Tag: ideas

8 Million Butterflies

by doitalldadyear, posted in beauty, blogging, books

It’s your fault if you don’t make Hanukkah more festive than Christmas. I get it. Most likely Jesus himself who celebrated Hanukkah with his apostles, even invented Christmas to make the holiday season feel more festive. When the strongest drink offered was Manischewitz before eggnog was invented. Spinning Beastie Boys records while blaring Intergalactic planetary to honor the Aliens in helping his fellow Hebrews build the Great Pyramids wasn’t a thing yet. Can’t all the Jews, Muslims and Christians unite on the 1st night of Hanukkah on the premise behind Home Depot never being erected in the Israelites’ honor? Growing up, I’d push my dad to honor my mom’s Christian side after she converted. I say, “Dad, mom dumped Jesus to marry into your putzy DNA. The least you can do is let mom throw up a tree. Dad says, “The only time a Jew from the Bronx would get a Christmas Tree is if he planned to convert it into a tricked-out Treehouse and flip it for a profit.”

Finally, one year, my year my dad budges and allows my mom this pathetic, sorry excuse for a bonsai tree relegated to the side patio covered in cobwebs that got less touches than a St. James Bible at a bath house colony in Pronvincetown. But seriously, can’t you see Jesus recognizing the festive limitations of Hannukah after receiving one carved dreidel too many? Jesus says, “Thanks for the Dreidel, Judas. I’m glad that my carpentry session on dreidel building 101 at The 92 Street Y paid off so handsomely. But why don’t we make Channukah a more drawn-out celebration that’s ten times festive by celebrating my birthday for the entire month of December after Hannukah.”

Matthew says, “Yeah, but Jesus wouldn’t Hannukah then be considered a forgettable warm act, that gives you ball balls just thinking about it.  You were born my immaculate conception, right? Yet by the time your 4 brothers James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon were born, the magic was gone baby, baby gone.”

Jesus replies, “Yeah, but I had a vision in desert last night about a future comedian named Billy Crystal bemoaning in his autobiography, Baby Boomer Arrogance Never Dies, about how Jews bend over backwards to adopt Christmas traditions, so they don’t feel so old world clingy Jewy. Nobody cares anymore about the rocking band of Maccabees reclaiming the Great Temple of Solomon because they’re not the polytheistic whores like the rest. Taylor Swift is the number recording artists in the future, and she grew up on a Christmas Tree farm for Christ’s sake.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Matthew asks, “What’s a Christmas Tree Jesus? “Jesus says, “A camouflaged cross, but it’s going to be tricked out in lights that run on electricity, which will outshine any burn a mile of minute candles on a Menorah.  Any Jewish record executive would jam a pinecone up their ass if they promised Taylor Swift more inclusiveness gayness spirit to be produced on her next Christmas album.

Now, I used to get very tense about the mention of Jesus, but not anymore, since my invention of a new tradition, Jesus Fridays, which allows me to break my Koshertarian diet of the past 2 years and counting. Understand, I’ve been following the Koshertarian Diet for 2 years now. Finally, I’ve allowed myself the inclusion of shellfish for a special occasion because who cares about eating soulless shellfish? Plus, Jesus, the original super Jew rocked the Pescatarian diet. So, if it’s good enough for Jesus, then it’s good enough for me. I also like the idea of acting less like an all-knowing exalted prick. And celebrating Jesus Fridays inspires me to connect with my fellow Gentile like a retired fireman who runs the best deli in Westchester in North White Plains. Outside my new office, after just resurrecting my IT Headhunter Writer career. Where I’m getting paid to creatively sell job opportunities for Software Engineers, digital designers, and Information Technology workers in general, whose job prospects have more legs than Lieutenant Dan. I like Jesus Fridays because it divorces me from perpetuating any messianic complex of my own, which screams, the original version of the Bible is better than second part that I’ve barely dabbled in for the most part. And I’m tired of being that old timer Gen X guy that just bemoans new age Simpsons episodes as woke filler compared to season 1 through 7 without even dabbling in the newer versions to make any ultra judgy informed decisions of my own. Like when I saw Juno, ages ago and got angry about how everyone was hailing the hardcore hilarity of it, when I saw Juno as nothing more than a poor girls’ Jeanne Garafalo. I wrote a blog about the movie being overhyped, yet I told myself afterwards, don’t be a critic, hack breath like the rest. It’s way better to originate, then merely pontificate. So, I wrote mini porn parody that I turned into my 1st screenplay, Juno Does Williamsburg, later named Brooklyn Blogger. Edgeless titles suck pinecone dick, Challah. Thank you very much.

At the same time, I’ve worn Jewish pride on my sleave for the past 5 years and change as host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, responsible for banging out comedy records such as Big Mouth Moses, Koshertarian Offensive, and the Pig-Headed Jew, Challah. Thank you very much. I’ve also written and published The Great American Jew Novel, which Diane Sullivan from the Midwest Book Review described as a “Hilarious exploration of New York Comedy and Culture.” Which proves that my material wasn’t too overtly Jewy pushy annoying for the Heartland’s tastes. And for the past 2 months, I’ve renamed my Do It All Dad Year Podcast, the Shabat Shalom Ramble, in honor of my dad accusing me of never being on point, despite him proclaiming 5 years ago before I launched my podcast, how nobody cares about my political opinions anyway, 45 thousand page views on my Do It All Dad Year blog later.

 Well, I haven’t read the news since Dominion Machines won. And I don’t see Kari Lake recruiting Linda Hamilton as her VP to take down the new Sky Net For good. Plus, how much more can we stomach talk of Alex Jones being bad Santa versus John Fetterman being a burnt out offering of the Democratic party who looks like the Good Will Grinch who showers in Bong Water. So, more than ever 3 million Jews in the US, according to Alexa, which is most likely an inflated claim, like Antifa still being nothing more than an idea in Patton Oswalt graphic novels, about a gang of wannabe Punisher vigilantes, in hoodies, could use some miraculous ways to modernize Hannukah and make it more festive than Christmas than Google ever would. Because I want other Jewish American Dads to derive extended Nachas from pronounced Jewish pride from their offspring when they proclaim to Daddy how they get butterflies in their stomach every day before each night of Hanukah begins, which was the opposite of my experience growing up. Getting a Pinball Machine one tear one year for Hannukah was unbelievable, despite being woken up every night prior to Hannukah because dad couldn’t resist the urge to play with it himself and break it in personally. Which made my younger brother and I believe that Aliens from Space Invaders were raining Gama Rays on top of our house eight nights prior to Hannukah because my dad was making his best Hannukah gift all about his own self-enrichment over ours. Still, my dad was raised an only child, so you can’t blame him for occupying his inner loneliness in his forties the week before Hanukah, because playing Dreidel by himself, gets played out faster than trying jerk off with your left in honor of shortest-lived New Year’s resolution yet. Which only leads to more played out blue ball’s devastation. So, here’s 8 ways to start making Hannukah more festive than Christmas. There are 14 million Jews worldwide. So, if this post goes viral, my Hannukah wish of 8 million butterflies can come true. And you can’t knock the miracle of mitzvah moves, Challah. Thank you very much.

  1. Understand, I haven’t collected paychecks in 8 whole years till this past December after resuming my IT Headhunter Career, where I can drop lines like, “Michael Kornbluth here, Recruiting Manager for Digital Unicorns USA. With a last name like Kornbluth, I specialize in mind control, in Kayne’s mind. So, when my wife tells me, “Don’t get carried away with getting the kids gifts this year for Hannukah.” I fire back with, “New tradition kids, when you get 3 Big Kahuna gifts on the 1st night of Hannukah. You each declare loud and proud, “Hannukah Hatrick, Challah” I add, “So, in this instance, go woke yourself babe, Gentile Grinch.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  2. 2nd way to make Hanukkah more festive is to start the tradition of Hannukah Halloween. And force your son to dress up like Van Halen with a pack of candy cigarettes in hand. Who cares if your mini air guitar appendage looks like an overdose at the limelight waiting to happen. Party Monster spirits live, Challah. Thank you very much.
  3. 3rd way to make Channukah more festive is to play Dreidel for Bitcoin versus more fake news Gelt. But explain the rules in humorous ways. For example, when the dreidel lands on Hey, you sing, “Hey, hey Paula, I want to marry you. Now give me half and full custody of the kids. I don’t want you coughing your natural immunity all our kids anymore, you anti-vaxer piece of shit.” Challah, thank you very much. Shin, means put it in, think Cardi B on a slow Tuesday. Nun, means nothing, goonish. Remember our routine at the Deli Matilda, when you could only put 2 words together? What did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks Daddy? And you’d say,” Bookpus, Boopku. And Gimmel means, give me everything because we control all the blockchain technology, Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole too. Son says, “Samuel, don’t even think of stealing my bitcoin, or I’ll sell your pure blood on the Dark Web along with your vintage Cobra Commander with the blue mask and eyes holes in it that looks like Gung Ho’s bottom bitch in Robot Chicken remake of Pulp Fiction.” 8 million butterflies Challah, thank you very much.
  4. 4th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to play the Adam Sandler Channukah song on Vinyl backwards only to hear the latest and greatest chorus addition, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. 5th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to Jewish guilt Software Engineers at Amazon into seriously questioning the state of their moral compass by sending them LinkedIn Inn-Mail messages through LinkedIn Recruiter that read, “Tell Bezos to make the Hebrew Hammer available on Amazon prime already despite Florida and antisemitism being so hot right now.” 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  6. 6th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to sign your kids up for art classes that teach your kids how make masked morons made out of clay for fuck the CDC day. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  7. 7th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas, permit your kids the freedom to pile drive mommy’s white Guido, non-denominational tree while dressed as Mr. Wonderful for Channukah Halloween instead. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  8. 8th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to launch your Burning Mask Party already, for eight glorious nights while throwing some of mama’s Gnomes on top because they look like Santa’s burn out Trust Fund Babies on Social Security. What’s another burnout offering after making Goodwill Grinch Fetterman the new face of the Democratic Party. So, what difference does it make? 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Crazy Stones

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

I always resented the alleged compliment in relation to me doing more stand-up comedy which was, “I’ll admit. You got balls man.” In other words, “You’ve got crazy stones. Because I’m not seeing the funny talented part necessary to get strangers off for a living either. But God bless your crazy great stones for deluding yourself into thinking you can. I can’t even imagine the balls it takes to interpret non-stop bombing as the audience just not understanding your rapid-fire delivery yet. They don’t possess your processing power. I’ve heard, yada, yada, yada.”

Or today I’ll hear from an old high school bud, “Oliver Stone, brilliant, but always off his rocker.” Well, like Oliver Stone says, “You’re either born crazy or boring.” I think we all know where your deadweight conversationalist sidings lean. But you loved JFK, and the 1st half of Born on the 4th. Hey asshole, Oliver Stone has weightier thoughts on a tank of Nitrous while puking his brains out than you do mainlining Adderall before giving a speech at Southwest by Southwest on targeted banner ads for Cool Whip whenever Katy Perry drops her latest and greatest video on Vevo titled, “Gummy Drop Nips Are Us.”, no offense. I’m reading his book Chasing the Light and learned how Oliver Stone is half Heeb, which is an exciting discovery like learning Danny McBride is half Heeb but more kvetchy whiny than the Yankee prep from New York really, that being Oliver Crazy Great Stones. Growing up, Oliver Stone’s father would pay him money to write stories, which veered toward the violent, including massive massacres, similar to my daughter, who I’m now calling a female Oliver Stone in the making. Because she’s already writing violent, intense, World War 2 dramas involving Nazi’s and I’m constantly bombarding her with material about the stolen election, Pizza Gate, Joan River’s murder, Seth Rich, W and 9/11, our corrupt intelligence agencies, the fake news insurrection, the clot shot fatality numbers on the VAERS database website and how Biden used to skinny dip in front of his female secret service agents while garbling, “Told you, I was bigger than the boogie boarder from Kenya.” So, when my old school high school bud, calls Oliver Stone crazy, I’m going to get a tad defensive on my daughter’s behalf, because she’s the female Oliver Stone in the making. Plus, they say you’re crazy till you made it, and Oliver Stone made it big time 3 decades ago, after volunteering to join the war in Vietnam and serving 2 tours of duty already. Alright, fine, maybe Oliver Stone is a little Cuckoo, but like Jack Kerouac said, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes “Awww!”

When my year without beer is over, I’m grabbing a beer with Stone, over an edible or 2. He helped my generation break on through to the other side of empty eighty’s filler. Nobody gets out of here alive, that’s right Jimbo, thanks for inspiring Oliver. Name another American made director that’s had the balls to take on the Deep State for taking out Kennedy, who wanted to dismantle the CIA personally, Deep State, you know Swamp Thing. Spike Lee tries to frame Charlottesville as a new wave of White Supremacist uprising in faded Polo Shirts and Tiki-Torches. But Skinheads sport MAGA hats come rain or shine. All of a sudden, Skinheads got something to hide. I also don’t recall Trump’s campaign slogan being Make Nazi Germany Great Again. Although Groping Biden insisting ANTIFA is an “idea” or the Department of Justice giving BLM a pass as Obama’s civilian army that doesn’t understand the intricacies of Turbo Tax because it’s culturally biased software. Or an administration in charge against the will of the people, pushing millions of Americans to boost their immunity into smitheries because they didn’t drink enough placenta smoothies like Alicia Silverstone, which makes it easier to stomach those food kissing videos with her kid without throwing up your Kale Chip Sprouts. You get the impression, that we’re under a fascist favoring country that has no need for truth bomb hurlers like Oliver Stone anymore, especially since the day Democracy died. After Supreme Court Justice Amy Barrett revealed herself to be nothing more than Mia Farrow with better husband selection. Although if Oliver Stone actually thinks The Icky Shuffle won the election, then he’s batshit crazy on par with Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi. But nobody’s perfect at the plate, not even Ted Williams or Charlie Sheen whiffing at the AVN award parties these days. Crazy Stones swings on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Crazy Stones

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, books, faith

I always resented the alleged compliment in relation to me doing more stand-up comedy which was, “I’ll admit. You got balls man.” In other words, “You’ve got crazy stones. Because I’m not seeing the funny talented part necessary to get strangers off for a living either. But God bless your crazy great stones for deluding yourself into thinking you can. I can’t even imagine the balls it takes to interpret non-stop bombing as the audience just not understanding your rapid-fire delivery yet. They don’t possess your processing power. I’ve heard, yada, yada, yada.”

Or today I’ll hear from an old high school bud, “Oliver Stone, brilliant, but always off his rocker.” Well, like Oliver Stone says, “You’re either born crazy or boring.” I think we all know where your deadweight conversationalist sidings lean. But you loved JFK, and the 1st half of Born on the 4th. Hey asshole, Oliver Stone has weightier thoughts on a tank of Nitrous while puking his brains out than you do mainlining Adderall before giving a speech at Southwest by Southwest on targeted banner ads for Cool Whip whenever Katy Perry drops her latest and greatest video on Vevo titled, “Gummy Drop Nips Are Us”, no offense. I’m reading his book Chasing the Light and learned how Oliver Stone is half Heeb, which is an exciting discovery like learning Danny McBride is half Heeb but more kvetchy whiny than the Yankee prep from New York really, that being Oliver Crazy Great Stones. Growing up, Oliver Stone’s father would pay him money to write stories, which veered toward the violent, including massive massacres, similar to my daughter, who I’m now calling a female Oliver Stone in the making. Because she’s already writing violent, intense, World War 2 dramas involving Nazi’s and I’m constantly bombarding her with material about the stolen election, Pizza Gate, Joan River’s murder, Seth Rich, W and 9/11, our corrupt intelligence agencies, the fake news insurrection, the clot shot fatality numbers on the VAERS database website and how Biden used to skinny dip in front of his female secret service agents while garbling, “Told you, I was bigger than the boogie boarder from Kenya.” So, when my old school high school bud calls Oliver Stone crazy, I’m going to get a tad defensive on my daughter’s behalf, because she’s the female Oliver Stone in the making. Plus, they say you’re crazy till you made it, and Oliver Stone made it big time 3 decades ago, after volunteering to join the war in Vietnam and serving 2 tours of duty already. Alright, fine, maybe Oliver Stone is a little Cuckoo, but like Jack Kerouac said, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes “Awww!”

When my year without beer is over, I’m grabbing a beer with Stone, over an edible or 2. He helped my generation break on through to the other side of empty eighty’s filler. Nobody gets out of here alive, that’s right Jimbo, thanks for inspiring Oliver. Name another American made director that’s had the balls to take on the Deep State for taking out Kennedy, who wanted to dismantle the CIA personally, Deep State, you know Swamp Thing. Spike Lee tries to frame Charlottesville as a new wave of White Supremacist uprising in faded Polo Shirts and Tiki-Torches. But Skinheads sport MAGA hats come rain or shine. All of a sudden, Skinheads got something to hide. I also don’t recall Trump’s campaign slogan being Make Nazi Germany Great Again. Although Groping Biden insisting ANTIFA is an “idea” or the Department of Justice giving BLM a pass as Obama’s civilian army that doesn’t understand the intricacies of Turbo Tax because it’s culturally biased software. Or an administration in charge against the will of the people, pushing millions of Americans to boost their immunity into smitheries because they didn’t drink enough placenta smoothies like Alicia Silverstone, which makes it easier to stomach those food kissing videos with her kid without throwing up your Kale Chip Sprouts. You get the impression, that we’re under a fascist favoring country that has no need for truth bomb hurlers like Oliver Stone anymore, especially since the day Democracy died. After Supreme Court Justice Amy Barrett revealed herself to be nothing more than Mia Farrow with better husband selection. Although if Oliver Stone actually thinks The Icky Shuffle won the election, then he’s batshit crazy on par with Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi. But nobody’s perfect at the plate, not even Ted Williams or Charlie Sheen whiffing at the AVN award parties these days. Crazy Stones swings on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Killing Mediocrity

by doitalldadyear, posted in cooking, poetry, writing

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

Michael Kornbluth

Gilbert The Great

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

Every Carlin bit: Everything you were taught was bullshit. Plus, your dad doesn’t have a monopoly on the distant dad prick market. I’ll take your dad’s collapsed shoulders and torso while going in for a hug over an Irish kiss from Dad despite winning top toast at Toastmasters International before blowing his paycheck on Bushmills 20-year Irish Whiskey at the bar soon after.

“Toasting is for fat, drunk, Irish losers and bloated, blowhard Kennedy’s on speedboats off the coast Hyannis Port cruising for late night date chow rendezvous with Great Whites.”

These days, I can’t tell whether I like to hear any standup comedy besides my own material after performing more sheets of Comedy Gold on my Pause Daddy Podcast for free. I try. Robert Klein, I’m an annoying Jew who should be teaching American History at Hunter College for a living. Paula Poundstone is fine, if you want to hear her badger an audience for 5 hours about what they do for a living besides long for Fashion Police on Entertainment Television in her presence before Kelly Osbourne teamed up with Trans Chucky and ruined the show’s legacy forever.

Now, watching Gilbert Gotfried make an audience cringe and laugh whole heartedly at the same time never disappoints like the period out from having to bang your wife on her birthday again. A personal favorite bit by Gilbert the Great was telling a crowd at the Montreal Comedy Festival about learning how John Phillips from the Mama’s and Papa’s used to climb up to his daughter’s bunk bed and nail her for years. Then, Gilbert The Great says, “I can’t even get my daughter to hold my hand while crossing the street. All I want her to know is that her Barbie Dreamhouse didn’t pay for itself.” Now this a shining example of uprooting somber and how comedy possesses the power to make flawless light from unfathomable abhorrence in this world by using his slight case of personal dejection in the service of getting a laugh for the greater good. Just like me adding, “So that’s why in the song California Dreaming when dad gets on his knees and pretends to pray, he’s just screaming, holy fucking Christ, I can’t bang my Lolita blues away on a Winter’s Day.” United we laugh. Gilbert The Great proved it every day. Thank you, Gilbert The Great, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Recess Passes Matter

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, humor

Instead of giving criminals get out of jail free cards, which is what no bail laws do.  We should institute a recess pass system that my teachers used on us to discourage bad behavior growing up except these Recess Passes are used for Cannabis shops in New York City. Latrel Sprewell’s kid chokes out a cop’s white privilege and he gets his recess pass to the cannabis shop taken away. Thugs Lives Matter Most, start having panic attacks on the Subway. Where am I going to get my gummies now? Stink free plus ash free equals zero regrets homey. Plus, I don’t want to share a blunt with your ass just out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.”  Recess Passes Matter, Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Campy Camper

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

Mom calls. Can I speak with the kids about any camp updates?

I say, “You shipped me off to Sleepaway Camp for 8 years in a row for what felt like 3 years at the time, that went on longer than Paul Resier as the MC during the 92nd Street Y series on why Baby Boomer arrogance never dies. As I counted the days till Color War was over, which always made me feel whiter than White man’s Disease, at a Jew boy sleepaway camp in Kent, CT no less, especially knowing how I was the second worst athlete after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck. Yet I don’t recall you ever asking whether I was gay about going back to camp again mom or ever bothering to ask me how I liked being called Homo Head or Sphincter Clit, after you packed me jars of Vaseline like I was about to be shipped off to gay conversion camp despite that jar of Vaseline getting less touches than a Bible in a Bathhouse colony in Pronvincetown. Where Bathhouse Barry was broken in by Michelle Obama, What’s Talent Got To Do With It Turner, during their honeymoon phase. But at the time, I still had no understanding of how Vaseline was the AJAX’s man’s grown-up version of Slip and Slide with the Village People. Before Harry Styles came out as a Cherry Blossom Popping lube enthusiast under his new line of lifestyle lubes, Pan Sexual Brits Are Us. Because my sex education back then mom, was only limited to Taste Of Amber, Topless Tudors and Mountain Of Muff, on the VHS Tape mix tape that my Japanese American friend Kohji Toung made for me, that was a true labor of love on par with the chiseled lats on David that pointed you straight toward his gluteus maximus, which in Latin means, “Sphincter on Fire.”

Although I was super gay about the time when I jerked off in the bunk bathroom once and had to wipe up with the cardboard roller and decided to put it back inside the holder. Only to laugh the hardest I’ve ever laughed after this fat troll from Dalton prep yells, “Gross”, before realizing that his hand was covered in cum while trying to wipe his own ass. I literally turned the toilet paper dispenser into my own glory role repository. And I’ve never laughed harder, having to the bite down on my crusty blanket to prevent myself from being busted as the sole source behind such perverse howls of merriment masked delight. So, blowing 4 grand on camp that summer was totally worth it ma, Vaseline coupons included.”

I was written off as a nutty fruitcake by my mother and was written out of the will in real time in case you’re wondering despite my happy ending to that call. Can I get a Challah, for Love Limit Limitations? Last time I checked, Gropin Biden’s expired.

Fake news friend from college who pretends The Icky Shuffle actually beat Trumpy Poo says, “What do you think about Roe vs. Wade? ” I say, “I never get personal. But atheist cunts always act like they’re on the rag regardless.”

He didn’t laugh.

I text back, “Did you grow a vagina overnight? If so, I’d stay away from Biden in Delaware during local stump speeches on Making Skinny Dipping great again in front of his secret service agents stationed at his Greenville estate home, while murmuring to those female agents stuck on Presidential security detail, “I told you I was bigger than Boogie Boarder. Icky Shuffle showers with his daughter according to his daughter’s diaries. So, unlike Trumpy Poo, the Icky Shuffle is less likely to discriminate against who rubs against his dirty grandpa goo.”

Love limit limitations live, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Asshole Resistance Gone

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, politics, travel

Would Peloton instructor Jess King blame the clot shot if one of her tits froze during one of her summertime rides to get jiggy with it? After talking to her left tit, during a live ride of course.

“Why aren’t you moving Cabbage Patch Splat? Shit, this ride is live, I totally forgot. Yeah, so what Peloton, I call my left tit Cabbage Patch Splat. When you get paid 300 grand to pretend your comments about my bedazzled bicycle pants matter, I’ll give a shit about your designated Indian name pronouns used to address my lesbian rocker online like Strapped With Vape Cartridges, Dead Fish Flopping After 3 Hour Workdays or Doxes With Twitter Twat Wolves. Shit, Eric Clapton wasn’t really bullshitting us when he went on Instagram and claimed how his 2nd booster shot made his playing hands strung by the all mighty temporarily paralyzed almost immediately after. What, I used to bang an A&R rep for Island Records when I used to study Trance Gender Dance Studies at Borough Community College. My thesis was, “Libra Lesbians who adhere to a Pescatarian puss diet are finger licking good. Wait a minute, I can feel Cabbage Patch Splat get jiggy with it again. Thank God, I fake news believe in you again Lord. And FYI Peloton nation, my power couple lesbo baby is due in October. So, don’t expect me to me care about your upcoming training for the New York City Marathon while I’m too busy planning our 1st kid’s name together during my 2-week paid maternity time off, which is more than you make you in a year MAGA mom selling DeSantis Bobble Head Dolls on Etsy. And it’s don’t say gay, it’s happiest place on earth day, Deplorable Mom Bombing. The name Moderna is very modern, sheik sounding and full of social good, don’t you think? My Indy rock wife wants to go all in on high-end hipster cheek and name our foreign imported seed Polly Fume Blanc, she’s Frech Polynesian, in case you’re not following my killer clutch smoker flow. We’re going on a second honeymoon in Bora, Bora after I pump out this asinine Alabatros already. It was my wife’s idea, not mine. She doesn’t live in Austin Texas anymore because of the no abortion thing. Before it was Kosher living there, because the city of Austin still covers the cost health insurance for working musicians still living there like Gary Clark Junior who takes on the era of Trump Era Racism in the song, “This Land”, because prison reform for gang bangers and no bail laws, post-George Floyed riots, regardless of them resisting arrest or not or Lebron ever getting called for traveling is so oppressive. What, I was raised in a red state like Oklahoma, why else do you think I’m trying to piss off my Oil Rigger Manager Dad on purpose, now turned Solar Pannel Salesman/Caterer for Horse De Vores and Bugs on Bill Gate’s placenta Smoothie farm retreat next to a nearby military base that just housed a wrap up party for Tulsa King starring Sylvester Stallone this Fall, which reminds me. That A& R boyfriend for Island Records who turned me on to Jamaican Beef Patties for bit because he told me that all the pineapple smoothies he drank, would offset his greasy baster tip, also told me that 4/20, the national pot smoking holiday, because it grew wild around King Solomon’s grave man, is also on Hitler’s birthday. Tuff Gong Junior said, “Now, puffing to Bob on Tuff Gong, never felt so wrong. I was bummed to. I mean, the last time I felt this violently hosed was when I learned how Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson in Expendables 3. What, I’m half Jewish to. I thought my squeaky annoying voice, borderline okay-ness with working in New York and balloon size breast implants made in Miami were dead giveaways, you Jess Land hater hicks who call me a raver pig who stepped in glittered shit. I’ll dox your ass in a NY Minute if you make fun of my IVF kid like that, try me, homo hater nation. I’m a raver pig who stepped in glitter laced shit you say. I wouldn’t have been let near any aerobics instructor acceleration class in the eighties because it looks like my ass swallowed up Jane Fonda’s extended family down south on Ted Turner’s side. But Peloton is a judge free zone you, glitter hating motherfuckers. And I’m not married to giving a shit about your PowerPoint presentations any more than your hipster hobbit homo, Long Island hack breath husband is. Will you still love me tomorrow, Peloton? A red state reared Jewish Lesbo sooner from Oklahoma who identifies more with going down on premium, fast lane puss on Pelton Mats on top of Tapestries made in Paris, than housing those snooze feast fur balls in my rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side next door to Carole King. Because I’m a killer clutch smoker and you’re not.”

Who knew that off the list Jess had so much to get off her chest.

Killer Clutch Smoker lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Holiness Killing Hackery

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, beauty, blogging

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth

















Watching Hacks Cry

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, humor

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth