mind blowing, Pete Townsend solo’s from Live At Leeds with five arms doing non-stop windmills out of your ass.

Little did RH Negative 5000 know, that one his followers on Twitter was 9-year-old girl from horse country in North Salem, NY who believed in fallen angels, especially since her father was a conspiracy theorist comedian Michael Kornbluth, named after the archangel who applied the final smackdown kick on the Loose Lipped Lucifer, which kicked him out of Heaven to his new liar in the Hollywood Hills behind Bill Cosby’s house for good. Actually, Matilda just got her family tree report from Ancestry.com and confirmed ancestry with RH Negative blood, who lived in Boswell, New Mexico, otherwise known as the Mecca for UFO landings, on earth, because Fallen Angels aliens from Mars knew Val Kilmer owned a ranch nearby, which was cool enough for them, knowing he played one of their kind in the Doors with such as believable, otherworldly authority.

Now, Matilda was always intrigued by the Twitter handle, RH Negative 5000, especially the profile shot of what looked like an extra scaly, greenish guitar God Steve Vai, after puking his brains from breaking his one month fast with In and Out Burgers, animal style, in his attempt to pen a sequel to his masterful magnum opus guitar swansong for the ages, For The Love Of God, stop letting Twitter teach your kids Dr. Seuss is racist, he’s not.

Matilda loved her father reading Dr. Seuss books to her, especially when he’d make his own rhymes if Dr. Seuss got a tad repetitive again, because he’s guilty of peaking early. The other night actually, her Do It All Comedian Dad did some riffing to her extreme delight to unearth some comedy gold material after the latest and greatest Dr. Seuss cancelation movement from the side of tolerance, unity and joy spreading peace and says, “Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist then, it’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.”

What Matilda love most about her daddy reading her Dr. Seuss books was how he adopted his infectious love of rhyme, always pointing out how Walt Clyde Frazier, NBA broadcaster for the Knicks was in the fact the slickest, tongue twisting cat of his time.  More importantly, Matilda loved how her school was celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday this week for national reading appreciation month at her school, who was born in March like herself, which in her book was extra cool. This coming Friday, it was silly switch day in honor of Dr. Seuss, which Matilda found extra comical because despite having 2 working parents on all the Adderall in the world, she could never find a pair of matching socks for school ever, which made every day for her, Mismatched Sock Day.  

Matilda’s comedian father encouraged Matilda to open a Twitter account for her 10th birthday to use as a humongous open mike to test out her poems because she wanted to become the female Dr. Seuss, with a PHD in Counseling Psychology, in her final paper arguing, how time release Adderall is legalized cocaine in addition to being a gateway drug to weed to high octane IPA’s to chill out your aggravated, easily avoidable added noise in their mind. While also making the argument how a time-release dark chocolate smoothie can help maintains these kid’s inner, sparky essence while helping increase their powers of concentration in addition to being much lighter on the heart, compared to big pharma cranked out speed to.

Now, the moment Matilda got a Twitter account, Twitter suggested she start following RH Negative 5000, so she did.  RH Negative 5000 already on his 5000th cup of espresso, without any clue as how to audition, let alone recruit, virgins with RH Negative to impregnate him to keep his race of Alien Fallen Angels alive. So in a desperate Hail Mary attempt, sends a direct message to Matilda on Twitter and says, “Do you have any virgin cousins who are RH negative in Roswell, New Mexico interested in knowing what Fallen Angel Alien Love Is?” Matilda being a huge Foreigner fan, because her Daddy pushed the band on her early and often, in his pursuit to be a podcast comedian hero of his own replies to the DM and says, “I have a Cousin Jonathan whose still a virgin at 15. He’s very picky. Plus, his Dad homeschooled through the ME To movement and only sent him packing for Junior High with his Kiss backpack flush with pre-poundage release forms. My cousin Jonathan is also really into Joe Satriani and played Surfing With An Alien for his Bar Mitzvah Party from start to finish, so it’s worth a shot. ”

RG 5000 replies, “I have to get pregnant with a virgin earthling with a RG negative blood, or my fallen angel race will never be given our wings again to swoop down to the Kennedy compound to seduce the next Marilyn Monroe impersonator they hire for another July 4th annual barbeque retreat. Marilyn had R negative blood, which makes sense, because her slamming bod is impossible to clone, let alone replicate. But were not too picky and are used to sloppy seconds on Mars for the past 5000 years actually. Also, I have the power to turn into any female form your cousin desires, if he isn’t into having sex with alien Steve Vai drag Queen look alike.”

Matilda ponders this big ask request and replies back, “I’ll make the call, but you have to do me a favor 1st.” R5 5000 says, “Whatever you want, just name it.” Matilda says, “Abduct Spike Lee and threaten to anally probe him before giving him an intergalactic Tossed Salad if he doesn’t stick up for Dr. Seuss and buy the movie rights to,”And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St?, starring Chazz Palminteri, playing some second generation pizza maker in the early eighties in the Bronx who gave Grandmaster Flash the freedom to play his demo tapes in pizzeria on his boom box on Frank Sinatra’s birthday to make every day feel like Black Appreciation Day, deal?”

RJ 5000 replies, “I better morph into Pam Grier from the seventies, snag Richard Pryor’s old strap on from eBay and tap Bill Cosby’s old Quaalude dealer in the Hills to make Spike loosen up to the idea before he pens the screenplay, Racist Alien Attacks Boy, instead. I’m in no rush to get canceled and kicked off Twitter, before my planet implodes just yet.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Racist Alien Attacks

“Nobody ever wrote the song, Waiting for A Fallen Angel Alien Like You”, tweets a frenzied, 10-foot-tall alien, RH Negative 5000, from a Mars espresso bar, with excellent WIFI, as he looks down on Earth with a mix of surging envy and desperate urgency, knowing if he can’t find a virgin earthling with RH negative blood to get him pregnant by midnight tonight, then his race of Fallen Angels Aliens from Mars will disintegrate into the cosmos, as would’ve been super angel contenders forever.

This secret race of fallen angels on Mars aren’t allowed to abduct and rape any old earthling into getting them pregnant either, despite Andy Dick’s repeated offers on dating sites such as, Intergalactic Beams Up My Anus Hole.com.  Finding a virgin earthing with RH negative blood is hard enough, knowing those creatures are normally emotionally evolved, blessed with superior physical prowess in the sack compared to their medium length earthlings, including stars such as Leonardo DiCaprio, Jim, MOJO rising, Morrison and Bob Marley for starters. “Bob Marley banged out 12 kids, but isn’t ganja supposed to drains your life shooter dry?  It’s fake news man”, RH Negative 5000 tweets in a race against time to save his race of fallen angels of imminent ruin, knowing all the weed in the world won’t get Seth Rogan’s kid brother to knock up RH Negative 5000, even though he could transform his body into any dream physique he wanted, despite looking like an erect Serpent and guitar God Steve Vai had a baby, when he didn’t have to change his appearance to get a virgin earthling into sticking it his alien, procreation hole.

The other problem being for RH Negative 5000, is how only 10 percent of the earth population was RH Negative, and due the advent of the Internet, dick pick swiping sites and online porn, virgins are pickier and more selective than ever before, and I don’t recall Alien porn being a popular hashtag category on Youporn.com nor was Pete Townsend ever caught clicking on Soapy Alien Bottom Boys.com, in the name of new song research about a Pinball Wizard who gets probed by a race of white , pure blood, RH negative aliens, for his out this world, old school arcade game prowess because playing Guitar Hero on the XBOX get’s played out fast, when you can do mind blowing, Pete Townsend solo’s from Live At Leeds with five arms doing non-stop windmills out of your ass.

Little did RH Negative 5000 know, that one his followers on Twitter was 9-year-old girl from horse country in North Salem, NY who believed in fallen angels, especially since her father was a conspiracy theorist comedian Michael Kornbluth, named after the archangel who applied the final smackdown kick on the Loose Lipped Lucifer, which kicked him out of Heaven to his new liar in the Hollywood Hills behind Bill Cosby’s house for good. Actually, Matilda just got her family tree report from Ancestry.com and confirmed ancestry with RH Negative blood, who lived in Boswell, New Mexico, otherwise known as the Mecca for UFO landings, on earth, because Fallen Angels aliens from Mars knew Val Kilmer owned a ranch nearby, which was cool enough for them, knowing he played one of their kind in the Doors with such as believable, otherworldly authority.

Now, Matilda was always intrigued by the Twitter handle, RH Negative 5000, especially the profile shot of what looked like an extra scaly, greenish guitar God Steve Vai, after puking his brains from breaking his one month fast with In and Out Burgers, animal style, in his attempt to pen a sequel to his masterful magnum opus guitar swansong for the ages, For The Love Of God, stop letting Twitter teach your kids Dr. Seuss is racist, he’s not.

Matilda loved her father reading Dr. Seuss books to her, especially when he’d make his own rhymes if Dr. Seuss got a tad repetitive again, because he’s guilty of peaking early. The other night actually, her Do It All Comedian Dad did some riffing to her extreme delight to unearth some comedy gold material after the latest and greatest Dr. Seuss cancelation movement from the side of tolerance, unity and joy spreading peace and says, “Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist then, it’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.”

What Matilda love most about her daddy reading her Dr. Seuss books was how he adopted his infectious love of rhyme, always pointing out how Walt Clyde Frazier, NBA broadcaster for the Knicks was in the fact the slickest, tongue twisting cat of his time.  More importantly, Matilda loved how her school was celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday this week for national reading appreciation month at her school, who was born in March like herself, which in her book was extra cool. This coming Friday, it was silly switch day in honor of Dr. Seuss, which Matilda found extra comical because despite having 2 working parents on all the Adderall in the world, she could never find a pair of matching socks for school ever, which made every day for her, Mismatched Sock Day.  

Matilda’s comedian father encouraged Matilda to open a Twitter account for her 10th birthday to use as a humongous open mike to test out her poems because she wanted to become the female Dr. Seuss, with a PHD in Counseling Psychology, in her final paper arguing, how time release Adderall is legalized cocaine in addition to being a gateway drug to weed to high octane IPA’s to chill out your aggravated, easily avoidable added noise in their mind. While also making the argument how a time-release dark chocolate smoothie can help maintains these kid’s inner, sparky essence while helping increase their powers of concentration in addition to being much lighter on the heart, compared to big pharma cranked out speed to.

Now, the moment Matilda got a Twitter account, Twitter suggested she start following RH Negative 5000, so she did.  RH Negative 5000 already on his 5000th cup of espresso, without any clue as how to audition, let alone recruit, virgins with RH Negative to impregnate him to keep his race of Alien Fallen Angels alive. So in a desperate Hail Mary attempt, sends a direct message to Matilda on Twitter and says, “Do you have any virgin cousins who are RH negative in Roswell, New Mexico interested in knowing what Fallen Angel Alien Love Is?” Matilda being a huge Foreigner fan, because her Daddy pushed the band on her early and often, in his pursuit to be a podcast comedian hero of his own replies to the DM and says, “I have a Cousin Jonathan whose still a virgin at 15. He’s very picky. Plus, his Dad homeschooled through the ME To movement and only sent him packing for Junior High with his Kiss backpack flush with pre-poundage release forms. My cousin Jonathan is also really into Joe Satriani and played Surfing With An Alien for his Bar Mitzvah Party from start to finish, so it’s worth a shot. ”

RG 5000 replies, “I have to get pregnant with a virgin earthling with a RG negative blood, or my fallen angel race will never be given our wings again to swoop down to the Kennedy compound to seduce the next Marilyn Monroe impersonator they hire for another July 4th annual barbeque retreat. Marilyn had R negative blood, which makes sense, because her slamming bod is impossible to clone, let alone replicate. But were not too picky and are used to sloppy seconds on Mars for the past 5000 years actually. Also, I have the power to turn into any female form your cousin desires, if he isn’t into having sex with alien Steve Vai drag Queen look alike.”

Matilda ponders this big ask request and replies back, “I’ll make the call, but you have to do me a favor 1st.” R5 5000 says, “Whatever you want, just name it.” Matilda says, “Abduct Spike Lee and threaten to anally probe him before giving him an intergalactic Tossed Salad if he doesn’t stick up for Dr. Seuss and buy the movie rights to,”And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St?, starring Chazz Palminteri, playing some second generation pizza maker in the early eighties in the Bronx who gave Grandmaster Flash the freedom to play his demo tapes in pizzeria on his boom box on Frank Sinatra’s birthday to make every day feel like Black Appreciation Day, deal?”

RJ 5000 replies, “I better morph into Pam Grier from the seventies, snag Richard Pryor’s old strap on from eBay and tap Bill Cosby’s old Quaalude dealer in the Hills to make Spike loosen up to the idea before he pens the screenplay, Racist Alien Attacks Boy, instead. I’m in no rush to get canceled and kicked off Twitter, before my planet implodes just yet.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Dr. Seuss Is Tony Robins For Kids

Dr. Seuss’s illustrations are steeped in harmful stereotypes they say. But I don’t recall him drawing a picture of BLM protestors looting the Gucci store, who refuse to pay.

Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist then, it’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.

Has anybody complained about the hooked nosed, Goblin Bankers in Harry Potter yet? You know Mel Gibson was overjoyed with that movie set. Did JK Rowling, think, I’m hiring Mel Gibson as the set designer on my flick, Mel being a throbbing Jew hater dick, makes him my automatic number one pick.

What if I don’t care for Green Eggs and Ham? This means what, I hate the Irish race and refuse to play beer bong with them at such a rapid fire pace? Or does it mean, I insist on watching Irish movies with subtitles because of the funny way they sound, while also refusing to unfold my arms and dance in junior high to more Jump Around?

Dr. Seuss drew pictures of Asians eating with chopsticks, how sick. It’s worse than drawing a picture of Cardi’s B dropping her slippery chopsticks into her cum bucket, full of other forgotten stuffing’s in there like a lost lost chicken nugget.

What happens in the book, And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St? Did Sonny and his crew beat up a bunch of rowdy bikers on the street, because they sprayed beer on the bartender and should’ve stuck to ordering their drinks neat? Wait a minute that happened in the Bronx Tale. American made mafia tales about the working man can’t be beat. I only wish Chazz Palminteri’s acting career, still packed so much heat.

Dr. Seuss is the Tony Robins for kids, who continues to inspires millions of kids to keep fighting for their dreams, instead of recommending they watch, 13 Reasons Why, whenever they feel their lives are falling apart at the seams.

Dr. Seuss was right. There is fun to be done and games to win. Just stop playing the victim, give Twitter a time out or just dump your tablet into the trash bin.

Michael Kornbluth

Racist Alien Attacks

“Nobody ever wrote the song, Waiting for A Fallen Angel Alien Like You”, tweets a frenzied, 10-foot-tall alien, RH Negative 5000, from a Mars espresso bar, with excellent WIFI, as he looks down on Earth with a mix of surging envy and desperate urgency, knowing if he can’t find a virgin earthling with RH negative blood to get him pregnant by midnight tonight, then his race of Fallen Angels Aliens from Mars will disintegrate into the cosmos, as would’ve been super angel contenders forever.

This secret race of fallen angels on Mars aren’t allowed to abduct and rape any old earthling into getting them pregnant either, despite Andy Dick’s repeated offers on dating sites such as, Intergalactic Beams Up My Anus Hole.com.  Finding a virgin earthing with RH negative blood is hard enough, knowing those creatures are normally emotionally evolved, blessed with superior physical prowess in the sack compared to their medium length earthlings, including stars such as Leonardo DiCaprio, Jim, MOJO rising, Morrison and Bob Marley for starters. “Bob Marley banged out 12 kids, but isn’t ganja supposed to drains your life shooter dry?  It’s fake news man”, RH Negative 5000 tweets in a race against time to save his race of fallen angels of imminent ruin, knowing all the weed in the world won’t get Seth Rogan’s kid brother to knock up RH Negative 5000, even though he could transform his body into any dream physique he wanted, despite looking like an erect Serpent and guitar God Steve Vai had a baby, when he didn’t have to change his appearance to get a virgin earthling into sticking it his alien, procreation hole.

The other problem being for RH Negative 5000, is how only 10 percent of the earth population was RH Negative, and due the advent of the Internet, dick pick swiping sites and online porn, virgins are pickier and more selective than ever before, and I don’t recall Alien porn being a popular hashtag category on Youporn.com nor was Pete Townsend ever caught clicking on Soapy Alien Bottom Boys.com, in the name of new song research about a Pinball Wizard who gets probed by a race of white , pure blood, RH negative aliens, for his out this world, old school arcade game prowess because playing Guitar Hero on the XBOX get’s played out fast, when you can do mind blowing, Pete Townsend solo’s from Live At Leeds with five arms doing non-stop windmills out of your ass.

Little did RH Negative 5000 know, that one his followers on Twitter was 9-year-old girl from horse country in North Salem, NY who believed in fallen angels, especially since her father was a conspiracy theorist comedian Michael Kornbluth, named after the archangel who applied the final smackdown kick on the Loose Lipped Lucifer, which kicked him out of Heaven to his new liar in the Hollywood Hills behind Bill Cosby’s house for good. Actually, Matilda just got her family tree report from Ancestry.com and confirmed ancestry with RH Negative blood, who lived in Boswell, New Mexico, otherwise known as the Mecca for UFO landings, on earth, because Fallen Angels aliens from Mars knew Val Kilmer owned a ranch nearby, which was cool enough for them, knowing he played one of their kind in the Doors with such as believable, otherworldly authority.

Now, Matilda was always intrigued by the Twitter handle, RH Negative 5000, especially the profile shot of what looked like an extra scaly, greenish guitar God Steve Vai, after puking his brains from breaking his one month fast with In and Out Burgers, animal style, in his attempt to pen a sequel to his masterful magnum opus guitar swansong for the ages, For The Love Of God, stop letting Twitter teach your kids Dr. Seuss is racist, he’s not.

Matilda loved her father reading Dr. Seuss books to her, especially when he’d make his own rhymes if Dr. Seuss got a tad repetitive again, because he’s guilty of peaking early. The other night actually, her Do It All Comedian Dad did some riffing to her extreme delight to unearth some comedy gold material after the latest and greatest Dr. Seuss cancelation movement from the side of tolerance, unity and joy spreading peace and says, “Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist then, it’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.”

What Matilda love most about her daddy reading her Dr. Seuss books was how he adopted his infectious love of rhyme, always pointing out how Walt Clyde Frazier, NBA broadcaster for the Knicks was in the fact the slickest, tongue twisting cat of his time.  More importantly, Matilda loved how her school was celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday this week for national reading appreciation month at her school, who was born in March like herself, which in her book was extra cool. This coming Friday, it was silly switch day in honor of Dr. Seuss, which Matilda found extra comical because despite having 2 working parents on all the Adderall in the world, she could never find a pair of matching socks for school ever, which made every day for her, Mismatched Sock Day.  

Matilda’s comedian father encouraged Matilda to open a Twitter account for her 10th birthday to use as a humongous open mike to test out her poems because she wanted to become the female Dr. Seuss, with a PHD in Counseling Psychology, in her final paper arguing, how time release Adderall is legalized cocaine in addition to being a gateway drug to weed to high octane IPA’s to chill out your aggravated, easily avoidable added noise in their mind. While also making the argument how a time-release dark chocolate smoothie can help maintains these kid’s inner, sparky essence while helping increase their powers of concentration in addition to being much lighter on the heart, compared to big pharma cranked out speed to.

Now, the moment Matilda got a Twitter account, Twitter suggested she start following RH Negative 5000, so she did.  RH Negative 5000 already on his 5000th cup of espresso, without any clue as how to audition, let alone recruit, virgins with RH Negative to impregnate him to keep his race of Alien Fallen Angels alive. So in a desperate Hail Mary attempt, sends a direct message to Matilda on Twitter and says, “Do you have any virgin cousins who are RH negative in Roswell, New Mexico interested in knowing what Fallen Angel Alien Love Is?” Matilda being a huge Foreigner fan, because her Daddy pushed the band on her early and often, in his pursuit to be a podcast comedian hero of his own replies to the DM and says, “I have a Cousin Jonathan whose still a virgin at 15. He’s very picky. Plus, his Dad homeschooled through the ME To movement and only sent him packing for Junior High with his Kiss backpack flush with pre-poundage release forms. My cousin Jonathan is also really into Joe Satriani and played Surfing With An Alien for his Bar Mitzvah Party from start to finish, so it’s worth a shot. ”

RG 5000 replies, “I have to get pregnant with a virgin earthling with a RG negative blood, or my fallen angel race will never be given our wings again to swoop down to the Kennedy compound to seduce the next Marilyn Monroe impersonator they hire for another July 4th annual barbeque retreat. Marilyn had R negative blood, which makes sense, because her slamming bod is impossible to clone, let alone replicate. But were not too picky and are used to sloppy seconds on Mars for the past 5000 years actually. Also, I have the power to turn into any female form your cousin desires, if he isn’t into having sex with alien Steve Vai drag Queen look alike.”

Matilda ponders this big ask request and replies back, “I’ll make the call, but you have to do me a favor 1st.” R5 5000 says, “Whatever you want, just name it.” Matilda says, “Abduct Spike Lee and threaten to anally probe him before giving him an intergalactic Tossed Salad if he doesn’t stick up for Dr. Seuss and buy the movie rights to,”And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St?, starring Chazz Palminteri, playing some second generation pizza maker in the early eighties in the Bronx who gave Grandmaster Flash the freedom to play his demo tapes in pizzeria on his boom box on Frank Sinatra’s birthday to make every day feel like Black Appreciation Day, deal?”

RJ 5000 replies, “I better morph into Pam Grier from the seventies, snag Richard Pryor’s old strap on from eBay and tap Bill Cosby’s old Quaalude dealer in the Hills to make Spike loosen up to the idea before he pens the screenplay, Racist Alien Attacks Boy, instead. I’m in no rush to get canceled and kicked off Twitter, before my planet implodes just yet.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Jolt Felt Around The World

It was 1986, Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with bad ass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life.  Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the 4th grade, spending more time now star gazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid because she saw how tweaky, sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did. Her younger brother Arthur, would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later discontinued Jolt cola, which was the equivalent of 6 cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep deprived 1st grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store. But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss, because she had to write a paper about it for class. Actually, Matilda’s 4th grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, Goody Tushu square.”

Now, Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Way’s from Halloween she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again till 2061. By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous Astrophysicist who would eventually go viral, despite the Internet not being invented yet, when she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt to.”

Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt and in a frenzied spurt, darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite in her inner square telling her she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice in a lifetime event, if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us, before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow bigger up than you know what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, with his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads. As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister, yet unfortunately, she inherited her dear Dada’s clunky, heavy feet, which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden, colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon either.

Arthur turns his head and spots Matilda and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt on a school night to.” Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about Arthur. I’m not Matilda, you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation.  I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind like Hon Solo after Leia unfreezes him from Carbonite in Jabba’s place actually.” Arthur adds, “Don’t BS me Tilda. Wait a minute, I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.” Now, Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green forcefield enclosing, brain eating Alien bug. Arthur freaks out as expected, yelling, “I got killed Tilda. I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m to get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”

Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching Arthur, I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet. Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins. As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with discarded Milk Way wrappers on it. Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over baby.” Matilda has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain drilling noogie, look ups to her Dad and asks in a perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet Dad?’ Dad says, “But then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grown on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need. “

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Jolt Felt Around The World

It was 1986, Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with bad ass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life.  Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the 4th grade, spending more time now star gazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid because she saw how tweaky, sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did. Her younger brother Arthur, would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later discontinued Jolt cola, which was the equivalent of 6 cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep deprived 1st grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store. But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss, because she had to write a paper about it for class. Actually, Matilda’s 4th grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, Goody Tushu square.”

Now, Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Way’s from Halloween she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again till 2061. By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous Astrophysicist who would eventually go viral, despite the Internet not being invented yet, when she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt to.”

Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt and in a frenzied spurt, darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite in her inner square telling her she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice in a lifetime event, if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us, before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow bigger up than you know what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, with his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads. As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister, yet unfortunately, she inherited her dear Dada’s clunky, heavy feet, which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden, colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon either.

Arthur turns his head and spots Matilda and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt on a school night to.” Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about Arthur. I’m not Matilda, you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation.  I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind like Hon Solo after Leia unfreezes him from Carbonite in Jabba’s place actually.” Arthur adds, “Don’t BS me Tilda. Wait a minute, I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.” Now, Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green forcefield enclosing, brain eating Alien bug. Arthur freaks out as expected, yelling, “I got killed Tilda. I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m to get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”

Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching Arthur, I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet. Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins. As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with discarded Milk Way wrappers on it. Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over baby.” Matilda has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain drilling noogie, look ups to her Dad and asks in a perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet Dad?’ Dad says, “But then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grown on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need. “

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Jolt Felt Around The World

It was 1986, Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with bad ass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life.  Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the 4th grade, spending more time now star gazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid because she saw how tweaky, sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did. Her younger brother Arthur, would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later discontinued Jolt cola, which was the equivalent of 6 cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep deprived 1st grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store. But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss, because she had to write a paper about it for class. Actually, Matilda’s 4th grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, Goody Tushu square.”

Now, Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Way’s from Halloween she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again till 2061. By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous Astrophysicist who would eventually go viral, despite the Internet not being invented yet, when she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt to.”

Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt and in a frenzied spurt, darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite in her inner square telling her she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice in a lifetime event, if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us, before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow bigger up than you know what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, with his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads. As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister, yet unfortunately, she inherited her dear Dada’s clunky, heavy feet, which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden, colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon either.

Arthur turns his head and spots Matilda and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt on a school night to.” Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about Arthur. I’m not Matilda, you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation.  I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind like Hon Solo after Leia unfreezes him from Carbonite in Jabba’s place actually.” Arthur adds, “Don’t BS me Tilda. Wait a minute, I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.” Now, Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green forcefield enclosing, brain eating Alien bug. Arthur freaks out as expected, yelling, “I got killed Tilda. I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m to get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”

Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching Arthur, I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet. Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins. As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with discarded Milk Way wrappers on it. Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over baby.” Matilda has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain drilling noogie, look ups to her Dad and asks in a perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet Dad?’ Dad says, “But then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grown on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need. “

The End

Michael Kornbluth

COVID The Clown

Screw next year, today we send in the clown. I don’t care if we get fined or reported to child services, in case any of the adults in attendance are joyless rat bastards at heart, intent on alerting the authorities or Good Will Hoodie at Facebook about our socially distant resistant birthday party in honor of my 1st born, the always luminous, effortlessly sweet, way funnier than Blossom will ever be, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth. You only turn 10 once baby and her grandparents don’t even know about us raising her Jewish yet or her getting a Bat Mitzvah in 3 years through Zoom, so our new spying Chinese overlords can see what star powered personality is in motion, knowing Ivanka Trump’s daughter will mostly likely read her Haftorah portion in a monotone, colorless manner and do some boring speech in Mandarin about American exceptionalism losing its luster since her daddy allowed American Democracy to die on his watch. So here he is, without any further, drawn out, divisive introduction, COVID the Clown”, says Matilda’s former Investigative journalist father for the Chicago Tribune. Who just got canceled after his ban from Twitter for insisting the 2020 election was rigged and how the Chinese have resisted Wuhan lab investigations more than Aquafresh, forcing him to take a job as a moral compromised Bitcoin blogger, addressing nefarious claims of sketchy money laundering money, being the biggest backers behind the new digital hit currency titled, Show Me The Dark Money.

One of the grandparents in attendance, Rachel, a wrinkly, veiny, haggard looking, Jewish mother, from High Land Park, sporting a BLM baseball cap, born and raised in the handsome, affluent suburb off Lake Michigan, 40 minutes north of downtown Chicago interjects immediately and says, “I wasn’t told about there being any clowns at this party? Do you have proof that he was vaccinated? Did he just come back from Florida on Spring Break? Does he have a history of performing in black face? We just had one clown in the White House, why bludgeon us to death with another? A Stay-At-Home Dad there in place for his heart surgeon wife whose always on call, interjects and says, “Clown lives matter to bitch. All the comedy clubs are shut down indefinitely and SNL only has so many open slots to fill and Pete Davidson already has a monopoly on being the boy toy rebound king of Staten Island for Generation Z, who looks like Annie Liebowitz and Barney from the Simpsons had a baby. So please spare us with anymore of your BLM bullshit, proclaiming looting aint a thing a but a Gucci thing, because were all not overrated performers like Beyonce who sat out the national anthem for the Superbowl to protest Demi Lovato singing it, because she sounds like the white privileged version of Alabama Shakes.” The other adults in attendance struggle to restrain themselves from laughing long time. Matilda’s father, who introduced the COVID Clown earlier adds, “You’ll be pleased to know Rachel, COVID The Clown, only performs in orange face, so here we go. Let’s give a huge round of applause for COVID The Clown”, resulting a in fairly tepid measuring applause that follows.

COVID The Clown enters the room doing a half-formed Cartwheel to Everybody Needs Somebody To Love by the Blues Brothers, blasting on his old school Radio Raheem conjuring boom box from the Spike Lee joint, Do The Right Thing.  Matilda’s friend, nerdy yet sassy friend Devon, who suffers from premature, puberty disease, forcing her to wear heavy sweaters to conceal her awkwardly, mountainous formations underneath and says, “Who taught this clown how to a cartwheel? Is he drunk on discontinued Trump vodka or what?” COVID the Clown launches into his standup comedy act and says, “Who’s excited for a Burning Mask Party? All the kids cheer in unison with maximum glee. Rachel the BLM hat sporting Grandma interrupts a solid attempt at crowd work and says, “But you’re not even wearing a mask Bozo the Clown. Plus, you don’t annunciate to well in the 1st place. So why would wearing a mask be such a muffled disservice to your act in the 1st place?  I have a Doctorate in Speech Pathology from the University of Chicago and was kept on retainer by the Obama administration to instruct him on the best ways to help minimize his ums, ah’s and resurgent lisp off the teleprompter. Plus, I was instrumental in reversing President Obama’s awful habit of referring to his wife as Michael for some odd reason.” COVID Clown replies, “Maybe, Obama wishes the former 1st lady were more camera friendly like Mike or performed cooler under pressure after she threatened to break her arm up his ass ass if he offered Beyonce some Paul Newman’s lemonade over her own homemade Kombucha ever again.” Matilda’s father, howls with laughing approval as deathly silence engulfs everywhere else in the room, as the Stay-Home-Dad nearly bites off his lower lip in the process. COVID The Clown says, “Have you ever heard of divorce immunity during COVID? It’s a fake news to, doesn’t exist actually. I used to believe in divorce immunity during COVID, until my commercial agent dropped me after Twitter banned me for life for all those Wuhan lab cover up tweets. I also thought divorce immunity during COVID held out some applicable promise, after I got kicked out my Second City troupe, after killing on the main stage for 3 years straight since another cast member doxed my personal info the Chicago Tribune and had ANTIFA show up to door man apartment in the Loop after they shared my old tweet screenshots about Obama that said, “Fuck Trump, Obama’s the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized.  Mass extermination of all his pesty, hook nosed critics who criticized, his time out nuke deal with Iran would be a gas.” I’m banned from using Lyft and Uber now to because I went on the Gateway Pundit Podcast in attempt to sell some tickets for my one man show, Resist This, which isn’t happening now obviously and on air said, “Deplorable is anyone whose glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.” Rachel, the BLM hat sporting grandmother says, “I don’t think this material is child appropriate. If we were in the UK, you’d be arrested for flagrant violations of hate speech already.” COVID The Clown says, “I went to London against my will with my nurse wife before we got divorced and lost custody of my daughter, the brightest star in my universe. Wife got us tickets to see Bjork. I wanted to see Petrified Forest personally. Now, my choice is either entertain arrogant baby boomer grandparents on the kid birthday circuit as orange faced COVID The Clown or pack up my tricycle bag of clown noses and fly Southwest to Arizona to take a job as a Nurse Recruiter, next to parents’ estate in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my head between my legs, in search of my balls every dropping by for a surprise encore appearance again. Recruiting nurses for a living, based on their teamwork and ability to buy into synchronized Tic Toc dance routines for their Chinese spying masters is just what the doctor ordered.”

Matilda, the 10-year-old birthday girl chimes in and says, “I’m sorry to hear about your ex-wife COVID The Clown. And I think it’s really sweet, how you don’t want to move so far away from your little girl. But can you stick to the burning mask party material? Because my friends would rather play with my new American Girl tent set, then spend one more minute listening to your sad sack life story, with no comedic relief on the horizon in sight, no offense.” Rachel the BLM hat wearing grandmother adds, “I agree with Matilda. They’re already more people in this room than I feel comfortable with, knowing this birthday bash is a super-spreader bound to happen. Why don’t you just go home and call it a day? I’ll pay you whatever you were promised, just to stop you spreading such vicious lies and toxic disinformation about President Obama and Hollywood’s biggest overseas market today. COVID The Clown says, “I’ll give you a super spreader bitch”, and squeezes his flower lapel on his shirt which squirts a stream of Orange Crush into the BLM hat wearing, grandmother’s eye. Everyone in the room finally laughs together in unison. Matilda’s father says, “What’s wrong Rachel?  Would you feel more morally outraged if COVID The Clown shot grape soda into your eye instead? Because then you could’ve accused him of being a racist dictator clown, guilty of racially profiling your BLM hat, according to Trevor Noah. Ever notice how for 8 years when Obama was president, you never overheard anyone online at the Post Office, announce with sincere, palpable glee, “I love Obama.” Comedy Central Executives felt the same way when they decided to resign Trevor Noah for the foreseeable future.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth