Tag: friendship

Blown Load Blues

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Valentines Day growing up was weird. My dad never celebrated it, because he already blew his love load on my mother the day before on her birthday.

Chances are that my mom made a stink one year and never dared to rock the boat again.

Mom says, “So what are we doing for Valentine’s Day tonight dear?”

Dad says, “We just went out for your birthday. Plus, we normally only go out once a week. So, don’t be a greedy bitch about it. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be eating Squirl kabobs in Kentucky for dinner, versus Veal stuffed with prosciutto, off the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. Look at it this way dear, if we went out to eat tonight, I’d just cut you off from ordering a 3rd glass of Chardonnay like I do on your birthday. So, what difference does it make?”

Hillary Hammer Time Cankles sours the mood again.

Blown load love lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Year Without Beer Film Premise

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, psychology, writing

I never liked my old drinking buddies enough to seek out their company sober.

I’ve never gotten bombed with new buds in my life come to think of it.

Plus, the one relationship I rekindled that I care most about maintaining is a college bud whose been sober for 15 years.

I still like my gummies, but the idea of meeting up with old drinking buds for drinks offers less appeal than saying grace whenever my mother-in-law launches into a grace at our own Jewish observing house that sports a Big Mouth Moses Nutcracker to freak out fiercely protective gentiles at large in November before expecting a complete monopoly of Christmas decorations for December in full and the following 3 lazy stash away months that follow.

Year Without Beer, is shaping up nicely, my belly too, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Busted Beauty

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

Busted Beauty, otherwise known as Becca Kornbluth, was in no singing mood on Saint Patrick’s Day today, especially during the chanting portion of her Bat Mitzvah without a Torah Scroll to hide her nose behind, which she inherited from her mom’s black Irish side. Still, Becca wasn’t too green with envy on her 13th birthday compared to Ivanka Trump’s daughter, who most likely chanted her Haftorah portion in Mandarin. In fact, Becca was feeling a tad luckier than most since she struck up a platonic relationship with her best and only real friend, Joshua Prize, who turned her on to Phil Lynott’s soul man and a half’s stylings as the lead bassist and head front man singer songwriter behind Thin Lizzy, who actually looked black Irish from head to toe in real life, sporting the super-size, fly guy 70’s afro to match.  Getting Becca into the Thin Lizzy wasn’t the easiest sell despite Phil Lynott being considered Dublin’s answer to the biracial Bruce Springsteen of his day because she associated everything Irish with her busted looking nose with a bump on top, that no amount of Irish Spring when applied to it, could smooth her ruptured soul, after the time she was forced to feel excluded because of it during a game of spin the Guiness bottle on Saint Patrick’s Day on her birthday no less, which is the double whammy of in your face shame.

It was one year ago when Becca was forced to hide in the closet at Joshua’s birthday party, who was born on Saint Patrick’s Day top, so maybe there was some truth behind there being a thing called luck of the black Irish after all. Normally, Becca didn’t attend many birthday parties, instead spending her free time at home listening to Neil Diamond’s record Hot August Nights while reading Cracked Magazines as her black Irish mom who possessed a piss poor tolerance for even low alcohol lagers like Killian’s Red yelled at her dad, Michael Kornbluth for not “touching” her anymore, which made her feel like the busted, broken beauty inside. But tonight, was different because Joshua Prize was a transfer student from Park Slope, Brooklyn, and not having any friends in this new suburban hamlet otherwise known as Croton Falls, 45 minutes north of New York City, home of the ultimate Saint Patrick Day’s parade, he struck up a friendly conversation with Becca after the teacher announced the classroom birthdays, despite both of them refusing to wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day. Joshua Prize’s excuse was that he didn’t think green was the most flattering color on him. Plus, his Jewish father, who married an Irish lassie also, was beat up by Irish kids non-stop growing up in Brooklyn, who called him a Christ killer ad nauseum, insisting his ancestors 9 degrees separated from Don Rickles ancestry were responsible for heckling the indecisive Romans into crucifying Jesus to death.  So, sporting green on Saint Patrick’s Day didn’t make Joshua Prize feel so money mighty on beat up on the Jew day for being associated with alien blood colonizing blood suckers who controlled the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. So, when Joshua Prize was given the opportunity to make an impression when introducing himself to the class, he did. Joshua says, “You’re probably wondering, why am I not wearing green today? A classmate yells, “Because you’re a dirty gay Jew bastard.” Joshua says “I was going to say, Celtics shirts darken my inner light and look too regular drab for my taste, but close enough. Anyway, I’m having a Saint Patrick’s Day Birthday at my parent’s house tonight, which also happens to be my birthday. We dyed the pool green, hired House of Pain to DJ and imported a brick oven pizza hand tiled in Italy that will be serving all the pesto pizza pies you can eat. The party starts at 7, hope to see you all there, especially Becca. She’s an extra loosey-goosey live wire one, I can tell.” The entire class laughs with surging derision despite Joshua letting off a winkish smile at Becca from afar while looking directly through her soul which screamed, new love is in town. 

2 seconds into the party, the class bully Liam O’Reilly, insists they play game of Spin the Bottle, but only if Joshua and Becca hide in the closet, because they refused to wear a shirt that says, “Kiss me I’m Irish.” Becca and Joshua oblige. Becca hunches over in a rather spacious closet while fighting off hanging minks and leather jackets to get a clearer view of Joshua, whose father Steven Kornbluth, was a big time TV development executive in Manhattan for FX who greenlit It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Rescue Me. Finally, Becca fights through the endless jackets and her eyes meet Joshua’s piercing hazel lit eyes. She goes in for a kiss but Joshua backs away from it. Becca says, “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” Joshua says, “I’m just nervous about kissing you Becca because I’ve never kissed a girl before.” Becca says, “That makes 2 of us for now.” Joshua can sense he’ll wreck Becca’s surge of self-esteem for the foreseeable future if he doesn’t try to get into kissing her immediately. Joshua leans in to kiss Beca with his eyes closed and they clank their teeth together, almost shattering them into the smithereens. Becca says, “So I wasn’t born to be your main squeeze, Joshua. We can still be friends, right?” Joshua says, “I snuck in a bottle of Guiness, why don’t we split it together and play truth or dare.” Becca says, “Fine, but you to have to pick truth 1st.” Joshua says, “Truth, Becca is pretty with no makeup on. And I get along with girls better than boys, my mother excluded.”

Now, Becca stands tall over the bema, which is the elevated stage in Synagogue where she performs her speech to commemorate the completion of her Bat Mitzvah and says, “One time a dear friend told me, “Rejection toughens you up for more rejection”, yet I stopped feeling excluded from a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day since Joshua Prize came into my life. All of a sudden, my birthday felt pregnant with feel good possibility again. Now, I no longer wanted to bury my nose in AP chemistry books till science camp to hide my mark of shame. I’ve wanted a nose job for the longest time. Originally, it was the only reason I decided to study for my Bat Mitzvah, after my father bribed me with future Bat Mitzvah money to pay for it.  But I don’t mind my nose anymore since my friend Joshua gave it a positive spin after we were forced to sit out a game of Spin The Bottle in the closet at his parent’s house on his birthday no less. Joshua said, “Don’t blame your mom for your busted nose, Busted Beauty. Blame your gay closeted dad for getting too drunk to pull out again. But seriously, who cares if you inherited your mom’s busted nose or not? Your dad’s the one you should be pissed off at, especially knowing how’s he pushing you to use your own Bat Mitzvah money to pay for corrective nose surgery that was his glaring production oversight in the 1st place. At the same time, you can’t be too mad at pops, because he gave me you. Granted, our kissing chemistry is non-existent. But new love was in town the day we met in chemistry class, and we could always produce a test tube baby together if you’d like. Like the late great Phil Lynott said, “If you’ve got nothing but a sense of humor, you will survive.” And we’ve got each other’s back, no matter what. Who cares if you’re into kissing girls more, more than I am. Pervs stick together. Hey, we just outed ourselves while still stuck in the closet. Regardless, you’ll always be my favorite busted beauty Becca.” I said, “Joshua, stop being such a drama queen already. Your gayer than Allen Ginsburg during Fleet Week. Oscar Wilde wants his quilted pen used to ball tickle the ghost of Lord Byron back. Moments later, we emerge from the closet while the game of Spin The Bottle during party continues. Then, I go into kiss Joshua on the lips, but he arches his back away from me this time, before cracking his head onto the sharp corner of the wall, which required 13 stiches soon after. So, what’s the takeaway of this story ladies and gentlemen? He’s only a fag hag if you end up marrying the fruitcake. And sometimes, a gay boyfriend is a girl’s best friend.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Zamboni Artist

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, faith, family

“No friendship is an accident.”

O. Henry

If a husband googles an ex-girlfriend 3 kids later, does it mean he’s officially divorced from great expectations at home? At the same time, what man isn’t guilty of reflecting fondly on spoiled summers past? Especially, when you’ve had to suck up another frigid east coast winter in the face of permanent career stagnation suckitude again. The same winter and so-called comedy career that felt colder than Harvey Weinstein’s old casting couch at the 4 Seasons when you’re not laughing all the way to the bank yet. But at least, Harvey Weinstein’s wife of the past 12 years finally left him, to focus on her lifetime battle with amnesia. Now, Solomon Kornbluth, a proud stay at home podcast comedian was on thin ice with his wife of 12 years for failing to make any money off his sheets of comedy gold, despite him urging his accountant to write off such an awe inspiring, sparkly array of A plus gemry dissemination on his Do It All Dad Time Blog and Do It All Dad Time Podcast as a generous charitable donation. What 45-year-old non-industry represented, so called Comedian Solomon Kornbluth wanted was a win, but not just any win, like getting another comedy record Mega Dumb Daddy reposted on Soundcloud again by some random, faceless music promo service, but an actual trophy, symbolizing how in this instance Solomon Kornbluth was best of the rest.

Solomon Kornbluth had won some awards in the past, but they weren’t a result of superior mental toughness, sustained physical dominance or a result of outperforming his competition for number 1 champion bragging rights either. Winning Most Improved Basketball player at Sleep Away Camp was an incredibly moving moment for Solomon Kornbluth because despite not knowing the full extent of it yet, he was an overly sensitive, lonely, shy, nerve plagued fag, who blew off Canteen mixers with the fellow female camp members to shoot hoop and read his Cracked comics in bed alone instead after cranking one out to freckle face specked Alicia Rody, a counselor for the female camp who wore University Maryland boxer shorts, creeping up her supple, spry ass as Dice would say back in the day. And her mountainous cleavage formation was a thing of immovable, feast worthy beauty as those gorgeous melons dangled like luscious lobes of mouth drooling inducing perfection. Ok, so maybe Solomon Kornbluth wasn’t 100 percent gay yet, especially knowing how a fellow bunkmate tried to shame him once for owning a jar of Vaseline while having no idea what that meant. Bunkmate Jordan from New Jersey says in a crackling, just a day over puberty voice, “What do you need that Vaseline for Solomon?” And Solomon says, “I don’t know, for an itchy ass. My mom packed it for me.” Bunkmate Jordan laughs in a slightly demented, pseudo bellowing manner and says, “You can’t blame your mom for being a fudge packer dude.”

Later, on his Do It All Dad Year podcast, Solomon Kornbluth would do a routine about Sex-Ed in Sleepaway Camp throughout the late eighties before Magic made HIV disappear. He says, “Do 3rd graders today really need to know about scented lubes after using good old-fashioned Vaseline became passe already? When I was 13-year-olds at Sleepaway Camp, but still not into the puberty party yet, one of my bunkmates gay shamed me for my mom packing me Vaseline yet I still didn’t get gay lube joke connotations used at my expense till watching shemale porn decades later on 3rd Legged Beauties.com, if you really to know. It’s hard to develop any surge of self-esteem at Sleepaway camp, when you’re the 2nd worst athlete there after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck in yenta breath Seinfeld country. Seinfeld otherwise known as the “Joke Doctor”, just auctioned off one of his vintage Porsche’s for Charity. I hope half of those proceeds went to Larry’s kids. I also don’t want Seinfeld smirking for at least 5 years till he gives us a semi-credible excuse on being completely oblivious to Bill Cosby’s 4-decade reign of rape throughout fantastic LA, up high in those Hollywood drugging hills. Where were your powers of observation, then, Jerry? Also, why isn’t Barry Bonds or Roger Clemens in the Hall of Fame already? They were already Hall of Fame bound when I used to collect their cards at camp. Plus, if I took HGH, Testosterone shots or any form of performing enhancing drugs at Sleep Away Camp, I just would’ve struck out at a more accelerated speed.”

Solomon Kornbluth never got into collecting hockey cards until his friend Jared got him into the NY Rangers in 93, encouraging him to buy all the hockey cards he could so he could snag an Eric Lindros rookie card of his own, bound to be worth big money one day, who was being hyped as the new great one post Gretzky, who had a bigger mark on his back than Trump did after he triggered the Swamp with fits of despair for relegating good old Jeb Bush to another low energy, halfwit hack for hire like the rest. Solomon Kornbluth targeted Laura Bush in his debut comedy album Resist This when he said, “Fuck Laura Bush for thinking the world gives a shit about her memoir, Texas Librarians Know Best.” At least, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles was willing to get rich or die trying bitch. And this is an impression of Stevie Nicks backstage at MSG, “Hillary, tell me lies, only sweet little lies. Versus humongous bitter ones, like how you lost to Trump because of Russian collusion, involving fantasy tales of Drago Holograms emerging in your voting booth only to threaten you with impossible to ignore ultimatums like, “Vote Trump or I’ll break you.” I thought you lost to Trump because you’re an unhuggable cunt, my bad. You must have deleted that memo to Hillary. And why would Trump hire 2 Russian hookers to pee on him at a hotel in Moscow, when he can hire a bunch of Ivanka look-alikes to do the same thing at his hotel in D.C whenever pussy grabber likes?”

One time Solomon and Jared got caught shoplifting Hockey Cards at Child World, yet the security guard let them off with an ominous warning, when he said, “I’m going let you 2 go, but understand the only reason I caught you 2 was because you came back to steal again and got greedy.” This damning, ominous indictment of greedy self-serving behavior always stayed with Solomon Kornbluth who obviously didn’t pay homage to the commandment Thou Shall Not Steal one iota for some time after. Even his younger brother shamed him into stop stealing Turkey Jerky at Gelson’s as the ultimate Shishy bitch life enhancer back in the day. Little bro says,” “Never steal, it’s wrong bro.” And this is years after his younger brother, AKA. Sir Snort A Lot, was caught on a security camera stealing thousands from his parents ATM to buy more blow at 13 years old in Washington Heights from Julio Silver Blade The 3, which resulted in his parents shipping him off to boarding school with a bunch Jew picking on Hocky jocks in Avon, CT, which wasn’t really thought through on their part. So, Solomon Kornbluth knew what a steep price his parents had to pay for his younger brother’s crimes of incessant, serially serving selfishness like a pseudo slacker underachiever Hunter in the making, who never had the privilege of being able to collect 52 grand a month from a Ukrainian sports drink company for pushing Borscht as the new Kombucha.

One day Solomon Kornbluth got burnt out on making the world laugh for free on his Do It All Dad Time Podcast again and went to the local hockey rink for a cheap Happy Hour special and was greeted by an Italian bartender, Vinnie Zamboni the 2nd, who’s known to stir memories of ex-girlfriend’s past. Vinnie notices how Solomon Kornbluth is a tad low energy, hunched over his phone without much fiery glint in his eyes. Vinnie says, “Is that IPA stale champ?” Do you want something a tad lighter that’s more poundable like any yenta breath from Long Island on Spring Break.” Solomon Kornbluth laughs and asks, “What’s your story? Bartenders never make me laugh, unless they’re sporting a winter wool hat in summer.” Vinnie says “I’m Vinnie Zamboni the 2nd, my great, great, grandfather invented the Zamboni machine. I do the light shows for the hockey rink. My Zamboni driving days are behind me, cool job though when your 16. I plowed my fair of share of ice queen boxes on top of that puss plower machine. Solomon says, “What type of light shows do you produce? The one at Hayden Planetarium is boring, I felt asleep 2 minutes into it. Daughter woke me with a sharp elbow in my ribs and I yell, “What, God only made Neil Grase Dyson interesting for 2-minute spurts at a time.” Vinnie Zamboni The 2nd laughs and says, “You’re a pretty funny guy yourself. So, what’s bringing you down champ?” Solomon Kornbluth says, “Just longing for some fun in the sun again, 2 unplanned kids later. That’s what I get for being a degenerate pothead who keeps on forgetting to ask his girl if she’s on the pill. What’s bringing me down is realizing how I’m getting bored of my kid’s company and need to get back on stage again. Plus, my pinched nerve in my back is killing me since my wife forced me to see a Hate Speech Therapist since I stopped taking Adderall to focus less on how ahead of the curve annoying my wife can be after droppings lines such as, “I’ve sacrificed. She acts like an aspiring comedian in his early thirties wanted kids ever. I’m doing a Google search for a chiropractor, and I end up finding my ex in Hawaii who I met when I used to live in Hermosa Beach. How could I ever forget Summer King beyond those Hermosa skies? Then, I googled a comedy festival in Hawaii, but realized it’s been canceled because of this COVID damage done bullshit, so it got me down because I know I can win it. The only awards I ever won was Grooviest my Senior Year in High School and Most Improved Basketball Player at Sleep Away Camp. I was also wined and dined after leading my IT agency sales office in billing one month and got to party it up in the Sunset Room in fantastic LA once but that’s it. But I want to win that comedy festival and blast off away in my comedy gold mobile wave runner, which nobody will ever be able to take away from me. George Gershwin lives, Challah, thank you very much. If I can’t afford to get my son the SS Flag GI-Joe Aircraft Carrier for Hanukkah, at least I can let him ride my comedy gold mobile wave runner. How much would gas cost to ride that wave runner back to New York exactly? I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under Judicial Review.”

Vinnie says, “So I produce light shows flush with holograms of hocky legends both dead and new like Bobby Hull, The Mighty Messier, and reenact legendary fights like when Ty Domi fought Bob Probert in 94, when he poses with the belt around his waist, boy were those the days, pre-social media, before you had to hear lines on kids shows about some character being the Lebron James of stem cell research. What the fuck does that even mean? Is he a celeb Scientist that has his own brand of tequila spiked umbilical cord stump smoothies that he sold to Bill Gates for a cool 500 million or what? Can you believe kids today get Beyond Meat tattoos around these parts? I freelance as a Tattoo artist for my brother’s Tat Parlor in Danbury, CT called Body Art USA.”

Solomon Kornbluth says, “I’ve been telling my local Pizza owner Frank to make an artichoke slice using an alfredo cream sauce, versus just a boring white slice with flaccid, deathly off-white artichokes on it, that will inspire hipsters from Bushwick to make the schlep down to these parts just to Yelp all about it. Plus, I’m getting pissed about Bill Gate’s equestrian riding daughter already owning half the real estate in North Salem already. So, I love the idea of Frank being able to grab a meatier slice of that synthetic pea protein, beyond meat pie.” Vinnie says, “So whatever happened to your Summer Wind? Solomon says, “She smiled at me one day with her soul blasting eyes that screamed I love you, and for some strange reason, my eyes didn’t love her back. One time she died her blond, when I took her out to meet up with a friend of mine in Napa and everyone thought she was a high-end prostitute, because she dressed real classy sexy with the tight dress, creeping up her ass. I loved kissing Summer King. We’d do weed shotgun kisses together, which were the best. We made veal piccata while watching the Soprano’s together, drank Pyramid peach beers by Hermosa Beach and nobody sported prettier feet in the sand than Summer King. Vinnie says, “Summer sounds like a real trophy wife material.” Solomon says, “Yeah, she even said, “Why don’t we move to Santa Barbara so I could write books and she could day trade to make us money for the time being. Boy, did I fuck that one up. Vinnie says, “I hate to bring you down more than you already are Champ, but you’re right.”

Solomon Kornbluth says, “Summer liked Metallica, Wu Tang, the Sopranos and loved everything about me. She thought I could be a big-time writer just from reading my Friends spec script for Christ’s sake. Vinnie says, “I already told you fucked up bro. I’m known as the ex-girlfriend stirrer but you’re just progressively pissing me off for being such a dumb fuck for expunging her from your life jerkoff. You don’t think I want to kick back in the sand with a hot Asian gal from Hawaii in pebble free Hermosa Beach with a gal named Summer King no less for Christ’s sake? I had to suck up summers in an ocean full of seashells and fucking nets of seaweed in Norwalk, CT for Christ’s sake. Plus, my brother owns this rink and its our family tradition to keep it family operated. You’re a little old for it, but do you want a job riding a Zamboni? We’re already running around in circles, so why not take your sad sack sob story around the ice for a couple of laps because you’re bringing me down and enraging me at the same time. I’m paraphrasing but Mark Twain said writers write interesting stories who’ve possessed a series of interesting, varied jobs, so why not a give the Zamboni driver job a shot champ? You obviously have nothing else better to do with your time on a Sunday, ultra-wise King Solomon you’re not.”

Solomon Kornbluth took the job and smoothed over the rough patches with his wife at home before being promoted to chief Zamboni manager, who worked on his MC skills as the host of a weekly Karaoke night, rocking out renditions of Baba O’Riley with real deal star powered authority. Then, one year later, Solomon Kornbluth got his trophy and won the Aloha Comedy Festival, coming in 1st place and was able to take his wife, and mother of 3 children for endless, killer spins in his new comedy gold wave runner mobile for one memory rich victory lap after the next after delivering a killer set for the ages that was made for these times.

Solomon Kornbluth Kills

“It’s hard to keep cool when your kids were forced to wear masks like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain.”

“If Michael Jackson were alive today, how would he defend himself against all his Neverland accusers exactly? Would the King of Popping cherries say, “All the Beatles royalty points in the world, can’t buy me love?”

“Anyone try Snoop Dog’s new wine? According to Wine Advocate, it tastes like mouth wash used in porn hood hell”

“Actually, gave up drinking beer last summer. It got humiliating spending so much time, hungover, recycling, endless reminders of my lush, littered past, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by.”

“Did you know 4/20 is Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.”

“I stopped smoking weed till I discovered weed edibles, which are half CBD because I felt like a total moron trying to answer my daughter’s questions on the pure sticky stuff. Daughter asks, “Daddy if God created the universe, then who created God? I say, “God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk. Daughter says, “Do more edibles Daddy. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.”

“This is Ziggy Marely being interviewed by High Time Magazine. Reporters says, “Ziggy, how did your dad have 7 kids? Doesn’t ganja drain your ball sack dry? Ziggy Marely says, “Fake news, MAN.”

“And if Obama is such a baller, why did he ride the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii?”

“What if Bob Marley became President of the United States, so Obama didn’t have to? For starters, there’s no more trouble and it’d be a punky reggae party tonight and we’d be jamming in the name of the Lord, not in honor of Allah’s Gangster ruining paradise, especially since the hopeful one rebranded ISIS, ISIL, so they’d sound more start up friendly in the NY Times.”

“And ISIS Headhunters aren’t good recruiters. All they do is target other lonely virgins on Face Book Messenger like Good Will Hoodie/AKA Zit Face Zuck, who wish their phones blew up.”

“But how did killing the number 2 in charge of ISIS make it easier for ISIS to recruit? Like the head of recruitment for ISIS would ever honor a non-compete agreement with Al-Qaeda”

“And why are radical jihadists so into deflowering virgins in Allah’s hymen hacking Paradise? Doesn’t Jihadi John have enough blood on his hands already”

Solomon Kornbluth was later blown up into smithereens on his Comedy Gold Mobile Wave Runner in the Red Sea by Hamas terrorists after headlining a comedy tour there called, “Solomon Kornbluth Kills”, because a 2-state solution is impossible if Hamas keeps fucking. Still, what’s better than a 1st place Trophy is a new award in your honor, given every year at the Standing O Laughs Festival in Haifa called the Killer Set Kornbluth Award, which honors the most hardcore hilarious comedian who exhibited the most fearless, killer shtick from start to finish. All 3 of Solomon’s killer Koshertarian Comedian kids won the Killer Set Kornbluth Award in their dear dada’s honor. So comedic royalty in the mold of King Solomon Kornbluth did live through Do It All Dad’s big three after all.

And Solomon Kornbluth had his new Zamboni Artist friend to thank for his victory laps in his custom made, stretched Comedy Gold Wave Runner Mobile with his 3 biggest fans in the universe as they squeezed on to their dear dada with all their loving might. The same home team who always stood by his side, especially when his comedy career was ice cold, when mama would threaten to kick him out of the house if he ever gave his kids the common cold through COVID. And not even Hamas, despite them trying, could ever that away from thee. Unplanned favorites rule, proving once again how no friendship is an accident. O. Henry lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Dreaming On Past COVID

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, faith

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone, allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking two packs a day of Turkish blend, extra-wide Camel cigarettes fended off my surging lung cancer, either.

            I’ll never forget how top-of-the-world scrumptious that Camel extra-wide tasted after losing my virginity to Katie King in the Cape. If there was ever a reason to take up smoking again, so I could enjoy sucking face with my summer wind love, who enjoyed her Camel extra-wide smokes even more than I did, it was for my sweet darling, always inhalable on-the-spot, pitch-perfect southern belle.

            The always-magical chills down my spine were induced from mere memories of walking, hand in the hand, throughout Main Street in the Cape with my dear Katie King.

            Especially, they came from knowing how my bitch roommates at the time hated how the Jew boy from New York who’d struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in three years flat.

            Oh yeah, that’s right—one of those girls went to McGill in Canada, which was a safety school for stoners obsessed with free healthcare and Justin Trudeau’s purple-specked socks. So, it looks like I’m the one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never-draggy or dumpy 36D tits.  

            So, my parents, younger brother, friends, and ex-girlfriends can’t visit me, but I’d sure love to kiss the never-annoying, always-pleasantly-plump-on-top Katie King, again.

            The last time I kissed her was when I surprised her while driving cross-country to California for my last semester of college, with an aching in my heart. She was more than a friend of mine. Lord, Katie was a guardian angel who, as you know, was sent down from Heaven to make me a true believer in the power of prayer and modern-day miracles, which benefited my love life immensely, for a change.

            I remember praying to you alone on the beach in Cape Cod’s Kennedy country during the summer when the Fugees broke big, finally giving me a woman to cry about in my heart after our romance came to a sudden, crashing end.

            I said, “God, I love Hair Metal ballads because they’re hopeful songs full of longing, and I always longed to have a real-life girlfriend to walk hand in hand with at Rye Playland and to win stuffed animals for, as I drained more basketball shots from way downtown with effortless, in-the-zone, choke-free ease.”

            You’ve always provided me with divine intervention and comfort, Lord, so I’m not going to fret against my dying of the light this late into the 9th inning, with me going up against Mariano Rivera with a five-run lead at the new Yankee Stadium (otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built).

            Gentrification, Lord—you know, liberal talk for less black people. I wouldn’t have written that A-plus joke gem without your divine-powered assistance, as usual.

            Has my sadness-enshrouded heart weighed heavily on my weepy, hurting inside soul in synagogue for years on Yom Kippur, knowing that it’s another year where I ask for another shot to be a productive, functioning member of the Jewish race versus another schmuck in a headset who’se been fired more than a Palestinian slingshot?

            I’m also not going to bitch about certain friends or family members not always being there to consistently support my comedic ambitions, which lead me to killing the Montreal Comedy Festival, thanks to your steady, unrelenting support in me doing me, all the way.

            Those friends came to my bringer shows in Manhattan at the New York Comedy Club when I was an average nobody putz because they believed in my potential—which you always have, Lord, back when my pursuit of getting a lady laugh-off for long time, all the time, began.

            My parents raised me in the snuggle-soft confines of Westchester County. I performed well at high-paying jobs which were no labor of love, either.  Plus, acting like an excessively obnoxious, supremely spoiled, entitled twat never felt right to my labor of laugh lust-pursing heart, either.

            You made me grow up and become a man in LA when my parents cut me off, forcing me to overcome a debilitating stutter as an IT headhunter, cold calling through the Los Angeles Journal Book of Lists like a man possessed to be a pushover putzy no more.

            I got to sing Karaoke in the valley and perform high-kicking windmills to Baba O-Reilly, proving to myself I was meant to strut my stuff and sing the gift of comedic song on stage for a living, one day.

            Should I order Chinese for my last meal, to earn myself social justice righting props on Twitter, instead of insisting how those bio-chemical warfare-starting commie bastards have resisted investigations into the origins behind the Wuhan lab originator of the virus, more than Aquafresh?           The only time I ever feared dying was from weed-induced panic attacks, thinking that I’d stop breathing because I was being a degenerate Jew who again was bound to lose his gift of gab sooner or later.

            Dying semi-alone, through Zoom, doesn’t appeal to me much, Lord. I say semi-alone because you’ll always be the bursting source of light in my laugh-loving heart, come rain or shine.       Also, I prefer to say goodbyes to my parents, friends, ex-girlfriends, and younger brother through emotive, giving letters like this, which touch the soul far deeper than any belabored, drawn-out Zoom call could while our new Chinese slave masters monitor our every last show of vigorous, in-your-face emotion.

            Dying prematurely at forty-four bites works only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young, and blares with rollicking empathetic flourish like no other, on Rocking In The Free World. I’m positive that song gets plenty of play in stage performer heaven—which I wouldn’t mind having entry into, knowing that Lou Reed could use some added some levity, up there, from time to time.

            This can happen next time he showcases the insufferable gall to insist on charging Billy Idol for the privilege of recording with him while waiting for his man, Marlon Brando, again off-Broadway, upstairs for A Streetcar Named Desire, now that’s he’s love with the act of on-stage creation, again.

            I’m not worried about being a pseudo-homo that prevents me from being embraced by your loving light in the afterlife. Desmond Child isn’t dead yet, but there’s no way a loving God would damn the writer behind Livin’ On A Prayer to endless agonizing hell. That would be on par with forcing him to act like he enjoys hearing the Fleet Foxes live in front a log cabin on his one ordained night out for his birthday in homo performer hell, year after year.

            Thanks for the thrill of killing, and for the heart-soothing memories involving my dear Katie King, oh sweet Lord.

            Dear Katie King, the magic fairy dust beneath my wings, who took me to the other side of the earth, where us oh-so-fortunate, cosmic comedic perfectionists roam.

            All the bombing in life was worth the thrill of killing at the Montreal festival, especially with my dear Katie King in attendance in the front row to make love to my soul with her oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring memories of our last departed goodbye kiss when she said, in the Cape, “I never knew someone could make me so happy, before.”

            I do. It’s you, Lord. All the great good in my life stems from your miraculous handy work on my behalf. I must make you laugh more than yenta-breath Seinfeld ever did, to be blessed with such infinite beauty in my life, because, like your other star creation, Billy Cox, Jimi Hendrix’s old-school paratrooper buddy sings with Number 1 soul brother authority at the Fillmore East New Year’s Eve in 1970, “With the power of soul, anything is possible.”

            Being blessed with the funny Jew bone, which you gave the obsessive drive to develop to the best of my God-given, ability helps, too.

            I’ll love you forever Lord, for my summer wind, Katie King, and for making such an out-of-this world beauty beautify my life with such a majestic, soul-tantalizing sweep that summer wind dreams are made of.  

All My Love,

Michael Joshua Kornbluth

Trading Birthdays

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

Nobody wants to be born on January 3rd. At that point, everybody is either partied out or enacting New Year’s resolutions, already. Honestly, by day three of partying in a row, whether you’re just drinking, or doing drugs, combining the two, or you’re just dancing the days away at a five-week rave in Germany; based on pure adrenaline and highly charged sexual 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, whom he blessed with out-of-this-world good looks, hilarious acting chops, and a beautiful builder’s artistic mind, ripe with unlimited imaginative topping possibility.

            I’m also positive that Art Show USA would make a great-looking brother, like Rick Fox, if he used the blackface filter through Instagram to do so.  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 too 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 won’t feel like a loser benchwarmer scrub in junior high school 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 partners-in-love, whether it’s 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, and parents who don’t reserve much bonding time with you ever (unless they feel stranded with 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 3rd 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 to see the Knicks, because he was still de-bloating 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, whiteout 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 3rd, 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 that 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 2nd, 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 3rd. Eli Manning was born on January 3rd and he’s a much bigger pimp than Tom Brady. He’s NFL royalty before we awoke in a 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. He 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 four 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? I never really thought about this 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 of 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? We’ll have to fight for room to dance because of the ban on smartphone devices, to make old-school hiphop 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

COVID Babies

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, entertainment, family

The only good thing about the never ending shit show post COVID is learning how to trim my own beard. Then again, I don’t see any relocated barbers from the Taliban sweating social distancing guidelines while using their heirloom machete to trim a little brain off the top.

Truckers in Australia are planning a strike to end this COVID driven tyranny that’s turned the land down under into a nanny police state mate. God, please inspire Stallone to reprise his role as a truck driver arm wrestler in Over The Top for a commercial on YouTube with his arch nemesis Bill Hurley where they join hands in solidarity in front of an American flag calling for American truckers to do the same. Assuming, they can guarantee Ashton Kutcher servicing them at trucker stops with the trucker hat turned backwards to make room for more big gulps of working class hero privilege. John Lennon lives, holla, thank you very much.

Biden pushing the COVID vaccine again on all of us poorly informed, unvaccinated people. Mr. Groper says, “Pfizer’s COVID vaccine just received FDA approval. You take their boner bills right? So, stop being so headstrong about the repeat prick every 6 months and suck it up buttercup. It’s big brother’s world now, you feckless cunts. You’ll need to double up on your Lipitor and blood thinner treatments after I give MAGA country cardiac arrest with more Taliban gift bags from Airforce One to hijack your next local school board meeting near you. You thought your kids wearing masks was a a suffocating inconvenience? Try Sharia sanctioned law by machetes and Russian confiscated AK-47’s motherfuckers.”

A reporter asking Biden how many Americans are left in Afghanistan.  How many cigarettes are in a pack of Camel smokes Joe, after Hunter’s gone through one eight ball too many? How many more aces do you have up your sleeve Cool Hand Luke? Fine, straight to the harder hitting questions then, how many Americans will meet their maker in Afghanistan Joe? Come on man, if Hunter was president, I’d expect him to blow off questions regarding dereliction of duty to snag more blow to get up for some more blow painting but not you Joe. If you’re such a good guy Joe, then why didn’t you tell Hunter to cut out creaming into his dead brother’s widow seconds after the cremation ensued? Fuck this job, I’m getting in shape to become a Peloton instructor, they don’t teach live classes anymore, so I won’t have to get the vaccine shot right? Did you know some Peloton instructors make up to 300 grand? No wonder why they’re so fucking happy riding bikes to such shitty Fleetwood music. You can’t be arrested for hate speech if you’re a Peloton instructor in London for leading a Cat Stevens artist series on Yom Kippur either. Imagine a Peloton instructor dropping dead from the COVID vaccine shot on a live feed. Would you keep riding through the pain of not pushing yourself to burn through those remaining 200 calories left to burn for the remainder of your leftover 10 minutes in motion? So, you could enjoy your beer after your Peloton ride guilt free, soon after? Yeah, me to.”

A groomsman at my wedding almost 11 years ago is about to have his 1st kid. I want to be more excited for him considering the circumstances, but at least he lives in Florida. So, he’ll never have to see his kid come off the bus with a mask on looking like Michael Jackson’s adopted kids on holiday in Bahrain. Plus, my groomsman bud voted for Trump to. So, I can see him pushing his future daughter into getting artificial insemination one day. Because he won’t like the idea of any penis ever entering his daughter. Then again, look how Hillary turned out. Still, how will COVID babies be taught about Kamala Harris in US history class down in Florida in 4 years exactly when she becomes President in 4 weeks? Teacher says, “They call her Pearl Necklace Harris for a reason folks. She’s actually part Indian, and part Jamaican. Her ancestors owned slaves in Bob Marley country. Plus, she was born in Canada. So she’s an all over the place, unhuggable cunt really. Who never had any business sitting her fat stanky ass in the White House Oval Office, until we the people took the power back and DeSantis killed off the rhinos by starting a brand new Burning Mask Party, which gives Trump a heart attack for not patenting that killer political party name to slap on schmatta looking hats sooner. Then, the Trucker’s union in America went on strike over forced mandate shots, brought our economy down to it’s knees, after a nationwide voting audit proved Dominion machines are more evil embedded than White House assertions of any stranded Americans wanting to stay in Afghanistan as hostages because they really want to nail their audition for Saw 5000. Then, the new age Nuremberg trials happened, which sent Fuck Face Fauci to Gitmo for funding and lying about being the least deserving of his mass murder participation trophy. After that, our truckers stormed into the White House with the other white hats and MAGA Patriots, including active and retired military at large and got that fake news black lives matter bitch trucking on a one way ticket to hell, that being a one way Greyhound bus ticket to Folsom Prison to work on a chain gang for a new doc by Oliver Stone called,  Kamala Is The New Black. The end, thank God. Oh yeah, Ivanka broke up with Jared and got herpes.”

I reached out to a high school bud about visiting one of our friends who just had his 1st kid at 45. He texts back, “I don’t think Dave will want us around a newborn with all that’s going on.” I said, “But the Taliban is coming, we’re still forced to wear masks in hospitals anyway and Sharia Law won. So, what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives, Challah, thank you very much.

What’s an appropriate gift for a COVID baby in Australia today? Pepper spray resistant swim goggles. Strollers equipped with Alexa powered COVID curfew reminders? Unless mommy wants to quarantine herself in penal colony detainments for COVID spurning cunts while her kid gets snatched up by child services for reckless endangerment because the COVID God’s of law and order are batshit Pelosi crazy.

Michael Kornbluth

The Flirting Conductor

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, relationships, sex

By forsaking flirting, we’re cheating ourselves of a richer life to tap into for more joy spewing tomorrows. At least, that’s what I’m teaching my son today as we near close to ending his homeschooling apprenticeship, on the importance of flirting power. But why does flirting power matter? Because sometimes, loving the one you’re with isn’t enough. Screw Stephen Stills. Loving the one you’re with is a whole lot easier in 1970 when your able to forsake condoms for silky smooth lining instead of plastic covered seats. At the same time, my son is only 5 and hasn’t started Kindergarten yet. And I haven’t even joked about sending my kid to junior high during the post me to era with a lawyer on his person to hand out pre-poundage consent forms just yet. But I never think it’s early enough to get your kids into flirtation meditation. But what is flirtation meditation exactly? And since when is small talk at the bar considered fantasy material to get off your mind anytime?  Similar to Magic Johnson visualizing what no look passes he’d turn heads with while running the Showtime Lakers at the Forum on the fast break, flirtation meditation also helps you get into the mindset of picturing what scoring and balling means to you, that’s done with the intent of being the main floor general and driving force of your life instead of remaining a starless scrub on the bench who just goes through the motions of life like a passive, beaten down dog who only eats whatever scraps he’s lucky to get thrown his perpetually downer way.

My biggest regret growing up was letting my father bully me into disinviting my dear friend Coop from attending a Motely Crue concert during the Dr. Feelgood Tour because he deemed my new friend Ari a more deserving choice. I don’t remember the reason why pops pulled an Indian Giver move at the last minute, but it might have been because Coop was the fat kid and Ari wasn’t, I don’t know. All I do know, is that I sucked that much more than my dad for not sticking up for my friend by allowing my dad to bully me into bringing my friend Ari to the concert instead.  Another huge regret was letting my father bully me into selling all my basketball rookie cards to use as drinking money in Cancun during Spring Break my senior year in High School, without pushing back at forsaking my age of innocence for pass out money on the Booze Cruise. Understand, collecting basketball cards was a major labor of love for me as a kid, to the point where I somehow was able to amass enough loose change from my father’s change dish to afford almost every rookie card of those who played on the original Dream Team such as Patrick Ewing, Scottie Pippen, Charles Barkley and John Stockton. But dad was paying for my trip to Cancun, so how much leverage did I really have at the time? Could I threaten to burn my Bar Mitzah photo album if I refused? Still, in retrospect, I’m the one responsible for allowing my dad to push me into selling my basketball cards without ever taking the time to question whether passing out on a Booze Cruise off the coast of Cancun was more important than my cherished basketball card collection that gave me prideful ownership of my own.  So, in life, don’t always be so willing to let other’s map out what moves you make. Nobody remembers the King who financed the Columbus expedition into uncharted waters, but history sure as shit remembers who the fuck Christopher Columbus was. Christopher Columbus was the original old g new life commander, and nobody could take that away from thee, who gave birth to the rebranded Indigenous Day, motherfuckers.

So, what does bequeathing any sense of free will over to your dad have to with flirtation power and being a shallow, spineless friend with zero sense of loyalty who’s already moved on to the next best thing have to do with Christopher Columbus discovering the land of Fats Domino, Micky Mantle and John Huges comedies again?  Easy, Christpher Columbus refused to settle for what shit sandwich his superiors insisted he be content eating without ever daring to flirt with major changes of his own making to make on his own, his way, all the way. Sinatra lives before he was born, Challah, thank you very much.

Christopher Columbus flirted with change and made change his booty call, muse and go to top bitch to plow for deeper, unforeseen treasures never dreamed imaginable prior. In short, Columbus allowed himself the freedom to dream of a more adventurous, conquest heavy, freedom favoring life before taking such courageous, corrective action to live in order to avoid a subservient, gun-shy, die a thousand deaths before you die existence. Loving the one you’re with wasn’t enough for Columbus and shouldn’t be enough for you either, unless you’re the type who actually enjoys going on long walks with your significant other 10 years into your relationship already.

Pig Pen, the unofficial leader of the Grateful Dead and honorary member of the Hell’s Angels during the late sixties, who looked like Captain Morgan and the Sons of Anarchy had a baby, knew a thing or 2 about the importance of flirtation power. Pig Pen was also a powerful harpist, soul fused keyboardist and blues rap singer extraordinaire who had a summer fling with the gypsy queen of ramshackle soul Janis Joplin no less. It was 1967 at the Winterland Ballroom in San Franisco, a converted ice rink converted into a jam rock palace paradise, where Dickey Bets from the Allman Brother’s jammed out with Duane Allman with ferocious fluidity into uncharted, previously unexplored horizons as endless odes to spacious, soul piercing blue skies on the Stratocaster prior filled the air, when Jimi and Santana weren’t making endlessly beautifying a plus atmospheric space hurling blues rock of their own.

But on this night, Pig Pen turned on his love light on the crowd when he encouraged the gun-shy Deadhead stoners to snap out of their stoner stuck funk, when he bellowed with big man, flirtation power, “Get your hands out of your pocket, shake your love maker, and find somebody to love, so you won’t go home again lonely tonight. Love the one you’re with, that being yourself for life, by not letting that pretty girl with rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes pass along by without saying more than hi. In other words, get it while you can, you burnout bitches. Janis did. Flirtation power is your hands. So don’t squander it all just to trip face on tour with the band.”

And that’s why Pig Pen badgering his fan base into acting like more cocksure conquistadors for a change is the greatest flirting conductor story ever sold.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Killing Mediocrity

by doitalldadyear, posted in cooking, poetry, writing

How do I explain Bourdain’s decision to abandon his daughter permanently under non-work-related conditions after learning Jiu-Jitsu to protect her? Choking one out to Ronda Rousey wasn’t enough to keep him hanging on. No, I tell my daughter, in the end, when Bourdain posed topless next to Iggy Pop, it was the Godfather of punk rock grunge who looked like the druggy bloaty, lost soul one. But Bourdain questioned whether he was loved by anyone. Construction workers whistled at him on his way to work. David Chang refrained from dropping f bombs in his presence for fear of interrupting his friend’s killer flow on No Reservations and beyond. Eric Ripert couldn’t be bothered to profess what an edgeless hack he felt like in his presence along the French countryside despite his exacting preparation of Dover Sole for Hedge Fund Managers in town to swap tips on when to short Merck after the FDA busts them for selling fake news morning after pills. Killing Mediocrity. Bourdain lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Talk

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, poetry, writing

On Sports:

I want to get HGH for my 46th birthday. Granted, my wife will have less love juice to slurp up on my 47th, which should be a win, win, for both parties involved.

On Sex:

Unless a girl is riding your joystick out of its primary pole position, it’s for the most part, overrated.

On Drugs:

Don’t miss them when I’m off them, including Adderall. Not focusing on the deafening sound of silence on LinkedIn from former high school and college buds after I post one comedy record link post after another helps boost my peace of mind tremendously, knowing what lame brothers in arms they’ve become.

On Friendship:

Either get excited for my comedic mojo rising or shove your measured, begrudging merriment up your ass.

On Love:

Proves whether you pass the give the shit the test or not.

On Sales:

Your drive to sell what you got without the widespread acclaim or go fuck yourself pad in Florida yet, proves whether you make it the mountain top of success of your own accord or rely on Triple AAA to haul your sorry ass over the whatever, whenever, finish line of life.

On Cold Calling:

Converting a cold connection into a warm one only arouses your innermost interest to penetrate more hidden love connections at large.

On Metal:

Speed + Attitude+ Balls+ Wailing Emotion = Soaring Stiffage Inside

On Food:

Make with love or become another take out ordering boring Jew like the rest. My last name is Kornbluth, I know more than you do.

On Family:

Learn to mother yourself better than mom.

On Fatherhood:

God gives kids to only the lonely. Plus, funnier dad, happier baby.

On Flirting:

More fun when you’re married because you exude a far higher don’t give a shit factor.

On Married Women:

My husband is the least sexy, unsolicited for admission on the planet.

On Finance:

Boring fuck wads manage other people’s wealth for a living.

On Real Estate:

Sell any bit of Manhattan for bitcoin while you can.

On Conspiracy Theories:

Alex Jones is smarter than you Mongoloid Moron.

On COVID:

What so called life left do you care about saving since our country sold its soul to the CDC, Big Pharma and China exactly?

On Establishment Media:

Unfunny, boring, fake news deep, anarchy arching, tyranny, enabling, sell out, grossly overrated hacks.

On Big Tech:

The real deal misinformation machine.

On The Supreme Court:

Morally compromised, pompous populated, gun shy pussies in robes.

On the Electoral College:

Billionaires in Beverly Hills are loading up on shotguns now, but their votes matter more after supporting the summer of love to make Trumpy Poo look bad.

On the FBI:

Domestic Terrorist deterrence has gone bye, bye or else they’d shut down big tech for being used as a messaging platform to ensure synchronized smash and grab plots go viral.

Michael Kornbluth