The Triggered Tearjerker

“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy?”, Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy 45-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie doc.” Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think your incapable of experiencing joy for others.” Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past 2 hours?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York and a Victorian Mansion in Mount Vernon, NY, Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground by the way and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself, that’s how I know motherfucker.” Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already and we just met. Look, I’m only hear because I just got remarried yet my kid from the previous marriage is already causing a strain in our marital relationship. All the melatonin gummies in the world, can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace mommy with or not. My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy happy movies like Rudy to and questions whether I really want to have a do over baby with her after all.” Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?” Matt says, “I don’t know doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit. I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless, if The Lord of The Rings franchise being huge for his career or not. I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint as a kid than helping me develop a half away decent hook shot or believable pump fake in the post. I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother instead. I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother, to realize she uses a nickname for me Scoops, for my younger brother to. If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, would you have issues crying at the end of Rudy to?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel to learn your mom uses the same nickname on younger brother? Matt he furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman, a nobody, an unwanted futon with bed bug bite marks after college. I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy doc, I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife. Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer, yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away since giving me a daughter because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life, when she’s barley around to help with my kid in the 1st place.  Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?” Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida, or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug, which saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess. Fuck radical empathy Doc. My mom’s default sour puss mode around my happiness spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east, after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish. Either you’re excited about your 1st born raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video or not.  I get it mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for 4 decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, yet somehow blames it on him being lactose intolerant. When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror to change your depraved ways, just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking, wish fulfillment at it’s finest. And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited after insisting, “I get a maid, which I can’t afford or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever. Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with, got it. All I know doc is my mother would never break into constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.” Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married? Matt says, “I love her doc but it’s not role to criticize my daughter so soon. 4 years down the road sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then. So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my 1st marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference really.”

Doc says, “Looks our time is up.” Matt replies, “So what movie magic do you have planned for me next week doc, Remember The Titans, Hoosiers perhaps?” Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper’s fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home waddling in drunken squalor prior before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you dad”? Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.” Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you piece of shit deplorable.”

Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the Furniture salesman from Nyack, which made him feel like a fluke, another vastly depreciated, average nobody to, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equal distributed encouraged love. Now, Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straight jacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once during outdoor play. Who spends all his days now in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face, chanting with increasing force, Rudy, Rudy, Rudy, only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know, I’m not among the walking dead yet, ” Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”  

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Funnier Than Laughing Gas

Finally getting my wisdom teeth taken out, which is a relief knowing I can’t blame their excavation on toothbrush neglect caused by premature passing out on the couch from excessive IPA intake, again and again. I’m exaggerating. I actually gave up drinking beer this summer because it was embarrassing spending so much time hung over, recycling, empty reminders of my lush, littered past, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by, holla, thank you very much.

Kids are home from school now after I lose my facial virginity from getting gang banged pricked in my mouth with one Novocain shot after another and my beams of sparkly, good hued light, that being my 3 kids, best home team ever, don’t even recognize their depleted daddy mushed into the couch watching a Bee Gee’s doc at 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, who’s acting more low energy, barely staying alive than Jeb Bush after receiving unsolicited debate stump talking points from Karl Rove on Fox News.  Then, my wife who works as a nurse in the NICU gives me a drug cocktail consisting of Ibuprofen, Tylenol, and Amoxicillin, insisting I don’t need my prescribed pain killers, which she isn’t ecstatic about schlepping back to the Pleasantville pharmacy to pick up, because if this drug cocktail concoction is good enough for a mom who just had c section at her hospital, then, I’m in no position to run my bitchy, flappy, tore up mouth.  Then, I decide to do something about my sad sack, immobile state because I don’t need to see my kids look at me like I’m lounging out on my premature death bed again. So I semi pound a leftover Captain Lawrence Powder Dreams, a hazy, New England Style IPA which put me at immediate ease before I blast Motley Crew’s Too Fast For Love in my room as I resume editing a previous chapter post for upcoming, future bestselling Koshetarian Comedian in no time, like a man possessed to never allow fear mongering imposed by others, influence my self-reliant streak of self-imposed, willed in happiness, without the overreliance and constantly let down disgust stemming from more dashed expectations involving any hopeful expectation of those supposed to help when you need them the most,  to only come up, short, because they really don’t give a shit again, holla, thank you very much.

The laughing gas, mixed with oxygen was nice yet still prompted me to start heckling the Oral Surgeon when I said, “Doc, give me funnier, laughing gas,” because I wasn’t laughing, yet doc was long time, thank you very much. Then, I add, “Hey doc, the fake news laughing gas you’re giving me reminds me of the time I took my daughter to her 1st Grateful Dead parking scene, literally days after her 2nd Birthday up in Bethel Woods, sight of the original Woodstock. I take her for a stroll, feeling such an evolved, liberal cool Dad for a brief fleeting moment, who suddenly questions his alleged, all knowing, wise ways, once I start spotting some dinged up looking hippies sucking down nitrous balloons by the woods like their last working stuck in time, stilted brain cell could barely hang on until feeling nothing but vacant space like lower Manhattan these days, only for my daughter to point at the Nitrous balloons and, ask, “Birthday Daddy?”  And I say, “No Matilda, Burnout Day”, holla, thank you very much.”

Now it’s 5PM and I notice how my wife has no preparation for our Ravioli dinner, which I wasn’t planning on assuming ownership of after getting my wisdom teeth taken out, knowing my mom was in town to “help out” despite her crashing later that night at a hard 7:30 like the fucking Amish kid from Witness, who normally goes to sleep early because either A) He has to wake early to milk a farm full of cows for B) Is burnout on reading the Bible by candlelight again into midnight hour, when his love comes beaming around because it loses its dramatic oomph when you’ve already read it 5000 times before your 8th birthday.  

Still, feeling good about my post, New England IPA buzz on an empty stomach, knowing I’ve removed all fear from my kids prior, by being the high energy dad they love as I keep heckling Alexa to play Slip Of The Lip and Dance, Dance, Dance, by the kings of slithering Sunset Strip metal sleaze Ratt. Although along the way, my surging levels of happiness were flat lined to death when I had to endure annoying lines from my wife such as, “You can’t drink after taking Tylenol, it will wreck your liver.” I say, “If 3 days in Mardi Gras sophomore year in college, in addition to my lushastic, hound dog driven twenties in LA or my poor man’s William Faulkner, bourbon swirling impersonation in my 30’s back in Brooklyn and Queens, didn’t kill off my liver, nothing will babe, holla, thank you very much.”

So, after realizing that the 2 alleged most important adult woman in my life, that being my mother and wife of 10 years, fail to take care of dinner preparation for my 3 kids after getting my wisdom teeth taken out, I assume ownership of the situation and command the room, the way only a seasoned, all star Koshetarian Comedian can. Granted, when you’re not making Ravioli by freaking hand, or even from a pasta making machine, it’s not a drawn out, colossal time suck either. Still, when you take pride in being a yummy dance producer maestro, who’s accustomed to hearing from any of his 3 kids, “More, more”, “This is delicious Daddy” or “You haven’t made a batch this solid in months Daddy ”, you put in the extra effort to make an A Plus marinara sauce from scratch which steals the show, assuming you use your kids like open mikes in the kitchen prior enough to recognize your last 2 batches of bomb Ravioli made from scratch by some old world Italian Grandma, most likely in the same room since the Godfather was released in the boogie down Bronx, were a tad 2 al dente around the edges, to be called a complete resounding success.  

Mario Batali gave me the idea of always using red onions and carrots as a standard solid base every time you make any marinara from scratch, which I did here, having a Chopomatic at my disposal, after breaking the past 2 from being too rough with it, helped me resent my mom’s and wife’s complete lack of interest in any making life fuss free for a change a tad less in the end.  At the same time, I knew mama wouldn’t make this favorite meal for my 3 biggest fans in the universe “with love”, so it was my pleasure to fulfill the glaring Do It All Mom void in the room. After I use the reliable, semi-sturdy Chopomatic to cut some red onion, I grate some shaved carrots before bathing them in a generous pouring of olive oil, flush with peeled off bits of garlic, and chili pepper flakes, for added spicy variety, which adds more titillating lift to our days, before throwing in the chucky yet crushed, San Marzano can of tomato sauce from nearby grocery chain legend, Stew Leonard’s, a reason to live in CT alone or Northern Westchester, really.

I was also hell bent on eye fucking the shit out of the 2 boxes of Ravioli to ensure all those pillowy squares of perfection floated to the top like they were sitting top of the fucking Red Sea, before they were devoured with plenty of mmm, mmm, yumtastic, inhalatory glee, for back-to-back, licked clean servings later. Bonding through noshing with our kids from incorporating them into the creation of better than boobie dishes while using them as open mikes for real time feedback, can make our kids great again, my 3 fuss free kids, 99% of the time, are living proof of it. Thank you sweet Lord, very much.

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  

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  

Mr. San Diego

Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break?  Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead?  If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.

Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.

Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup  with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.

The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer.  For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.

Michael Kornbluth

Shell Shocked Snappy

Wine Coolers, Jello Shots and reluctant repeat sips from your 1st can of Budweiser help melt teen shyness away. But pet Snapping Turtles aren’t 9th graders in junior high, who haven’t got into the puberty party yet either. At this point, Matilda a 12-year-old entrepreneur and inventor of a suction sticking party ball strobe light machine called Party Magic, was willing to blow some of her Kickstarter startup money on a Past Life Regression consultation with an Animal Communicator at a nearby Crystal Shop in Ridgefield, CT to get her new pet Snapping Turtle Snappy to come out of his shell already because changing his name from Waxy to Snappy wasn’t helping. More than anything, Matilda wanted to boogie board in Australia, her mama’s home country, along Mother’s Beach, 30 minutes north of Melbourne for her parents 10 year anniversary yet she didn’t feel safe in those Jelly Fish infested waters without a trustworthy, Snapping Turtle to ward off attacks by her side, knowing their preference for scarfing up electric, purple haze stingers.

The 70 something, bushy haired, frumpy, shawl strangled, Sedona sun wrinkled transplant, Animal Communicator, Talks With Toads, lounged out in her cubby size room office within a crystal shop in nearby Ridgefield, CT, and takes of her bi focal glasses to examine Snappy The Turtle more closely. Who Matilda reveals hiding in her old beat up backpack, knowing his tendency to fart uncontrollably, especially around strangers, which she considered a reason for why Snappy The Turtle’s head was hid in perpetual shame so often.  Talks With Toads says, “Matilda, over the phone you said, Snappy won’t come out of his shell around strangers.” Matilda says, “I’ve offered him Lobster Rolls from Stew Leonard’s, smoked Nova from Russ and Daughters, bought him the Tony Robbins audiobook boxset, which wasn’t cheap either, so I’m running out of options hêre. Our first Kornbluth family vacation to Australia is tomorrow and I don’t know what to do, because Snappy is my 2nd line of defense against all those Jelly Fish in Australia after the Jelly Fish nets which aren’t even available in the beaches in Bondi, and that’s where all the serious boogie board action happens anyway. My parents wanted to get married in Australia, where my mom is from originally yet my Grandma shot it down. She calls my dad and says, “Australia is a long trip from New York Scoops and your dad doesn’t love you that much.” Then, my dad made a compromise with my mom and says, “If we have boy one day, will hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision, just to hear a room of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Talks With Toads spits out a deep, weighty laugh, opening up her throat chakra more than any downward dog pose ever could and says, “Does Snappy ever come out of his shell around your daddy or does he get intimidated by larger-than-life comedians to? I saw his performance at the Montreal Comedy Festival on YouTube and coughed up a lung in he process. He made such a strong, funny man impression the last time your family dropped by the crystal shop. And I don’t care for most stand-up comedy these days. Plus, how creepy is the comic Anthony Jeselnik, knowing that he considers psychic surveys on how many missing children they’ve seen through their Carrot Cards as being the height of God loving hilarity today?” Matilda says, “In Anthony Jeselnik’s defense, God commands his chosen people to forsake the counsel of psychics in Deuteronomy, but my dad told me is was Kosher to make an exception in Snappy The Turtle’s defense.”

Talks With Toads does her best to shrug off a smart-ass Jewess rubbing God’s law in her face with such effortless fluency and decides to plow forward with her Past Life Regression reading for Snappy The Turtle, so she can get back to watching some bestiality horse on man porn on her lunch break, which now can’t come soon enough. Talks With Toads grabs a sapphire crystal from a cramped, unorganized drawer, representing the entire kitchen sink of healing, past life reading gemstones known to mankind and places it on Snappy The Turtle’s shell. Talks With Toads says, “I see a Deadhead at Giant Stadium in a Soup Truck RV called Terrapin Soup, blowing high grade, 75 dollar an eighth weed into Snappy The Turtle’s face again and again as the live version of Scarlet Begonia’s from Cornell 77 blasts on the tape deck in the background. I stopped going to shows after I stopped smoking weed myself.”

Matilda says, “After my 2nd birthday, my Dad took me to a Dead Show in Bethel Woods, in upstate New York. I pointed at a dinged up looking Deadhead sucking down a Nitrous balloon and said, “Birthday.” And my dad says, “No, Burn Out Day.” Talks With Toads unleashes another full throaty laugh again and says, “Wait a minute. No, he can’t be.” Matilda’s interest in Talks With Toad’s Past Life Regression Reading has reached peak interest and says, “What do you see now? Is the Deadhead owner feeding Snappy The Turtle’s head with a sheet of acid or what?” Talks With Toads takes a deep breath, doing her best to conceal her startled state as she pulls back her long, tangly grey hair and utters in a whispery, barely audible tone, “The Deadhead owner is serving Snappy The Turtle’s family for dinner.”

Matilda jumps out of her chair in a bewildered state of dígust and yells, “I thought Deadheads ate Grilleđ Cheese Sandwiches after Dead shows when they got the munchies.” Talks With Toads says, “Munchies don’t happen when you’re on 4 tabs of acid dear. Hold on, I see a line of Deadheads around the parking lot in Giant Stadium waiting for this Terrapin Turtle Soup Truck to serve bowls of Turtle Soup to cure more endless bad trips on Hêrculean amounts of acid. The Merry Pranksters used to spike garbage cans full of fruit punch with Acid during 3-hour Dead jam sessions back in the day before you tripped over shit throughout the Cable Car lined streets of San Francisco. Eventually, the college dropout hippies who weren’t banking on replacing Santana anytime soon, became howling, starved lunatics, left with no other choice but to eat stray cats behind the dumpster at Mu Shu York’s. Soon after, a famed chef from New Orleans, Gumbo Greg, who went on to become the executive chef at the Philly Club for years before opening his own restaurant in North Beach, Chowder Panisse, gave Jerry Garcia the idea of serving one of his freaked out tripping groupies some Turtle Soup in their house on Haight Ashbury to cure her bad trip, after doing the same for Dr. John during Jazz Fest once after he crawled himself up into ball on stage, thinking, he’d turned into psychedelic, night tripping crawfish. Crawfish, you know Shrimp with more personality, similar to John Mayer teaming up with Grateful Dead and Company, injecting scruffy smooth with a dose of much needed personality.” Snappy The Turtle finally snaps out of his shell and yells, “Thanks for the flashback bitch.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does Decadence

If my 10-year wedding anniversary celebration was less than lackluster, knowing my Koshtertarian menu options were limited to a fried fish sandwich, then, I’m not going to lose any sleep over my premature celebration of my daughter’s upcoming 10th birthday over some whitefish salad smeared on top of toasty crisp, bagels from nearby Goldberg’s in Katonah, NY this weekend, with my favorite person in the universe, before her 2 younger brothers were born, no offense mom. We had a good run while it lasted, but neither of us can compare the depths of our former love to what our 3 beamish rays of sunshine offer us, who are fuss free 98 percent of time because controlling our kids can make our kids great again, and our kids largely thanks to my Do It All Dad molding, are as good as it gets.  

Almost a decade ago, I yelled at my dad for the 1st time ever, with major divine powered, you better respect my life blaster authority feeling, for making my newborn baby girl smell like Don Draper’s corpse if he chose to forsake Lucky Strike’s for Tareyton 100’s, assuming he stayed with the Jewish department store heiress, Rachel Whinestein from Madmen, and got hooked on them one summer in Israel. I’ll also never forget the reaction from my mother, almost a decade ago in our Queens apartment on the outskirts of Astoria, NY, when she calls me after I went totally ballistic on my father for ruining his granddaughter’s April fresh smell out of the womb. Mom says, “I can’t believe you yelled at your father like that. But if I have to choose, I choose your father every time.” Wow, and I thought Gore Vidal had mommy issues. I haven’t thought of this depressingly dreary moment in ages, yet the idea of siding with your legally bound partner in love from the wedding alter, versus your own flesh and blood, unless your own kid, writes obituary headlines for Rolling Stone such as, “Rush Limbaugh Did His Best To Ruin America”, is beyond me. Working for NPR as a curated news opinion blogger is a tad better knowing they’re not afraid to rip the glaring inefficiencies embedded in our US postal service knowing it’s just another glaring extension, of federally run, ruined, overreach. But I thought big government was the answer to all our problems like removal of Holocaust history at Bronx public schools or penalization of high achieving Asian students because black power and self-reliance are outdated concepts such as good, banging intellectual rap or goaltending in Basketball knowing the NBA is going to bend over backwards to let Lebron win more rings than Jordan because it exists now as a safe space for the king of the persecution’s complex’s ego. So what difference does it make? The infinitely funnier Rush Limbaugh lives because I was blessed with the funny Jew bone, holla, thank you very much.

But Rush Limbaugh was a bigoted feminist hater because he insisted the Woman’s March on Washington looked like a whole bunch of Rosie’s sporting a whole lot of chin’s, while thinking, “Talk about stretching your pussy hat supply thin.” Wait a minute, that’s my material on debut comedy record Resist This, except when my mom asked, “Did my beautiful granddaughter Matilda watch the Woman’s March on Washington? I said, “Yeah mom, but only after I insisted, she watch the march on CNN in a full length burka, to see she had nothing to bitch about in comparison. Plus, Matilda is finally learning how to read mom. So, the last thing I need in my life, is her trying to make out one of those protest signs, asking, “Daddy, what’s pa, pa, pussy power? Is that a new show on Amazon prime?”

Well, that was pleasant stroll down memory lane, and I didn’t get to the point, when almost a decade ago, my father says, “I don’t know how we’re related.” And this was after I splurged on white fish salad, bialy’s and Sturgeon from Russ and Daughter’s in honor of their 1st grandchild not smelling like Don Draper’s dead corpse drenched in Aramis just yet.

My daughter, Singing Rose Kornbluth can read my books now such as The Great American Jew Novel where she plays my 9-year-old agent to make my do it all dad year come true but she’s too busy making flashlights from scratch for her science class to put a spotlight on my labors of love just yet. She also loved the White Fish salad, even more than us learning about fancy adjectives to describe it such as delicate, which was a funny adjective choice to use when doing a Mad Libs later that night, based on the subject of George Washington, who wasn’t an easily triggered, Millennial Mouseketeer or critical thought impaired, news idea fed, baby boomer last time I checked either.

If Do It All Dad decides to retire in Florida way down the line, at least now, I know my Do It All Daughter will love me enough to send me care packages from Russ Daughter’s whenever she’s not too busy lighting the universe, with her majestic, awe inspiring touch she has on everybody blessed enough to come in contact with such hilariously sweet poetry in motion. I can’t wait to take her to Tavern On The Green to celebrate me finally getting a lit agent, although according to Soundcloud, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan, which is the literary hub of Pakistan.  So, retiring to Pakistan, after I cash in from my a plus gem studded, stand up comedy special, Do It All Dad Does Pakistan, could be a hilarious climax to this fairytale father daughter, adventure tale.

Do It All Dad doesn’t do pork, so I’m off to a strong start in city of Lahore, Pakistan, already. Plus, they have nukes, generate 84 billion in GDP, and boast a thriving industry called Lollywood. Do It All Dad Does Lollywood has a better ring than Do It All Dad Does Pakistan actually. It has all the makings of the most hilarious standup concert comedy film ever. Fuck you Eddie. I can rock a King Solomon royal purple jacket to.

What’s my new 10-year plan? Become the king of comedy in Lahore baby.  Together, my daughter and I can plug Russ and Daughter’s and make their gift packages flush with white fish salad go viral. Shit, they can even sponsor the stand-up comedy tour and will call it Decade of Decadence, indulging the locals of Lahore with plenty of saggy tits Sarah Silverman jokes to hold them over till Ramadan ends.

Michael Kornbluth

The F You Pizza Bagel Supreme

I’ve never outgrown my love of hair metal or temptation to try any pizza bagel; regardless of it conjuring memories of icky frost burn or blue balls on the slow dance floor at Bar Mitzvah parties back in the day before dick picks became the death of small talk. I strongly recommend making your own Pizza Bagels, assuming you live in New York and have access to bomb sesame bagels, flush with endless crackle crunch and doughy lightness greatness within, versus the cardboard coated, Einstein Bagels, which suffer from extreme shrinkage problems, tasting like synthetic, mass produced, carbs for older than dirt Jews in Florida who are more fixated with getting their cream cheese fix by any means necessary, assuming they have fuck up kids, who can’t even handle airmailing them smoked salmon and bagels from Russ and Daughter’s for special occasions instead. 

Bagels are a source of pride for native New Yorkers like 24-hour Greek diners, 4 am last calls or the old school Yankee Stadium, before the new one was built, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. I still don’t understand why other states outside of NY and New Jersey suck at making bagels so much. The other day, I’m in a riffing mood, so nothing new, and go on a mini rant about a new double IPA offering by Stone Brewing from San Diego with my local beer guy at Decicco’s nearby is Sommers, NY and say, ” That new double IPA tall boy from Stone, for 3 bucks a pop is an incredible deal for a double IPA, which tastes so damn mineral fresh rich. I’m convinced San Diego has access to some special reserve water stream, that gives the f you to New York state’s highly hailed natural tap water reservoirs, which cascade all the way down from the Catskills Mountains and gorges from Ithaca, NY, my old school stomping ground when I attended Ithaca College, otherwise known as Cornell’s, retarded next door neighbor. But I was in the much-hyped Roy H. Park School Of Communications, so I could take a couple of bingers back in the day and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.”  

It’s especially hard to bite your tongue whenever your English mother-in-law from Manchester, relocated to Greenville, Delaware in Biden country, who had to share a bucket growing up for number 2’s, goes off, on the alleged superior, more compact bagels of England. Sure, the brits make better bagels than Italians, Jews and illegal Mexicans in NY, who will mostly likely die on the job, in fucking triple masked masks, uttering, “No more whole wheat everything bagels. Choke on a calzone Cuomo, you Punta bitch,” the end.

Now every town doesn’t have access to cured, delectable, fishy free neutralizing, deep orange hued sliced slivers of nova salmon made to be paired with a toasted sesame bagel on top of a fairly medium, homemade cream cheese smear, the way constellations of moles belong on uppity, English wenches residing in Chelsea and beyond. So, what can you do to spice up a bagel to outshine a homemade pizza bagel using your own homemade spiced up Rao’s tomato sauce, interspersed with loads of sliced off garlic and pulverized, always juicy fresh, cooked down San Marzano tomatoes, which make you proud to be on a friendly 1st name basis with most pizza maker Italian Americans? Easy, make your homemade salsa, with cherry tomatoes, 3 substantial Jalapenos, a mini me handful of fresh cilantro leaves, a crescent moon size of red onion, a bulb of garlic, thrown into the Cuisinart mixer for 4 swirl rips or more, and you’re already more than halfway there to the promised F You Pizza Bagel Supreme Land.

The last step is shredding some cheddar, New York made is fine to, which adds assertive, musky heft while pairing beautifully with the sweet yet warming, springy fresh salsa, prompting your kids to murmur while still chewing with mouths half full, “This is a delicious daddy, but give me more salsa next time and be funnier than Weird Al before my birthday or I’ll kill you with our sharpest knife for real this time.”  

The Mexican Jew Boy Bagel Supreme is so good, even ANTIFA would cater a Shiva with them for a killed ICE agent on Presidents Day, in Boca Raton, with you know who in town, passing through.

Michael Kornbluth

Loud Man’s Disease

How loud was Do It All Dad? For starters, when seeing Aerosmith live in Las Vegas 2 summers ago with close seats to the stage before a mask muzzle was designed to kill freedom of speech forever, his incessant hollering and wooing, made lead singer Steven Tyler, shoot off retaliatory hate stares of disgust in his direction which screamed, “Somebody shut this loudmouth Jew up already. This is my showcase career retrospective, not his. I didn’t blow millions on blow and almost derail my stadium selling out career in the seventies to have this big-headed putz project louder than me without a microphone, Joe Perry and a state-of-the-art sound system working in his magnifying favor either.”

There was also the time Do It All Dad saw Dice in a casino in Arizona with his younger brother, only for the Dice Man to single out the loudmouth Jew and yell with exasperated force, “You’re an asshole”, and all he was doing was laughing longtime all the time prior while sporadically yelling, “Dice Lives, holla, thank very much.” Dice was so flummoxed by Do It All Dad’s laugh throaty roar, he beelined into his nursey rhymes prematurely way ahead of schedule to get the fuck out of dodge at a hard 45 minutes into his set.

Then, there was the time when Do It All Dad saw Bon Jovi at Mohegan Sun with his daughter Matilda, fairly up in the nose bleed seats this time behind the stage, yet his bombastic, rocket fueled voice, still managed to get under Zebra print’s skin, as the old school long cowboy from Jersey, projected a damning you ain’t shit thousand-yard stare toward Mr. Loud Man’s Disease general direction, as he sang along with rock star blasting authority, “Bad Medicine is all I need.”  

Do It All Dad didn’t only piss off living legendary comedians and hall of fame rock star front men with surefire, unintentional precision. His omnipresent Loud Man’s Disease enraged his normally English dour, future father-in-law over a dinner at his home in Delaware only 2 minutes after grace, compelling him to bark out in depleted, drained already disgust, “He’s more talkative than the other one.” The other one being the gentile mute from Indiana, his daughter was engaged to before his daughter found her real deal partner in love this time, at least for the time being.

The major issue now was Do It All Dad’s loud man disease causing his son Art Show USA to develop all-consuming migraine headaches, leading his son to sport a permanent PMS face, until he started to take up mainlining extra strength Tylenol again. And Do It All Dad’s son was tough. How tough you ask? Well, when Art Show USA required stiches for tripping on top of an empty IPA glass on the ground and had to wait 1000 lifetimes in the emergency room so the other doctors could serve all the 1st in line dreamers in attendance, the doc gave Do It All Dad 2 options, “Either A) Authorize the doc using an anesthesia which would take 20 minutes to kick in, or B) To stich up his son the spot as his gaping gash continued to open wider than Octomom after push 5000. Do It All Dad chose B, only for the doctor to say, “Your kid is tough.” Do It All Dad inquires, “Indulge me doc, how tough?” Doc says, “One time there was this black kid from Brooklyn.” Do It All Dad says, “Sold already Doc. Thanks for giving my son tough guy bragging rights for me to derive vicarious pride from till my last dying breath.”

But how was Do It All Dad going to solve his Loud Man’s Disease exactly? Would triple masking even get the job done, after getting his tonsils taken out for an extra safe precaution to? Would Do It All Dad become a eunuch monk, despite already feeling this way at times from being a Stay-At-Home Dad, bitchy underling until his comedy writing career achieved blast off already? Would Do It All Dad seek out a Voodoo Doctor in Washington Heights to cure his Loud Man’s Disease by changing his pigmentation to ESL Asian?

What could Do It All Dad do to prevent his son from receiving any more debilitating headaches in his presence again? Finally, Do It All Dad devised a cure all solution. He’d buy his son a pair of Bose noise canceling headphones to wear in his presence and teach him fucking sign language. Because native New Yorkers were made to be heard.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Uncomfortably Queasy

Weekend memories of my mom’s Kraft Mac and Cheese don’t fill me with comforting ease. For some reason, the mere image of a half-eaten bowl in the sink gives me imminent deathly chills inside, like the time I started pissing on myself after snorting Crystal Meth prior, thinking it was just exceptionally pure, uncut Cocaine, because after only 1 line, 5 hours later, I kept pronouncing out loud to myself, “This shit is great”, like a coked-out Tony Tiger used to bad coke which tastes like chalky AJAX.  In my mom’s defense, she worked full time as a Loan Officer for JP Morgan in Manhattan, so I can’t blame her for mailing it in on Saturdays by throwing together some Kraft Mac and Cheese, knowing my dad’s half ass, serially undersalted, sickly looking, off yellow, scrambled eggs made before Basketball practice on Saturdays weren’t filling me with unconditional lovely cheer either. Again, I can’t totally shit on my parents half-hearted weekend creations in the kitchen throughout the eighties and early nineties, because Brunch wasn’t a thing yet, nor was any craft put into making mac and cheese from scratch yet, using a plethora of fancy foreign, pricy cheeses such as specs of imported Parm, always sultry smooth Italian Fontina or rind free French brie.  Lobster Mac and Cheese wasn’t conceived yet by some fabulous, brunch visionary hot spot restaurant owner in West Hollywood who longed for something dreamier to sink his teeth into at noon on a Saturday hungover, basking in the gorgeous LA patio sun after being burnt out on being reared on fried egg topped cheeseburgers from Fat Burger in Van Nuys as a kid, who shared less in common with Adam Carolla growing up, than the Wheatgrass bartender for Jamba Juice.

So, for Super Bowl Sunday this year, this old G, decided to make my own Mac Daddy version of Mac and Cheese, to make my 3 Koshertarian kids yell with unmatched glee, “Party time, excellent, I feel the funk.” Not, “Who’s that black chick with Austin Powers in that commercial Daddy? Is she a mini me version of Queen Latifah? I don’t get it.” My plan of attack was to create a Mac Daddy and Cheese that wasn’t to cheesy like the Phantom of The Opera halftime show, because nothing screams half time entertainment more than a bunch of jilted, creepy looking dancers in masks putting on a zero thrills production of Phantom Of the Opera meets Friday The 13th during the year of COVID 19, which has unmasked all the propagandists in the media, who prop up fakes news working class heroes such as Bruce Springsteen who blames his manager for never paying taxes till he got on the cover of Times Magazine after Born To Run blew up but I digress. Bruce pretended he was on Acid to avoid being drafted yelling, “War, what’s it good for? Besides fodder for my upcoming Born In The USA album, about my fake news brother who dies in Vietnam. Does your office look like Salvador Dali took a giant kaleidoscope shit on your desk? And why does Uncle Sam keep pointing at me? It’s not my fault Sandy is a miserable, knocked up diner waitress, who was born to cry in the dark and die alone in the Swamp Thing State.”

Still, the Super Bowl is an American tradition, so I based my Mac Daddy and Cheese dish around the east coast standard, always unifying, pretentious free, yellow Landa Lakes American Cheese. Understand, my wife openly detests American Cheese because she’s a more evolved hick who grew up in the hinterlands of Brisbane Australia, who grew up playing with mud in the yard, knowing she only grew up with 2 TV stations in the outback and if you’ve seen one episode of Astro Boy, you’ve seen them all.  So, making my star standalone dish for Super Bowl Sunday based on yellow Landa Lakes American cheese required some level of American made balls, knowing what potential, all knowing resistor fury, lurked in the nearby distance as Tom Brady continued the greatest winning streak in life ever recorded, which helps when you’re reunited with the always reliable Gronk, as your go to, money in the bank, tight friend.  At the same time, I didn’t want the American cheese to be the sole attraction, similar to The Weekend surrounding himself with the most unattractive, peaceful protestors against the savagery of self-esteem enhancing plastic surgery within the Sunshine scurrying state.

My kids love Broccoli, like myself, assuming you make it with love, destem all the florets, blanch them in a bucket of ice water you’d pour on Bill Parcels if it was made of Gatorade back in the day, before I sautéed them in a butter, high end olive oil, sliced shallots and peeled off bits of garlic, to ensure the gorgeous flowers of green, matched the intensity of hop forward wonderfulness of my pounded 90 Minute Dog Fish IPA prior, which took me only 9 minutes to finish my second.

I used pasta macaroni shells from some Italian pasta maker, which cost 3 buck max in addition, made a basic bechamel, including, butter, flour, milk and spicy brown mustard to help the green goodness stick together with the torn-up bits of American Cheese and olive oil massaged Mac Daddy shells, which looked like glistening tubes of inhalatory perfection.  The only complaint I received was Daddy using a tad too much fresh ground pepper to spice things up, beyond memories of boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese, which are too uncomfortably queasy to replicate for the mere ease of convenience sake for my taste.

I’m not going to call my Mac Daddy and Cheese the Tom Brady of Mac and Cheeses, although my 4-year-old son continuing to polish off his bowl even after his mac and cheese cooled is still sustained excellence in my book to.

Michael Kornbluth