Slut In A Straight Jacket

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael Kornbluth

Smackdown Satan

Archangel Michael says, “You shall not misuse the name of the Lord by calling him, “Fake News Mercy God”, Lucifer. Just because God won’t give WWF wrestler Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings, despite you having a soft spot for flaming bear wrestlers in tights.” Lucifer fires back with, “Michael means, “Who is like God.” You mean another micromanager control freak? I give humans the permission to exercise free will in the service of pleasing themselves. That makes me the good life giver, not God Michael.”

Archangel Michael says, “You don’t get to be the ears of God, Lucifer, I do.” Lucifer says, “Don’t think for a second, I want to trade winged tipped shoes with you Michael. Your name Michael means who is like God. You mean another micromanager square who won’t give Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings because he considers drug overdoses a form of subconscious suicide. Your name Michael means who is like God, but what it really means is sloppy second spokesperson after Moses. And if Moses really knew God face to face, then why didn’t he prophesize about the condemnation of goatees on metal rappers during Woodstock 94, before the entire shit show went up in flames?  But that’s what happens when Jewel is considered a seat stayer middling act before Limp Bizkit gave Carson Daily sustained stiffage until Kid Rock’s performance blew everyone away in college bliss paradise.”

Archangel Michael says, “Why am I hearing a new rumor around Heaven about you being the voice behind the Burning Bush Lucifer? You’d literally piss on Moses’s grave if you knew where to find it. And you wonder why God makes you feel like the sloppy second son, brother.”

Lucifer says, “I was the voice behind the Burning Bush. It was a prank I learned at Angel Magic Camp. I loved hearing Moses’ stutter like the kid in Billy Madison. But Moses didn’t shatter his teeth from stuttering after I spoke to him through the Burning Bush as expected. At the same time, Moses stumbling to articulate more excuses to turn down God’s job offer was hilarious.  Moses moans on, “Whiny Jews chosen to complain about not receiving immediate recognized sit-down service at restaurants in Del Ray Beach won’t take me seriously as your chosen your spokesperson Lord. It’s not as simple as Joan Rivers hocking jewelry to Midwest housewives she detested on the QVC. And why would Pharoah release our people from Slavery? What form of leverage do we have to offer our Lord besides the threat of my cousin Schlonka boring Pharoh to death through her mustard making workshop seminar at local JCC?”

Archangel Michael, says, “Remember when God said to Moses, God’s favorite prophet on Ranker, the last I time I checked, “You shall have no other God’s before me”, little brother? Well, that includes your Olympian size ego that rivals Kid Rock. Who I’m sure doesn’t pleasure himself in front of the mirror naked the way you do. Future Talmudic scholars will amplify God’s commandments in relation to you little bro when stating, “You shall not suck off the totality of your own awesomeness and refrain from stroking off what elongated love you provide the universe without 1st giving shout out props to the Lord, for endowing you with such special equipment to become such a star powered lighter upper with.”

Lucifer says, “But similar to Jeffery Bruckheimer, God isn’t the only big swinging dick in the producer business Michael. Tell that to Brian Grazer at Imagine Entertainment or to Mark Wahlberg, who’s the executive producer of Entourage for Christ’s sake.”

Archangel Michael says, “And you wonder why God never speaks directly to you anymore, only grumbling to his assistant Joshua in the background whenever you bother to text Shana Tova this Jewish new year. Lucifer says, “Communication is a 2-way street brother. And if I do hear from Dad, it’s because he’s dictating another business memo to his cherished assistant Joshua, who could transcribe all the sketched in stone commandments without complaining about a surging case of carpel tunnel syndrome in the making.”

Archangel Michael says, “We get it Lucifer, you want to feel like God’s gift to the universe 24/7, but forget angel wing promoting power, that’s far outside your pay grade brother. Granted, Bam, Bam Bigelow was a phenomenal wrester for his size, who power slammed his opponents into the mat with forceful funk authority like a more feral Junk Yard Dog, cranked up on Crystal Meth despite swallowing a cauldron of Hooter’s hot wings prior. Still, you don’t get to draft your own team of archnemesis angels.  So, stop acting as if your Dr. Jerry Buss in Winning Time on HBO who was anointed with savior type status for the city of angles, with the deep pockets to match. At least Kayne made money enough money off his artistry to justify his ego enlargement therapy sessions on wax for Def Jam and Roc-A-Fella records.”

Lucifer says, “Enough talk. I challenge you to a Ladder match in Heaven to wrestle away your favored angel status from Dad Michael. Problem is, you don’t know how to fight do you, Michael?”

Archangel Michael says, “Unlike you Lucifer, I have friends in high places, to end your smack talking reign about Big Mouth Moses for good.”

A winged, Macho Man Savage launches into his famed elbow drop from way up high in the Heavens on top of Lucifer’s head while the Lord from above bellows, “Oh yeah”. The Lord adds, “You want to be my ears now Lucifer you got it.” Next, a winged Super Fly Jimmy Snuka comes flying down off a golden ladder from the World Trade Center with a coconut in hand that smashes into 2 as it comes crashing down on Lucifer’s rapidly rupturing head.” Then, a winged Owen Hart, swoops in to unleash a dropkick that smacks Lucifer straight to Hell, to deliver justice for all, especially in honor of Moses, Abraham and David who earned their plethora of Mensch and a half shouts outs in the Torah for a reason.

Archangel Michael gives a bunch of ariel high fives to his new angel brothers in arms, Macho Man, Super Fly and Owen Hart, all highflyers till the end of time and says, “Slim Jim’s on me”, as Flying High by Ozzy Osbourne blares on the Lord’s decked out gold plated surround sound speakers as guitar God Randy Rhodes puts on a one man show for all WWF angels including the female wrestler Chyna. The Lord took her into Heaven despite her doing the sex tape Back Door to Chyna in addition to her subconscious suicide from pills and booze. Even the Lord Hashem, is a softy for female body builders. So, the Lord gave Chyna her angel wings because she already shouldered the responsibility of being the 1st WWE female wrestler star to get over in the “attitude era”, while becoming the only female wrestler to win the Intercontinental Belt Championship, let alone beat Triple H and high flying, metal howler Chris Jericho in the process. Besides, who else is going to break balls about Macho Man’s steroid size nuts in Heaven with such divine powered authority?

“Hey, Randy, can I be your new Miss Elizbeth in Heaven? Your balls filled out a missing person report ages ago, but are they still big enough to take on the Chyna challenge, which is drilling my hell hole into China for Back Door to Chyna Part 2?”

Macho Man says, “Oh yeah. Then again, power slams are more up Bam, Bam, Bigelow’s alley.”

Michael Kornbluth

Fired Up Freak

Wife says, “Do you want to see the new House of Dragon episode on HBO?”

I freak her out and say, “I can get fired up for albino black guys blowing each other if you can.”

She says, “Black guys can’t be albino.”

I said, “Who’s the racist homophobe now.”

Fired Up Freak flames on, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Perverted Science

“Does Hollywood’s fetishized push to sexualize a new generation of kids with Instagram-friendly labels such as Trans Centric or Gender Fluid Fickle feel very organic or “child appropriate” to you?” says Joe, a seventeen-year-old debate stud for Richard Pryor High, a new charter school in Peoria, Illinois.

            Unfortunately for his alpha dog debate team peers, including his best bud Paul, Joe was just getting his yak pipes warmed up, adding, “The problem with parents enabling pubescent teen mutilation makeovers in their politicized dash to let their children slash their protracted age of innocence in half, is that it never factors in irretraceable buyer’s remorse once little Joey blooms under his Fruit of the Looms and realizes that he can’t get his grind on with a gal on the dance floor if he wanted to, without feeling a missing link to old school rap in the process.

            “Plus, whatever happened to kids being asexual from age one through eleven, at least?           “Also, for all the scientific worship these days (in place of you know who), where is all the hard evidence of Chaz Bono being a beacon of mental calm since his far-later-in-life transformation into Just One Of The Guys?

            “You know—the same Chaz Bono who doesn’t eat wings at the bar, wishing he was at the MGM Grand in Vegas, instead, to hear Cher belt out ‘If I Can Turn Back Time’ to relieve his severe case of blue balls paralysis, already.”

            Paul finally cuts off his dear debating bud, goes in for the retaliatory attack, and says, “Is this a debate team trial run, or Joe’s personalized open mike to test out more groan-generating trans material for the Montreal Comedy Festival?

            “I get it. Little Boy Blue in the fourth grade at nine years old isn’t expected to declare his major in Gender Studies at Oberlin College, just yet. So why should we expect him to make a life-changing decision such as sexual realignment surgery any sooner than when he turns nineteen? Nineteen is the new fifteen, because that’s when most kids are losing their virginity these days, anyway; especially since swiping for dick picks became the death of small talk on both sides of the glory hole cubby divide.

            “I don’t think the government should be allowed to intervene on their parents’ behalf, though, if they start feeding their nine-year-old effeminate son enough testosterone blockers to turn him into Mayor Pete’s dumpier side-up half.

            “I bet it was Mayor Pete’s idea to parade his hubby around, triple masked in a Winnie-The-Pooh coat—as if catching the China-made virus from a stiff breeze is a bigger concern for him than barebacking in the shower at the local health club on KY Jelly street without flip flops on, for gay pride swinger week.

            “Wait a minute. Now I’m doing trans schtick, too.

            “Look, how can I be transphobic if I’d rather suck off Bruce Jenner with no makeup on, and suck up every last demon drop, than go to the Lego Store with my nephews, again, after the coast is clear, with all our masks securely on, feeling like Michael Jackson on holiday in Bahrain before Magic made HIV disappear?

            “I’m actually turned on immensely by shemales, myself, knowing they typically possess tighter bods than most girls willing to date me.

            “You also know they have no problem swallowing because they have no other use for my love juice. Also, most girls today have blown-up-looking snatches by age sixteen, so I’m not complaining about a tighter hole to not get her pregnant in, either.

            “I’d even go the movies again (assuming they ever reopen) to see a trans remake of Weird Science; except this time, they’d create their dream shemale vision come true all over their shattered visions of rock-solid heterosexuality again.

            “Still, I’m talking about a madeup movie, Perverted Science, where the doll who comes to life is played by a real life, grown trans woman who made an informed, evolved decision because he/she wanted to come in closer contact with her feminine side, and realized along the way how she made a better-looking chick.

            “And if you got it, flaunt it, baby.

            “I tried putting a pink wig on, once, and makeup, after my girlfriend got a strap-on for us to play, with one night. And never in a million years did I think I’d look like such an ugly, homely-looking bitch.

            “Granted, when I played basketball in junior high, I used to run on my tippy toes, looking like I was running in high heels instead of high tops. But this still doesn’t mean that I was a gentle high-stepper of any kind.

            “If LaVar Ball was my substitute coach dad, he’d still bark on the sidelines, yelling, “We’re trying to sell Ballerwear, son, not Jimmy Choos!

            “I think Paul and I should start selling trans jokes to Dave Chappelle, because he can afford to not give a shit. We can’t. Who wants to have that debate, next?

            “White comics can’t get away this material today, ever. Even Aerosmith is getting grief, these days, for their song ‘Dude Looks Like A Lady’, which is ridiculous, because in the song, Steven Tyler takes more than a peak, proclaiming, with surging, mounting lust, ‘Oh, what a funky lady. And I like it, like it, like it, yeah.’

            “So did Richard Pryor, He said it was the best piece of pussy he ever had, so get over it, already.     “Hate speech, not. Maybe I won’t give up on wining a debating scholarship if Chris Rock finances a new college serving as a safe space for politically incorrect material, God forbid.”

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time, there was a famous jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once (one less time than Duke Ellington).

            Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background; yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra-strength heroin one night, home alone in his Queens apartment in far Rockaway Beach.

            (This would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience, for a change, and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window, too.)

            Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes again, to make sure that what horrific vision he saw (on what was most likely pure, real-deal heroin) was actually true. Yes, it was.

            In this vision while on mind-melding H, a so-called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini-tablet device, of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell, out the window into the frigid February snow with absolute relished glee to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz, prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before.

            Now Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling, and asks God, in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my jazz piano masterpiece?”

             The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks like he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  

            “And how dare this so-called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks I ever spent” after his carefree son flings my jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing that the jazz critic at the Village Voice called my jazz piano masterpiece “heroin hell” and “melancholy magic.”  

            Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due, Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well, guess what: you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me, motherfucker.         “Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American jazz songbook. So, instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mothers, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway, like Cole Porter or those those fancy schmancy Gershwin brothers, for a change? At least they dress nice and look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. But, hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you’ve got some brains cells left, to use more wisely.”

            Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung, this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door, this time, and bemoans, “Fight or flight, Junky: what will your destiny be? I get it. You’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep singing ‘The Man I Love’ whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  

            “So you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard—whoopty freaking do. I’m positive you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter, or get some sin-on-sin loving behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room, too.  

            “Innovate or die a broke, boring junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

            Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his piano, with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor, and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer, on the spot.

            His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens, alone, and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone, and says, “Jazz rock is the new groove now, Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, to where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative jazz or elevator music. on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in.     “Regardless, your sound helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me, in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, and made it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia Records to digest, too.

            “You played in a gorgeous, hair-tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget. Sorry about cutting out your work, on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit, Junky.”

            Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses, places them on his tombstone, and says, “I got these from your landlord after I learned you’d passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk, too.

            “Your landlord told me to “innovate or die.” Then I recorded Sketches Of Spain during my drying out period, which represented my new lease on life, Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank. But boy, could you play. And I am fucking jazz.

            “And Miles knows best—even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell can see that.”   

Michael Kornbluth

Biggest Prick In The East

Who’s the bigger prick? The boss who insists you get a vaccination shot for COVID when you’re working remote? Or the guy in charge who gave Jeffrey Toobin a promotion at the New Yorker, including his own safe space to jerk off at work? So, office security won’t yank him out of the bathroom stall, feet first, singing, “You don’t come around here no more.” Tom Petty lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Bill Gates’s daughter just got married. Say what you want about the depopulation genius, but the four eyed Hitler, who couldn’t grow out the stash if he tried, is a more conservative investor than you’d think. Why else would Warren Buffet’s BFF only have his clone wear the same sweater for interviews on MSNBC that makes vegan mayo stains disintegrate on impact? Why else, would old four eyes insist his daughter just order his daughter to play Coldplay on her voice activated Cortana speakers at her wedding, instead of paying 200 grand for Coldplay to sing the Scientist in person, when his better man Fauci would feel like a shortchanged, non-essential idol in comparison?

Bill Gates avoided a disaster in the making by refusing to pay Chris Martin in rolls of X Box stock. Otherwise, Chris Martin sings, “Fix You”. Dr. Gnocchi crawls on top of 3 booster seats at the wedding, but still can’t reach high enough to hang himself by his mask on top of the ceiling fan. Next, Coldplay plays, Yellow, so Mr. Hydroxychloroquine Fighter Cockblocker has second reservations about killing himself at Bill Gate’s daughter’s wedding in front of a former Lotus Notes sales rep turned freelance caterer. Then, Cold Play plays, “Don’t Panic”, and Fauci pees his pants in front of all the wedding guests after being confronted by the Ghost of Aids Past played by Freddie Mercury who jams a bat up his ass, engineered in Wuhan to give the million dollar elf man, a fatal case of full-blown Aids on the spot immune to Magic’s Johnson’s top secret HIV suppresser stash.

Dr. Gnocchi drops dead on the wedding dance floor, to “Oh What a Night.” And Freddie Mercury as the Ghost of Aids past says, “Another mass murdering scumbag bites the dust. Build back better AZT drugs next time, you Golden girls killing shit. The bat I jammed up your hell hole was crossbred with Rock Hudson’s DNA samples. If anyone deserves to be canceled, it’s this queen killing prick.

You’re my best friend now Freddie. Thanks for your service in my dream revenge sequence. Why should Tarantino have all the fun? He’s not the only fast talking perv, who can craft killer queen attacks of his own.

Michael Kornbluth

Reimagining Tea For Dad

Dad says, “Tea is gay.”

I say, “Do you want your 1st born to achieve his Do It All Dad Year or not?”

Dad says, “Does your Do It All Dad Year include you doing guys on the down low? I don’t get it.”

I reply, “I bet the voice of Alexa isn’t manly enough for you pops. Why don’t I change the voice of Alexa to the voice of Scarlett Johansson who sounds like she’s stuck between estrogen throat blocker treatments.”

Dad says, “I’d change the voice of Alexa to Samuel L. Jackson.”

I say, “Alexa, who told Samuel L Jackson it looks cool to dress up like Spike Lee’s Grandma, who identifies as a Jazz Critic descendent of Sonny Rollins, in Tyler Perry’s new film, The Uppity Cunt?”

Dad says, “You don’t like black people.”

I say, “Dad, how many black girls have you banged named Porsha? That’s what I thought. But good luck trying to gay shame me into resuming my lushy ways over drinking tea like Bruce Lee again pops. And even if I was 30 years gay, you got 3 grandchildren out of it pops, so you came out on top. And that’s how the tea leaves crumble.”

The vax lessens the symptoms, didn’t you hear?

Forget fatigue, you’ll storm the Capital Building like the Running Man after DeSantis wins in a patriot made landslide, no amount of election fraud can conceal.

No more headaches, just a mild irritation of the ears like the Muslim Call to Prayer on a busted loudspeaker in Astoria, Queens.

First an itchy esophagus, now you’ll be deep throating Lexington Steele replicas without it feeling like your tonsils just got punctured to pieces in the process.

Fever finished. Just measured smug superiority flowing forward.

Shortness of breath ends. Now, you’ll last longer than Jared Kushner in the sack with Ivanka despite her talking boring dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again.

Coughing comes to a screeching halt. Now, you’ll suck down medicinal strength dispensary weed out of a metal bat made in Wuhan and you’ll be flying high again.

Muscle aches become orgasmic mush on pure E from 1995.

Naps become siestas with Penelope Cruz falling asleep on your crotch to put her motor mouth lisp to sleep in the process.

Diarrhea is replaced by out of this world, beyond substantial dumps like you just inhaled an entire protein pea farm in one sitting.

Difficulty breathing ends although if Pearl Necklace Harris becomes President all bets are off. Calling that bitch erratic, is an insult to stable schizophrenics holding down government jobs in Quebec.

Congestion gone. Who cares if your media worshiping whores are still full of shit from head to toe already?

Michael Kornbluth

Stain Of Shame

Signs your gay.

When you’re a married man who feels competitive with Suzanne Somers.

You buy her old Playboy spread for Hanukkah primarily to pump for comedic gold material for all it’s worth.

Someone on YouTube makes a comment about her looking like a haggard looking tranny, which gives you a mildly surging stiffy in the process.

You take a virtual tour of her former fuck pad palace shared with her manager husband of 50 years in Palm Springs and think, “It’s all gaudy, heavy, animal print clutter like Trump Tower on Safari.”

The moment you learn Suzanne Somers left Threes Company to become a nightclub entertainer in Vegas, you become a bitchy Twitter twat, feeling like a wannabe Rockette with bunions.

Once you learn how Suzanne Somers is in talks to star in a reality show with her husband about their amazing sex life 50 years later. All can you think is, “Who’s the target audience? Baby Boomers taking a load off after soaking up Uni Brow Maddow’s spewing’s about money shot tax return reveals? Which give blue balled diehard Democrats left a S&M branded name.

You contemplate buying a Thigh Master but don’t feel completely gay in the process while briefly indulging in the fantasy of burying your head between her stretchy, moisty snatch in between reps.  Then, you think, “I wouldn’t mind eating through Suzanne Somers spandex sweats to suck up a mouthful of sweaty, scrumptious snatch pie eight days a week.”

You obsess over Suzanne Somers bitching about how hurt Suzanne Sommers was from her 1st Playboy shoot. How did the photographer screw over Suzanne so bad? After declining his advances, did the Photographer get Suzanne back by photoshopping the moles of his English mother-in-law’s neck on to her previously gold ray spewing clit?

You fixate on the Playboy journalist for never questioning Suzanne’s alleged discomfort around her son discovering naked pictures of Mommy 10 years later? Positive Suzanne lost sleep over it like wanting to change places with John Ritter after Threes Company and beyond. I’d ask, “Who gives a shit about what your son thinks? According to Freud, if your son wanted to titty blast your eyes wide shut, you would’ve caught him licking your Thigh Masters clean already. And cut the bullshit Suzanne. Claiming Suzanne Somers cares about her son’s feelings about being raised by the most inhalable mom in Palm Springs is like Larry from Threes Company claiming to care if your replacement was still fuckable enough to cum in with a condom on by Quagmire’s standards during the latest summertime air show at Stewart Airport.”

You remain competitive with Suzanne Somers and start brainstorming products you can become a spokesperson for that will outsell the Thigh Master after you become a famous comedian one day like hot yoga naked classes for recent divorces called Spread Eagles.  

Suzanne Somers calling her husband the Johnny Carson of Canada for 2 years get’s your panties in a bunch, despite that claim not meaning much, considering the fact he never competed against Tom Green for Dice’s funny man respect on the Apprentice.

Suzanne Somers didn’t think the pictures of her 1st Playboy spread were very flattering. Get over yourself Suzanne. Lois Lane’s skeletal shape after Superman blasts through her bust with his X-Ray Vision you’re not.

How did Suzanne Somers nightclub act in Vegas break all attendance records, second only to Elvis? By singing Raining Men while prancing around on stage to an umbrella resembling her stretched out snatch? I’d schlep that umbrella to work every day. It would be a good way to create breathing room on the subway stop at Christopher Street down the block from the famed gay bar known throughout the underground gay world as the Cubby Bar Inn.

I’m not gay about those blown-up lips on Suzzane Somers. I wouldn’t mind her mouth to be my permanent resting place before my rocket launch blasts eventually flat lined to death.

I can’t be too gay if I’m pro pepperoni size nips. You can also argue, once a size queen, always a size queen.

Would a straight gay contemplate show names for Suzanne Somers pool side reality show in the works, co-hosted by her leering, older than Yiddish husband? Who’s constantly seen in pictures trying to squeeze the tits out of her chest as his Canadian Canuck cock rages against the dying of his light?  Similar to any other reality show showcasing highly bangable MILFS who boast tits that have withstood the erosions of time better than most, they might as well rename all these reality showoff shows, “Good luck keeping up with my orgasm count bitch.”

Suzanne Somers was embarrassed by her 1st Playboy spread. Try scrubbing off the stench of degenerate drunkenness off your soul after you wake up in your daughter’s bed after the 1st night of Hanukkah drenched in your own pee, fully clothed thank God. Been off the beer, wine and bourbon ever since. Don’t knock the stain of shame bitch. It helps us rise to the occasion to avoid more lushy powered playtime consideration.

Michael Kornbluth