Do It All Dad Does Decadence

If my 10-year wedding anniversary celebration was less than lackluster, knowing my Koshtertarian menu options were limited to a fried fish sandwich, then, I’m not going to lose any sleep over my premature celebration of my daughter’s upcoming 10th birthday over some whitefish salad smeared on top of toasty crisp, bagels from nearby Goldberg’s in Katonah, NY this weekend, with my favorite person in the universe, before her 2 younger brothers were born, no offense mom. We had a good run while it lasted, but neither of us can compare the depths of our former love to what our 3 beamish rays of sunshine offer us, who are fuss free 98 percent of time because controlling our kids can make our kids great again, and our kids largely thanks to my Do It All Dad molding, are as good as it gets.  

Almost a decade ago, I yelled at my dad for the 1st time ever, with major divine powered, you better respect my life blaster authority feeling, for making my newborn baby girl smell like Don Draper’s corpse if he chose to forsake Lucky Strike’s for Tareyton 100’s, assuming he stayed with the Jewish department store heiress, Rachel Whinestein from Madmen, and got hooked on them one summer in Israel. I’ll also never forget the reaction from my mother, almost a decade ago in our Queens apartment on the outskirts of Astoria, NY, when she calls me after I went totally ballistic on my father for ruining his granddaughter’s April fresh smell out of the womb. Mom says, “I can’t believe you yelled at your father like that. But if I have to choose, I choose your father every time.” Wow, and I thought Gore Vidal had mommy issues. I haven’t thought of this depressingly dreary moment in ages, yet the idea of siding with your legally bound partner in love from the wedding alter, versus your own flesh and blood, unless your own kid, writes obituary headlines for Rolling Stone such as, “Rush Limbaugh Did His Best To Ruin America”, is beyond me. Working for NPR as a curated news opinion blogger is a tad better knowing they’re not afraid to rip the glaring inefficiencies embedded in our US postal service knowing it’s just another glaring extension, of federally run, ruined, overreach. But I thought big government was the answer to all our problems like removal of Holocaust history at Bronx public schools or penalization of high achieving Asian students because black power and self-reliance are outdated concepts such as good, banging intellectual rap or goaltending in Basketball knowing the NBA is going to bend over backwards to let Lebron win more rings than Jordan because it exists now as a safe space for the king of the persecution’s complex’s ego. So what difference does it make? The infinitely funnier Rush Limbaugh lives because I was blessed with the funny Jew bone, holla, thank you very much.

But Rush Limbaugh was a bigoted feminist hater because he insisted the Woman’s March on Washington looked like a whole bunch of Rosie’s sporting a whole lot of chin’s, while thinking, “Talk about stretching your pussy hat supply thin.” Wait a minute, that’s my material on debut comedy record Resist This, except when my mom asked, “Did my beautiful granddaughter Matilda watch the Woman’s March on Washington? I said, “Yeah mom, but only after I insisted, she watch the march on CNN in a full length burka, to see she had nothing to bitch about in comparison. Plus, Matilda is finally learning how to read mom. So, the last thing I need in my life, is her trying to make out one of those protest signs, asking, “Daddy, what’s pa, pa, pussy power? Is that a new show on Amazon prime?”

Well, that was pleasant stroll down memory lane, and I didn’t get to the point, when almost a decade ago, my father says, “I don’t know how we’re related.” And this was after I splurged on white fish salad, bialy’s and Sturgeon from Russ and Daughter’s in honor of their 1st grandchild not smelling like Don Draper’s dead corpse drenched in Aramis just yet.

My daughter, Singing Rose Kornbluth can read my books now such as The Great American Jew Novel where she plays my 9-year-old agent to make my do it all dad year come true but she’s too busy making flashlights from scratch for her science class to put a spotlight on my labors of love just yet. She also loved the White Fish salad, even more than us learning about fancy adjectives to describe it such as delicate, which was a funny adjective choice to use when doing a Mad Libs later that night, based on the subject of George Washington, who wasn’t an easily triggered, Millennial Mouseketeer or critical thought impaired, news idea fed, baby boomer last time I checked either.

If Do It All Dad decides to retire in Florida way down the line, at least now, I know my Do It All Daughter will love me enough to send me care packages from Russ Daughter’s whenever she’s not too busy lighting the universe, with her majestic, awe inspiring touch she has on everybody blessed enough to come in contact with such hilariously sweet poetry in motion. I can’t wait to take her to Tavern On The Green to celebrate me finally getting a lit agent, although according to Soundcloud, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan, which is the literary hub of Pakistan.  So, retiring to Pakistan, after I cash in from my a plus gem studded, stand up comedy special, Do It All Dad Does Pakistan, could be a hilarious climax to this fairytale father daughter, adventure tale.

Do It All Dad doesn’t do pork, so I’m off to a strong start in city of Lahore, Pakistan, already. Plus, they have nukes, generate 84 billion in GDP, and boast a thriving industry called Lollywood. Do It All Dad Does Lollywood has a better ring than Do It All Dad Does Pakistan actually. It has all the makings of the most hilarious standup concert comedy film ever. Fuck you Eddie. I can rock a King Solomon royal purple jacket to.

What’s my new 10-year plan? Become the king of comedy in Lahore baby.  Together, my daughter and I can plug Russ and Daughter’s and make their gift packages flush with white fish salad go viral. Shit, they can even sponsor the stand-up comedy tour and will call it Decade of Decadence, indulging the locals of Lahore with plenty of saggy tits Sarah Silverman jokes to hold them over till Ramadan ends.

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 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more 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, which 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 to.


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 what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision 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 out 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 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 the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “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 mother, 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 the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you 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 to.  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, 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, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. 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 and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing 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.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Mustard House Is For Sale

Once upon a time in 1903, there was a Stay-At-Home dad Bukowski Kornbluth, who lived in the derided Mustard House within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, 40 miles north of the original Yankee stadium known as Hilltop Park in Washington Heights, before it became a cocaine pick up haven for suburban kids in the eighties throughout Westchester Country, who required more stimulation that what the leafy suburbs and colonial house populated streets, offered, knowing the only thing getting blown on a regular basis there were leaves.  

Every day, Bukowski Kornbluth would stare at his newborn son Arthur and bemoan, “I can’t believe Hasbro, rejected my game Condiment Land over Candy Land, those Anti-Semite, bastards.”  Prior, Bukowski Kornbluth worked as a shoeshine boy outside of Grand Central, making enough to live off Hebrew National dogs but that was it. Now, he was developing a stomach ulcer at ripe old age of 25, and was married to an Irish nurse, Chloe Duffy, who he got pregnant by mistake because pulling out on time was physically impossible, knowing Bukowski Kornbluth blew his load in 1.1 seconds flat.

After Chole Duffy’s prominent fireman lieutenant dad died, she inherited some money and made a down payment on the Mustard House, while using her collection of rare Irish whiskies her father collected, tracing all the way back to Rob Roy times for collateral because Bukowski Kornbluth was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under Judicial Review.

Even during his shoe-shining days, Bukowski had dreams of becoming a professional songwriter because growing up in a cramped tenement on the Lower East Side, with 9 other siblings, it was the radio, which filled him with dreamy, big city success wonder, which made going to sleep still hungry again a tad more tolerable knowing his dad’s career as a pickle sales rep for Kosher Dill Delights wasn’t getting them a townhouse on Park Avenue anytime soon either.

Now more than anything, Bukowski Kornbluth wanted to write a better song than, “The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous, to take him out of his Mustard House jail, so he could finally enjoy some bright lights, big city success for himself.

But one day, things changed when Bukowski had the radio on at home to hear the Yankees play, after he started throwing Cracker Jacks at his newborn son Arthur because he was hungover from drinking too many Rob Roy’s alone, because his nurse wife worked nights and he was stuck at home with his son again on Shabbat, with nowhere else to go but down self-pity lane, which was getting tiresome and beyond boring at this point in his life.

Growing up in the Lower East Side, Bukowski Kornbluth was a solid Stick Ball hitter, earning him the nickname, Yard Blaster, which certainly beat the nickname his putz prone, younger brother earned on those same streets, Trips on Curbs. What if instead of writing songs about ex-loves and depleted dreams, Bukowski Kornbluth could refocus his attention on baseball and dreams of being a big shot at the ballgame for a much cheerier, less depressingly dreary change of pace. 

Bukowski Kornbluth continues to pelt his son with more Cracker Jacks, yelling, “Duck, Cracker Jack attack.” Then an idea ẻmerged and Bukowski Kornbluth says , “I finally got it this time kid. I’ll write a song about going to the ballgame, for anything except more fucking hotdogs to remind me of this damn Mustard House. But what if the object of universal interest I focus my song on is Cracker Jack. Old Bet, the famous circus elephant was buried ín Sommers outside the famed Elephant Hotel in nearby Sommers, so I’ll write about grabbing some peanuts at the ball game in his honor to. There’s no reason why I can’t write a hit song about America’s favorite pastime and pigging out at the ball game. It’s a home run kid. Where can I find a pencil? Arthur, give me those crayons, if you haven’t eaten them up already. Despite me being miserable about being an unemployed Stay At Home Dad in the sticks, it doesn’t mean I love you any less Arthur. But Stay At Home Dads can’t survive unless they got something grander to aim for in life besides being a loving, proud dad and this is my last shot, to hit one out of the park kid. Never stop swinging hard for the fences Arthur. You’re an all-American slugger like daddy, I can feel it in you, just by the way you made me partially deaf from smacking me in the ear with your rattle once.”  

Bukowski Kornbluth wrote Take Me Out To TheBall Game as his son Arthur finally got to sleep in a pool of his own Cracker Jack vomit.  One year later, Bukowski Kornbluth got introduced at Yankee Stadium, then known as Hilltop Stadium and waved his Yankee Hat to all the adoring fans in attendance, raining down hollering praise for the man, who wrote the official father son bonding anthem for baseball games in America. Now, his son Arthur pulls on his Dad’s leg as the cheers grow even more vociferous for the Do It All Dad done good and says, “I got a Honus Wagner rookie card, dad.”  Bukowski Kornbluth says, “Stop ruining the moment kid. They just sell you the cards for free gum.” Arthur says, “I think it will be worth something someday dad. Also, can you remind why I’m can’t stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack again?

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The F You Pizza Bagel Supreme

I’ve never outgrown my love of hair metal or temptation to try any pizza bagel; regardless of it conjuring memories of icky frost burn or blue balls on the slow dance floor at Bar Mitzvah parties back in the day before dick picks became the death of small talk. I strongly recommend making your own Pizza Bagels, assuming you live in New York and have access to bomb sesame bagels, flush with endless crackle crunch and doughy lightness greatness within, versus the cardboard coated, Einstein Bagels, which suffer from extreme shrinkage problems, tasting like synthetic, mass produced, carbs for older than dirt Jews in Florida who are more fixated with getting their cream cheese fix by any means necessary, assuming they have fuck up kids, who can’t even handle airmailing them smoked salmon and bagels from Russ and Daughter’s for special occasions instead. 

Bagels are a source of pride for native New Yorkers like 24-hour Greek diners, 4 am last calls or the old school Yankee Stadium, before the new one was built, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. I still don’t understand why other states outside of NY and New Jersey suck at making bagels so much. The other day, I’m in a riffing mood, so nothing new, and go on a mini rant about a new double IPA offering by Stone Brewing from San Diego with my local beer guy at Decicco’s nearby is Sommers, NY and say, ” That new double IPA tall boy from Stone, for 3 bucks a pop is an incredible deal for a double IPA, which tastes so damn mineral fresh rich. I’m convinced San Diego has access to some special reserve water stream, that gives the f you to New York state’s highly hailed natural tap water reservoirs, which cascade all the way down from the Catskills Mountains and gorges from Ithaca, NY, my old school stomping ground when I attended Ithaca College, otherwise known as Cornell’s, retarded next door neighbor. But I was in the much-hyped Roy H. Park School Of Communications, so I could take a couple of bingers back in the day and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.”  

It’s especially hard to bite your tongue whenever your English mother-in-law from Manchester, relocated to Greenville, Delaware in Biden country, who had to share a bucket growing up for number 2’s, goes off, on the alleged superior, more compact bagels of England. Sure, the brits make better bagels than Italians, Jews and illegal Mexicans in NY, who will mostly likely die on the job, in fucking triple masked masks, uttering, “No more whole wheat everything bagels. Choke on a calzone Cuomo, you Punta bitch,” the end.

Now every town doesn’t have access to cured, delectable, fishy free neutralizing, deep orange hued sliced slivers of nova salmon made to be paired with a toasted sesame bagel on top of a fairly medium, homemade cream cheese smear, the way constellations of moles belong on uppity, English wenches residing in Chelsea and beyond. So, what can you do to spice up a bagel to outshine a homemade pizza bagel using your own homemade spiced up Rao’s tomato sauce, interspersed with loads of sliced off garlic and pulverized, always juicy fresh, cooked down San Marzano tomatoes, which make you proud to be on a friendly 1st name basis with most pizza maker Italian Americans? Easy, make your homemade salsa, with cherry tomatoes, 3 substantial Jalapenos, a mini me handful of fresh cilantro leaves, a crescent moon size of red onion, a bulb of garlic, thrown into the Cuisinart mixer for 4 swirl rips or more, and you’re already more than halfway there to the promised F You Pizza Bagel Supreme Land.

The last step is shredding some cheddar, New York made is fine to, which adds assertive, musky heft while pairing beautifully with the sweet yet warming, springy fresh salsa, prompting your kids to murmur while still chewing with mouths half full, “This is a delicious daddy, but give me more salsa next time and be funnier than Weird Al before my birthday or I’ll kill you with our sharpest knife for real this time.”  

The Mexican Jew Boy Bagel Supreme is so good, even ANTIFA would cater a Shiva with them for a killed ICE agent on Presidents Day, in Boca Raton, with you know who in town, passing through.

Michael Kornbluth

The F You Pizza Bagel Supreme

I’ve never outgrown my love of hair metal or temptation to try any pizza bagel; regardless of it conjuring memories of icky frost burn or blue balls on the slow dance floor at Bar Mitzvah parties back in the day before dick picks became the death of small talk. I strongly recommend making your own Pizza Bagels, assuming you live in New York and have access to bomb sesame bagels, flush with endless crackle crunch and doughy lightness greatness within, versus the cardboard coated, Einstein Bagels, which suffer from extreme shrinkage problems, tasting like synthetic, mass produced, carbs for older than dirt Jews in Florida who are more fixated with getting their cream cheese fix by any means necessary, assuming they have fuck up kids, who can’t even handle airmailing them smoked salmon and bagels from Russ and Daughter’s for special occasions instead. 

Bagels are a source of pride for native New Yorkers like 24-hour Greek diners, 4 am last calls or the old school Yankee Stadium, before the new one was built, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. I still don’t understand why other states outside of NY and New Jersey suck at making bagels so much. The other day, I’m in a riffing mood, so nothing new, and go on a mini rant about a new double IPA offering by Stone Brewing from San Diego with my local beer guy at Decicco’s nearby is Sommers, NY and say, ” That new double IPA tall boy from Stone, for 3 bucks a pop is an incredible deal for a double IPA, which tastes so damn mineral fresh rich. I’m convinced San Diego has access to some special reserve water stream, that give the f you to New York state’s highly hailed natural tap water reservoirs, which cascade all the way down from the Catskills Mountains and gorges from Ithaca, NY, my old school stomping ground when I attended Ithaca College, otherwise known as Cornell’s, retarded next door neighbor. But I was in the much-hyped Roy H. Park School Of Communications, so I could take a couple of bingers back in the day and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.”  

It’s especially hard to bite your tongue whenever your English mother-in-law from Manchester, relocated to Greenville, Delaware in Biden country, who had to share a bucket growing up for number 2’s, goes off, on the alleged superior, more compact bagels of England. Sure, the brits make better bagels than Italians, Jews and illegal Mexicans in NY, who will mostly likely die on the job, in fucking triple masked masks, uttering, “No more whole wheat everything bagels. Choke on a calzone Cuomo, you Punta bitch,” the end.

Now every town doesn’t have access to cured, delectable, fishy free neutralizing, deep orange hued sliced slivers of nova salmon made to be paired with a toasted sesame bagel on top of a fairly medium, homemade cream cheese smear, the way constellations of moles belong on uppity, English wenches residing in Chelsea and beyond. So, what can you do to spice up a bagel to outshine a homemade pizza bagel using your own homemade spiced up Rao’s tomato sauce, interspersed with loads of sliced off garlic and pulverized, always juicy fresh, cooked down San Marzano tomatoes, which make you proud to be on a friendly 1st name basis with most pizza maker Italian Americans? Easy, make your homemade salsa, with cherry tomatoes, 3 substantial Jalapenos, a mini me handful of fresh cilantro leaves, a crescent moon size of red onion, a bulb of garlic, thrown into the Cuisinart mixer for 4 swirl rips or more, and you’re already more than halfway there to the promised F You Pizza Bagel Supreme Land.

The last step is shredding some cheddar, New York made is fine to, which adds assertive, musky heft while pairing beautifully with the sweet yet warming, springy fresh salsa, prompting your kids to murmur while still chewing with mouths half full, “This is a delicious daddy, but give me more salsa next time and be funnier than Weird Al before my birthday or I’ll kill you with our sharpest knife for real this time.”  

The Mexican Jew Boy Bagel Supreme is so good, even ANTIFA would cater a Shiva for a killed ICE agent on Presidents Day, in Boca Raton, with you know who in town, passing through.

Michael Kornbluth

The Magical Mini-Me Meatball Tour

I’m at a vintage bookstore that sells used records and CD’s to buy another last-minute gift add on for my son’s endless birthday party weekend, despite his big brother constantly pointing out, “It’s not your birthday anymore. I don’t care how much Daddy is loving you more than me.  I bought John Lennon’s greatest hits on CD for 4 bucks, just so I could sample some John Lennon material on the owner like I just paid my one drink minimum for a Pap’s Blue Ribbon to do 4 minutes at the Eastville Comedy Club before becoming a full-time Stay-At-Comedian, 3 kids later and say, “On my Do It All Dad Year Podcast I state, I’ve written 4 books and recorded 400 plus podcast since my lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years, after Paul McCartney shamed John Lennon into becoming a Stay-At-Home Dad from writing Hey Jude, to console his 1st abandoned son, he wanted nothing to do with before having his 2nd child Sean with Yoko, to give involved fatherhood another shot. Still, 2 minutes into a baby stroll throughout Central Park West, 1 day into playing the role of a loving, emotionally present, Stay-At-Home Dad, John Lennon screams up at the sky, “Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul.  All the Primal Scream Therapy isn’t helping.”

John Lennon experimented with being a vegetarian yet always found a way to sneak meat into his diet after realizing what havoc Yoko’s Bean Curd Smoothies did on his sex drive, exchanging his lost, druggy, groupie drilling years in LA in favor of snuggling Yoko on too much CIA secret stash strong ACID, delivered by Dr. Timothy Leary personally, to make it another merry free Christmas, and creepy conjuring new year. At the same time, John Lennon could’ve lived anywhere in the world, but chose Central Park West in the Dakota building instead, knowing any starving artist or not could afford a bowl of good spaghetti and meatballs at Carmines on Broadway after scrapping together enough bread.

I used to have lunch dates with a pretty girl from PA named Holly at Carmines and we’d split the meatball parm hero there, which was Big Pussy with bad back problems huge. The meatball hero was also served with a side of crispy yet light Cesar Salad with fresh baked croutons, tasting as polished distinguished as the sumptuous, moist throughout, ultra inhalatory, meatballs, begging to disappear in your belly within a NY minute.  Subway Meatballs these weren’t, because they were bigger, rounder, juicier balls of balling, big time pimping perfection. Now, sometimes softball size meatballs are a turnoff, if they remind of your putz prone dad staining his nice dress shirts again after work at hard 6:30 at the latest, during Kosher meatball and spaghetti night, only for your mom to blurt out again, “Steven, you stained your shirt again. Remind me again, why I converted to marry into this.” Only for my father to reply with, “Carol, if you never met me, you would’ve married some nerd, whose mother would’ve been intimated by your perfect MATH SAT score to.”

My ex-girlfriend who went to Columbia, introduced me to the meatball pie at Lombardi’s in SOHO when we visited my parents and friends back east during winter holiday break once after living together in West Hollywood for the past year. I was blown away, knowing no Turkey Meatball, drenched in delectable, never too syrupy rich, plum sauce from our nearby Gelson’s grocery store on Santa Monica Blvd. could ever match the vastly superior, air light might of these mini me meatballs ever.

When I lived in West Hollywood, I had my mom buy me the Soprano’s Cookbook and learned how real deal Italian meatballs, used a killer combination of ground pork, sirloin and veal while also using plum Roma Tomatoes to be later boiled and peeled after dropping them into a cold-water bath soon after to part the skins from their tender loving juiciness, itching to be unfurled with scatterings of peeled garlic and diced up fine shreds of Italian Parsley inside. I actually felt like a semi-functioning adult back then, going to the Farmer’s Market at the Grove to buy the different meats for Tony Soprano’s homemade meatballs versus splurging at the far pricier supermarket chain Bristol Farms, walking distance, not that anybody walks anywhere LA, from the 4 Seasons in Beverly Hills, because despite my rent controlled apartment on Harper Street in West Hollywood back then, my inner Jew couldn’t justify the more extravagant price point purchase just yet, despite shopping there more likely putting me in contact with George Plimpton loading up on more organic vanilla bean ice cream to serve Ronald Regan and Nancy after taking in a home screening documentary on Kurt Cobain triggering, Howdy Dowdy.  These meatballs, using the holy trinity of pork, veal and sirloin ground meat were so good, I shot off death stares at my ex-girlfriend, for offering my bountiful leftovers to her best friend from Bel Air, who was a member of the Nordstrom family, before they stopped selling Ivanka’s statuesque working girl shoes, because most yenta breaths in Manhattan failed to fill out her longer, shapely size lines, I guess.

I’ll still never forgive my dad, for dumping pounds of meatball heroes made for my Bar Mitzvah party by his close friend and famed chef of Bronx made fame, Carmine, who had nothing do with Carmines off Broadway outside of his artisan genius being lumped together with what native New Yorker’s considered a glamorized, middle America size catering, tourist trap, which is unfortunate because both restaurants make you proud to be a beneficiary of eastern standard, heartwarming, Italian American cooking again and again.  

Now, my daughter is taking weirded out bites from my homemade mini me reconstructionist meatballs to kickstart my son’s 4-year birthday weekend celebration in extra rollicking high gear, which used Rao’s Tomato Sauce to save me time, after sautéing these mini balled beauties in expensive, extra virgin olive oil, fresh chopped parsley and ample sprinklings of shaved garlic and red-hot chili pepper flakes, to take this Eastern standard spaghetti and meatball dish so much higher.  I can’t get mad at my daughter’s weirded out bites, despite me making them mini meatballs, so she wouldn’t be so freaked from staring down a fistful of cow at a time, knowing she’s only been eating Kosher meat, since my Koshertarian Comedian project to get my kids excited about giving the Koshtertarian Diet began.

I cooked the mini-me meatballs in the sauce under a low heat with the cover for a solid hour, which paid huge dividends, making it more than worth the weight, especially after I spot her younger brother, Arthur, hunched over in a perpetual, soul tantalizing, attack mode, uttering every other neat yet mountainous inhale, “This is really yummy daddy.”

Growing up, the Kosher Butcher store was always a turnoff because the Butchers there always seemed like they literally slept in raw pink meat. Now, that pubescent concern is a thing of the past, as I proceeded to finish off my mini me meatball birthday creation for breakfast and lunch the following the day to embrace reimaged eastern standard greatness and celebrate a newborn dad kind of love, offering the possibility of more success filled tomorrows, to make 2021 by most glorious year yet, back again, in a New York groove.  

Michael Kornbluth

The Eulogy Ghost Writer

Do It All Dad had a bit in his old standup comedy act called Wise Black Grandma, where he’d say, “If I could do it again, I would’ve subbed my no show whiny Jewish Grandma for a wise black Grandma to fill in her place at my wedding instead. Post an ad on Craigs List, “Wise Black Grandma need for a wedding in Woodstock. Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome, must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only.”  Growing up, Do It All Dad grew a fondness, teetering on full blown love for his substitute Grandpa Ed, who exuded the furry browed, warm hearted, wiser glint you’d expect from a retired Jewish estate tax lawyer from Queens, in his button up, neatly woven sweaters and whiff of well put together after shave.

Becoming a grandpa doesn’t make you into Santa Claus, yet Grandpa Ed, his substitute Grandpa, who his Jewish Grandma Ethel remarried soon after the death of her 1st husband Murray, would shell out an always, neat, crisp 5 dollar bill for the grandkid who found the Afikoman which is the half broken piece of Matzah little Jewish kids go looking for after dinner for Passover, which was a nice, cheer filled touch to celebrate the Jewish people’s liberation from slavery in honor of God’s hardcore divine intervention years, on the behalf of his chosen people, meant to become cosmic perfectionist lovers of TV, who lived to complain in restaurants about unrecognized, immediate service.

Now, Grandpa Ed had a grandson from his 1st marriage, yet you didn’t get that distinct impression based on the eulogy he delivered on his grandpa’s behalf and Roger was billed as the really smart one because he played chess and wore plenty of turtlenecks, which gives you 10 extra IQ points easy.  Grandpa Ed was dead now and Roger who later went to Harvard was supposed to be giving a heartfelt eulogy in honor of his biological grandfather, not his rebound one, yet merely reading some boring letter his original wife wrote to Grandpa Ed, devoid of any juicy details such as their sweaty sex period after World War  2, when she used to lick Ice Cream Bonbons off his bellybutton during those brutally hot summer Queens nights, before Grandpa passed the bar, become a family estate tax lawyer and could afford an AC unite of their own, failed to bring back any semblance of real deal connective feeling either.

Eulogies really do separate the men from the ungrateful twats such as Roger, who couldn’t muster up a single original, expressive remembrance of his dead biological grandfather, who treated him like the 2nd coming of Bobby Fisher.  Eulogies also reveal if Grandpa raised a cunt for brains daughter to. Now, there’s a good kind of gaul and a bad kind of gaul. Faye, Roger’s, clammy, insincere peppy, patronizing, style free, tad stumpy mother, showcased the worst kind of gaul, when during her eulogy, she went for the kishke’s, meaning the intestines in Yiddish by openly declaring permanent f you season on Do It All Dad’s grandma when she said with what felt like manufactured, dialed up invective, “I’m just glad that now Dad can join mom now in heaven”, which was a low blow on par with Mini Me trying to gnaw off Austin’s Power’s Nuts, In The Spy That Shagged Me.”  

Now, in the limo ride to the grave site, Faye asks Do It All Dad, a 20-year-old college junior at the time, “You didn’t write your eulogy did, you? He says, “No, my mom wrote it for me Faye.” Faye almost stutters and says, “Well, I just thought.”  The 20-year-old Do It All Dad adds, “You thought what Faye, I hired a eulogy ghost writer with my bus boy tip money this summer in Cape Cod. My eulogy was well received by the Rabbi because it sprang from my heart Faye. Regardless, if Grandpa Ed was my rebound grandpa or not, he still treated me like I was his own grandson worthy of his wisdom and love. I recall him telling me how to place my feet when using a 7 iron once, which is more than my own dad ever taught me besides a half-formed hook shot. Wasn’t there anything Roger could’ve mentioned to honor his legacy outside of reading an old letter his 1st wife wrote? Reality is, your son Roger, the genius, is the one guilty of plagiarizing, by stealing the memories contained in an old letter your mom wrote, to fill in the lapse of having any soul serenade sermon to deliver on his own. And where do you get the gaul to disrespect my grandmother at her dead husband’s funeral, regardless, if you feel her endlessly manic bi-polar art buying spree of southwest American Indian art, being responsible for draining his will to live one second more either. Also, Jews focus on more Mitzvah and doing good for the sake of doing good hear on Earth, without the intention of sole financial gain or promised hooked up afterlife in Heaven, where all sins are cleared, even if Grandpa Ed asked Jesus to forgive him for raising such a cunt for brains like yourself. Do I have way with words or what? But I’m positive Roger will make an excellent food coloring chemist for Johnson and Johnson to overcompensate for his color free personality, which he could thank you for inheriting at your funeral to.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth   

The Flipper Baby Side

On February 12th, Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born, compared to his grandmother Mimi who was born on February 13th, which finally offered undeniable, certifiable proof that God wasn’t picking on Do It All Dad’s wife anymore. February 12th is also Abe Lincoln’s birthday, which held special significance within the Kornbluth family, especially on the southern side, where Do It All Dad’s mom hailed from, because their great, great, great, great Grandfather Austin Gallagher saved his boyhood friend Abe Lincoln from drowning, which is the greatest presidential save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby.  The worst part about this story is how after Abe tripped on a log cabin while crossing Knob Creek in a rush to get home on time for Racoon Soup Night, he pressured his dear friend Austin to never tell anyone about saving him from drowning to death because he a had a vision while gasping for air within the limestone laced waters of Kentucky, how one day, he’d be the man responsible for helping liberate the black man from the chains of slavery and he wouldn’t be looked upon as a serious saver, knowing he was a worst swimmer than they. One time, Do It All Dad held an Astrology Off among his 3 kids after Chosen Curls was born between his older brother and sister, Art Show USA and Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, meaning they compared famous men and woman born on their birthdays. Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo had Abe on his list and Arsenio Hall from Coming To America. Matilda’s other younger brother Art Show USA, otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day, had Mini Me and Paul Revere on his list and all she had was Peter Sarsgaard, prompting her to blurt out in progressively pissed off disgust, “I don’t like this Astrology Off anymore. Nobody I love like Shakira or Mel Brooks was born on my birthday.” Do It All Dad gives her added unwelcome grief, and says, “Pisces are very competitive.”

Now, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was stuck in the wrong way within his mama’s womb, with his feet facing down toward his exit hole. Normally, Breach Babies, who are positioned to be yanked out of their mama’s fun box, feet first, are either flipped by a doctor to be pushed out headfirst or excavated from the womb through a stomach lacerating C section, which most woman would prefer to avoid, because if you’ve seen one Alien movie, you’ve seen enough.

Chosen Curls was chilling in the womb for 9 months in the wrong way with his toes tingling with delight closer to mama’s vagina versus the way around, which he didn’t mind one bit, knowing he had great looking, inhalatory baby feet, which looked better than most gross, bald baby heads to come out crying out of most vaginas, not nearly as snuggly as this. Mama’s womb housing vagina was so snuggly, Chosen Curls could take endless naps in there on Crystal Meth. Also, Chosen Curls liked being a wrong way baby because it would give him bragging rights one day, when he eventually performed his 1st reverse somersault in the womb, knowing his Do It All Dad was a knock-kneed putz, who got penalized in gym class back in the day for toppling over to the side whenever he tried to sit Indian style while sitting out another game of Kickball on the sidelines for getting eliminated almost immediately again. At the same time, Chosen Curls didn’t want his Mama’s stomach ripped apart, because he refused to flip for mama’s love, out of blatantly premature spite for Mama never encouraging his WWE wrestling career soon after, in his pursuit to become the dreamy child offspring of Andre The Giant and Bruce Lee, while being billed as Hardcore Hurting Hunga.  

Now, it was showtime, Mama was ready to burst, and this birth wasn’t a walk in the park compared to his older brother Art Show USA, who popped out easier than a tin of Altoids in 1 hour flat.  The nurse encouraged mama to push, yet Chosen Curls was taking his sweet ass time to transform himself into a real deal, choke free Flipper Baby after all. Then, Chosen Curls heard his Do It All Dad’s booming voice more so than usual, pierce through mama’s cervix as he barked, “You can do it Samuel. If Rodney could do the Triple Lindy in Back To School, then you can flip for mama’s love to, knowing she remained freak out free from giving up wine for 9 months straight again on your behalf. Also, mama’s vagina is fairly broken in at this point, 2 kids later, in addition to my Hebrew Hammer leaving a substantial dent prior. So let’s get moving, before mama flips you the bird and curses your existence forever, for you denying her the beauty of being yanked out into her arms in one semi seamless motion, versus the Alien stomach mauling coming out birth, pretty please, with extra booger sugar for Uncle Jon, AKA, Sir Snort A Lot on top.” As the delivery doctor grabs Samuel’s head from outside mama’s belly, Chosen Curls performs a seamless reverse baby flip to show his Dada he wasn’t born to be a tense baby like a pubescent Albert Brooks in the making, in Defending Your Life, only for him to grow up becoming a perpetually wound up stress ball on 2 legs, with decades of fear plagued tension embedded within his frozen in time neck.  

Do It All Dad spots his son’s head emerge from Mama’s blessed box , flush with endless life enriching charms and cranks up the volume, blaring, “Homestretch, Samuel, one more push, and Made In The Shade, will be made in the shade. Now, slide out of mama’s snuggle snatch hard, Ricky Henderson style.” Doc pulls Samuel out this time, who emerges into this wildly, unpredictable, God graced, awe inspiring beautifying world, with a full set of hair, which puts Do It All Dad at ease, knowing bald babies with indentations on their heads are gross, all looking like Nurse Jackie dropped them on top of an anvil one too many times after getting the shakes because she’s out of methadone again.

The nurse hands Chosen Curls to his dear Dada to hold tightly to his heart and with his back turned toward Mama he starts bonding with his lucky number 3 saying, “Your big sister, Singing Rose, recognized my voice out of the womb to. I’ve been in love with you since you were a blip of an alien baby on mama’s Ultrasound photograph report. Your brother and sister are the coolest. They’re going to love you so good.”

Eventually, mama interjects and says, “You weren’t housing Samuel for the past 9 months, I was. So, stop boxing me out from my baby and turn around, so I can see the face of my beautiful baby already. Do It All Dad turns around and says, “You handled that well babe. I got carried away hearing my own voice again. At least, for now, we know it has a calming influence unlike a 10-year marriage, which is bound to unleash anybody’s flip-out side.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth