Tag: flashfiction

Emotionally Compelling Situations 

by doitalldadyear, posted in business, fiction, writing

Roots Of My Wasabi Tears 

A Wasabi Salesman in Bergen, Norway, loses his heralded sense of taste.

DVD Phone Girl 

A phone sales rep for a porno studio in North Hollywood loses her sex talk fluency after getting talked into snuggling.

Tom Petty Girl 

A pothead waitress forgets to take the pill.

The Koshertarain Godfather

A shadow banned comedian puts an ad in the Wall Street Journal for a Koshertarian Godfather.

Headstart on Cancer

An estranged trust fund baby tells his dad about coming out as a stay at home she male comedian called Killerset Kornbluth who performs topless with a pink Brooks Brother tie on for his rapidly expanding fan base on Only Fans, which he’ll be promoting on Facebook before his potential Lung Cancer biopsy diagnosis.

Gum King Of New York 

A broke, stay-at-home dad reinvents himself as a pitch person for the QVC after going into business with his sponsor at AA.

Lust for Lita 

A stay-at-home dad gets busted by his wife for falling victim to a fishing scandal by a fake news Lita Ford.

Mitzvah Moves 

A just-fired IT Recruiter disrupts the job market for young adults with Down Syndrome by recruiting an army of door-to-door sales reps at the Special Olympics to sell his new hop-flavored gum Hop-O-Rama Chew. 

Michael Kornbluth

Funny Man Flash Fiction Collection

by doitalldadyear, posted in business, storytelling, writing

April 3, 2023

Dear Eric Smith,

I can’t pull off the hats you do. And in 2008, my girlfriend, now wife, agreed for us to dress like the couple from Juno for Halloween, which prompted me to write Juno Does Williamsburg before my stab at writing the funniest softcore porn parody, lampooning the hipster acceleration of Williamsburg after the movie released. So I’ve never relied on predictive analytics to know what will be the next big thing like Williamsburg 15 years ago or when I told my dad 18 years ago to invest in Google when it made its initial public offering priced at 85 dollars a share. That’s why I predict with rock solid authority that you’re the right man to help get Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories the publishing glory it deserves, which will make my Do It All Dad Year come true.

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories, my debut funny man flash fiction collection is unique because it’s loaded with heart while treating every other line like a punchline sprint from start to finish; the total word count is 74,959 words. The only comparable book is Horse Feathers by Woody Allen, or the one BJ Novak did that has some horseshit title that I don’t want to Google anymore. The point is, you’re the perfect audience for my book because it’s a fantastic discovery like the Doors in college for me, except I spin endless sheets of comedy gold while maximizing the most out of my half-heeb crazy, funny Jew bone in the process.

United We Laugh; I prove it every day. The three sections of Waste Of Height are Do It All Dad Time, Sloppy Second Stories, and Do It All Dad Does Kid Stories, which are mini star vehicles for my children that aren’t pedo-friendly tales about sexually confused Hipster spawn reared on Lou Reed records, profiled in Groomers Are Us Magazine either. Although Waste Of Height does include flash fiction tales that unmask my queer learnings in Slut In A Straight Jacket and in Greatest Story Never Told, for starters.

Controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again; my three fuss-free kids, 99 percent of the time, are living proof of it. Per your instructions, I’ve included a 10-page sample for your review. Thanks for your lit agent consideration and for making publishing dreams come true.

Best,

Michael Kornbluth

Waste Of Height Pitch

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, poetry, writing

November 15, 2022 

Dear Michael Bourret, 

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories is a comedic showcase of flash fiction stories that’s made for these punchline topping times. I wouldn’t mind being translated in France and beyond. According to my Soundcloud stats, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan. If offbeat writing gives you sustained stiffage, then I’ve got a long-lasting treat for you.

My target audience for Waste Height are members of Gen X, who do more than audiobooks and the Joe Rogan Podcast. Who will relish my pop culture heavy references throughout Smackdown Satan, When The Shredder Frets and Radioactive Resume Theories. Understand, I don’t shy away from media criticism in middle age reinvention tales such as Trucking To Zion and The Zamboni Artist. 

Other stories of interest that are reflective of my queer leanings include Slut in Straight Jacket, Busted Beauty and Perverted Science.

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories, is broken into different story sections: Stand Up Short Stories, Do It All Dad Stories, Funny COVID Stories, American Made-Up Short Stories, Stand Up Staffer Stories, Sloppy Second Stories and Do It All Dad Does Kid Stories. I incorporate every genre from magical realism, The Headless Headhunter, YA, Trading Birthdays and absurdist adult humor, Hop Farm Footsie Scare of 1859.

Thanks for giving my material a read and for the opportunity to give you sustained stiffage from it, long time, all the time, Challah. Thank you very much. 

Best Regards.

Michael Kornbluth 

The Neverending Prick

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, fiction, storytelling

“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort?” asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a fifty-something, well-dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like.

            The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last-second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment in the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights where he bought from Julio Silverbade, the Third before his co-op eviction trial began.

            The Manipulative Prick (otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot) loved doing cocaine—mainly on the weekends, though, when he wasn’t working. So, what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life (such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine, too)?

            Last month, when the newlyweds received their first of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a forty-year-old phone sales rep for Verizon, says, “Relax babe. Our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me because his life sucks compared to mine; that’s all.”

            Wife Kate, a thirty-five-year-old, one-time divorced, pretty yet worn-down-looking ER nurse, says, with weary disgust, “You’re a forty-year-old cokehead who sells smart phones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about, exactly—your tar stains on your two front teeth?

            “Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career-secure? Do you think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at four am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody-free snatch?

            “Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor, for a Jewish cokehead, that your Hebrew name is under judicial review?    “Maybe he’s jealous about you being a no-show uncle who’s more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from five years ago today than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on New Year’s Day, moron.”

            Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day.

            He says, “First off, I take incredible offense at being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.”      Then a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke, to get him erect with aroused interest at all, these days.

            The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it, and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money, here.”

            This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near-deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it.

            Now the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion during your eviction notice hearing, already? You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name Automatic Fuckup, or what?”   Now the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

            Co-Op Board Member Number Two, a wrinkly, diminutive, yet feisty, retired realtor, chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other fifty-and-over tenants, when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion-free during your final eviction notice hearing?

            “Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, and drugged out loud when consequences for your got-to-have-satisfaction-up-my-nose, whenever-I-want behavior have never been greater.”

            The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him (the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior, in addition to the realtor’s wig) and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone while my wife works the weekend shift, especially since COVID hit, these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils (which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much, actually).”

            Now a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling and through a fancy schmancy chandelier while looking more like the worm giant from Dune. All the Co-Op board members duck for cover under their judgment table as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction.

            Co-Op Board Member Number Two, squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face, screams, “What the fuck is that?”

            The Never-Ending Prick.

Michael Kornbluth

Slut In A Straight Jacket

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, fiction, writing

David Kornbluth just finished sucking on the balls of his college roommate at NYU and felt ultra-gay about it. He looked at the mirror, thinking, “Why did it taste right in my mouth but not right now? Why am I feeling a sense of self-imposed gay shame regret after releasing in my normal 2 seconds flat prior?  I still haven’t lost my virginity, so I don’t know what I’m missing out on otherwise. Did I enjoy slobbering all over the girl in Israel at the Kibbutz who was a solid 7.9 by ultra-hot Israeli girl standards, to the point where her face resembled a wet mop, because I had no form of kissing style or technique to draw from just yet? Yes, but I’m not jerking off to fantasies of clanking teeth with her again and feeling up her non-existent tits either. Instead, I get way more sexually aroused at the thought of grabbing my roommate’s cock that’s tucked away neatly in his jeans under his tighty whities, before I suck on his salty, tasty balls again. After I’m done licking my lips at the thought of playing footsie with him again, naked, in his parent’s bathtub, next time they leave the city for an early Hamptons retreat. I used to blow off homework to watch the Cherry Pie girl video for months at a time, how did I ever come to this?”

Now, David Kornbluth, a 19-year-old freshman auditions for America’s Top Shocker at the college radio station, who grew up listening to Howard Stern before he came out as weird, weak Howard, who failed to give his longtime fans sustained stiffage of any kind. For his audition, David Kornbluth recruited a Jewish sex therapist who used to work as a Transvestite Worker to pay for her PHD in Psychology from Columbia prior. David Kornbluth propositioned her after hearing her give a guest lecture in his freshman psychology class called, “My Favorite Sexual Deviants”, that framed famed homosexual artists such as William Boroughs, DH Lawrence, Oscar Wilde and Mario Cantone as brave souls who lived out their fantasies despite so called claims of them suffering from a far-left mental disease. His exact pitch was, “Dr. Ballstein, I have a chronic masturbation problem and bisexual leanings and I’m interested in you hearing your real thoughts on my sexually obsessed leanings while I interview you on our local college radio station at NYU. It’s a mock, audition interview. So, I don’t have the Sex Talk radio host job yet, but with you in my corner, I think it’s a promising start, for good things to come.”

Dr. Ballstein is flattered and impressed by David’s pseudo developing confidence for only a college freshman at NYU and says, “Sounds splendid, I’ll get dressed up extra nice.” David Kornbluth says, “You could also wear a nice pair of white jeans, if you’d like.”

Now, the audition interview is in session with Dr. Ballstein, and David Kornbluth gets this party stared. “So, Dr, Ballstein, are you born with homoerotic urges or are they only activated when someone else pushes you in that direction, like suggesting you jerk each other off to Scandal in the Mansion before the Giants game on Sunday?”

Dr. Ballstein says,” Famed scientist Alfred Kinsey wrote a book called Sexual Behavior in the Human Male and claimed that no one is really 100 percent straight or gay while famed writer Gore Vidal said, there’s no such thing as gay, only “homosexual acts.” Or like Lenny Bruce said, after a man has been holed up in prison for 20 years, “He’d do mud.” 

David Kornbluth says, “Do you think I plastered my teen room walls with pictures of half-naked Hair Metal Gods like Sebastian Bach from Skid Row and the king of cock rock Vince Neil in his tight leather pants, because I longed to be them or in them?” Dr, Ballstein says, “I think it means you’re attracted to a more feminine, pretty faced type.” David Kornbluth doesn’t know what comes over him, never coming close to broadcasting his homosexual desires to anybody, let alone on the radio for the entire NYU campus to hear, regardless of it just being an audition or not and says, “Yeah, but I got a jerk bud at school, and when I’m sucking his balls before the Giants play and in between commercials, I’m not thinking about his highly defined cheek bones or pencil thin lips either.” Dr. Ballstein says, “So you’re a sucker for balls, join the club.” Life sucks without them in your mouth for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I agree. If you’re going to fag out, might as well go all the way. “Which reminds, me, I wore those tight white jeans that you requested. See anything you’d like? I haven’t squeezed into these bad boys in years, they’re literally bursting at the seams, especially around my zipper part.”

It just so happens that David’s freshman roommate overheard this beyond steamy audition interview, which drove him into a crazed rage, to the point where he greeted him back in the dorm room with a kick in the nuts, before smashing his Nintendo Wi console on his head which cracked in 2, yelling, “That’s the last time, I’ll be touching your balls ever again, DICK.” Now, David Kornbluth was sent to a mental hospital in Westchester Country for his shock jock antics after his roommate called his parents to tell them their son is a lying fag who deserves to be locked up in a loony bin to electroshock the lying, scheming fag out of him once and for all. His parents abided in a NY minute.

10 years gone, David Kornbluth is still in the mental hospital, yet his popularity as their own in-house shock jock continues to rise. The electroshock therapy, which David derided as Shock Jock Treatment, only made him gayer about being perceived as a freaky, deranged, wild man fruitcake, especially when laughing at his own jokes on air again like the time he launched his pilot show at the mental hospital and says, “Welcome to Homosexual Talk, I’m the hilarious gay friend you never had, otherwise known as America’s Top Shocker although if my parents acknowledge my existence over dinner with their friends ever I’m Slut In A Straight Jacket, Challah, thank you very much.” 

Michael Kornbluth

Regaining That Cuddling Feeling

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, fiction, happiness

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”

            Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”            The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

            At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.”             Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”  

            Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.

            Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.

            Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.  

            Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.

            So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).

            Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.

            Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.  

            Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.

            “Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”

            ” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever. 

            “Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”

            Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.

            Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.

            Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.

            Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.

            “It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”

            Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

            Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”

            Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.

            American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.

            “Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?

            Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”

            Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).”      Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  

            Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”

            Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.

            “Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

            Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.”          Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”

Michael Kornbluth

Tofu The Terrible

by doitalldadyear, posted in cooking, culture, fiction

Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in no singing mood today. Every day, she’d wake up singing, ‘Good Day Sunshine’ by the Beatles even if she had gotten up at the crack of dawn again, or decided to work in Norway away from her mom and dad throughout an entire darkened five-month winter as a 9-year ski model for Northface; knowing that in a post-Corona universe, she was used to doing remote learning away from school, anyway.

            But this drab Thanksgiving morning was different, because she had to act thankful for eating Tofurky Roast again (despite the spirit of Tofu The Terrible terrorizing her dreams since she’d described soy dogs, in her school lunch cafeteria blog, as “Rubber dog link nosh toys.”

            But how could Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth act grateful for eating a Tofurky Roast since her fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Right, made it clear how the Native American indians weren’t responsible for teaching the Pilgrims how to turn soy milk into white blocks of semi-firm bricks of soy, with higher levels of estrogen to feminize John Smith’s sturdy stock of sailors.

            Also, Thanksgiving this year, post-Corona, wasn’t feeling particularly festive, knowing that Matilda was suffering from PTSD from wearing all of those Corona masks to death. Matilda was now having nightmares of being terrorized by the masked man Tofu The Terrible, who ruined every favorite meal she’d dreamed of.

            For example, if Matilda had just won the gold medal in the Hardcore X Games for Equestrian Riders within the Under 10 Years age bracket, having to complete jumps through rings of fire with an occasional baby dragon on her tail, she’d normally celebrate with her best friend Shannon (in her dreams) over their favorite treat of jellybeans at a sleepover party, soon after.

            But now, all that appeared in her dreams were pasty, slimy soybeans in the place of jellybeans, because Tofu The Terrible was punishing her for calling soy dogs, on her cafeteria food blog, “Not good enough to pass for rubber dog toys.” And Matilda hated pet dogs because they ate dog food with minced horsemeat inside.

            Matilda had always been a hardcore vegetarian loyalist, yet she’d greatly offended the spirt of Tofu The Terrible, a ferocious Chinese vegetarian warrior from the Ming Dynasty who even got Genghis Khan into Mapo Tofu over jasmine rice, a fiery dish loaded with super-scary Sichuan spice.

            The smell from the ground-up Sichuan peppercorns would make most grown men cry, making their lips tremble in fear at the prospect of having to try one more bite, knowing that Genghis Khan would be hoarding all the Sake rice wine for any temporary relief for themselves, soon afterwards.

            Matilda was convinced that she’d never enjoy the food she loved in real life again (such as her Dad’s fried Icelandic cod in a barbeque aioli) without tasting anything but mushy dog drool, instead.  

            Now it was time for everyone at the table to give thanks for Thanksgiving. Matilda had been dreading this from the start. She was consumed with nightmarish visions of Tofu The Terrible ruining all her favorite foods in her dreams and in real life, such as her Dad’s star side dish creation, Caramelized Cauliflower Potato Gratin, combining cave-aged gruyere and raclette cheese from the Swiss Alps, which injected the dish with an extra scrumptious, creamy, fresh finish.

            Matilda’s dad, a Stay-At-Home Comedian Author, podcast host, and self-taught semi-gourmand chef, can tell that his daughter was dreading her turn to participate, and says, “Matilda, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is Tofu The Terrible ruining the taste of your jellybeans again?” Matilda perks up, shaken out of her petrified, frozen comatose state, and says, “How did you know about Tofu The Terrible, Daddy?”

             Matilda’s dad says, “I helped you launch your own lunch cafeteria blog on WordPress, remember? Your last piece, Tofu Brownie Blues, was about how Tofu The Terrible threatened to shred everyone’s masks at school, unless the Brownie Girls started selling his special batch of Tofu Brownies at the next school book fair, instead.”

            Matilda says, “Do we have to eat the Tofurky Roast this year?”

            Dad says, “No, try this veggie Barbeque Pita, instead.” Matilda takes a reluctant bite, but is moved by her Dad’s gesture of goodwill. She says, “Yummy, Daddy.”

             Her dad says, “I fried up cubes of semi-firm soy inside that bad boy. The sautéed onions and peppers keep the memories of mushy dog toy food at bay.”

             Tofu The Terrible was dead, in Matilda’s head, and she started singing again while giving thanks and praises at Thanksgiving, singing, “Soy Dogs still suck, Tofu The Terrible too; but you’re no longer so bad, since my Daddy came to my rescue.”

Michael Kornbluth

Death Of A Bose Salesman

by doitalldadyear, posted in creativity, culture, entertainment

Once upon a time, there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease.  He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song ‘Hells Bells’.     Michael Yeller always believed that louder is better until now, because he was longer able to sing ‘Search and Destroy’ by Iggy Pop and the Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss.   

            Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders on the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding; the steel guitar-slaying Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella; and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop, CC Deville, from Poison.

            Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah, but he’d already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.

            After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA, but IT directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker, who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.

            Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and nondescript, low-key bars on random, zero-foot traffic streets; unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael, who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl, once.

            Eventually, Michael moved back to NY, did digital ad sales for Citysearch, and started to try open mike stand-up comedy. When working for Citysearch, he’d say, on stage, “Citysearch is a city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.”

            But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rockstar on stage, because if his first joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggyback off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any newly-inspired direction of hilarity he chooses.  

            At the Christmas party for Citysearch, Michael sang his best rendition of ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high-end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting blackout drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to ‘Oh What A Feeling’.

            Knowing that Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of ‘Fallen Angel’ in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job where his loud man disease could be neutralized—where it wouldn’t become such a career-hindering liability.

            He got a job in the suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY, selling state-of-the-art stereo equipment for Bose.    Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system altogether. Michael would be selling noise cancellation headphones (“Yenta Silencers” is what he’d call them, specifically, before trying new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know that Google fired twenty-five software engineers for sexual harassment? But, software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”).

            But one day, during a demo presentation for AC/DC’s ‘Back In Black’ on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell church bell clang to ‘Hells Bells’. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease, forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, now losing all semblance of voice control whatsoever?

            Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but the reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose, but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him to rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most badass metal rock records of all time (which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally).

            Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse, and Van Halen with divine-powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard nonstop all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing that his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kickass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again.

            In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore, but he was still able to sell his love of loud metal music through his blogs, and also had the kickass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head, for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him that two out of three ain’t bad.

Michael Kornbluth

The Sun Butter King

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, Parenting, writing

North Dakota was only the state in the country which enjoyed full employment, and Do It All Dad wanted in. North Dakota was also the least visited state in the nation, yet Do It All Dad was used to seeing his parents only twice a year, and also was accustomed to not seeing any of his former friends since his three fuss-free children were born, failing the friendship litmus test every time.

            So, the isolating nature of North Dakota didn’t bother him one bit; especially knowing how much Do It All Dad hated to navigate around lost-in-time tourist hicks in Times Square pre-Covid, on his way to work, when he used take the subway there for his IT Recruiter job in Midtown East for a living. 

            But the majority of the jobs in North Dakota were within the farming and energy industry, which Do It All Dad had no experience with, whatsoever. Granted, his mom grew up in Kentucky and had an Uncle Jim, who owned a farm and who even wore overalls to his Grandpa’s funeral, because that’s how he rolled.

            And Do It All Dad would have a bit in his old act about how Kentucky gal Ashley Judd wasn’t an actual victim of rape. He’d say, “Ooh, she refused to watch Harvey Weinstein shower himself down at his five-star suite in the Four Seasons. At the same time, Ashley Judd had plenty of experience judging fat pigs at the county fair.”

            Still, Do It All Dad wasn’t expecting to be a working headliner comedian at the non-existent comedy clubs in downtown Fargo, North Dakota. Microsoft had 100,000 employees based in North Dakota, yet Do It All Dad was no fan of Bill Gates’s dad being the head of Planned Parenthood, either. Its founder was intent on carrying out Hitler’s eugenics solution one fetus flicker (mostly of color) at a time.

            North Dakota was also voted the least female-friendly environment because it had less abortion clinics than oxygen bars for the Persian Iranians to act urban sheik smug in. They were like tanner, humorless Whitney Cumming clones in those Hollywood Hills, and were too uptight for Do It All Dad’s tastes, whose blah-brained personality offered him nil.

            Do It All Dad had an old headhunter boss who hailed from a prestigious farming family in North Dakota, who drilled into his cranium the do-or-die mantra “innovate or die.”

            Innovate, he must, because Do It All Dad had to invent a new job title besides Stay At Home Comedian. Do It All Dad just wanted to write more books from home and cook more yummy dance meals for his family, but needed a paying job of some sort to finance finishing his next book in progress, The Koshertarian Diet, so his wife wouldn’t bust his balls about it.

            Plus, Do It All Dad had no desire to uproot his family and move closer to his in-laws in Delaware, whose state motto should be changed to, “Your Nazi Gold Is Safe With Us.”

            Do It All Dad was also working on a new short story collection, Waste Of Height, which forced him to be tad less political and overtly sexual in his writing, for a change. Still, as famous English novelist Virginia Woolf once said, “A woman must have a room of her own, and money to write fiction.”

            Now, Do It All Dad, being a stay-at-home shemale rocker mom, of sorts, could identify with this stone cold sober truism, even more than being a shishy bitch who would get dressed up on Shabbat Friday nights to stay in with his three kids while his wife went back to work at the hospital in the NICU to check on the vital signs of blue-faced babies.

            This made Do It All Dad feel like an insufferable narcissist, at times, because all he checked for was for retweets, before he got banned from Twitter from calling Governor Cuomo a Blanch-killing, cold-blooded, Italian Reptilian inside.

            Now Do It All Dad couldn’t even justify his IPA intake after a Peloton ride anymore, because his family was barely affording the monthly payments on their mortgage, and nothing had changed too much since he’d started chasing down open mikes throughout Southern California fifteen years ago after getting the laugh chaser bug, which no amount of widespread bombing or marital bliss disintegration or threat of complete financial ruin could cure.

            Also, Do It All Dad’s office was in his bedroom, which a recent jilted audiobook reviewer derided as “tiny and cramped” (based on the lack of reverberating echo in his chapter reading for “The Last Temptation of Adderall,” I assume).                   Do It All Dad had given up hope on securing a lit agent to take a chance on an eccentric Jewish comedian satirist/reinvented literary novelist who used his books for extra-long stand-up comedy monologues. He couldn’t afford to do open mikes throughout Manhattan, because he couldn’t justify the 40-dollar Metronorth train fare to wail with his arms on stage for the pleasure of trying to entertain the two millennial musketeers in the audience with such a jade-free, joyous, giving heart anymore.

            Now Do It All Dad didn’t desperately seek strangers’ funny/many approval as much on stage, since he launched his successful podcast and blog three years ago (which, for him ,was the greatest open mike on earth). But it pained Do It All Dad to still not be in a position to buy his son, Art Show USA, the GI Joe SS Flagg Aircraft Carrier for his son’s seventh birthday, snowboard lessons, a vintage pair of Freezie Freakies on eBay with the Thundercats on it, or anything but more copies of his impossible-to-find books on Amazon. 

            Reality is, Art Show USA provided book cover color consultation on all four of Do It All Dad’s books.  Art Show USA adored his Do It All Dad books so much, he took a screensaver picture for his remote learning school-issued computer, holding all four of his dear dada’s books closely to his heart, exuding a beamish prideful spark which shined inside and out.

            Seven years on this earth after Art Show USA was born, Do It All Dad needed to fight harder than ever to keep his elusive dreams of comedic literary superstardom alive. Do It All Dad’s son loved his Dad’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast, too, and he didn’t want his dear dad to perform more sheets of comedy gold on it without having to worry about Mom threatening to kick him out the house again because of his lack of money-generating power (for the past five years and counting).

            So, Do It All Dad got an idea while making lunch for his son one day—The Sun Butter Challenge. What if Do It All Dad went into business with his gorgeous son, who could smile on cue without breaking into hives in the process, and Daddy became his agent, booking him as the new face for Sun Butter Gold Foods, located in Sunflower Country, Bismarck, North Dakota? This could lead to Do It All Dad snagging enough loot to buy his family the Porsche Comedy Gold Mobile; a new lake house summer home in Lake George, NY for his son’s GJ Joe SS Flagg; and enough money to finance writing more books without ever having to bite his tongue while being offered a career consultation email from LinkedIn, considering the gaps of wrath on his resume, ever again.

            Do It All Dad’s son, Art Show USA, possessed the sunbeam smile. Few other kids could match with such a star-powered gleaming light. So, if Do It All Dad couldn’t get a job interview for a junior copywriter position at, let’s say, Sun Gold Foods in Bismarck, North Dakota, then Do It All Dad could create a job for himself as his son’s personal manager, calling himself on LinkedIn the Sun Gold Hunter. He can finally capitalize in a big way, cashing in all of his new business development, cold calling-centric, IT headhunter background in both in LA and Manhattan (where he slaved weekends away when he wasn’t trying to write new scripts or jokes, researching new IT Directors or Chief Marketing Officers to cold call the following week, again and again).

            Do It All Dad was old school and had no problem coldcalling men and woman in places of authority who controlled staffing budgets, in a NY minute. Plus, Do It All Dad took perverse pleasure working around HR, who tended to ruin the love connection potential between a hurting hiring manager and a staffing solution specialist Headhunter to the rescue, like Do IT All Dad always fashioned himself to be. 

            Do It All Dad also learned, from his headhunting days, how passion is always picked up over the phone. So, Do It All Dad would have no problem conveying to the head of Sun Butter Gold Products in Bismarck, North Dakota, what a gross disservice to mankind they’d be doing by refraining from making his American-made beautiful boy, Art Show USA, the permanent franchise face of Sun Gold Food Products moving forward, which would double their annual sales from 4 million to 8 million in the first week alone, guaranteed.

            Now Do It All Dad is pitching his son as the new face for Sun Butter with the Chief Marketing Officer through Zoom. Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, looks confused.

            Do It All Dad says, “You look confused, Cheryl. I want my son to star in The Sun Butter Challenge Campaign across America, similar to what they did with the Pepsi Challenge, back in the day, when kids had stronger immunities to bullying (Kurt Cobain excluded. Kurt Cobain longed to retreat into his pre-fame bubble without having to rummage through his grandma’s closet for another ugly lime sweater to wear at the MTV Music Awards—I get it).”

            Cheryl, the CMO for Sun Butter Gold Products, says, “So, where’s Art Show USA? How do you expect me to hire you two as a package deal to do the creative performing in these Sun Butter Challenge campaigns, without me seeing, the sun butter smile to light up a thousand suns? The same smile which will double our sales in a year, according to your fuzzy math estimates. I know you still have to count with your fingers for simple arithmetic (which I read in one of your blog posts, in case you think we just ignored the totality of your digital fingerprint on the Internet all together because your son is the star smile attraction we’re really after, if you really need to know.”

            Do It All Dad says, “Art Show, come into Dada’s office for a minute.”

            Art Show says, “You mean, your bedroom, Dada?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Thanks for reminding me, and for destroying what little sales leverage I have left, without you flashing your smile through Zoom for the Sun King Maker to see.”

            Art Show hops onto his dear dada’s lap, and smiles. Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, says, “Wow, your Dada isn’t another full-of-shit New Yorker, after all. Are you ready to be a star, kiddo?”

            Art Show USA says, “Just give my Dada ten percent of everything I make, for a finder’s fee, and give him final cut approval on all commercials and print campaigns starring my Sun Butter Smile, and you got yourself a deal. Can I go back to building my Harry Potter Astronomy Tower, now?”   Dear Dada starts singing with an extra rollicking, jubilant heart, “Sun Butter King’s stock is rising, rising.” Next, Do It All Dad adds, “King Arthur—my kid eclipses his star power, which is limited to Disney fable books that nobody reads anymore—oh, I can’t take no more.”

            Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, says, “Would you mind if we put sunflowers in your son’s hair? The LBGT community will lick it up, lick it up, oh, oh, oh! Do you think you’re the only Kiss fan who resents how Nirvana’s ‘Nevermind’ was the death blow shot heard around the world’ that killed off carefree hair metal pop rock forever?”

Michael Kornbluth

Holy Bonding Time

by doitalldadyear, posted in beauty, comedy, cooking

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth