Owner Of A Heavy Heart

Welcome to Rough Talk Rules, I’m your radio host Solomon Kornbluth, helping you work toward better tomorrows without your deadweight conversationalist ex friends and romantic partners of years past. And today is Dumping Tips Tuesdays, but first let’s take a call from Robert Gauler in Stamford, CT. Hi, Robert, what’s weighing down your heart today?

“Hi, Solomon, what’s weighing down my heart today is being unemployed during the Passover season again.  I’m losing heart from receiving more rejection emails from employer’s that read, “What kind of a moron are you today? For thinking, you could mosey your zero leveraged, broke down ass into our loving arms after a 5-year vacation life as a Stay at Home Dad, I mean sheltered bum, jerkoff. You’re obviously optionless and friendless in this world right now for a reason. Blog stats we can’t verify don’t count as give a shit credentials for our copywriter position that requires at least 5 year of agency copywriting experience. Sharing mock print ads for Woodford Reserve Whiskey with headlines such as, “Class in A Glass”, aren’t going to secure any invitations to interview for any creative professional role within our constellation of star powered creative technologists, designers and witty wordsmith scribes at large, OK! “

Radio Host Solomon says, “I feel your pain, Robert. When was the last time you pulverized a vagina of any kind?”

“I’m living in my grandma’s old apartment, which reeks of middle-aged mildew malaise. Plus, I’m so broke I can’t afford my past cell phone due bill past tomorrow. So, swiping over some random cum dumpster chick I met on Slut in A Straight Jacke .com isn’t happening anytime soon either. I can’t afford my oil pill or my electric bill, so I don’t even have the option of electrocuting myself to death in my tub with a working toaster from GE for that matter. Even if I could convince an ex-booty call to drop by, she’d get cold feet upon entry because I haven’t been able to afford the heating bill in months either. You know the price of gas is high when 10 bucks at the tank burns faster than a 2-hit pinner”, Robert Gauler from Stamford, CT says.

Solomon Kornbluth laughs and says, “You’re a funny guy Robert. Laughter is the best cure all, used to lighten the stressed-out load of fixed ineffectual, stuck in a ditch depression, that’s squeezing the life out of your loving heart, making it borderline impossible to take semi-easy deep breaths for more than 2 seconds a time, I totally get it. My advice moving forward, is to attend, an open mike, which doesn’t charge the one drink minimum, prepare some jokes about your non-existent love life on stage or just rant and rave about how much your life love life sucks compared to Martha Dump Truck in Heathers and you’ll feel less alone in your rapidly building misery. Chances are, if you’re emotionally honest about why you hate your past friends and former loves who left you for dead and kicked dirt on your premature grave, regardless of it being deserved or not, it will become impossible for the crowd to not empathize with what a decrepit, sad sack, shit sandwich, you’re forced to eat every day without sporting’s it’s an all good, all love, big pimping Puff Dadd vibe along the way. It feels liberating and empowering to get out of your head, especially on stage in front of strangers, because any form of comedy allows you to rewrite the narrative to your own liking while giving the golden opportunity to get in last word or final laugh along the way. Who knows, you might even get luck out tonight with a Lesbian poet whose heart isn’t into munching on far from scrumptious stank fumed vagina anymore.”

“Ok, I’ll take one more caller before we start our fan favorite segment, “Dumping Tips Tuesdays.” Next up is a call from Lindsey Lam from Louisville, Kentucky. My mom grew up down south in Kentucky, although my ex-wife insists Kentucky is more Midwest south. Regardless, finger food down there is considered anything that tastes your cousin’s panties, hey now. Lindsay Lam you’re on the air with Rough Talk Rules. How can I lighten your heavy heart today?”

Lindsay Lam says, “Today, I showed my daughter this pathway in the woods where I used to sneak though during lunch in the 10 grade to grab some Burger King for lunch. After pointing out to my daughter, how I used to go there alone for lunch, she made feel a level of defensive embarrassment, which I never experienced until now when she said, “Mommy, that’s a really sad story. But I don’t recall being completely miserable housing a double whopper with a cheese and a chicken sandwich all by myself in the process. Daughter says, “Didn’t you have anyone to share all that food with?” And I said, “Can you stop rubbing in me being an owner of a tubby heavy heart already?”

Solomon Kornbluth says “Look Linsday, I spent plenty of time eating lunch alone growing up. At the time, I never felt that so and so’s presence would’ve made me more at peace with world or provide any greater amount of endorphin releases than what the Double Whopper with Cheese was giving me already, I waited at least 2 minutes for the cheese to melt on it just right. God forbid. You shouldn’t allow your daughter to make your feel shame 20 years after the fact, I’m assuming, for being a friendless loner teenager at the time like Lisa Simpson with a piss poor GPA. Roger Daltry from the Who called high school a Teenage Wasteland for a reason. Maybe, reframe your solo lunches in the 10th grade with me myself and I to your daughter as self-care dates, solo shrink time, or in the spirit of the late great Warren Zevon, “Splendid Isolation,”. Warren didn’t need no one, Challah, thank you very much.”

“But now it’s time for Dumping Tips Tuesdays.  If you give a friend a thoughtful gift like a John Candy biography with an inscription you wrote inside it without receiving a thank you note or word of acknowledgement in return, it just proves you weren’t as close as you imagined. But don’t dwell on infusing more specialness into your so-called friendship. Instead, slap yourself on the shoulder for possessing a more active imagination than he ever did. But so-called friendship works both ways. So, let’s a say you claim to be friends with someone from high school 25 years after the fact but have zero desire in seeing their newborn kid, with zero plans to remember the kid’s name, then it’s safe to say, you’re a shit friend who should’ve been dumped before the relationship went to shit in the first place. So always remember, don’t act like your shit doesn’t stink when it does or else you come across as an insanely judgy, bigger headed prick than the rest. So be less shitty to yourself today and do what you want to do like eating alone for lunch without shitting on yourself for not having any deadweight conversationalist friends to invite for the privilege of being in your splendid company after all.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Putzy Cup Of Truth

It’s hard to not feel putzy clutzy when your dad’s nickname on the streets of the Bronx was Trips on Curbs. The man never owned a spotless white IZOD sweater past Kosher meatball night for Christ’s sake. Plus, it’s hard to feel empathy for putzy stains of shame when you can’t blame the guaranteed splat attack on perpetual double IPA poundage, because you don’t want to circumcise your happiness, when your wife does that enough already by claiming how she’s the one who’s made sacrifices to. Like an aspiring comedian living in Queens during his late twenties wanted kids ever. And stop calling Queens hot, it’s not. Queens is the sloppy third Kardashian sister similar to the biggest backed one of the big 3, who’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a Lamb Gyro in Astoria. Also, there’s no way Bruce Jenner was asexual when he was married to Kris Jenner. But I’m positive Bruce stayed harder and longer after he talked Kris Jenner into cutting her hair shorter, so she’d look more like a dolled-up Ralph Macchio.

My 8-year-old son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA, The Boy Who Raised Himself said, “The Putzy Cup Of Truth never lies”, which is beyond wise or else why would he throw a tighter spiral than you when you’ve had a 4 decade head start, regardless of hiding behind lame excuses such as being a late bloomer spill prone putz at heart. The same guy who got fired from his bartender job in West Hollywood for breaking too many Boudreaux wine glasses as if I was trying to nail my audition tape for Super Putz Get’s Married to a gentile from Australia who could help uproot my putz plagued family tree for good.  We wanted to get married in Australia, but my mom had other ideas.  She calls and says, “Son, Australia is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.” So, I calm my Aussie born wife down and say, “Hey babe, assuming we have a boy one day, which uproots my family’s putzy stains of shame for good, will pass on getting a Rabbi for the circumcision and instead hire Crocodile Dundee, who should be available last time I checked on IMBD. Just so we can hear a room full of Jews say in a collective state of stupefied awe, “Now, that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Woody Allen claiming, he could “throw a football a mile in his youth”, in his memoir Apropos of Nothing when you can’t, serves as another humiliating reminder why the Putzy Cup Of Truth never lies. Granted, I was never caught stashing pictures of a half-naked Soon-Yi in my top sock drawer to tap for future film project titles such as Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years. Shit, the only thing missing from Woody’s sticky icky collection of Polaroids was Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life magazine, but I digress.  Yeshiva students shaming your chicken scratch scrawl next to you on the Subway proves how the Putzy Cup Of Truth is never too far behind, as you try to scribble away one ha inducing joke after the next only to hear Yentel’s younger brother say out of the blue to you, “What language is that Hebrew?” I say, “Yeah, it’s Hebrew Schmendel. I write deli reviews for the Kosher Planet.”

But today, I’m hosting a Burning Mask Party on July 4th and forced my daughter to invite all her friends, especially Andrea, whose father is a volunteer fireman. I want to kick his ass in The Putzy Cup of Truth to prove uppity fireman aren’t immune to sweating under pressure either, especially after he yelled at his daughter to “hurry up”, because he was running late to a “meeting” on a Sunday afternoon while my daughter’s 11-year-old birthday party was still in progress. Why was the Volunteer Fireman Dad acting so distressed exactly? Was he doing a power point presentation on Zoom for his local firehouse to prove how ANTIFA vigilante wannabes who never outgrew their pyromania phase are bigger fire hazards than posting election fraud charges on Twitter since the day Democracy died?

Fireman bust balls, go grocery shopping and try not to fuck up their Grandma’s Sunday sauce recipe for the firehouse. So this much I can do as a Stay At Home Shemale Comedian and host of the Do It All Dad Time podcast, which spits non-stop fire and non-stop truth bomb joke blasts Gen X Dads understand. I’ve also had to endure heckles on stage and plow through a karaoke set while the crowd threw napkins at me during my valiant attempt to finish singing Only God Knows Why at a Cheesecake Factory in Woodland Hills, so I can the handle pressure of increasingly damning animosity hurled in my being’s direction from every angle possible better than most. I also bombed with a Ron Artest joke at the Rainbow Room, where the stage is 3 feet below the actual audience, only to win the fire ready audience back with an inspired ad-lib for the ages when I said, “I love black guys because they don’t discriminate against pussy.” So, there’s no fucking way, I’m going to let this asshole wannabe alpha dog red headed volunteer fireman who’s not a Fire Chief try to exert a more manly stable, putz free aura on my home turf ever again. 5 million space bucks, he got triple vaxed despite real deal first responders who actually ran into the second tower never fearing the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus post COVID either. It’s not my fault his yoga teacher wife bends over backwards to shoot suck me off eyes in my presence knowing my lack of blinding red pubes with the lights on or not in the sack would be a welcome change pace as I pulverized her box into middle earth China.

All the kids are done plopping the masks in a huge pile on our front yard, itching for my long-awaited Burning Mask Party to begin. I light a bunch of Washington Posts, NY Times and issues of Atlantic Magazine on top of the masks and spray it down with Kerosine to take this Burning Mask Party so much higher.  Sly Stone lives, Challah. Thank you very much. Fireman Dad comes to crash the party early again and says, “Do you need help putting out that fire? This half ass bonfire looks like a fire hazard in the making to me. You’re surrounded by woods and your playground set is made out of wood, which is only 2 feet away from it, max.”  I say, “I got fire insurance despite ANTIFA attack premiums for homes that used to sport 2020 Trump flags going through the roof.” Fireman Dad says, “Hazel, were leaving, get in the car now. I’m running late for a meeting.” I say, “Stick around for a drink 1st. We just tapped the keg, it’s Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale that never get’s stale.” Fireman Dad says, “What kind of party are you throwing?  You’re surrounded by a bunch of 11-year-old girls? I said, “I work as an in-house copywriter for Disney now, so I’m fucking fireproof for wining and dining minors as long as I’m educating them on my sex life, which is non-existent anyway, unless you’re interested in giving your wife a pseudo celebrity lay on her birthday for a part in my new movie the Yoga Scout. Disney is producing my movie about a stay-at-home shemale comedian turned Yoga Scout who recruits divorcees looking to make their sex live above average again by meeting other willing bang, bang partners in love at his all nude, hot Yoga studio, Spread Eagles. Does your wife want to spread the love in my Hebrew Hammer’s honor or what? Fireman cocks his fist and winds up to take a swing before his daughter points out how his leg has caught fire from the Burning Mask Party gone wild.  Daughter screams, “Duck and roll daddy, duck and roll.” But Fireman Daddy trips over my kids bike and falls flat on his face in front of all the kids who start laughing uncontrollably. The Fireman father yells, “Somebody help me put out this fire already, these are favorite pair of broken in jeans from Banana Republic, which are made out of Japanese cotton no less.” So, I showered him with mercy and poured a bucket of water on his jeans and put the fire out before saying, “Japanese cotton is more breathable.” Do It All Dad’s daughter hugs her dear daddy’s leg and says, “Daddy, you saved Andrea’s dad’s favorite pair of jeans from disintegrating on the spot while he shrieked like a teenage groupie when Cheap Trick played live at Budokan. You won the Putzy Cup Of Truth challenge after all Daddy. You’re like a gender fluid version of Pat Benatar in the form of a hardcore hilarious comedian, “Come on hit me with your best shot and fire my putzy plagued past, away. Challah, thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Korny Kornbluth

Was Korny Kornbluth sick of surviving off laughs, or wasn’t he? Being funny and spinning the most comedic gold out of his God given imagination was important to Korny Kornbluth because it made him feel most alive while riding on the shoulders of funnier, hardcore giants of laugh yanking song before him like the late great, always scariest elephant in the room, otherwise known as the Grand Poobah of hack attacks of Comedy Cellar past, Patrice You Better Fucking Know My Name by Now, O’Neil.  How could Korny Kornbluth not relish conquest rich memories of killing at the famed Comedy Cellar in Greenwich Village even it was only for a punchline powered sprint for 5 minutes at a time? Especially when Korny Kornbluth’s rapidly trusting funny man instincts paid huge dividends after throwing in an ad lib line which drove the crowd into a deeper, more aroused state of room enveloping ecstasy when he said, “I used to live in LA. I don’t miss the driving. But I do miss road head, especially along the Pacific Coast Highway, whenever I’d drive by the sign that said, “Malibu, 37 miles of scenic ball blasting bliss.” Only to flirt it up with a couple of banger pretty college girls from NYU close to the stage and add, “Did you girls just call shotgun?”

One time doing extra work for a film with Kristen Bell called When In Rome, Korny Kornbluth sampled one liners on a hot actress extra with a SAG card, which gave him sustained stiffage, whenever he got laugh yanks out of her long time because it made him feel like real deal funny man on the rise by being able to touch her on a deeper, more expansive, inside widening manner than any of his predictably dronish one note friends from high school ever could.

Korny Kornbluth uses the term friends from high school loosely because he didn’t feel particularly close to them anymore because friends want to hang out with each other and after Korny Kornbluth fell in love with his girlfriend during their sweaty sex period, where he’d manage to elevate the bed in her Greenpoint apartment despite his ferocious poundage downward, which defied all laws of gravity all together, the interest to seek out their company rapidly depreciated and flat out disintegrated after his 3 glorious, snugglet shine rich kids were born.  This jerkoff hot to, aspiring actress extra on set of When In Rome made an illuminating insight when she said, “You like to be naughty, don’t you?” Korny Kornbluth could’ve inhaled her on the spot for showcasing such insightful fervor in his honor. Reality is, Korny Kornbluth was a self-esteem strangled kid who was constantly stuck in his head throughout Junior High, who only came bursting out of his head, after he finally kissed a couple of girls in Israel one summer during a Masada Teen Tour, leaving one girl with a hickey from hell outside of Mount Masada no less as if he was the horniest novice zombie zygote alive. But now, 6 or 7 sales job later, whether it was slinging ads for the Village Voice, CitySearch or the billable techie gold talent of software engineers while working as an IT agency recruiter in both LA and Manhattan, he started to question his funny man chosen path because he had been fired more than a Palestinan Sling Shot. All of a sudden, Korny Kornbluth contemplated the brutal reality of being too over the top edgy for his own good.

Korny Kornbluth wasn’t overtly over the top edgy to appear cooler than he wasn’t. He was just being funny, so he thought. But what if Korny Kornbluth was headed in the wrong direction to nowhere? What if Korny Kornbluth alienated old friends and family members because of his raging desire to always be on, 600 podcasts and 91 comedy records later? What if Korny Kornbluth proved to be too overpowering for others to bear, which made them feel like ineffectually, cheesy hackling weaklings in his presence? Or was Korny Kornbluth just guilty of glaring egotistical overreach on the behalf of his perpetually swelling noggin again and again? How the fuck was Korny Kornbluth going to make money off his endless sheets of comedy gold at 45 years old during the cancel heavy culture of 2022 after producing comedy records titles on Spotify such as The Day Democracy Died and COVID The Clown exactly? You can make the argument that the best thing going for Korny Kornbluth was how he didn’t have an enviable, profit rich career to cancel just yet. He released a political album Resist This at 43 years old, the same age of his comedic idol Rodney Dangerfield released his debut album, I Don’t Get No Respect before he broke big and was able to support his family by slinging jokes versus aluminum sliding for a living for good. Korny Kornbluth actually used his IT agency background and cold called Rodney’s grown up daughter when he launched his Do It All Dad Year Podcast 5 years ago and after getting her on the phone he pitched, “I want put a spotlight on your father Rodney, the original Do It All Dad star, and tell the world about how he turned down a residency in Vegas and opened up Dangerfield’s on the Upper East Side of Manhattan as his own personal work out lab space to test out new material for the opportunity to be a more involved father at home.” Tremendous pitch I know. Still, Rodney’s daughter declined. Rodney’s daughter deciding to sell private footage of her dad’s heavily workshopped, money maker Vegas act to Comedy Central for a documentary about him pre-YouTube without his permission doesn’t portray the ungrateful bitch in the most flattering light anyway. No wonder why Rodney suffered from depression and found perpetual solace in the magic green to sooth his achy, weary weepy soul. Regardless of how many more killer sets Korny Kornbluth produced on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, he wasn’t going to book any appearances on the Late Show with Colbert with jokes such as, “Our state of the union today is like Colbert’s handle on funny for the past 5 years and counting, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O’Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate for a living. At least at the time, Bill O’Reilly gave Colbert Gravitas. Or how does John Stewart does not question the wisdom of Obama Be Good’s nuke gifting deal to Iran with more hardcore sardonic bite on the Daily Show franchise he built before Comedy Central decided to resign his woke successor Trevor Noah for the foreseeable future?  Why did Stewart only direct his comedic venom at W only, whose best friends now with Ellen, which proves what a non-divisive, evolved comedian she is because Ellen is pro Bush all the way. Why not ask Obama, so what do you consider your greatest accomplishments as president besides rebranding ISIS, ISIL so they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times? Or why not make fun of the 1.5 billion Obama bequeathed to Iran, Israel’s number one enemy and largest sponsor of worldwide terror worldwide, that was used for overseas job creation for Vermont’s own Build A Bear corporation to make the Iranian economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal cream for the Kardashians?

Korny Kornbluth was already kicked off Twitter for constantly stating how the COVID vaccines worked less than Carmelo Anthony and Russell Westbrook running the Triangle Offense for the Showtime Lakers in Los Angeles, California, insisting the new caped duo should become the official spokesperson team for Tampax Tampons. Because name another bitchy faced pair throughout NBA history, that’s been responsible for stopping so much flowage. So Korny Kornbluth wasn’t getting on the woke Grantland Podcast with Greenwich, CT bred nerd Bill Simmons either, especially since the NBA’s sole existence existed to be nothing more than a safe space for Lebron James ego. The lion share of Korny Kornbluth’s comedic blast targets received diplomatic immunity against charges of black supremacy racism on Twitter and beyond like King Of The Persecution Complex Lebron James, AKA, America’s Most Hunted. So what could a proud, practicing killer Koshertarian Comedian do to make money from his funny man writing for his family when Twitter allows terrorists in charge of Palestine from Hamas to keep their Twitter profile up and running, knowing how a 2 state solution is impossible to achieve if Hamas keeps fucking? How could Korny Kornbluth ever build a profitable online presence through selling his comedy records, audiobooks or podcasts on Patreon after her got banned for being a hate speech disinformation machine by defending Israel’s right to defend itself, that he compared to a nation flush with acerbic Kyle Rittenhouse’s at large? Because if you launch 5000 UN funded rockets into Israel’s backyard Hamas, Terrorists Are Us, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return, with a thank you note in return written in Farsi, with all the hardened pineapple tops chucked in the Red Sea.

Regardless of Korny Kornbluth’s propensity to bludgeon your unasked-for ears with a tsunami of a plus loaded gemry made for these times in his eyes, Joshua Prize was capable of mixing the profane and heartfelt better than most because unlike other guys from his senior class of 94, he considered himself far deeper than the eighteen hole. Korny Kornbluth wrote funny love poems of all sorts for his wife of 11 years and 11-year-old daughter Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, 10 Homer Daily, to prove the totality of his ego wasn’t wrapped up into receiving funny man approval confirmation long time all the time. Still, Korny Kornbluth used humor to process his rageful feelings stemming from being denied a living at being a funny man writer as a paid blogger, vlogger, copywriter, podcaster or professional standup comedian because of his far from edgeless digital imprint after working as a Hair Metal historian Comedian as the Head Writer of America’s Hard 100 on Vh1 Classic no less, while blatantly turning off every booker this side of the eastern seaboard with his debut comedy record Resist This, that included joke blasts that proved to be a tad too radical racist for their tastes such as, “I just read about an all-girl Muslim prom in Detroit. So, the prom was like mine, pork free. And stop calling ISIS good recruiters, all those Headhunters do is target other lonely virgins on Facebook Instant Messenger who wish their phones blew up.”

At this point, Korny Kornbluth wasn’t prepared to give up on getting paid for being professionally funny, but TV no longer offered the allure of steady employment in fantastic LA since the city of blue ball wrecking dreams descended into an extended tent city sponsored by REI. Nor did Korny Kornbluth possess the tolerance to endure lesser hack comedians in his eyes, plow through their meh sets while waiting for his turn to kill, knowing they all played it cheesy safe compared to him, which was twice as lame because he didn’t think he was doing anything blazingly original outside of tripling down on being his unapologetic, reclusive rocker shredder self all the way. But what if Korny Kornbluth started to care more about making his kids laugh the most with funny fast short stories he semi-performed on his rebranded Pause Daddy Podcast, super funny fast stories for you and me? What if Korny Kornbluth performed these funny man stories like a Jewish Paul Mooney, the Black Zappa in his eyes while sitting on his far from straight ass for a change? What if Korny Kornbluth decided to chill out on dropping his killer catchphrase “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, every other 2 seconds while in essence sucking off his material long time all the time again and again for a change? What if Korny Kornbluth played it semi-safe for change and decide to dramatically lessen his over-the-top edge to help increase his chances of a lit agent offering a letter of representation on his material’s behalf, if they could locate their ball sack this century, God forbid?

At 45 years old going on 46 in April, who gives a shit about impressing your so-called close friends from high school anymore? Especially, when those same dudes never aroused any jealous feelings of in-your inferiority compared to them ever. What if Korny Kornbluth focused a new book project called Year Without Beer instead of making more comedy records for a change? Writing a Year Without Beer would be a loving homage of sorts to Rodney In Easy Money and would be much easier to achieve off Adderall, assuming an occasional weed edible was always at arm’s length as a mini reward on Shabbat after the kids are asleep to give Korny Kornbluth’s creatively jacked brain a well-earned rest for a change after splitting a bottle of wine with his lifetime partner in love wife, Snuggle Up My Shaft, Duffy Kornbluth. What if Korny Kornbluth stopped giving a shit about his slighted, picked upon teen soul despite him not possessing the means to fight back through soul powered righting punchlines at the time while Kurt Cobain slept under a bridge, dreaming of the perfect time to raid his grandma’s closet for a throw away sweater to wear on MTV Unplugged, after Courtney Love’s claims to self made fame without him and Billy Corgan helping her co-write the rock masterpiece Live Through This, started to become rapidly undone? What if Korny Kornbluth stopped fretting about being pushover putzy in Junior High before he developed fists of fury in his forties from wrecking one Everlast chained bag after another, before allowing his beautiful seed son Hardcore Hunga to wail him in the face while the Rocky 4 Soundtrack blared in the background, as a continued form of flinch freeing therapy?

Rocky Marciano never lost a match because he invited the pain and always remained on the offensive. But what if Korny Kornbluth after turning 46 went on the Love Speech Machine offensive for a change off the speedy demon Adderall barking in his ear anymore, to bitch and lash out at any less creatively impaired human being who ever dared to question or criticize his funny man chosen path in the 1st place? What if Korny Kornbluth rebranded himself to the podcast universe as the Love Speech Machine through his super funny fast short stories on his Pause Daddy Podcast, which some could argue is reflective of his original, pure self in the 1st place because he assumed nuclear attacks on all who made him feel like an ineffectual, worthless jerkoff who failed to provide for his family the way he knew was capable of doing? Although trying to become the Desmond Child, Hair Metal power ballad writer maestro for Bon Jovi who penned hits such as Living on A Prayer and Without Love for the Hallmark channel wasn’t going to pay for his kids Bar Mitzvah party catering bill, let alone future trips to Budapest, Hungry with his beautiful wife and 3 kids, to soak up the soulful, majestic edge of the Danube to inspire for more family friendly tale adventures that could give Adam Sandler triggered jealous moments of despair for once in the Golden Jew’s life either.

Korny Kornbluth was always triggered by more manly writers like Hemingway knowing how he boxed Kangaroos for fun, yet Hemingway was a humorless bore as a whole who blew his brains out, so who gives a shit about Hemingway being taught in English Literature classes despite Old Man and The Sea being another stellar example of excellent, concise, immaculate, sturdy strong prose at work? That’s not who Korny Kornbluth was or ever would be. What if Korny Kornbluth become known as the Zamboni Artist and got a job driving a Zamboni at the local hockey rink, so he could afford to buy his daughter state of the art skates during Hanukah for a change, and start creating more winter land rich memories between them skating together versus Dad locking himself upstairs only to lash out at the propagandist media again with more divine powered, evil condemning authority on comedy record 5000, Mega Dumb Daddy, God forbid? No, Korny Kornbluth would end obsessing over the need to feast off Lady Laugh long time all the time because if his wife ever did kick him out of the house away from his 3 favorite people in the universe, Samuel, Arthur and Matilda, best home team ever, his world would become darkened overnight, stripping Korny Kornbluth of the zest beneath his wings, that contributed to him becoming the empowered funny man with a plan to search and destroy. Iggy Pop lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Moving forward, Korny Kornbluth wouldn’t abandon his need to get laughs, but would put that incessant, all-encompassing need on the backburner and not give it as much prime time real estate in his heart anymore, in favor of growing closer to his kids and wife, though focusing on writing stories, which celebrating his inner love speech machine because he wasn’t considered Korny, The Emotor Kornbluth on Yelp back in the day for nothing. Hacks criticize for a living and never create. Like famous classical composer Jean Sibelius said, “No statues were ever built in a critics honor.” Now, Korny Kornbluth would let his love light shine on what brings us together versus what drives us apart, despite common hatreds possessing a huge binding element in us all like unhuggable cunt Mother-In-Laws who force eucharist on her Jew blood tainted grandchildren for starters.

Now, Korny Kornbluth would focus the totality of his being not on being less cheesy, because he wasn’t that cheesy in the first place, but focus less on the need to be perceived as never cheesy ever, God forbid.

God blessed Korny Kornbluth with beautifying love of the highest magnitude for a reason and it wasn’t to solely make wisecracks from the sidelines of life for a living while not celebrating the binding beautiful within us all either.  Korny Kornbluth never wanted to become professionally funny for the money, fame or endless selection of new tight puss selection galore. It was because he finally found something he did good a job at, that offered the potential to achieve greatness with that wasn’t a decision made by his fucking parents on his behalf either. Plus, showcasing an early flair for laugh yank generation was encouraged by others he admired and looked up to growing up like his dearly departed Alternative School Teacher, the perpetually dapper, always unflappably sharp cool funny, Judy Cook, especially after a post pubescent Korny Kornbluth returned a new man from the Land of Milk And Honey with a lighter glint to his step Senior year after giving the hickey attack of 1993 before Nirvana killed off the glorious, crazy train reign of wonderful Hair Metal sleaze more so than Aids ever did. Plus, when Korny Kornbluth got laughs as an air guitar shredding teen or as a bombastic, punchline blasting middle age encroaching clown now, he no longer felt like a highly disorganized, pushover putz breath, no more, no more. Aerosmith lives, Challah, thank you very much.

But that was 28 years ago already. And Korny Kornbluth was more comfortable in his last kid to get into the puberty party and bloom under his Fruit of Looms skin now, having written well reviewed self-published books like Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story and The Great American Jew Novel while still having new books to sling and complete such as The Koshertarian Comedian and Waste Of Height Really, Short Stories. So finally one day, Korny Kornbluth decided to lay to double down on the cheese factor and propose to his wife the concept of renewing their vows in Australia, the place of her birth, assuming their COVID damage done mandate passport bullshit was lifted. Still, it’s the cheesy thought of renewing his vows to his wife and mother of his 3 beamish kids on Mother’s Beach only for him to recite a new poem in her lovely honor called, My American Dream. Because like the late great Hair Metal crooner legend Jani Lane from Warrant once bellowed shrieked with big deal redemptive oomph, in Sometimes She Cries, “Maybe, give love one more shot, yeah.” And doubling down on love was worth the shot, or else Korny Kornbluth would be circumcising his happiness like forsaking ballsier, fuller flavored Double IPA’s in his mid-forties over measly pale ale’s despite Sierra Nevada being the pale ale that never get’s stale.

My American Dream

My American Dream lives in my heart. Because of her, I’d never want to depart.

My American dream was made in the land down under.

When real deal love came to live in my heart, it shook my core like sky splitting thunder.

My American Dream gave me the freedom to spread my funny man wings, which has been an endlessly arousing heaven on earth fling.

Lady Laugh is a booty call who’s always a blog post away, yet what I want more than anything now is an actual payday.

I’ll get any job no matter what it entails, so we can dine al fresco again as I watch you eat snails.

Providing for your family more than laughs and gourmet meals isn’t cheesy.

It’s just that giving up the dream of making people laugh for a living all together yet isn’t so easy.

Shell Silverstein lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Busted Beauty

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

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

2 seconds into the party, the class bully Liam O’Reilly insists they play game of spin the bottle, but only if Joshua and Becca hide in the closet, because they refused to wear a shirt that says, “Kiss me I’m Irish.” Becca and Joshua oblige.

Becca hunches over in a rather spacious closet while fighting off hanging minks and leather jackets to get a clearer view of Joshua, whose father Steven Kornbluth was a big time TV development executive in Manhattan for FX who greenlit It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Rescue Me. Finally, Becca fights through the endless jackets and her eyes meet Joshua’s piercing hazel lit eyes. She goes in for a kiss but Joshua backs away from it. Becca says, “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” Joshua says, “I’m just nervous about kissing you Becca because I’ve never kissed a girl before.” Becca says, “That makes 2 of us for now.” Joshua can sense he’ll wreck Becca’s self-esteem for the foreseeable future if he doesn’t try to get into kissing her immediately. Joshua leans in to kiss Beca with his eyes closed and they clank their teeth together, almost shattering them into the smithereens, showcasing 0.0 kissing chemistry between them. Becca says, “So I wasn’t born to be your main squeeze after all? We can still be friends, right?” Joshua says, “Do you want to try jamming this Guiness bottle up my ass to see if I’d like that?  I saw it happen to this girl in a movie once called, I Spit on Your Grave. They both exude a nervous yet hearty laugh, neither of them being able to tell if Joshua wasn’t more half serious than half joking or not.

Now, Becca stands tall over the bema, which is the elevated stage in Synagogue where she performs her speech to commemorate the completion of her Bat Mitzvah and says, “One time a dear friend told me, “Rejection toughens you up for more rejection”, yet I stopped feeling excluded from a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day since Joshua Prize came into my life. All of a sudden, my birthday felt pregnant with feel good possibility again. Now, I no longer wanted to burry my nose in AP chemistry books till science camp to hide my mark of shame. I’ve wanted a nose job for the longest time. Origiinally, it was the only reason I decided to study for my Bat Mitzvah, after my Dad bribed me with Bat Mitzvah money to pay for it.  But I don’t mind my nose anymore, since my friend Joshua gave it a positive spin after a game of Spin The Bottle on our birthdays when we were forced to sit out the game in a closet at his parent’s house amongst ourselves. Joshua said, “Don’t blame your mom for your busted nose, Busted Beauty. Blame your gay closeted dad for getting too drunk to pull out again. Who cares if you inherited your mom’s busted nose or not? Your dad’s the one you should be pissed off at, especially knowing how he wants you to use your own Bat Mitzvah money to pay for corrective nose surgery that was his glaring production oversight in the 1st place. At the same time, you can’t be too mad at pops, because he gave me you. Granted, our kissing chemistry is non-existent. But love was back in town the day we met in chemistry class, and we could always produce a test tube baby together if you’d like. Like the late great Phil Lynott said, “If you’ve got nothing but a sense of humor, you will survive.” And we’ve got each other’s back, no matter what. Who cares if you prefer girls, but not when I dress up like one in a pink wig either?  Pervs stick together. Hey, we just outed ourselves while still stuck in the closet. Regardless, you’ll always be my favorite busted beauty Becca.” And I said, “Joshua, stop being such a drama queen already. Then, we remerge from the closet while the game of spin the bottle resumes among all the party goers who continue to ignore the totality of our collective existence. Then, I go into kiss Joshua on the lips, but he arches his back away from me before cracking his head on the corner of the wall, which required 13 stiches soon after.” So, what’s my takeaway hypothesis ladies and gentlemen? He’s only a fag hag if you marry him. Besides, no busted beauties are perfect.” Billy Wilder lives as a gender fluid comedian, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Comedian Medium

Can too much goodness be a career impediment? My 5-Year-Old Son, Chosen Curls Was Bound to Woo thinks so. He says, “Daddy, your comedy records are too good like Over The Top Disorder, Blast Off Time and Flipper Bird Baby. I say, “So you think Indy records labels I’ve shared links with like the one Kevin Hart owns are intimidated by my over-the-top towering genius 90 records later compared to their miniscule, pathetically weak punchline offerings in return?” Chosen Curls replies, “Your comedy records are too good moron, got it. Maybe, you should make them half good, half suck, so you don’t come across as completely full of yourself if it half sucks. Rocky didn’t win every round against Apollo, remember?”

For the 1st night of Hanukkah, I got my son some old school WWF wrestling action figures including Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Fuji and Superfly Jimmy Snuka yet what provided him the most joy was the Rocky 1 soundtrack on vinyl. The moment the needle hit wax, Chosen Curls otherwise as known as Kung Fu Lightening and Hardcore Hunga Zone began to perform a series of one-armed pushups on the floor because it will “make him tougher.” The way I allow him to hit me in the face when I box him on my knees on our Rocky rug downstairs with his Everlast gloves as a form of flinch freeing treatment, so I don’t remain pushover putzy no more, no more. Aerosmith Rocks lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Growing up, I didn’t back way from any fist fights, but I did refrain from hurling insults whenever they were thrown my way like accusations of me eating my own jiz at the Nurse’s office, after I admitted to touching myself in there prior like a mongoloid moron, which later inspired an opening scene in my TV Pilot pitched to VH1 Classic Heavy Metal High, when my imaginary guiding star Andrew Dice Clay appears in the Nurse’s Office after I become the last member of my class to get into the puberty party. A puff of smoke clears, Dice flashes the bedazzled Dice Rules Leather jacket and starts clapping, before saying, “Congratulations, you finally achieved blastoff jerkoff.” Dice adds, “Jerking off doesn’t make you a man. It’s how you use your balls that matters most in this world kid.”

It’s hard to feel that you’re being super ballsy recording non-stop comedy records at home for 8 months in a row. Still, my wife threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn’t get a real job already and dared to write any more books before I doubled down on my imagination on her dime a bit and wrote The Koshertarian Comedian in addition to Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories. So, I can’t claim how I’m guilty of playing it safe either, especially after releasing comedy record titles such as Funny Enough Fagala, far from straight, I’m not.

But what’s nagging my psyche today on the Comedian Medium podcast, dead writer ghost talk, for you and me, is whether my excessive goodness is being used against me. I want to summon the ghost of William Blake to discuss concepts such as self-sacrifice in contrast to Ayn Rand’s ardent belief in only being able to achieve personal happiness and career fulfillment by not living out the expectations for the sake of others. Charles Bukowski says, “Writers are awful, selfish people, who save the best versions of themselves on the page.” Perhaps, I always viewed my writing as my idealized self, who’s funny, smart, brave, secure, energized, big hearted and borderline poetic as opposed to feeling like a floundering, touchy feely bitch in real life on Adderall or off.  I think most of my rage issues stem from allowing my younger brother, parents and old friends to ruin everything for me again and again. Why do they aggravate me so much? Because they’re not good enough for me anymore, which explains why I seek love from strangers for a living through my books, blogs, comedy records and podcast episodes involving dead writers who provide more varied company that I crave, who don’t pretend to be my biggest fan or loyalist supporter when they can’t even acknowledge a new comedy record posting on LinkedIn to shake up the stagnant, gun-shy boredom in the straight world. Courtney Love lives, Challah. Thank you very much. How can I honestly claim any enviable connection to old friends, a younger brother or parents when not once have they asked how’s the comedy career going over the past 5 years since my lucky number 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born?

Fuck their half ass insincerity. Fuck their glaring indifference to the greatest funny man hot streak known to mankind. Fuck their belief in thinking I should be grateful for their sloppy second treatment at all. Fuck their claims of good things happening to good people. Tell that to every family forced into bankruptcy after losing their jobs over forced mandates to prevent the common good from catching an itchy esophagus. Fuck my brother for blaming his opioid pill addition on his wife and for my parents buying that bullshit narrative like Big Tech being nothing more than freedom of speech killing bastards in bed with ANTIFA whose members resemble a bunch of Punisher vigilante wannabes in hoodies who never outgrew their pyromania phase. Fuck any friend who started ignoring my being because I went into the funny man show business on my own and used to support Trump on my old Do It All Dad Year Podcast for free. And fuck all woman who react with, “Ah”, anytime I write something, sweet and thoughtful in their honor on a LinkedIn messaging board for others to see. It makes me want to gag on a bag full of dicks for opening my beautiful heart soon after. I think my problem is that I’m too big hearted. How do I become less big hearted? Become a more enraged 1st responder whenever a friend takes his sweet ass time to reply with a “thanks bud”, after I text him Good Dad +Good Friend +Good Brother+ Good Husband + Good Jew=100 Percent Mensch proof. Are good people the most generous with their time pleasing others versus themselves? I also don’t buy into this horseshit premise about how were supposed to be content with old friends from our past reflecting our less sure, outmoded selves, when we outgrow their measured praise when we get older, especially, when they’ve shown no interest in your new and improved offspring after writing your well-reviewed book, Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, no less. At least, he writes really funny jokes. Go fuck yourself, I create a video with my daughter about your younger sister beating cancer and that’s the best you can do to pretend about actually giving a shit about me succeeding in this world with a family of 5 to provide for. It makes me sick to think I wasted any time caring about these friend’s opinions, when none of them haven taken any ballsy chances with their life whatsoever. And you’re going try to demean me and reduce me to some flailing desperate clown in need of your loving laughing approval after God came into my heart, blessing me with 3 Koshertarian comedian kids later as I proceed to plow forward with the greatest comedy record streak of all time, with comedy record 91 Too Much Goodness, coming out later tonight, yeah, you can go fuck yourself to. We weren’t that close to begin with. As usual, I romanticize all relationships way out of proportion and gave you blah brained fucks way too much benefit of the doubt. I’m the good life giver, not you asshole. Edgy energy star, you’re not. Over the top artist, not in your wildest dreams bud. So, let’s conjure William Blake already before I come across as too jaded bitter for Marc Maron’s taste before his podcast broke big.

“Yoh, William is anyone out there? What’s your favorite Door’s album? Did your pen pal Thomas Paine have enough common sense to wrap his tool before banging those busty broads in London town after Ben Franklin got 1st dibs on the house for inventing soothing bath salts for herpes? Wow, your ghost spirit looks mighty pissed off Blake. You’re redder in the face than other writer ghosts from podcast episodes past. I love your line, “Exuberance is beauty.” Because it makes my father look like an asshole whenever he tells me to calm down because if I don’t get giddy about my own brand hardcore hilarity, nobody else will. Plus, my wife freaks out if we’re out in public at a bar due to my tendency to perform in front of crowds like any self-respecting slut in a strait jacket would.” Ghost of Willaim Blake screams, “Shut up already. You’re an unholy father, who doesn’t accept Jesus Christ as his lord and savior, who wrote a blasphemous chapter called Jesus Killer Set in The Great American Jew Novel. Isn’t that correct?”

“I love being quoted by dead writer ghosts I admire almost as much as my son Chosen Curls quoting my comedy records like Not Kosher Baby, Challah, thank you very much. “

Ghost of William Blake says, “How does The Great American Jew Novel sell more copies than my self-published book of poetry, Songs Of Innocence & of Experience? Granted, my book only sold 33 copies but still. I made the Doors. Jim Morrison doesn’t exist without me. You named your son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, whoopty freaking do.”

“You mean The Sun Butter King, AKA, Art Show USA. I almost gave Arthur the middle name Brooks, in honor of comedian Albert Brooks but I didn’t want to give my son the permission to become a Jewish pussy. So, I named him Arthur Morrison Kornbluth instead, which is only fitting because his builder artist mind mojo keeps on rising, rising. I’m not crafting stories in his honor such as The Wishing Well Architect for nothing.  Yeah, so come up with a better book title that’s less schizophrenic than Songs of Innocence & Experience Blake, and I’ll give a shit about your anemic books sales again. You’re not going to give Walt Whitman sustained stiffage with a horseshit title like Songs of Innocence & Experience is all I’m saying. Not that Leaves of Grass is anything to write home about either Blake. Then again, neither of you were blessed with the funny Jew bone. And mine is more well-endowed by my maker than most, Challah, Big Mouth Moses lives. Thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth