Racist Alien Attacks

“Nobody ever wrote the song, Waiting for A Fallen Angel Alien Like You”, tweets a frenzied, 10-foot-tall alien, RH Negative 5000, from a Mars espresso bar, with excellent WIFI, as he looks down on Earth with a mix of surging envy and desperate urgency, knowing if he can’t find a virgin earthling with RH negative blood to get him pregnant by midnight tonight, then his race of Fallen Angels Aliens from Mars will disintegrate into the cosmos, as would’ve been super angel contenders forever.

This secret race of fallen angels on Mars aren’t allowed to abduct and rape any old earthling into getting them pregnant either, despite Andy Dick’s repeated offers on dating sites such as, Intergalactic Beams Up My Anus Hole.com.  Finding a virgin earthing with RH negative blood is hard enough, knowing those creatures are normally emotionally evolved, blessed with superior physical prowess in the sack compared to their medium length earthlings, including stars such as Leonardo DiCaprio, Jim, MOJO rising, Morrison and Bob Marley for starters. “Bob Marley banged out 12 kids, but isn’t ganja supposed to drains your life shooter dry?  It’s fake news man”, RH Negative 5000 tweets in a race against time to save his race of fallen angels of imminent ruin, knowing all the weed in the world won’t get Seth Rogan’s kid brother to knock up RH Negative 5000, even though he could transform his body into any dream physique he wanted, despite looking like an erect Serpent and guitar God Steve Vai had a baby, when he didn’t have to change his appearance to get a virgin earthling into sticking it his alien, procreation hole.

The other problem being for RH Negative 5000, is how only 10 percent of the earth population was RH Negative, and due the advent of the Internet, dick pick swiping sites and online porn, virgins are pickier and more selective than ever before, and I don’t recall Alien porn being a popular hashtag category on Youporn.com nor was Pete Townsend ever caught clicking on Soapy Alien Bottom Boys.com, in the name of new song research about a Pinball Wizard who gets probed by a race of white , pure blood, RH negative aliens, for his out this world, old school arcade game prowess because playing Guitar Hero on the XBOX get’s played out fast, when you can do mind blowing, Pete Townsend solo’s from Live At Leeds with five arms doing non-stop windmills out of your ass.

Little did RH Negative 5000 know, that one his followers on Twitter was 9-year-old girl from horse country in North Salem, NY who believed in fallen angels, especially since her father was a conspiracy theorist comedian Michael Kornbluth, named after the archangel who applied the final smackdown kick on the Loose Lipped Lucifer, which kicked him out of Heaven to his new liar in the Hollywood Hills behind Bill Cosby’s house for good. Actually, Matilda just got her family tree report from Ancestry.com and confirmed ancestry with RH Negative blood, who lived in Boswell, New Mexico, otherwise known as the Mecca for UFO landings, on earth, because Fallen Angels aliens from Mars knew Val Kilmer owned a ranch nearby, which was cool enough for them, knowing he played one of their kind in the Doors with such as believable, otherworldly authority.

Now, Matilda was always intrigued by the Twitter handle, RH Negative 5000, especially the profile shot of what looked like an extra scaly, greenish guitar God Steve Vai, after puking his brains from breaking his one month fast with In and Out Burgers, animal style, in his attempt to pen a sequel to his masterful magnum opus guitar swansong for the ages, For The Love Of God, stop letting Twitter teach your kids Dr. Seuss is racist, he’s not.

Matilda loved her father reading Dr. Seuss books to her, especially when he’d make his own rhymes if Dr. Seuss got a tad repetitive again, because he’s guilty of peaking early. The other night actually, her Do It All Comedian Dad did some riffing to her extreme delight to unearth some comedy gold material after the latest and greatest Dr. Seuss cancelation movement from the side of tolerance, unity and joy spreading peace and says, “Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist then, it’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.”

What Matilda love most about her daddy reading her Dr. Seuss books was how he adopted his infectious love of rhyme, always pointing out how Walt Clyde Frazier, NBA broadcaster for the Knicks was in the fact the slickest, tongue twisting cat of his time.  More importantly, Matilda loved how her school was celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday this week for national reading appreciation month at her school, who was born in March like herself, which in her book was extra cool. This coming Friday, it was silly switch day in honor of Dr. Seuss, which Matilda found extra comical because despite having 2 working parents on all the Adderall in the world, she could never find a pair of matching socks for school ever, which made every day for her, Mismatched Sock Day.  

Matilda’s comedian father encouraged Matilda to open a Twitter account for her 10th birthday to use as a humongous open mike to test out her poems because she wanted to become the female Dr. Seuss, with a PHD in Counseling Psychology, in her final paper arguing, how time release Adderall is legalized cocaine in addition to being a gateway drug to weed to high octane IPA’s to chill out your aggravated, easily avoidable added noise in their mind. While also making the argument how a time-release dark chocolate smoothie can help maintains these kid’s inner, sparky essence while helping increase their powers of concentration in addition to being much lighter on the heart, compared to big pharma cranked out speed to.

Now, the moment Matilda got a Twitter account, Twitter suggested she start following RH Negative 5000, so she did.  RH Negative 5000 already on his 5000th cup of espresso, without any clue as how to audition, let alone recruit, virgins with RH Negative to impregnate him to keep his race of Alien Fallen Angels alive. So in a desperate Hail Mary attempt, sends a direct message to Matilda on Twitter and says, “Do you have any virgin cousins who are RH negative in Roswell, New Mexico interested in knowing what Fallen Angel Alien Love Is?” Matilda being a huge Foreigner fan, because her Daddy pushed the band on her early and often, in his pursuit to be a podcast comedian hero of his own replies to the DM and says, “I have a Cousin Jonathan whose still a virgin at 15. He’s very picky. Plus, his Dad homeschooled through the ME To movement and only sent him packing for Junior High with his Kiss backpack flush with pre-poundage release forms. My cousin Jonathan is also really into Joe Satriani and played Surfing With An Alien for his Bar Mitzvah Party from start to finish, so it’s worth a shot. ”

RG 5000 replies, “I have to get pregnant with a virgin earthling with a RG negative blood, or my fallen angel race will never be given our wings again to swoop down to the Kennedy compound to seduce the next Marilyn Monroe impersonator they hire for another July 4th annual barbeque retreat. Marilyn had R negative blood, which makes sense, because her slamming bod is impossible to clone, let alone replicate. But were not too picky and are used to sloppy seconds on Mars for the past 5000 years actually. Also, I have the power to turn into any female form your cousin desires, if he isn’t into having sex with alien Steve Vai drag Queen look alike.”

Matilda ponders this big ask request and replies back, “I’ll make the call, but you have to do me a favor 1st.” R5 5000 says, “Whatever you want, just name it.” Matilda says, “Abduct Spike Lee and threaten to anally probe him before giving him an intergalactic Tossed Salad if he doesn’t stick up for Dr. Seuss and buy the movie rights to,”And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St?, starring Chazz Palminteri, playing some second generation pizza maker in the early eighties in the Bronx who gave Grandmaster Flash the freedom to play his demo tapes in pizzeria on his boom box on Frank Sinatra’s birthday to make every day feel like Black Appreciation Day, deal?”

RJ 5000 replies, “I better morph into Pam Grier from the seventies, snag Richard Pryor’s old strap on from eBay and tap Bill Cosby’s old Quaalude dealer in the Hills to make Spike loosen up to the idea before he pens the screenplay, Racist Alien Attacks Boy, instead. I’m in no rush to get canceled and kicked off Twitter, before my planet implodes just yet.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Maiden Bartender

You met one Iron Maiden fan, you met them all right? Iron Maiden fans wear out those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets, even into their late thirties to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge such diehard fanatic fans are incapable of generating on their own.  Granted, Bruce Dickenson the more exalted, replacement lead singer star of Iron Maiden, otherwise known as the human air raid siren, boasts a supernatural voice, which pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal heaven. Still, it’s impossible to not grow tired of his rapid fire, Spinal Tap conjuring caricature of what an English heavy metal howler should like in Samuel Johnson’s speed metal phonics dictionary under Game Of Thrones horse charging music. At least, that’s’ what the Cruise Comedian, Michael Rocker thought, as he entered a colonial constructed, seaside, shipbuilding town of Mystic, CT, where Julia Roberts shot the movie Mystic Pizza, and entertained the grips on the set by fisting her mouth in between takes to ensure they made it her look the most flattering in the face of such frigid, east coast winter light.  

Now, Michael Rocker, a tall, athletic looking, preppy casual comic orders a drink and says, “Hey, what local IPA’s do you recommend? The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline statuesque dirty blond, sporting an Iron Maiden tattoo on her defined, yet not overtly chiseled deltoid replies, “I don’t know, that all depends, on how much hardcore bitter bite you can take. I mean, are you interested in merely quenching your thirst with a session filler beer? Or would you prefer  to get your hardcore freak on for Karaoke night with something boozier and more funktastic like a Fat Orange Cat’s Trippel IPA, stud.” The Cruise Comic says, “I’ll take the Trippel IPA, hot stuff,” as he tries hard not to lick his lips, wanting to inhale her on the spot.

Sitting next to the Cruise Comic at the bar, is a hunched, tired, lanky, dirty blond, long-haired guy in his late thirties, sporting bad acne spots, from a poor diet full of too much beef Jerky and cheap vodka tonics, reeking of stale, Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody appeal after the 1st drag whatsoever.  The Cruise Comic get’s the impression, the Newport cigarette guy who’s sporting a black Iron Maiden shirt under his faded, torn jean jacket, is here solo as usual, so he decides to sample some new jokes on him in preparation for his upcoming cruise tour heading to Jamaica for spring break the following morning. Cruise Comic makes eye contact with the Iron Maiden fan and says, “Nice Maiden shirt. You must know the wrestler and Fozzy front man Chris Jericho then? Maiden dude replies, “Duh, who doesn’t? Immediately, the Cruise Comic becomes engulfed with extreme annoyance, regretting his attempt to bond with this local in his attempt to play it cool with the hot bad ass bartender and snaps back with, “Be honest, don’t you think Iron Maiden is a poor man’s Judas Priest, with far less sing along, radio friendly hits, being forced to rely on catchy, merchandising gimmickry to radiate a cooler, far less Dungeons and Dragons nerdy veneer instead? And who is the Eddie mascot on Iron Maiden shirts supposed to be anyway? He looks like a cyborg mummy and a virile Crypt Keeper in his prime had a baby?  Run For The Hills is a good running song, for Daniel Day Lewis to crank up when he trained for his role in the Last of the Mohicans.”

The bartender can’t help but chuckle, doing her best to not let Cruise Comedian know it. Still, she decides to interject, knowing fighting words were just thrown down in this normally peaceful waterfront town and says, “Hey, Eddie, don’t listen to him. He’s not sophisticated enough to understand the intricacies and sweeping historical, majestic sweep that went to Power Slave and the other 40 records of English speed metal mastery at it’s finest. Next vodka and tonic is on me babe, don’t sweat it.” Cruise Comedian is turned on by the bartender’s friendly infused fiery cheer, especially knowing this was her way of pleasing a local and flirting with him big time and says, “She’s right Eddie, that’s your name Eddie just like the Iron Maiden mascot, wow. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just putting Iron Maiden down to feel better about myself. That’s what hack cruise comics do.  I think Poison, Motely Crew and Cinderella rock out just as hard and boast infinitely catchier, kick as metal pop anthems, which ooze forceful, heartfelt personality versus sounding like systematic howling knights on horseback but what do I know Eddie. Didn’t mean to offend your hardcore fanatical Maiden sensibilities bud.”  Eddy’s face become ensnarled in acne scar shades of red as he clenches his callous hardened, burn laden hands and says, “Dude, I’m a dishwasher on a cruise ship, I don’t need to take this shit.” The Cruise Comedian says, “I’m a lowly Cruise Comedian hack comedian, so it’s a wash mate. Looking forward to docking in Jamaica though. This is my impression of Ziggy Marley being interviewed by High Times Magazine for their annual 4/20 issue.  “Ziggy, your dad had 11 kids, but I thought ganja drained your life blaster dry. Ziggy replies, “Fake news man.” Cruise comic finally scores a tension diffusing laugh. Eddie says, “That was a good one. Perhaps, I take my obsession with Iron Maiden a tad too seriously at times. Thing is, you get pretty cagy as a cruise ship dishwasher, all alone with Iron Maiden tunes of wanton destruction stuck in your head.” Cruise Comic says, “No problem dude, I was being a big dick prior, sometimes my riffing veers into full fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer to. Do you smoke your mind with the crystal specked bud? Eddie the dishwasher says, “Yeah, I mean, what loner burnout Maiden head in high school didn’t. You never outgrow the soothing lift the green gives a loner burnout at heart.  Cruise comic says, “Did you know 4/20 was Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” Eddie the Dishwasher says, “Oh, so you’re Jewish. That’s why you’re so annoying and pushy with your material. Well, nobody’s perfect except Beth the bartender.”

Beth the bartender commands the stage and clenches the mike to belt out Run for the Hills on the Karaoke stage with incredible, hardcore edge feeling to make a jaded, English metal resisting, cruise comic willing to give British speed metal another shot. All that was missing was a hardcore female touch and some added funktastic feeling with some sexy metal sass to match.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Loud Man’s Disease

How loud was Do It All Dad? For starters, when seeing Aerosmith live in Las Vegas 2 summers ago with close seats to the stage before a mask muzzle was designed to kill freedom of speech forever, his incessant hollering and wooing, made lead singer Steven Tyler, shoot off retaliatory hate stares of disgust in his direction which screamed, “Somebody shut this loudmouth Jew up already. This is my showcase career retrospective, not his. I didn’t blow millions on blow and almost derail my stadium selling out career in the seventies to have this big-headed putz project louder than me without a microphone, Joe Perry and a state-of-the-art sound system working in his magnifying favor either.”

There was also the time Do It All Dad saw Dice in a casino in Arizona with his younger brother, only for the Dice Man to single out the loudmouth Jew and yell with exasperated force, “You’re an asshole”, and all he was doing was laughing longtime all the time prior while sporadically yelling, “Dice Lives, holla, thank very much.” Dice was so flummoxed by Do It All Dad’s laugh throaty roar, he beelined into his nursey rhymes prematurely way ahead of schedule to get the fuck out of dodge at a hard 45 minutes into his set.

Then, there was the time when Do It All Dad saw Bon Jovi at Mohegan Sun with his daughter Matilda, fairly up in the nose bleed seats this time behind the stage, yet his bombastic, rocket fueled voice, still managed to get under Zebra print’s skin, as the old school long cowboy from Jersey, projected a damning you ain’t shit thousand-yard stare toward Mr. Loud Man’s Disease general direction, as he sang along with rock star blasting authority, “Bad Medicine is all I need.”  

Do It All Dad didn’t only piss off living legendary comedians and hall of fame rock star front men with surefire, unintentional precision. His omnipresent Loud Man’s Disease enraged his normally English dour, future father-in-law over a dinner at his home in Delaware only 2 minutes after grace, compelling him to bark out in depleted, drained already disgust, “He’s more talkative than the other one.” The other one being the gentile mute from Indiana, his daughter was engaged to before his daughter found her real deal partner in love this time, at least for the time being.

The major issue now was Do It All Dad’s loud man disease causing his son Art Show USA to develop all-consuming migraine headaches, leading his son to sport a permanent PMS face, until he started to take up mainlining extra strength Tylenol again. And Do It All Dad’s son was tough. How tough you ask? Well, when Art Show USA required stiches for tripping on top of an empty IPA glass on the ground and had to wait 1000 lifetimes in the emergency room so the other doctors could serve all the 1st in line dreamers in attendance, the doc gave Do It All Dad 2 options, “Either A) Authorize the doc using an anesthesia which would take 20 minutes to kick in, or B) To stich up his son the spot as his gaping gash continued to open wider than Octomom after push 5000. Do It All Dad chose B, only for the doctor to say, “Your kid is tough.” Do It All Dad inquires, “Indulge me doc, how tough?” Doc says, “One time there was this black kid from Brooklyn.” Do It All Dad says, “Sold already Doc. Thanks for giving my son tough guy bragging rights for me to derive vicarious pride from till my last dying breath.”

But how was Do It All Dad going to solve his Loud Man’s Disease exactly? Would triple masking even get the job done, after getting his tonsils taken out for an extra safe precaution to? Would Do It All Dad become a eunuch monk, despite already feeling this way at times from being a Stay-At-Home Dad, bitchy underling until his comedy writing career achieved blast off already? Would Do It All Dad seek out a Voodoo Doctor in Washington Heights to cure his Loud Man’s Disease by changing his pigmentation to ESL Asian?

What could Do It All Dad do to prevent his son from receiving any more debilitating headaches in his presence again? Finally, Do It All Dad devised a cure all solution. He’d buy his son a pair of Bose noise canceling headphones to wear in his presence and teach him fucking sign language. Because native New Yorkers were made to be heard.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Shoe Salesman Son

“I used to dress like you,” the dapper 17-year-old shoe salesman says at the Nordstrom located in The Westchester in White Plains, NY. Baby Boomer Grandpa replies, “Actually, that’s why I’m here.” I live in Scottsdale, Arizona now with my wife. I don’t mind the heat. Plus, everything is very causal in Arizona, so I never feel compelled to dress up anymore either, which includes my wife to. She didn’t even bother brushing her teeth the one time we had a whole year to get ready for our 1st Skype call with our granddaughter back east. I could literally see my wife’s Dunkin Donut’s breath fog up the screen during our chat. Me, I’m still sporting the same pair of ashy tennis slacks from 86 according to my 1st born. What’s the point in dressing up fancy anymore, unless we’re going out to dine out in Arizona for Italian and pretend the food is barely edible again, compared to our old haunt off the Grand Course in the Bronx, which served the best Veal stuffed with prosciutto in a white wine, mushroom sauce ever. Now, my wife insists she’ll let me die alone in the August Arizona sun if I don’t stop dressing like a baby boomer bum. It’s bad enough how my 1st born calls me a fake news hippie for never visiting the Grand Canyon after living in Arizona for 9 years, despite my Bob Dylan collection being more eclectic than most.”

The Nordstrom Shoe Salesman Son says, “I actually prefer Dylan’s later work on the Tempest, Soon After Midnight, Pay In Blood, Long and Wasted Years, Roll On John, forget about it, it deserved all 5 stars it got in Rolling Stone. Modern Times wasn’t chopped liver either, Working Man Blues chokes me up a little inside because it makes me think of my dear Dada every time. I never outgrew calling him Dada despite being 17 already. Baby Boomer Grandpa says, “My dad never bonded with me over Bob Dylan. He just called me an idiot for struggling with pre-calculus more than my brainer Jewish friends who attended Bronx Science.”

The Shoe Salesman Son says, “My Dada jammed all the Bob Dylan folklore down my throat ad- nauseum. Bob Dylan was a member of the Latin club in high school, he’s an amateur boxer who has a huge mural in his Malibu estate of Jerry Garcia to prove jam bands matter. The Grateful Dead did a killer version of Visions Of Johana in addition to refusing Bob Dylan’s offer to join the band. Allowing Dylan to tour with them as the opening act after recording an album called Dylan and The Dead wasn’t enough for Robert Zimmerman from Minnesota because baby boomer arrogance never dies, got it Dada.”

Baby Boomer Grandpa says, “I never got into the Grateful Dead personally, although seeing them perform with the Allman Brothers and The Band at Watkins Glen would’ve been worth the trip on bad acid for it.” Shoe Salesman Son says, “So tell me why your wife is a chronic pain in the ass again?” Refusing to dress up for her these days, makes me think, you’re trying to get back at her for hogging the blankets for the past 50 years or for playing slovenly favorites with your 2 kids, I’m assuming, you tell me. I just want to know why dressing up for your golden years, free of financial worry or any nagging subconscious desire to reconnect with your sons on a deeper, more meaningful level besides trying to convince your 1st born why Lebron is a greater player than Michael Jordan, despite King of the Persecution Complex never playing with a broken back like Larry Legend when he beat Magic’s Lakers, with mind melding behind the back passes and consistently clutch jump shots which were never looked like line drive chucks either.”

Baby Boomer Grandpa says, “It’s not as if my wife is spending hours getting lost at the local Sephora store to stock up on new makeup items either. But if I’m honest with myself, the real reason I’m not dressing up anymore these days is because I ‘m an old Jew who only got dressed up in the past for synagogue or work because I had to. Granted, wearing nice suits to work when I used to work as VP of sales for a packaging company in New Jersey, made me feel like hot shit, but that was the eighties before Steve Jobs started rocking the Grandma Jean, casual Friday look. I think the Beatles are vastly overrated to, especially compared to the Rolling Stones. Name one rocker by the Beatles, which would make your life feel complete if you got to hear the song in person in the sixties, assuming it never got loud enough for The Fab Four to hear their own voices singing.  Yeah, that’s what I thought, and Ferris Bueller singing Twist and Shout on a float in the Loop of downtown Chicago doesn’t count either.”

Shoe Salesman Son says, “My Dear Dada was always more of a John Lennon fan, Watching The Wheels and Working-Class Hero being his most liked songs by the Liverpool Lip, when he used to look after me during my younger stay at home pre-k years.”

Baby Boomer Grandpa says, “I never bonded over rock and roll with my dad. I did get my 1st born into Dylan though. He even bought us tickets to see Levon Helm, part time singer and drummer from The Band, at one of his midnight rambles in Woodstock once. Positive my son snuck off into the woods to puff a one hitter to. It’s better than doing more blow and only hearing last call from the bathroom stall like my youngest. Shoe Salesman Son says, “Have you gone to any rock concerts together with your 1st born  since?” Baby Boomer Grandpa says, “None, I took him to an Arizona Diamond Backs game in Phoenix once. He talked up a storm as usual with a long-haired lawyer next to us, who came from money, I think. I recall the lawyer going out of his way to tell me what an impressive brain my son had. And I thought my acid usage in college resulted in more synapse incineration deterioration than others. Starting that Bob Dylan record review club with my 1st born Joshua, wasn’t the worst idea he came up with either. I should call him now, don’t you think?”

Shoe Salesman Son says, “Sure, unless you want to die a distant father with an aching gash that feels like a corkscrew in your heart. Bob Dylan lives, holla, thank you very much. My Dada is no longer a stay-at-home dad but a big-time comedian now, that’s his catchphrase he uses on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast and on stage during his residency in Vegas now to. Dada told me if college doesn’t interest me, I could always stay home longer but get a job in sales job that offered commission, so I’d understand the empowering, momentous surge derived from incentivized performance-based jobs, which make you feel on top the world in charge again.”

Baby Boomer Grandpa says, “Give me 2 pairs of those Echo shoes, one in navy and one white, size 8. Those hipster kicks should tone done my wife’s bitching for a bit. Thanks for pressing me to reconnect with my 1st born on a deeper, long lasting level this time around. He’s still trying to make it as a writer. Who knows, maybe, we can write a book together called, “Bonding Through Writing Dylan Record Reviews With Dad.” What, only Bob Dylan is allowed to be a wordy Jew?”

Michael Kornbluth

High Schooler Hoody Problems

“Hear my bus coming Daddy”, says Art Show USA. Do It All Dad says, “Pretty soon, Art Show USA is going to buy this town, and put it all in his shoes, that’s what he’s going to do.” Art Show USA says, “I know the town of Croton Falls is small Daddy but don’t be ridiculous. Plus, I’m going to build my own house in the woods next to another house I build for you one day, so we can be neighbors. Plus, if I put the whole town of Croton Falls in my shoe, everyone will bother me in the woods to pick up their mail since I’ve absorbed the post office in my shoe, which defeats the purpose of me living in the woods in the 1st place Daddy. Got to go now or I’ll miss the bus. Love you daddy but only if you keep on rocking the high schooler hoodie loo or I’ll stab with our sharpest knife for real. Art Show USA whizzes across the street to catch his bus in time in one spark smooth motion, which his fills his Do It All Dad’s heart with tremendous nachas, which means vicarious joy derived from your kid in Yiddish, especially when your 7-year-old son otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day, becomes more grownz up every day, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Do It All Dad though was having reservations about rocking the high schooler hoodie look anymore, which he should’ve retired in his thirties at least, when he used to be a semi-sporadic performing open miker at the New York Comedy Club in Manhattan, if he could rally enough friends in attendance again. Now, Do It All Dad was questioning the extent of his maturity, knowing he’d never outgrew his truly tasteless jokes phase, still puffed the green out of a one hitter at 44 in a hoody like Sarah Silverman minus the career. Now, Do It All Dad still got asked for ID at Target with his 3 kids, whenever he couldn’t resist snagging another 6 pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for only $9.99, knowing it’s the pale ale that never get’s stale. Still, it was impossible for Do It All Dad to stare at his sudden grey specked beard in the mirror at 44 while still not showing any touches of grey on his chosen curls on top and think, “You look better than John Oliver these days but that isn’t saying much. Can’t wait to see his new segment on the Biden inauguration called, The Day Democracy Died. I wonder if bean breath tonight possesses the balls to make a joke about a 3rd political party called, The Burning Mask Party. Now, I have to worry about a podcast hosting opportunity slipping away, because I made a joke over our 2nd call about a donkey shaped pinata with Governor Cuomo’s ugly mug on it, except instead of candy spilling out when it breaks, piles of pink masks come out instead, that say, “Cuomo Blows”, which got a big, cathartic laugh out of my future potential benefactor at the time. I’m so tired of acting like some gun shy stiff, out of fear of never getting a job in a post woke corporate America again or snagging a comedy manager ever, because I dared to make fun of Obama for gifting Iran 150 billion for overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear, to make their economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal products for the Kardashians. At the same time, why do I have to be dressed up in a Brooks Brother button down in jeans to feel more dressed to impress the Internet one love entertainment gatekeepers on my Do It All Dad Podcast, which is only audio anyway? I think my son Art Show likes to see me rock the high schooler hoodie look because it helps ensure I stay young at heart and don’t lose heart to, when I can’t even get the Jewish Book Council to review my book, The Great American Jew Novel after sharing stellar previous reviews, because I’m not an atheist has been like David Cross who hasn’t made a good W joke in 15 years or even an edge insult about Laura Bush for that matter, who just wrote a book which criticizes The Wicked Witch Of Chatham, NY in Northern Westchester County. At least Hillary had the balls to get rich or die trying bitch. Deep down, I think my son Art Show wants me to sport the high school hoodie look more than ever, to ensure I keep on rocking in our big tech ruining world, as a symbol of non-conformist resistance, knowing my comedy career can still take flight, if I never lose touch with what make me feel most kick ass and in control alive, which is getting laughs longtime all the time, with big deal talking, NY made, ball busting flourish, all the way.” Son, Art Show USA enters the the bathroom and notices his Do It All Dad, lost in thought, grazing the specs of grey on his beard with the tips of his fingers and says, “Don’t even think of shaving the beard Daddy. You look weird without one, like when you shaved it to dress up like Stan Smith from American Dad. Remember, dressing up our family like the Cleveland Show family one was no longer an option because Megyn Kelly already stole our thunder. Plus, Cleveland holding up the sign, “Build The Pool Fence”, for Mimi and Papa to see on Facebook in Arizona, would’ve lost his impactful oomph to. Also Daddy, I like you with the beard, because without it, you’ll look like a Pre-K schooler hoody. So, you won’t be able to boast on stage about the Jews being chosen by God to perfect the human race through your gorgeous sons, who stem from your Do It All Dad Year tree trunk.” Do It All Dad hugs his son, Art Show USA and says, “The beard stays kiddo. It’s just that the high schooler hoodie look rubs me the wrong way sometimes, because it reminds me too much of Sarah Silverman, which annoys me since she came out to Twitter as a social justice warrior, to detract from her once mouthwatering tits, sagging popularity.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Dreaming On Past Covid

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking 2 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, inhalable on the spot always, pitch perfect southern belle, the always magical, chills down my spine inducing from mere memories of walking hand in the hand throughout Main Street in the Cape, my dear Katie King. Especially, knowing how my bitch roommates at the time, hated how the Jew boy from New York struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina, who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in 3 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 one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never draggy 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 as you know, who 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 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 too 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 hands with at Rye Playland 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 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 5 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 some years on Yom Kippur, knowing 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, whose 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 at 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 lady laugh off long time, all the time began.

My parents raised me in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, performing 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 with 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 origin 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, I’d stop breathing, because I was being a degenerate Jew again who 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 44 bites, only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young 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 entry into, knowing Lou Reed could use some added some levity up there from time to time, next time he showcases the insufferable gaul to insist on charging Billy Idol for the priveledge 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 preventing me, from being embraced by your loving light in 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 on par with forcing him to 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 on earth, where us oh so fortune, 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 front row to make love to my soul with her Oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring 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 Filmore 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 to. 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

Dreaming On Past Covid

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking 2 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, inhalable on the spot always, pitch perfect southern belle, the always magical, chills down my spine inducing from mere memories of walking hand in the hand throughout Main Street in the Cape, my dear Katie King. Especially, knowing how my bitch roommates at the time, hated how the Jew boy from New York struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina, who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in 3 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 one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never draggy 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 as you know, who 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 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 too 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 hands with at Rye Playland 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 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 5 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 some years on Yom Kippur, knowing 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, whose 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 at 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 lady laugh off long time, all the time began.

My parents raised me in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, performing 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 with 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 origin 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, I’d stop breathing, because I was being a degenerate Jew again who 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 44 bites, only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young 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 entry into, knowing Lou Reed could use some added some levity up there from time to time, next time he showcases the insufferable gaul to insist on charging Billy Idol for the priveledge 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 preventing me, from being embraced by your loving light in 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 on par with forcing him to 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 on earth, where us oh so fortune, 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 front row to make love to my soul with her Oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring 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 Filmore 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 to. 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

The Sun Butter King

North Dakota was only state in the country which enjoyed full employment and Do It All Dad wanted in. North Dakota was also the least visited state in the nation yet Do It All Dad was used to seeing his parents only twice a year and also accustomed to not seeing any of his former friends since his 3 fuss free children were born, failing the friendship litmus test every time. So, the isolating nature of North Dakota didn’t bother him one bit, especially knowing how much Do It All Dad hated to navigate around lost in time, tourist hicks in Times Square pre-Covid, on his way to work when he used take the subway there for his IT Recruiter job in Midtown East for a living.  But the majority of the jobs in North Dakota were within the farming and energy industry, which Do It All Dad had no experience with whatsoever. Granted, his mom grew up in Kentucky and had an Uncle Jim who owned a farm, who even wore overalls to his Grandpa’s funeral, because that’s how he rolled. And Do It All Dad would have a bit in his old act about how Kentucky gal Ashley Judd wasn’t an actual victim of rape. He’s say, “Ooh, she refused to watch Harvey Weinstein shower himself down at his 5-star suite in the Four Season. At the same time, Ashley Judd had plenty of experience judging fat pigs at the County Fair.” Still, Do It All Dad wasn’t expecting to be working headliner comedian at the non-existent comedy clubs in downtown Fargo, North Dakota. Microsoft had 100,000 employees based in North Dakota yet Do It All Dad was no fan of Bill Gates’s Dad being the head of Planned Parenthood either, whose founder was intent on carrying out Hitler’s eugenics solution, one fetus flicker, mostly of color at a time. North Dakota was also voted the least female friendly environment because it had less abortion clinics than Oxygen bars for the Persian Iranians to act urban sheik smug in, like tanner, humorless Whitney Cumming clones in those Hollywood Hills, who were too uptight for Do It All Dad’s tastes, whose blah brained personalities offered him nil.

Do It All Dad had an old Headhunter boss in Manhattan Beach, CA who drilled into his cranium the do or die mantra, “innovate or die.” Innovate he must, because Do It All Dad had to invent a new job title besides Stay At Home Comedian. Do It All Dad just wanted to write more books from home and cook more yummy dance meals for his family but needed a paying job of some sort to finance finishing his next book in progress The Koshertarian Diet, so his wife wouldn’t bust his balls about it.  Do It All Dad was also working on a new short story book collection, Waste Of Height, which forced him to be tad less political and overtly sexual in his writing for a change. Still, as famous English novelist Virginia Woolfe once said, “A woman must have a room of her own and money to write fiction.” Now, Do It All Dad being a stay at home she male rocker mom of sorts, could identify with this stone cold sober truism, even more than being a shishy bitch who would get dressed up on Shabbat Friday nights to stay in with his 3 kids while his wife went back to work at the hospital in the NICU to check on the vital signs of blue faced babies, which made Do It All Dad feel like an insufferable narcissist at times, because all he checked for was for retweets, before he got banned from Twitter calling Governor Cuomo, the Blanch killing, cold blooded, Italian Reptilian inside.

Now, Do It All Dad couldn’t even justify his IPA intake after a Peloton ride anymore, because his family was barely affording the monthly payments on their mortgage and nothing had changed too much since he started chasing down open mikes throughout Southern California 15 years ago, after getting the laugh chaser bug, which no amount of widespread bombing or martial bliss disintegration or threat of complete financial ruin could cure. Also, Do It All Dad’s office, was in his bedroom, which a recent jilted audiobook reviewer, derided as “Tiny and cramped”, based on the lack of reverberating echo in his Chapter reading for “The Last Temptation of Adderall”, I assume.  Also, Do It All Dad had given up hope on securing a lit agent to take a chance on an eccentric Jewish comedian satirist, reinvented literary novelist, who used his books for extra long stand up comedy monologues, he couldn’t afford to do during open mikes throughout Manhattan, because he couldn’t justify the 40 dollar Metronorth train fare to wail with his arms on stage for the pleasure of trying to entertain the 2 millennial mousketeers in the audience with such a jade free, joyous, giving heart anymore. Now, Do It All Dad didn’t desperately seek strangers funny many approval as much on stage, since he launched his successful podcast and blog 3 years ago, which for him was the greatest open mike on earth. But it pained Do It All Dad to still not be in a position, to buy his son, Art Show USA the GI Joe, SS Flagg, Aircraft Carrier for his son’s 7th birthday, snowboard lessons, a vintage pair of Freezie Freakies on eBay with the Thundercat’s on it, anything but more copies of his impossible to find books on Amazon.  Reality is, Art Show USA provided book cover color consultation on all 4 of Do It All Dad’s books so far and he adored his Do It All Dad book’s so much, he took a screensaver picture for his remote learning school issued computer, holding all 4 of his his dear dada’s books, exuding a beamish prideful through association inside and out. 7 years on this earth after Art Show USA was born, almost a decade, and Do It All Dad needed to fight harder than ever to keep his elusive dreams of comedic literary superstardom alive. Do It All Dad’s son loved his Dad’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast to and didn’t want his dad to perform more sheets of comedy gold on it without having to worry about mom threatening to kick him out the house again because of his lack of money generating power.

So, Do It All Dad got an idea while making lunch for his son one day, The Sun Butter Challenge. What if Do It All Dad went into business with his gorgeous son who could smile on cue without breaking into hives in the process and daddy became his Agent, booking him as the new face for Sun Butter Gold foods, located in Sunflower country, Bismarck, North Dakota, which could lead to Do It All Dad snagging enough loot sack to buy his family the Porsche Comedy Gold Mobile, a new lake house summer home in Lake George, NY for his son’s GJ Joe SS Flagg and enough money to fiancé writing more books without ever having to bite his tongue while being offered a career consultation email from LinkedIn, considering the gaps of wrath of his corporate America resume ever again. Do It All Dad’s son, Art Show USA possessed the sunbeam smile, few other kids could match with such star powered gleaming light. So if Do It All Dad couldn’t get a job interview for a junior copywriter position at let’s say Sun Gold Foods in Bismarck, North Dakota, which boasts full employment to the point, where they could use some extra creative firepower, knowing it’s also the least visited state in the grand old USA, then Do It All Dad could create a job for himself as his son’s personal manager, calling himself on LinkedIn the Sun Gold Hunter, so he can finally capitalize in a big time cashing in way off all of his new business development, cold calling centric, IT headhunter background in both in LA and Manhattan, where he slaved weekends away when he wasn’t trying to write new scripts or jokes, researching new IT Directors or Chief Marketing Officers to cold call the following week, again and again.

Do It All Dad was old school and had no problem cold calling men and woman in powers of authority who controlled staffing budgets in a NY Minute. Plus, Do It All Dad took perverse pleasure working around HR humpbacks, which as a whole were major business to business cock blockers, who ruined the love connection potential between a hurting hiring manager and staffing solution specialist Headhunter to the rescue like Do IT All Dad fashioned himself to be in this instance.  Do It All Dad also learned from his headhunting days, how passion is always picked up over the phone, so he’d have no problem conveying the head of Sun Butter Gold products in Bismarck, North Dakota, what a gross disservice to mankind, they’d be doing for refraining from making his American made beautiful boy, Art Show USA, the permanent franchise face of Sun Gold Food products, which would double annual sales from 4 million to 8 million in the first week alone, guaranteed.

Now, Do It All Dad is pitching his son as the new face for Sun Butter with the Chief Marketing Officer through Zoom. Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer looks confused. Do It All Dad says, “You look confused Cheryl. I want my son to star in The Sun Butter Challenge campaign across America, similar to what they did with the Pepsi Challenge back in the day, when kids had stronger immunities to bullying, Kurt Cobain excluded. He longed to retreat into his pre-fame bubble without having to rummage through his Grandma’s closet for another ugly, lime sweater to wear at the MTV Music Awards, I get it.” Cheryl, the CMO for Sun Butter Gold products says, “So, where’s Art Show USA? How do you expect me to hire you 2 as a packaged deal to do the creative and performing in these Sun Butter Challenges campaigns, without me seeing, the sun butter smile to light up a thousand suns? The same smile which will double our sales in a year, according to your fuzzy Math estimates, knowing you still have to count with your fingers for simple arthmitic, which I read in one of your blog posts, in case you think we just ignored the totality of your digital fingerprint on the Internet all together, because your son is the star smile attraction, we’re really after.”

Do It All Dad says, “Art Show, come in Dada’s office for a minute. “Art Show says, “You mean you’re bedroom Dada? Do It All Dad says, “Thanks for reminding me and for destroying what little sales leverage I have left without you flashing your smile through Zoom for the Sun King Maker to see.” Art Show hops on his dear Dada’s lap, and smiles. “Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer says, “Wow, you’re Dada isn’t another full of shit New Yorker after all. Are you ready to be a star kiddo?” Art Show USA says, “Just give my Dada 10 percent of everything I make for a finder’s fee and give him final cut approval on all commercials and print campaigns starring my Sun Butter Smile and you got yourself a deal.” Can I go back to building my Harry Potter, Astronomy Tower now? Dada starts singing with jubilant heart, “Sun Butter King’s stock is rising, rising.” Next Do It All Dad adds, ” King Arthur, my kid eclipses his star power limited to Disney fable books, nobody reads anymore, oh, I can’t take no more.” Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, says, “Would you mind if we put Sunflowers in your son’s hair, the LBGT community will lick it up, lick it up, oh, oh, oh! What, you think you’re the only Kiss fan who resents how Nirvana’s Nevermind was the death blow shot heard around the world that killed off carefree Hair Metal Pop rock forever.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Wailing Wall Of Metal

Eddie Van Halen is the reason I’ve finger tapped endless Friday nights away, whenever my wife is out of the house, leaving me free to blare Eruption on Vinyl and use my kids like mini air guitar appendages, which is what dreams are made of. In these moments of high kicking, rip roaring delight, I’m able to let my hair down, relive my age of innocence and become in touch with what made my unsure, pubescent putz plagued self, come roaring to life like no other, Heavy Metal music.

But it was pictures of Heavy Metal guitarists such as the late great Eddie Van Halen who received prominent placement throughout my childhood bedroom, which I affectionally nicknamed The Wailing Wall Of Metal, in the pilot episode of a TV show I tried selling to VH1 Classic called Heavy Metal High.

The first time I heard the haunting, stuck in time, Church bell clang on Hells Bells by AC/DC, my pubescent soul, no longer felt like an amorphous void of scaredy-cat goo. It was as if God came down from Heaven himself through my boom box of yesteryear to tell me, “You’re more metal than you think kid. And you’ll only start living, when you get out of your self-esteem strangling head already, which is what Heavy Metal is doing to you right now. So stop acting like another Richard Lewis in the making.  As you can see, I also breath renewed life into knock kneed, putz prone kids like yourself through AC/DC to. Your manly metamorphosis has begun. You’re welcome.”

So it was only fitting for me to eventually receive my TV writing break, which was 15 years in the making, when I was hired by VH1 Classic to write all the TV Host reads for America’s Hard 100, which ranked the greatest hard rock and heavy metal videos of all time. But the 1st time I heard the song Eruption at my all Jewish sleepaway camp in Kent, Connecticut, it felt like a meteor shower blasted through my Hanes Tighty Whities, which amplified my Heavy Metal loving soul with a higher octane surge of propulsive might than ever before.

The most special thing about Eddie Van Halen’s music making career, is being blessed to play with his son Wolfgang for a living. His son Wolfgang, who was taught to play piano, bass and drums posted on Instagram, “I couldn’t have asked for a better father.” He got to make magical metal with his dad, which is what made Eddie Van Halen feel most in touch with the divine. He was quoted as saying “I couldn’t wait to make music with my son.” Because from what I’ve read, Eddie Van Halen wanted to transfer his love of creation through songwriting and guitar playing, which is what made him feel most alive, knowing he constantly made comments about wanting to make the most of his God given blessed talents.

No wonder the late great Eddie Van Halen kept running to his son Wolfgang to play more majestic metal music again and again.   Also, the name Van Halen is an homage to the family name, because Eddie’s brother Alexander Arthur Van Halen, their longtime drummer, was also one of the founding members of the band, responsible for the band’s signature funk filled, pounding backbeat, which I got the entire world off its feet.

Long live Van Halen’s wailing wall of metal. Van Halen ruled on top of the metal world for more than a while. Wolfgang’s professed love of his dearly departed father on Instagram really got to me, strumming my heart strings ever so light, because his dad gave him the opportunity to dream and boy did he love his dad back for it, for making him feel like the center of his universe, instead of the reverse. And that’s how you know when it’s love. Sammy Hagar lives.

Michael Kornbluth