Trading Birthdays

Nobody wants to be born on January  3. At that point, everybody is either partied out or enacting New Year’s resolutions already. Honestly, by day 3 of partying in a row, whether you’re just drinking, or doing drugs, combining the 2, or you’re just dancing the days away at a 5-week rave Germany, based on pure adrenaline and highly charged sexualized vibes alone, you’re still dragging like Hunter Biden on any given Monday soon afterwards. If God gave you the universe, you morphed into Art Show USA, who was born on New Year’s Day, inspiring his dear Dada to call him Number 1 Capricorn. His dear Dada didn’t nickname him Number 1 Capricorn to make him an insufferable, know it all twat bore, but to praise the almighty, the most-high, Hashem, for perfecting human civilization with his beautiful boy, who he blessed with out of this world good looks, hilarious acting chops and a beautiful builder artist mind, ripe with unlimited imaginative topping possibility. I’m also positive Art Show USA would make a great looking brother like Rick Fox if he used the black face filter through Instagram to.  Every day, Art Show USA’s best friend Shawn Wayans-Stein resented his existence half the time, because he was born on January 3rd and had less birthday rocker gathering memories than the Elephant Man had bottles thrown at his head for trying to crash games of Spin The Bottle after his black-tie makeover.

One day, Art Show USA was having lunch with Shawn at school and says, “Why don’t we trade birthdays Shawn.”  I was born on New Year’s Day, as you know, which everyone treats like their own personal birthday celebration, so everyone is in a perpetual state of good cheer, until they strike out at midnight in their desperate dash to suck face with the nearest available girl to love. So, you don’t feel like a loser benchwarmer scrub in Junior High again. When you’re born on New Year’s Day, everyone is out of the house to celebrate their unique brand of specialness with their planned lifetime’s partners in love, whether it’s not done of out of begrudging spite or not. The point is even if you’re stuck home alone on New Year’s Eve, have zero friends to party with or parents who never reserved much personalized bonding time with you ever, you can still make out with your blown up balloons with pretty drawn on faces, and not feel completely deflated for making out with a poor man’s blow up doll because deep down, you know you’re not the only one making an extra effort to reward yourself with some extra good loving on New Year’s Eve or not.” You’re my best friend and I love celebrating your birthday on January 3 with just you, like the one year we went Duck Pinning and had the entire place to ourselves, or the time we had an entire Laser Tag room to ourselves, or the time we snuck into weird, weak Howard Stern’s floor seats at Madison Square Garden to see the Knicks, because he was still debloating at home from eating one too many Turkey Burger salads at Jimmy Kimmel’s house for New Years. Still, it feels cooler to be in Manhattan on your birthday, than in an abandoned duck pin bowling alley in Danbury, CT, that looks more dated than the low rent, white out paint job on the walls. Shawn says, “I appreciate the gesture Art Show. I’ve thought about what it would feel like to have myself celebrated on New Year’s Eve instead of on January 3, which gives sloppy thirds a bad name. And you’re a good friend for offering to trade birthdays for the year. Now, I know why you spent all the time watching those graphic design tutorials on YouTube to make me a fake ID, reflecting my New Year’s day birthday, just so I can hear a bouncer at some swanky club in the city, look at my ID and say, “Oh snap, happy birthday New Year’s boy. Don’t forget to pace yourself. I’d postpone New Year’s resolutions till January 2, because you’re not sleeping tonight.”

Art Show says, “I did make you a fake ID for your birthday. I know you don’t drink alcohol like me, but I wanted to give you the feeling of being a number 1 Capricorn for a change.” Shawn says, “Again, I appreciate the gesture Art Show, but I actually prefer the celebrities born on January 3. Eli Manning was born on January 3rd and he’s a bigger stud than Tom Brady. He’s NFL royalty. Plus, Eli beat Brady in the Super Bowl and prevented his perfect season from happening due to him asserting his big-time clutch gene. So, Brady is married to Gisele, big deal. She’s like 80 in model years. Robert Loggia from Scarface was born on my birthday, who plays Tony’s Jewish mobster boss for a bit who drops the hilarious line, “Never underestimate the other guy’s greed.” Art Show says, “I hear you Shawn. JD Salinger was born on New Year’s Day like me, and he became a reclusive freak who spent 4 decades in the New Hampshire wilderness, writing books for himself like a tweaked Holden Caulfield, on an endless trust fund, funded retreat, with all his time-release Adderall delivered to his doorstep by his various pharmacist groupie fanatics at large. So how much did he relish the company of others on New Year’s Eve? Which I never really thought about until now.  J. Edgar Hoover was a glamorized peeping tom, also born on my birthday, New Year’s Day. It’s not as if Mini Me born on New Year’s Day could boast about a sustainable, career with legs after Austin Powers 3. “

Shawn says, “But we can’t let your killer fake ID go to waste Art Show. I read about a Beastie Boys cover rap trio group performing at some dive bar on the Lower East side on New Year’s Eve, this year. Why don’t we go there together and get our bodies moving to some Intergalactic Planetary? Will have to fight for room to dance because of the ban on smart phone devices to make old-school hip hop city life great again.” Art Show says, “Didn’t you say the name of this gastro pub on the lower East Side was called Hip Hops? Shawn says, “You got it Art Show. With a friend like you in my corner, I’ll always have a bigger hop to my step than the rest.”

Michael Kornbluth

Trading Birthdays

Nobody wants to be born on January  3. At that point, everybody is either partied out or enacting New Year’s resolutions already. Honestly, by day 3 of partying in a row, whether you’re just drinking, or doing drugs, combining the 2, or you’re just dancing the days away at a 5-week rave Germany, based on pure adrenaline and highly charged sexualized vibes alone, you’re still dragging like Hunter Biden on any given Monday afterwards. If God gave you the universe, you morphed into Art Show USA, who was born on New Year’s Day, inspiring his dear Dada to call him Number 1 Capricorn. His dear Dada didn’t nickname him Number 1 Capricorn to make him an insufferable, know it all twat bore, but to praise the almighty, the most-high, Hashem, for perfecting human civilization with his beautiful boy, who he blessed with out of this world good looks, hilarious acting chops and a beautiful builder artist mind, ripe with unlimited imaginative topping possibility. I’m also positive Art Show USA would make a great looking brother like Rick Fox if he used the black face filter through Instagram to.  Every day, Art Show USA’s best friend Shawn Wayans-Stein resented his existence half the time, because he was born on January 3rd and had less birthday rocker gathering memories than the Elephant Man had bottles thrown at his head for trying to crash games of Spin The Bottle after his black-tie makeover one 2 many times.

One day, Art Show USA was having lunch with Shawn at school and he says, “Why don’t we trade birthdays Shawn.”  I was born on New Year’s Day, as you know, which everyone treats like their own personal birthday celebration, so everyone is in a perpetual state of good cheer, until they strike out at midnight in their desperate dash to suck face with the nearest available girl to love. So, you don’t feel like a loser benchwarmer scrub in Junior High again. When you’re born on New Year’s Day, everyone is out of the house to celebrate their unique brand of specialness with their planned lifetime’s partners in love, whether it’s not done of out of begrudging spite or not. The point is even if you’re  stuck home alone on New Year’s Eve, have zero friends to party with, parents who don’t reserve much bonding time with you ever, unless they feel stranded and a pronounced pang of empty loneliness when they retire to Arizona in their more advanced, retired, CNN consuming years amid so called Pandemic scares, where fewer people died this year than last, you can still make out with your blown up balloons with pretty drawn on faces, and not feel completely deflated for making out with a poor man’s blow up doll because deep down, you know you’re not the only one making an extra effort to reward yourself with some extra good loving on New Year’s Eve or not.” You’re my best friend and I love celebrating your birthday on January 3 with you, just you like the one year we went Duck Pinning and had the entire place to ourselves, or the time we had an entire Laser Tag room to ourselves, or the time we snuck into weird, weak Howard Stern’s floor seats to see the Knicks, because he was still debloating at home from eating one too many Turkey Burger salads at Jimmy Kimmel’s house for New Years. Still, it feels cooler to be in Manhattan on your birthday, than in an abandoned duck pin bowling alley in Danbury, CT, that looks more dated than the low rent, white out paint job on the walls. Shawn says, “I appreciate the gesture Art Show. I’ve thought about what it would feel like to have myself celebrated on New Year’s Eve instead of on January 3, which gives sloppy thirds a bad name. And you’re a good friend for offering to trade birthdays for the year. Now, I know why you spent all the time watching those graphic design tutorials on YouTube to make me a fake ID, reflecting my New Year’s day birthday, just so I can hear a bouncer at some swanky club in the city, look at my ID and say, “Oh snap, happy birthday New Year’s boy. Don’t forget to pace yourself. I’d postpone New Year’s resolutions till January 2, because you’re not sleeping tonight.”

Art Show says, “I did to make you a fake ID for your birthday. I know you don’t drink alcohol like me, but I wanted to give you the feeling of being a number 1 Capricorn for a change.” Shawn says, “Again, I appreciate the gesture Art Show, but I actually prefer the celebrities born on January 3. Eli Manning was born on January 3rd and he’s much bigger pimp than Tom Brady. He’s NFL royalty before we became a woke plagued universe gone wild. Plus, Eli beat Brady in the Super Bowl and prevented his perfect season from happening due to him asserting his big-time clutch gene. So, Brady is married to Gisele, big deal. She’s like 80 in model years. Robert Loggia from Scarface was born on my birthday, who plays Tony’s Jewish mobster boss for a bit who drops the hilarious line, “Never underestimate the other guy’s greed.” Art Show says, “I hear you Shawn. JD Salinger was born on New Year’s Day like me, and he became a reclusive freak who spent 4 decades in the New Hampshire wilderness, writing books for himself like a tweaked Holden Caulfield, on an endless trust fund funded retreat, with all his time-release Adderall delivered to his doorstep by his various pharmacist groupie fanatics at large. So how much did he relish the company of others on New Year’s Eve? Which I never really thought about until now.  J. Edgar Hoover was a glamorized peeping tom, also born on my birthday, New Year’s Day. It’s not as if Mini Me born on New Year’s Day who died prematurely in his forties could boast a sustainable, long lasting career with legs after Austin Powers 3. “

Shawn says, “But we can’t let your killer fake ID go to waste Art Show. I read about a Beastie Boys cover rap trio group performing at some dive bar on the Lower East side on New Year’s Eve, this year. Why don’t we go there together and get our bodies moving to some Intergalactic Planetary? Will have to fight for room to dance because of the ban on smart phone devices to make old-school hip hop city life great again.” Art Show says, “Didn’t you say the name of this gastro pub on the lower East Side was called Hip Hops? Shawn says, “You got it Art Show. With a friend like you in my corner, I’ll always have a bigger hop to my step than the rest.”

Michael Kornbluth

Best Friend Israel Never Had

When you broker a peace treaty between Israel and the United Arab of Emirates, dismantle the nuke timeout deal with Iran and move our embassy to Jerusalem, it makes President Trump more of a Hebrew Nationalist. But black Hebrews can’t be anti-Jew because they’re the real chosen people according to Nick Cannon. Plus, in Nick Cannon’s defense, he isn’t another self-hating Jew hire to manage the post woke editorial board for the New York Times.

Michael Kornbluth

 

Failing The Friendship Litmus Test

Should friendships be stronger than politics? Yes, the solid ones should. But I’m tired of hearing about how entertainers like Dolly Parton have friends on both sides of the aisle, which is fine, yet if you’re not an established entertainer star like Dolly or married to Ivanka like Jared Kushner, brokering peace treaties with United Arab of Emirates with Israel, secure in you professional standing in life, the temptation to just walk away from those so called friendships and minimize contact with your siblings and parents is way stronger after you’ve made the decision to be pushover putzy no more to appease their offended ego’s for daring to think different like the asshole at Apple, who his daughter hated, while exploiting the brainpower of smarter, more technically sound nerds, whose only true innovation he can claim has is own, was Casual Friday.

The temptation to cut your losses or spend significantly less time with old friends and family members in your life, wife included, is because in this age of me smart, Trump bad, has exposed this so called inner sanctum for being the real narcissistic prick they obsessively claim President Trump to be. Also, you suffer from major self-esteem issues, if you allow these people to control you and censor you through fear by trying shame you into adopting their alleged, holier than now, point of view, no matter how much they’ve tried to make you question your sanity and sense of right versus wrong for the past 3 years and counting. People evolve or not, and I’ve lost zero interest in making an effort to stay in contact with those who can’t respect my individuality like I’m a brainwashed lone wolf recruiters wet dream for Al-Qaeda.

These past 3 years, have also taught Trump supporters how how certain friends or family members don’t make the ideal backup group in your life, when they refuse to concede any good generation in those you believe in.  You also glaringly fail the friendship litmus test, when you actually have the gaul to decry a friend’s political beliefs as dumb, when you haven’t even uttered how ANTIFA are a bunch of vigilante Punisher wannabes in hoodies tweaked out on Crystal Meth yet.

Last, you lose all motivational zeal to pick up the phone, when your parents, siblings or old friends call, knowing how the past 3 years and counting has only reinforced your depressingly nagging suspicion about how these people who are supposed to love your own special brand individuality, never valued your intelligence or capacity for critical thought to much in the 1st place, especially when they go out their way, to make you feel bad about yourself for trusting your own instincts, dreaming big and for rising above their limited, cubicle contained imaginations of what you’re capable of achieving without their huffy, belabored, no longer sought after approval after all.

Michael Kornbluth

 

True Lincoln Log Story, Google It,

True, Lincoln Log story, Google it. My great, great, great grandfather, Austin Gollaher, saved his boyhood bud Abraham Lincoln from drowning, yet nobody ever heard of him and he couldn’t rub 2 pennies together before he died a broke down, never was.  Because when Abe was drowning to death in the river because he slipped on a log while crossing Knob Creek to rush back in time for supper or miss out on more Raccoon soup, a 7 year old Abe, had a vision of  liberating the black man from slavery but had his friend Austin promise to never tell anyone about him almost drowning to death because Abe couldn’t let the black man know he was a worst swimmer than they. What a gyp?  Poor Austin never got to cash in on the greatest Presidential save after JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby.   My great, great, great grandfather, Austin Gollaher was a man of his word and never told anyone about saving Abe’s life until after his assassination, but he had to have been tempted from time to time, especially at the local moonshine shack on a Friday night, when the circus was in town and the famous circus Elephant Old Bet got all the peanuts he can eat. Meanwhile, my great, great, great Grandfather Austin Gollaher, stares down his last sip of 200 proof White Lightning, thinking, “ Hillbilly lives don’t matter much anymore.”

Michael Kornbluth

Resisting Unsolicited Parenting Advice

I hate woman who give me unsolicited advice whenever I’m out in public with my 3 kids because they’re being passive aggressive buzz kills, who never get anyone high off their presence alone ever.  I’m in the process of putting a mask on my 3-year-old before entering a fancy cheese chop in the burbs because I’m grooming shishy bitches on the rise and I hear, “The mask is covering his eyes.” I blurt out, “Don’t act you’re a must-see star attraction all of a sudden babe. I’ve been entertaining 3 kids for 3 summers in a row with no centralized AC or virtual grandparents in sight and loving almost every second of it. So, when your blah brained, hubby, starts to outshine you in the parenting department, it means, you’re a more annoying cunt, than you give yourself credit for babe. If you had big tits, it would at least soften the blow of you trying to characterize me as a bumbling jerkoff putz who can’t tell whether he’s getting his son ready to enter a store post Corona for an overpriced grilled cheese, with gooey gruyere or a pinata smack off for my white privileged seed because their father doesn’t treat them like a shameful, resurgent herpes sore on the spot, runs off to his hack golf buds, as deep as the eighteen hole, whenever he likes, or just abandons their kid all together with his baby mama, because he’s got fresher snatch to spew into next, which trumps being in position to do cartwheels into his kid’s hearts which matters most, unless you want to be responsible for birthing another kid stuck in an endless cycle of violence or drugs to rebel against a chillingly indifferent world, that never gave me him a fighting chance to become somebody to believe in, yeah, yeah.

Michael Kornbluth