Chipmunk Hucksters

I love telling Hair Sniffer supporters left how Democracy is dead.

You’d think I barged into a crowded theater and yelled, “He took showers with his daughter.

And forced her to talk like Buckwheat in the pursuit of hair follicle raising paradise.”

Rock Journalism is dead when Steph Curry graces the cover of Rolling Stone.

That’s like putting a young Cameron Crowe on the cover of Rolling Stone and just as lame.

Why not put Stephen A. Smith on the cover Rolling Stone?

He can complain about not getting paid more than Skip Bayless.

Because of his inferior character after getting Max Kellerman kicked off 1st Take for refusing to kiss Lebron’s ass as if his clot shot hush money from the CCP was riding on it.

About to resume my IT staffing career again.

Dad says.

Mom told me that there’s plenty of money on the table.

Now, will see if you can get it.

Tony Robbins can retire his headset now.

A new life coach motivator is in town.

My dad might as well say, “If you only had Hunter’s contacts. I’m only calling because mom guilted me into it. I still don’t know how were related. My tennis buds still know you as a sheltered bum.

Dad adds.

My old sales boss Norb says, “If you make a mistake, just fess up to it and explain your logic behind your dumb fuck decision.”

I reply.

So be a thoughtful salesperson and don’t be a defensive asshole whenever you fuck up in the process.

Got it pops, I don’t think Poopy Pants in the fake news White House got the memo, Trumpy Poo Tits included.

Lebron’s kids are on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Headline reads Chosen Kids, chosen to what? Hock Lebron’s Tequilla when they turn 21 on Instagram as brand evangelists.

What does Lebron know about Tequilla again?

I thought his body was a temple and only flopped down into the faceplant position for mere show.

At least Mark Wahlberg was the inspiration behind Vincent Chase on Entourage.

Lebron just culturally appropriating MJ’s out of this world clutchness in Space Jam 2.

If John Fetterman is presidential material, Democracy is capable of being revived in our county through a Narcan only.

A cool dad buys his son a drum set at the Guitar Store. His wife says, “Hope you can handle the noise.”

Husband says, “Whatever it takes to drown you out bitch.”

Brother says to my mom, “Football is Brady’s life mom. You can’t expect him to leave it behind for Giselle’s uppity lisp. Besides, at this point, she’s 80 in model years.”

I say, “That’s my material. Do you identify with Carlos Mencia now? If my book United, We Laugh wins some contests and goes on to become an international best seller, I can afford to buy my wife her Range Rover or just make a move on Giselle because I can afford to for a change. What, I’m same age as Tom Brady. Plus, he didn’t win Grooviest in High School. Last, I can make Giselle my latest and greatest, Impossible To Top Cheesesteak that’s made from Impossible Burger Meat which will guarantee immediate lock jaw love in return long time, all the time. I also don’t recall Brady being blessed with the funny Jew bone. And mine is more endowed than the rest. I could mount her standing up versus my German speaking trainer on the Peloton and scream, “Do you feel it in your belly button yet? I’d drink Pineapple Chili hard Kombucha out of your slippery sly snatch during my next fast for carb free week. You can use your Super Angel wings on my daughter for Christmas. I won’t give a shit about her looking like an overdose at the Limelight waiting to happen. I’ll suck on your toes like they were Empanadas stuffed with Duck Confit. I’m down for a three-way Giselle. I’m better at multi-tasking now, off Adderall, I promise. Although if you really want to piss off Tom, you’d be better off banging Pete Davidson. My name Michael Kornbluth is too long for your lisp to wrap around it, it’s a total mouthful. Kim Kardashian can’t wrap her mouth around it. Who would pay money to see that sex tape? I’d rather watch Jared Leto pleasure himself with one working arm in Requiem for a Dream. What’s their idea of pillow talk? So, Kim, what do you think of Steph Curry being on the cover of Rolling Stone? Does Kayne blame the Jews for killing rock journalism too? Kim says, “I’m sure you were on Jan Wenner’s short list Pete.” Chipmunk Hucksters rule everything around us, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Wishing Well Architect

Art Show USA was no ordinary Wishing Well Architect. He designed a Wishing Well for Bill Gates’s daughter after buying her a horse farm in North Salem, NY, only to clog it on purpose with Planned Parenthood brochures in honor of dad who used to sit on the board of Planned Parenthood for making such a splash as a baby part reseller on the open market (otherwise known, by pro-life activist groups, as the Million Dollar Fetus Flicker Man).

Art Show USA was a perfectionist artist. His Do It All Dad Michael Kornbluth, now a famous comedian author with a standup residency at MGM Grand in Las Vegas, would always encourage his son’s inborn artistic flair; yet all his gorgeous, pitch-perfect son would hear afterwards, in semi-kidding fashion, was: “So you think I suck because…”

Every student teacher evaluation for Art Show USA was a pure joy to receive, for his Do It All Dad, because he got an extreme kick out of some teachers, like his first grade one, Mrs. Rudolph, who would bemoan, in a begrudgingly huffy manner, “We all know Arthur is a great artist,” only to rub in the harsh fact that teachers teach and birth less talented offspring for a reason.

Do It All Dad always pounded into his eldest son’s cranium, “Art sells, baby,” which always stayed with Art Show because he was haunted by early memories of his mom threatening to divorce his Dad if he wrote one more book and didn’t get a job at Trader Joe’s in Danbury, CT.

So, his Dad doubled down on himself and wrote not one but two more books, without advertising the fact to his wife until he scored a lit agent in Israel with his book The Koshertarian Comedian. And the rest is star-studded history.

Art Show made his first million from a lucrative birdhouse-making business called “Bird Baller Cribs,” from only taking one woodworking class. He sold them at various farmer’s markets throughout Brooklyn, Manhattan, Woodstock, and in Kingston, NY, while his mother sold flowers with Art Show’s big sister from their new estate farm in North Salem, calling her flower truck “Green Thumb Girl.”

Do It All Dad’s favorite birdhouse creation was his Kiss-themed one, that rocked a giant-shaped bed similar to the one lead singer and main songwriter Paul Stanley lies on amidst an endless sprawl of busty, blond beauties in his Kiss lair in Beverly Hills (I’m assuming).

The best part of this birdhouse creation was the giant Gene Simmons tongue extension bird feeding line, containing a sprinkling of some homemade CBD oil-marinated granola as more high-flying blue jays and cardinals licked it up; oh, oh, oh.

Art Show USA cares plenty about wishing wells, because ever since he could remember, he’d wish for his Do It All Dad’s books to succeed (because “Art sells, baby.”).
The new and improved wish, after his Daddy finally scored a lit agent started his standup residency in Vegas and got into SAG for a film to co-star in with Russell Brand and Vince Vaughn called Too Tall Comedians, was for his dad to finally part with his precious time-release Adderall, despite his claims of writing like a Jewish angel on the stuff. Reality is, Do It All Dad was an incredibly fast-talking New Yorker to begin with, even on high-grade weed. So, he didn’t require any speedy thought enhancement; ever.

On Do It All Dad’s 45th birthday in Woodstock, NY, he took a mini-hike in the woods with his son, Art Show USA, only to bump into a wishing well along the way. Do It All Dad gave his son a customary quarter to make a wish with, although this time Art wished his Dad would become convinced he’d become a big-time author comedian success on or off the stuff, period. Plus, he knew his Daddy off Adderall would focus less on how annoying Mom can be with her phone during Adam Sandler Appreciation Night at home, again and again.
Daddy was better off writing all day, performing at night, and taking some weed edibles or a celebratory puff from his cherished green, in addition to an IPA or two, after another highly rewarding day at the office, for making the most of his God-given gift of comedic song.

Art Show USA’s latest and greatest wishing well creation was made in Central Park near the Great Lawn in the big city, the place of his birth like Do It Dad before him (which they both derived tremendous localtarian pride from, knowing the Island of Manhattan is what dreams of doer/topper success are made of).
The wishing well was named Do It All Dad Dumper, a tad longwinded name, even for Do It All Dad’s tastes. Still, the symbolic heft of this name wasn’t lost on the New York adoring public, especially after the Today Show did an unveiling of Do It All Dad Dumper, where a line of Do It All Dads followed Do It All Dad’s lead and dumped whatever pill, powder, drink, or strain of dumb, dumb weed they felt was preventing them from flying high off their kid’s glorious presence alone.

Do It All Dad beamed with endless nachas (pride, in Yiddish, derived from the reflective successful glow emanating from offspring who stem from your Do It All Dad tree’s trunk).
Do It All Dad picks up his son with excitable boy glee and gives him a 360-degree airplane spin for old time’s sake, despite Art Show being 6 foot 5, now, and twenty years old. Art Show USA shrieks for untapped joy like he was seven again. Do It All Dad continues to spin and says, “Teenager in love is all grownz up, and he’s all grownz up. Are you too special to be real? Are you too special to be real?”
Art Show USA shrieks with more love-blasting joy and says, with pitch perfect comedic timing, “Are you saying I suck, because?” Do It All Dad laughs a long time, wishing that even his worst enemies got to experience Do It All Dad bliss like this.

Michael Kornbluth

The Metal Edge

The mother responsible for her son’s developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at age two, called Torticollis (where the neck muscles contract, causing the head to twist to one side, as a result of too much newborn plopping time alone in the crib), summoned the gall to ask her son, who’s about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY, lounging on a monied polo lounge green Adirondack chair overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into fencing?”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, ‘Headbangers Baller’, is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed the Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their necks.

            “So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker, with the colossus wind power to match.  

            “Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden, is a championship fencer, yet his nerdy-hued Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge.

            “I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski, and Slash, all wrapped into one.

            “He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and will tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss-plowing play.

            “Force=Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indomitable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line (which will be recession-proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in a post-COVID universe gone wild ’till our last dying breaths, anyway).”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than basketball and baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old-school fencing decorum bullshit out the window.

            “Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, and you name it, so he could afford to pay any fines for inappropriate, hotdogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  

            “Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.            “Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before fencing matches, booming “Let’s get ready to rumble,” Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin” while ‘Kickstart My Heart’ by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surroundsound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair.

            “I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant; nor is he third-generation wrestling royalty like the Rock, nor has a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho.

            “So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible?

            “He also plays with collection of lightsabers now, more than he does with his cherished wrestling figures, and he owns the original rubber dog toy-size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat (among many others the with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off Ebay, to match).        “Kayne West is worth six billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for one grand and upwards; yet there’s no limited, in-demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all.

            “I envision a flashing middle F-You finger logo that sports the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred,” to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers and ripped jeans and shorts (obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red).  

            “He’ll have his own line of studded belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats, and tank tops to show off to his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise workout videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as ‘Moth Into Flame’ by Metallica plays at full blast is responsible for his shredded physique, once he steps into something more comfortable for post-fencing fight interviews.          “I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes, and Steve Vai for love-of-God, kickass metal guitar solos and for his metal-loving American Dad, who pushed him to shred for bread.

            “On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.    “I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale’s mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into fencing, Mom.”

            Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson; like football, for instance.

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “We’ll be sticking with Nerf football in yard, Ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, Mom—no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for nine years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once, yet. Case closed.

            “AlsoDad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock.

            “Because, if I bowed down to this belabored, weak-ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from boarding school, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody so Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt-right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a tiki torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in ’89.

            “And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all three of my kids, and my speedboat, Slashing Thunder.”

            Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?”            Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine-powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric-fueled comedy gold.

            “I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids; because they’re my kids, not yours. Especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis-correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time.

            “I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing the work I was good at, which made me feel the most kickass, happy, and alive.”

            Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer two fencing scholarships a year, max.”  

            Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing three times in a row, shredding every fencing record of the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords, now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion-dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops, and speed metal belts with his signature middle finger logo that sported a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred.”

            Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world, whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed-addicted seed or not. Shredders soar. Shredders fly high with the angels like ‘Three Guitar Attack’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird.

            Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip-strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

Chosen Curls

I’m against sex changes before Johnny Appleseed blooms under his Fruit of Looms.

Joy Reid never reports any stories about retractable buyer’s remorse.

Hello Kitty, formerly known as Johnny Appleseed grinds behind a fat ass Latina at the China Club as Rum Shaker turns the mother out.

Hello Kitty, formerly known as Johnny Appleseed, wants to flex his surging point of interest from behind, yet Hello Kitty’s missing link to rap’s golden era is gone, gone baby gone. Hip Hop isn’t the only thing that’s dead. So is solo flexing behind the second coming of Chaka Kahn, Challah. Thank you very much.

My 5-year-old son wants me to get him steroids for Hanukah so he could be diesel like Stallone in Rocky 4. He launched into a series of one-arm pushups the moment I played him the Rocky 1 soundtrack on vinyl for Hannukah. Technically speaking, my son’s Nutsy Russell’s can’t any smaller. Plus, he doesn’t like kids playing with his curls in class. Now, he’ll slap the smirk off the skinhead at school who was fucking with his chosen curls to begin with. Chosen Curls is bound to woo, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Year Without Beer

“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 three, 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 a gorgeous-looking jump shot; yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league, knowing that his ball handle was weak, and he 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 on 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.

            They 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’d just dropped and spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer-pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed being puffed at an 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 phone book, and launched high, with zero hesitation, for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority.

             He was the lost twenty-year-old college senior without a passion to latch a career onto yet; miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating from 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).

            He thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So I scored ten 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, which consisted mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi-forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint. I knew that 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 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 that his less-than-lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his varsity-playing basketball days, when he used to run on his tippy toes instead of high tops, made him look 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 joked about this in an 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 greatest.

            “He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck-up Jenny from down the block. Two 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,  signaling, You can do this, champ.

            Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he starts running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff. This 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 that 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 keeping 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 that Michael was considered partially Godlike, in the sense that he packed enough firepower 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 IPAs, 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 IPAs had to offer his rapidly-depleting, voided world without his three beamish wonder kids in his life, anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay-at-home comedian for 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 weighed heavily on his guilt-plagued consciousness was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that weighs you down.”

            Now Josh was divorced from what had descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love or the 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 two-drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC, for starters.

             After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or two, to enjoy the post-kill rush among a sea of new touchy-feely female fans?

            Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now that 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 an actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle by giving up his precious espresso pods and IPAs. He needed to focus on shedding the extra twenty pounds holding him back from flying with rock-powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks of amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself that he was capable of being a better 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 her 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 would make him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years.

            Josh was blessed with a booming motor mouth, too, and was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his second oldest in swimming, and his third 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 support payments up?  Because getting another 50K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at age 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 blonde mom in tight ripped jeans (normally, who was caught staring at his swollen package the first time he gave her the green light to give him his spikey-haired, lean, mean machine makeover, an idea emerged.

            Josh says to the chesty, sweat-drenched, perfect-feet-manicured Julie, in bed, “I can’t make a living as a working comedian or as an author, yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time-suck on my life (which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore, 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 Peloton riding instructor, because they all bore me to freaking death.

            “I don’t care how tan, ripped, and solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leader board 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, this is what I pray to God for every morning, anyway).

            “The most popular Peloton instructors make 300K a year. No wonder they 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 who can look stylish and be cheeky and bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch, while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Peloton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home, too.

            “Plus, I wrote the entire script for VHL Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kickass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time.

            “And, I know enough about hard rock to know that Foreigner kicks way more ass than the fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could. 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 that 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 a self-help, midlife crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides that 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, claiming PTSD after learning that my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my three kids behind my back.

            “The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello-wresting wife night.    “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 throw in a line about 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 block the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the first place.

            “Ban ICE because homeland security was so weapons-of-mass-destruction-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 he says, “I’ll take that as a hard yes.”

Michael Kornbluth

Bad Boy Soy Boy

Once upon a time, there was a biracial Korean, Jewish kid from the Riverdale section of the Bronx, Steven Park (otherwise known as Bad Boy Soy Boy, since he unleashed his Nunchucks of fury at a block party on a bunch of shit-talking, instigating, black gangbangers who wore the same wifebeater, corn rows, and cut-off jean shorts, looking like they were dressing up for Coolio Appreciation Day.     He never dared to call Bad Boy Soy Boy a ‘COVID chink’ in his midst ever again, as he cracked one corn row-braided skull in two after another without breaking a sweat in a New York minute.

            Son of Sam in the seventies was scary, no doubt, but the surge in hate crimes against Jews and Asians in the boogie-down Bronx, Jersey City, and throughout the Island of Manhattan were at an all-time high, with no relief or added protection in sight.

            Cops today are younger, softer, and far less hardcore than their 9/11 predecessors. Nobody in the force today possesses the balls to make money on the side through good old-fashioned extortion like 99 percent of the force in the movie Serpico.

            Bail was banned in NY, garbage filled the streets, and rats grew the size of Lena Dunham during Restaurant Week after challenging Leslie Jones to a Junior Cheesecake bake-off.

            But even these woke large and in-charge funny woman who couldn’t believe what a scary shithole their cherished concrete jungle of yesterday had become in just four years flat.

            Crazy talk slogans punctured the air, such as “Ban ICE,” because homeland security was so ‘weapons of mass destruction’. That’s no excuse to mug a Chinese grandma in Chinatown, yet the Wuhan-made virus made New Yorkers largely crazier than ever. They misplaced faith in a news media hell bent on feeding more unregulated hate and fear into the nation about black men in America being America’s most hunted; despite not one enlightened BLM member encouraging their fellow brothers to just stop resisting arrest (or the temptation to run out on a 2,000-dollar dinner check in South Beach for spring break, God forbid.

            Every day, Bad Boy Soy Boy worked at his parents’ deli in the South Bronx despite living in the leafier, more snuggle-soft confines of Riverdale in the Bronx, where abandoned, torched, burnt-down buildings (to salvage a semblance of ROI from the insurance company) were less common than a B-plus Korean student at Bronx Science.

            Bad Boy Soy Boy had to bite his lip at the deli every time some brother would come in there talking endless shit, yelling, “COVID Chink this, COVID Chink that,” despite him being fucking half Korean and half Jewish.

            That didn’t make a difference, because cum bucket dumpsters such as Cardi B were today deemed heady, culture-enriching poets from the street whose gaping, sloppy-thirds snatch couldn’t be beat, allegedly. Jim Rome lives, holla; thank you very much.

            But one day Bad Boy Soy Boy decided that enough was enough, so he opened a medicinal speakeasy weed milk bar in Bergen, New Jersey as a front to offer Nunchuck self-defense classes for Asian Americans, based in any of the five boroughs willing to make the schlep to fight for their lives to live out the protracted, rapidly fading American dream with a semblance of peace of mind as they raged and raged against the dying of the light. (Dylan Thomas lives, holla, thank you very much.)

            Now, Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class became the number one tourist destination in Bergen history (not that there was much stiff competition in this department).

            But Bad Boy Soy Boy had a college roommate from UPENN, who he’d talk to on the phone every day, who worked as a rock star chef for a Korean food truck in old city Philly. They were known for their Korean eggroll cheesesteak hot pocket breakfast treats.

            They now had to invest in a bulletproof vest covered food truck in Old City, which was once the only really safe area in Philly, outside of Center City on Chestnut street. But, safe spaces for Asian Americans were now deader than Jeremey Lin’s chances of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated seven times in a row, again (especially since JR Smith bitched to the Knicks management about the golden child Harvard grad who plopped into their lap out of the freaking blue, because he was hogging the Garden spotlight and bike lane all for himself).

            Asian Americans (including Koreans, Japanese,  and Chinese) who never bothered to study martial arts (thinking it wasn’t necessary to learn, from 1994 to 2020), were flocking to Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class.

            Bad Boy Soy Boy’s grandfather, Michael Kornbluth, was a Holocaust survivor because when all the brown shirt ANTIFA members of their day banned the guns, he used his own Nunchucks of fury (gifted to him from his Korean father-in-law) and cracked NAZI skulls hyped on crystal meth all the way to freedom from Nazi persecution. He pawned enough Nazi gold teeth from the skulls he cracked in two with his Nunchucks of fury to buy a boat pass to NY, establish a family of his own with his reflexology wife therapist, and become a proud first-generation deli owner, getting Jewish New Yorkers hooked on kimchi for more reasonable outs from ever having to slip their wives some tongue again.

            Both young and old Asian Americans no longer had to live in helpless, paralyzed fear; all thanks to Bad Boy Boy Soy Boy teaching them the infinite beat-down possibilities unleashed from the all-mighty Nunchuck strikes of fury, to ensure they were never fucked with again in the name of the COVID Chink virus or not. Bad Boy Soy Boy was on a mission from God to prove that Bruce Lee’s weapon of choice ain’t nothing to fuck with.

Michael Kornbluth

Made In Wuhan

Biden mandated that no US government employee can call COVID 19, The China Virus or the Wu-Flu. I prefer to call it, Our Country Is Shit Out Of Luck Club.

If we the people, let the CDC, the WHO and Fuck Face Fauci dictate whether America becomes China’s masked bitch for life.

What did they call COVID behind closed doors at the Department of Homeland Security before Biden got his nappy in a bunch over so called hate speech? Biological Warfare falls under the Department of Agriculture.

What did fat ass William Barr call the COVID virus when he was in charge of destroying what credibility remained within the Department Of Justice? Ain’t No Thing, But Poisoned Peeking Duck On A String.

What did the Department of Defense say about the COVID 19 behind closed doors before Biden’s shut up and don’t rat on the Chinse mandate began? That’s what Americans get for electing a President who didn’t start any major new wars under his watch, who finally gave Vets the hospital service they deserve? Who ordered the US military to crush ISIS in the same time it takes Jared Kushner to blow a load in Ivanka whenever she talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again.

What did the Department of Veteran Affairs call the COVID Virus before Biden thought he possessed the authority to tell our vets how to label the real enemy behind the new red scare 2.0? Lebron and Nike sitting in a Chinese Maple Tree, SUCKING.

Land Of Gold Making Dreams

There’s nothing funny about our kids being forced to wear masks at school like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain. Especially if they’re too young to identify with the moderate Muslim housewives of Manhattan just yet. Before Jared Kushner helped broker a peace treaty between Bahrain and Israel faster than he bursts within Ivanka in shear whenever she talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again. Still, I would love to see a viral video sensation similar to one started by the gay hairdresser Brandon Straka who started the Walk Away movement from the Democratic party to announce a Burning Mask Party in honor of my upcoming over top comedy record release, instead.

My daughter, Matilda, Ten Homer Daily, Singing Rose Kornbluth stars in the Burning Mask Party video and narrates as my infinitely sweeter, far funnier twin whose sports my genetic makeup all over her face.

Dear America,

Once upon a time, Trump made ball busting great again. Our economy was hotter than Florida and Antisemitism right now. Every day, more Americans worked, laughed and celebrated American exceptionalism with renewed patriotic flourish. Then, one day China used financing from Fuck Face Fauci to construct a man made virus used to kill our economy and the Trump topping presidency. So they could steal an election, avoid prosecution for treason for illegally spying on the Trump campaigning and push mail in voting, so they could cheat, steal the election and kill off the veneer of voting mattering anymore. Because of that, schools had to play along with this farce and dress up in masks to project the fake news fear of us being more likely to die from COVID than from a Seth Meyers monologue on Zoom. If I’m not scared of Trump. Then, I’m not into my mother as much as Seth Meyers. No offense mommy.

Until finally, the CDC and the WHO lifted their mask mandates despite Biden trying to push ineffective non FDA approved vaccines on kids, not knowing whether they’re more hazardous than snorting crushed up Flinstone vitamins mixed with Tide Pods just yet. From where I stand, if all the kids refuse to wear the masks, the teachers won’t have anyone left to teach. So I let’s get this burning mask party started this summer on July 4th and reclaim our independence on the eve of my Dad’s comedy record release Jokes GenX Dads understand and beyond. It’s impossible to hate such non-stop hilarity like this. This comedy train is bound glory. Hope you can join the ride and help make ball busting great again to. Controlling our kids with comedy can make our kids great again. Myself and my 2 little brothers 98 percent of the time, are living proof of it, USA, USA, USA.

Michael Kornbluth

More American Made Gold

This is Jeff Ross roasting Jay Z in the VIP Room after the Super Bowl. Don’t you think child separation is overrated Jigga? I mean, look how you turned out. And if Coco was never separated from his parents, he never would’ve become a mini Los Lobos in the making. Why did Beyonce sit out the National Anthem Jay? Let me guess. Devin Lovato singing the national anthem sounded too much like the white privileged version of Alabama Shakes. Remember when your boy Lebron got the idea to wear cast after Michelle threatened to jam her arm up Obama’s ass if he ever offered Beyonce a glass of Paul Newman’s Lemonade over her homemade Kombucha again? Did you try Snoop’s wine yet? Wine Advocate said it tastes like mouthwash used in Porn Hood Hell. This is my impersonation of Dr. Dre and Eminem discussing the merger between Microsoft and LinkedIn. Hey, Slim. Microsoft paid 4 billion for LinkedIn. Worrddddddddddddd! LinkedIn is lamer than ever yoh. Trump has ties to Russia. No shit, what mail order bride owner, doesn’t it?

Michael Kornbluth

The Neverending Shit Show

Do kids in China count bats when they have a hard time staying awake for finals? Why didn’t you get your vaccination shot yet? Because I don’t have a job at Salesforce to go back to. Nor am I a CCP controlled pawn of the US military. Plus, if I wanted to join the Army now, I wouldn’t be accepted in it because my shemale search history on 3rd, means I’m against genital mutilation all together, which isn’t gay enough for Mayor Pete’s butt plug tastes. Why haven’t I gotten the vaccine yet? Because I don’t light up with joy at the prospect of wearing a sticker that says, “Just Vaccinated”, in case you think I’m on Trumpy Poo’s side now to. Why haven’t I gotten the vaccine yet? Because if shriekish leftist fuck-wads didn’t have their heads so high up their ass, they’d be able to see, they’re not the only ones allowed to resist. Why haven’t I gotten the vaccine yet? Because the pediatrician for my 3 kids told me to get one and he thinks Biden won fair and square. Yeah, and Hunter loves giving up blow for blow painting. If Biden got the most votes in US history, President Trump is allergic to high end trim. Why did Biden get more votes than Obama doc? Because Mr. Groper looks like a more virile Jimmy Carter in Aviators. School nurse sent my kid home today because he coughed BULLSHIT. After his friend Hobbs, insisted he got COVID from watching a Trump Rally last year on Fox News. I hate to see Biden in his diaper mask. It feels like the CCP dumped a septic tank in my mouth. Doctor asks me “How do you think your son could’ve gotten COVID?” before the test results came back. I said, “We looted a Target in Minneapolis for George Floyd Appreciation Day. But don’t worry doc, we stole all the masks we could find. So, we could throw a Burning Mask Party  in style, on July 4th to be exact, to light a fire under any patriotic verve Lady Liberty has left. Michael Kornbluth