The Masturbator Equalizer

“Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.”

Salvador Dali

“Money equals middle finger power”, is what my Dad always told me growing up in our quaint yet artistically loaded Comedy Grant House 50 minutes North of Manhattan within the bucolic, historically tiny village of Croton Falls, famous for being the birthplace of my dear dada’s famous catchphrase, “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, on his Do It All Dad podcast that ultimately got him a recording label deal to produce comedy record 100 Too Tall Jew, on Blessed Records and the rest is comedy gold machine making history. Personally, I preferred the comedy record title, Birds Eye View Bitches, but Daddy thought that it was tad long winded even for Bob Dylan’s tastes. At the Montreal Comedy Festival Daddy got big laughs when he said, ‘”Sorry pops, but when you live in Arizona for a decade and counting and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora suggest otherwise.

Still, growing up Papa, my grandfather, nicknamed my daddy, Waste of Height because my father is a 6’4 Jewish New Yorker, who’s only highlight when playing Varsity basketball senior year was scoring 10 points against an all-Japanese team, which isn’t hard when the opposing players thought the pick and roll, mean their choice of fish. Now, my dad was being billed by Rolling Stone as Killer Set Kornbluth, while Variety magazine hailed him as the new giant of late night after replacing Bill Maher with a new talk show called Seriously Clowning. So, at this point in his life, my dad had every right to look down on any soul sucker dream detractor who tried to make him feel like a delusional, crazy man narcissist for pursing A plus comedic glory with a middle finger power mansion located at the highest point in Bel Air next to Jerry’s Lewi’s old school crib. So, the shelf life behind papa’s degrading nickname, Waste of Height, in relation to his 1st born blossoming son, no thanks to his encouraged direction had gone sailing, Dean Martin, lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

But daddy is what you would call a late bloomer, who didn’t start tasting big deal success till his late forties, combining that with a sexless marriage, with a man who is far from straight, on top of his mom wanting him to sling other’s people’s garbage instead of his own A plus gemry jokes for a living one day, combined with in-laws who force fed Eucharist on his Jew blood tainted kids behind his back, combined with zero creative collaborators outside of his own children during his 5 year journey into the wilderness while kicking is decade long addiction to Adderall for good, resulted in creating a tsunami of resentment fueled rage that almost burnt out what love spreader light that existed left in my dear dada’s endlessly beautifying, beyond spiritualized projecting soul, before it was too late.  Because of that, Daddy did everything in his power to ensure I established moonbeam blast shot goals early as possible compared to his mother urging her “artist son”, to settle and shoot for shit by chucking the joke writing career all together and become a full-time garbage man like Magic Johnson’s father in Lansing, Michigan. Obviously, Magic Johnson dad’s is a stellar example of being a God loving, do it all dad done good. Still, Magic’s dad also slung other’s people’s trash, so his son wouldn’t have to, similar to Papa schlepping over the George Washington Bridge for 25 years only to get nickeled and dimed by the likes of Potomka Pickles while working as VP of Sales for a plastics and glass company in Union, New Jersey, otherwise known as the Swamp Thing State, so his 1st born wouldn’t have to follow in his steps and blaze a new trail of funny man innovation to derive prideful enrichment of some kind on his own.

But what really pissed off my dad was Papa resisting the notion that I had genius potential in me because his waste of height son was too much a mongoloid moron in his eyes to birth such a star powered, out of this world seedling capable of moving millions with my own powers of imagination, poetic lift and storytelling powered song. Daddy went to Ithaca College, which he derided as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But he graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications, so he could suck down some bingers of extra strong Tompkin’s country outdoor weed and avoid stuttering every other 2 seconds. I loved the idea of going to Columbia growing up, yet Daddy viewed Manhattan as yesterday’s news and planted the idea of me attending Williams University in Massachusetts instead, because former owner of the Yankees George Steinbrenner, otherwise known as the Boss, was a famous alumnus and larger than life NY bred personalities like George Steinbrenner don’t get any big more time than that. Plus, Daddy loved the standup comedian Jim Norton who claimed Boston woman were the best to slay with. Also, at Uncle John’s wedding, AKA, Sir Snort a Lot, Daddy said, “God gave my younger brother more second shots at respectable redemption than what George Steinbrenner gave Steve Howe”, which got goonish at the time. Plus, I remember my dad driving us to the Manhattan to go skating at 30 Rock once for my birthday and he points out the new Yankee stadium off the Deegan and says, “Look Matilda, the new Yankee Stadium, the house that gentrification built.” I knew all about Reggie Jackson otherwise known as Mr. October, who hit not one but 3 first pitch baseball homers in 1979 to clinch the World Series for the Yankees at the original Yankee stadium, otherwise known as the house, that Ruth built. I also knew that Babe Ruth had the most homers during his day but had the most strike outs to, because there was nothing half ass about the Babe who went down swinging, coming through in the clutch with his back against the wall like the great Messier, Derek Jeter, Andy Petite, Eli Manning and Frank Sinatra all the way. Daddy imparted the lesson of why New Yorker’s have big time egos for a reason. When Daddy actually contemplated moving our family to Texas during year 2 of COVID, I said, “Daddy, how many great comedians are from Texas? Daddy said, “Bill Hicks and Sam Kinson.” I say, “Bill Hicks only made me laugh once. And Sam Kinson had one good comedy album from start to finish that was pure standup without the cheesy Wild Thing cover song on it, that’s it. Now, name me star comedians from New York? Daddy says “Rodney Dangerfield, Andrew Dice Clay, Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Greg Giraldo, Joan Rivers, George Carlin. Have I mentioned myself yet? Alright you’re right, Texan comedians suck compared to native New Yorkers, Joe Rogan included.”

For some time, I just wanted to be a singer and write my own songs, singing in pubs like Amy Winehouse without developing the heroin addition, yet my dad insisted I become an A Plus student and accept no other goal acceptable, so he could boast to his new comedy manager and rapper friends in South Africa, where his new record label was located, that his daughter went to Williams College, which rocks the old world King Solmon Royal purple. And my Do It All Dad thought the deep purple look exuded an edgy deep suave vibe similar to Jimmy Hendrix’s head tripping beanbag within the mixing room at Electric Lady Land studios in Manhattan. Daddy also had a black and white picture of famed writer director Bill Wilder in his old office where the famed writer, director of Ace In The Hole and Fortune’s Cookie, was marching in his office with his talking stick of sorts as his famed screenwriter partner Charles Brackett is on the writer’s  couch in letting him go long again, who is another Williams alum that helped co-write Sunset Blvd, which is good work if you can get it.  The other line Daddy would always pound into my cranium growing up was from Stephen Sondheim, which is, “God is in the details”, and the famous Broadway composer lyrist graduated from Williams to, so dumb, dumb burn outs didn’t even bother to apply. Reality is, I almost never got into Williams College nor ended up becoming the female Carl Jung of my day post COVID damage done after graduating Magna Cum Laude after triple majoring in English, Psychology and Philosophy, achieving the trifecta of liberal arts lunacy, I know. But believe it or not, my fate at William’s became sealed, not because of my college essay where I insist Carl Sagen was mothered by a starless atheist cunt who gave Booger face Behar on the View a whiff of semi-respectability in comparison for a change when she asked Don Lemon why he was nothing more than another race war inciting scumbag like Jussie Smollett minus the SAG card after she got red pilled by Russell Brand from turning her on to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast during bi-sexual pride appreciate month, I think. Actually, pursuing the harder, less shit laden path started by Daddy posting an ad on Craig’s List for a jerk buddy in search of more than a friend.  

“Why did I post an ad for a jerk buddy on Craig’s List? Because I thought it was healthy alternative to laughing at my own material on the couch after my daughter was tucked in, before breaking up with my wife off 11 years, again and again”, A 45-Year-Old divorced Comedian says to his chesty, red headed, Psychologist who was an English and Psychology major at Willaims herself. Mara Weitzman, the Psychologist from Williams says, “What if I jerk off your ego instead of some random stranger on Craig’s List, who would give Jim Norton the creeps?” Do It All Dad, now a divorced still struggling comedian, living on the couch of his Film Grip bud in Ridgefield, CT who wants to be the Bill Graham of Death Metal festivals in Upstate New York one day, says, “Does my health insurance cover that added expenditure on my behalf?  Psychologist Mara Weitzman says, “Remember, the time you talked about that 1st hand job you got from Carolyn Verdichio, in Cotswold Park, which you nicknamed Actionless Park in your bit at the Montreal Comedy about how you’re no gentle giant or else why would you insist on staying home to ignore your kid for the privilege of writing more jokes while choking your wife too hard financially, again and again? You described your 1st hand job as a throbbing extension of your brutishly rough personality, to the point where she almost skinned your pussy wrecker rearranger alive, while your jeans kicked wildly in the mud like a hardheaded hog in heat. Well, what if we reenact the moment right now? I played the steel guitar growing up in Plano Texas, so I’ve got stronger hands that most. Let me if see if I can yank out that rough side out of you for good. I’ll even put in a good word for your daughter at the Williams College during admissions season. Do It All Dad drops his pants and says, “I don’t feel like such a self-centric jerkoff anymore. Mara Weitzman, you’re the only masturbator equalizer for me. Now rip off that top and start jerking it like its 1999.  I’ll give those busty beauties a liberal load to boast about it when you pump up my long-term endowment potential to your fellow alum members after I blow you away with a blast of teen spirit of my own. Kurt Cobain lives, Challah. Mara screams in extreme anticipatory ecstasy, “Nirvana, come reign on me.” Minutes later, Psychologist Mara Weitzman buttons up her top and puts her murky stained glasses back on and says, “See you next Tuesday Do It All Dad. Williams College will be lucky to have your daughter attend next fall, if she follows after your money blasting footsteps. Thank you, very, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Castration Nation

I think the Pentagon invented the Monkeypox, so they’d scare the rest of our military into chopping their dicks off. They already forced out those who refused to get the clot shot. So, what difference does it make? Our general in charge is a glamorized HR manager with sloppier tits. His only tour of duty is playing Russian Roulette with his dick at the nearest glory hole in Biloxi, Mississippi for basic training. So, what difference does it make? We already abandoned our own military and citizens in Afghanistan along with 85 billion dollars’ worth of military equipment for Al-Qaeda with our dick between our legs. So as Hillary Hammer Time Cankles would say, “What difference does it make?”

Drag Queen reading hour under fluorescent library lights is a scary enough image burned into our troop’s craniums for those responsible for teaching gender fluid reader fluency to kids tiring of Chekov plays in the Ukraine, when nobody is liberal enough to go ass to mouth even if you ate caviar out of the Count’s anus hole first. So, what difference does it make? At least, now, rapes in the military will dip dramatically. The only thing getting rapped will be free will, but that was happening already over the clot shots. So, what difference does it make? We don’t intend on winning another war again. So, what difference does it make? The Capital Police are free to murder American vets in broad day light like Ashly Babbit. So, what difference does it make? Michelle Obama will still find a way to be pissed despite Joan Rivers being the one who got dicked over permanently by Tina Turner, 2.0, What’s Talent Got To Do With It? So, what difference does it make?

Britney Spears can’t even get her memoir published because we’re running out of paper because the Sunday New York Times hogs up the paper market, by publishing enough shit about taking cannibalism and eating cockroaches back for the privilege of saving mother earth like it’s worth saving at this point. So, what difference does it make? If they steal another election, the military will shoot to kill us like a bunch of crazed Jihadists against any patriotic citizens left. So, what difference does it make? At least now, charges of the Supreme Court being soft on pedophiles in the military, won’t hold as much water in court. So, what difference does it make? Critical Race Theory doesn’t include do shit mayors who’ve let the criminals run wild because they don’t want to be called racist pieces of shit. So, what difference does it make?

Sudden Adult Death Syndrome from the clot shot isn’t going away, neither is Aids and the common flu rebranded as an itchy esophagus through COVID. So, what difference does it make? My kids aren’t joining the military to study military strategy, which has always been bend over and take it or get court marshalled you maggot eating piece of shit. So, what difference does it make? Tibetan Monks aren’t supporting themselves on nude meditation videos on Great Minds On Fire.Com. So, what difference does it make?

Castration Nation has no balls left to prosecute and punish those who push the clot shot at nauseum. So, what difference does it make? Castration Nation oms on and is threatened with loss of liberty, their job and pursuit of happiness if they dare to protest out in public against our stolen election outside the Capital Building while ANTIFA, and BLM get to burn down our cities at will while Corporate America pushes clot shots to placate the rape enablement Democrat party in our land of Democrat Deterioration not that Republicans who rubber stamped this sham presidency are any better. So, what difference does it make?

Uncle Sam wasn’t getting much action in the 1st place and is past his prime money shot blasting years. So since, the day Democracy died, and all forms of humanity left our medical profession after Cuomo found a way to kill Italian grandma without throwing her off the train. So, what difference does it make? Bruce Springsteen will stall call all his fans racist anyway. Even the ones who got jealous of Bruce Springsteen inviting Obama be Good to dance with him on stage to Dancing in the Dark on the Broadway. So, what difference does it make? Getting in last licks good. Last licks live, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Democracy Declined

Favorite nicknames for you know who in the White House are Mr. Groper, Icky Shuffle and Sir Snort A Lot’s Father.

I share these gems with a political cartoonist because he asked his mailing list if we had any favorite nicknames to share. So, I’d indulge the hick, got the house to myself for a change. Hours later, still no reply. I know he just left to go Trout fishing but still. I email back the following hour.

These a plus nicknames deserve an emoji ball tickle in return Ben. Print a cartoon about Trumpy Poo saying dick about all the millions and millions due to drop dead from the clot shot considering the thousands that have died from it so far.  Americans don’t know about soccer players dropping dead because none of us watch soccer, but still. RFK Junior lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

At the same time, Trump’s safe in Mar A Lago was just raided by the FBI. MSNBC wanted to call it a “Panty Raid”, hoping Melania would hide her gun in her panties like Karen in Goodfella’s in a remake of Revenge The Nerds Meets Married to The Big Tech Mob called, Net Zero Bush. So as Hillary Hammer Time Cankles would say, “What difference does it make?”

Oh yeah, Hillary’s 30 thousand deleted emails detailed funeral arrangements if Chelsea’s fiancé increased his asking price at the last sec. Democracy declined, Challah. RFK Junior for President. He wrote The Real Dr. Gnocchi, after Cuomo wrote a book on Leadership called How To Kill Italian Grandma Without Throwing Her Off The Train. Remember when Cuomo was still considered a sex symbol by Ben Stiller? Despite the Italian Reptilian Inside still looking like the Thing and Mama Fratelli from the Goonies had a baby. On the other hand, the newly unelected Governor of New York is no looker either. She looks like Delta Burke’s insane sister sentenced to the electric chair for refusing to say grace at The Judd’s house over Christmas while insisting, “Over my dead body. Jesus only saves the perfect cheekbones and mounds of tits for my big sis. For the people or my alien kind, my ass.” Democracy declined, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Captain Fruitcake

My honeymoon phase with my daughter is waning. It only took 11 years, which lasts longer than most. It died with my wife after a stream of milk squirted out of her nips on our honeymoon in Australia, especially, after I nibbled on them for old time’s sake while totally blanking on how they now tasted like a regrettable non-fate latte. Our plan was to get married in Australia on Mother’s Beach, where my wife grew up around, yet my mom.crashed that concept real fast. Mom calls, “Fuck Australia Scoops. Australia is a long flight from New York. And your father doesn’t love you that much. You’re the sloppy second son for a reason, remember?” I console my wife later and say, “Babe, assuming we have a boy, instead of hiring a Rabbi for the circumcision, will hire Crocodile Dundee. Just so we can hear a roomful of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”  Most honeymoon phases fade after their sweaty sex period anyway. Where the bed achieves blast off despite perpetual poundage downward, which defies all laws of gravity all together. 

So, I’m not sweating the prospect of my honeymoon phase coming to a deflated end with my daughter at 11 years old. She has breast buds now, so I know she can’t remain my little girl forever. It’s not as if I identify with Woody Allen in my late forties now either. Who pines for the days of keeping naked pics of a 9-year-old Soon-Yi in his top sock drawer to tap for future script ideas on scripts such as Crimes and Misdemeanors the Early Years or was it The Plowing Field? Shit, the only crusty pic missing from Woody Allen’s top sock drawer was Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine. Still, 11 years old feels early for breast buds, don’t you think? Wife says, “Matilda and Shannon are the last girls in their class to get breast buds.” And I said, “Then why haven’t yours sprouted yet?”

I’m cooling on my daughter because of her overuse of the word “Nice.” Had a pothead friend Cling in college cool dude, worked as chef in Nantucket during the summer to pay for his high-end hippie lifestyle. But he could also throw down like Leo and went to Berkshire, a boarding school that got printed up in the NY times in 96 after a student sold 90 doses of acid to a student population of 300, although I’ve been told nearly every student there was tripping balls, including some of the professors. Headmaster calls in the dealer. “You really thought you’d get away with this shit? Are you smoking coo-coo puffs or what? Who’s your supplier?” Student breaks out into the giggles and can barely muster, “You, said, coo-puffs.  That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.” Headmaster adds, “I knew that hiring that English teacher from Berkley was a bad idea. O Captain, my Captain Trips was his quote in his high school yearbook for Christ’s sake. He quoted that fruitcake Robet Frost to. I bet those woods were lovely, dark and deep on 5 hits of acid, when the Maple Tree morphed into Aunt Jemima ordering you to sodomize each other with your lacrosse sticks because the ghost of Jim Brown will shit on your dreams of breaking his scoring records at the University of Syracuse regardless.”

Yeah, so Cling, the same guy who rolled perfect joints, who’d blow smoke rings that shaped into the contours of the skeletal shape seen on Deadhead shirts, would use the word “nice”, if you said something he liked. For example, “Hey Kling, saw 311 live last night. They kicked total ass. I practically touched the rafters. For once I no longer felt whiter than White Man’s Disease.  And Kling says, “Nice”, despite it being way more momentous than nice.  And I didn’t have to compete with an I-Pad in front of him for his attention. So, when I say, “Matilda, Daddy’s final comedy record, Last Licks, will be my Siamese Dream, Too Fast for Love, Appetite for Destruction and American Idiot, all wrapped up into one.” Only to hear back in return, “Nice daddy.” In other words, “Sell some comedy records later summer whether it be Last Licks or Billionaire Brain in my honor, and I’ll give a bigger shit. I’m sure I can find you an emoji for that. Just let me get back to being a budding pre-teen already, who doesn’t have to suck off the totality of your ego every two seconds. Besides, isn’t that what mommy is for? I get it, making comedy records at home is like playing with yourself. You can only spend so much time jerking off your own material without wanting others to do it for you. Is that what Brian Wilson meant when he sang, Wouldn’t It Be Nice? Anyway, let me plan my 1st sleepover with Kendel at our house with the tent in our yard Daddy. Just be glad I’m not pushing for more horse riding lessons that you can’t afford because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review.  Just make enough money for a Bat Mitzvah trip in 2 years to France, so I can practice my French while ordering you some high-end Rose from Provence, Captain fruitcake. We can toast my official entry into fully budding womanhood, and you finally making it a semi-working artist writer comedian of some kind, so you can stop freaking out about not having enough new lovers of you yet. Nice enough Captain Fruitcake? Nice lives, Challah. Thanks for the stroll down memory lane Kling, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth