Respectful Impressiveness

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

















Ungodly Reasons

Call me elitist. But I like eating Kosher because it makes feel less common and ordinary blah. Deli guy says, “No Bacon, with that?” “Is my egg and cheese order not manly enough for you, Dominick, I ain’t no Fag Scholanti?” Plus, I can watch the Showrunner of Everyone Loves Raymond, Phil Rosenthal on Somebody Feed Phil, squirm with discomfort around the actor from Treme went he told him to put more “swing” into whatever French creole named sausage he tried to annunciate with divine powered glee knowing my commitment to upholding a Koshertarian diet comedian lifestyle would allow me to make fun of it with detached bemusement soon after. Although in terms of comedy, nothing could beat the Treme actor explaining his learning process about cured meats, “Oh, so Pate is like hog’s head cheese.” Hilarious, prior he explained his use of a blood bucket growing up in Louisiana used in the making of Blood Sausage. And I’m thinking, Phil Rosenthal has less in common with this actor’s roots than white man’s disease. At one point in the episode, Phil attends a non-Kosher seder, with a giant Gefilte Fish stuffed with Shrimp. And Gefilte Fish slop plop is so old world Jewy disgusting in Microsoft Word’s eyes, autocorrect doesn’t even acknowledge its existence. Actually, I was being a self-loathing, paranoid half Jew, who was spelling it wrong. Reality is, my mother was raised Catholic I think in Kentucky, she never talks about it really, before she converted to Judaism after my dad nailed her with his Hebrew hammer, I guess. Seconds later, mom says, “Jesus who, never heard of the guy. But anything beats eating Squirl soup, so fuck off Christian nation, I’m moving to Jew York into some shitty tenement in the Bronx, that’s not Riverdale, I’m out of here.”

I love the south. My favorite summer wind was Katie King, who was from Winston Salem, North Carolina. We met in Kennedy country in Chatham, Cape Cod, the 1st time I asked God for anything by the beach. I say, “God, I don’t need Marilyn Monroe, but just a summer romance of some kind, so I can have someone to think about while playing I Remember You by Skid Row although Sebastian Bach sporting a shit that read Aids kill fag Dad is an extraneous exclamation point at that point in the sentence.” God delivered with resounding authority and gave me the scent of the south in Katie King. Outside of my great, great, great, Grandfather Austin Gollaher saving his boyfriend friend from drowning while running home late for some racoon soup, this will go down as the greatest save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby. But what was God saving me from exactly outside of more ordinary blah? Easy, he saved me from non-stop hurt, because good loving is what I got, Sublime lives, Challah, thank you very much. More importantly, until then, I never knew or had any clue about my capacity for being a joy spreader for others. During one of our last night’s together after another legendary kiss, that went on for years in a good way, my dear Katie King said, “I never knew somebody could make me so happy.” Being a New York Yankee who sported a circumcised schlong versus the ant eater look tipped the laws of attraction in my favor to. So maybe, my mom converted to Judaism because settling for the ant eater look between some southern gent’s legs would’ve circumcised her happiness also.

I fell in love with crawfish and all its succulent manifestations while working as a waiter at a Creole style restaurant in Park Slope ages ago, back when Lena Dunham has much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself. Before birthrates in Brooklyn had reached an all-time low due to overweight hobbit hipsters pulling out early from excessive meat sweats. At the same time Lena Dunham’s encouraged arm flapper look wasn’t encouraging more porking over pounding more pork buns either. Crawfish, you know shrimp with personality. Think Madeline Kahn over Samantha Bee. I had crazy sex with a girl from St. Louis during Marti Gras on my friend’s couch in and out of a black out powered haze although I remember sucking face with her after drinking a Hand Grenade prior and she tasted fantastic. So, I have plenty of love for southern accentuated fun. You can’t beat southern loving hospitality like this. So why forsake more drunken revelry down on the big easy, where banging random, giving girls you just met is easy? Because my dick would fall off from overexertion and pop out of its joy socket. Either that, or I’d wake up in 2 months without a livable liver because of my own self-inflicted wounds.

But what are my ungodly reasons for sticking with the Koshertarian Diet for the home stretch of my life? For starters, abstaining from pork shields me from future charges of Islamophobia. Especially, after a smartphone catches one of my future performances a Carolines on Broadway, when I say, “A 2 state solution is never ending as long as Hamas keeps fucking.” I’m also drawn to bragging rights for one upping Dad. Did we eat Kosher in the house for 22 years? Yes, but we ate Chinese and bomb veal parm in the Bronx outside the house, which isn’t the same thing. I’m not against swinging both ways, but for once, I’m committed to a monogamous relationship with Kosher law, and I don’t mind being feeling like a slut in a strait jacket in this instance, which is a welcome change of pace. I also like forward, upward motion, which is why I’m doing my year without beer, so I can drop whatever deadweight that’s preventing me from achieving Do It All Dad dunking out glory. So, working towards being a Koshertarian Comedian lifer that’s constantly striving to reach a higher spiritual place of fulfillment is a soul cleansing place to be, after pleasuring yourself to 3rd, legged beauties.com prior. Being a hit blasting Koshertarian Comedian for the bast 13 months, 121 comedy records later, beats Jolting Joe’s 56 game hitting streak by a mile. So that’s an ungoldy reason to stick with my funny man Koshertarian Comedian path that gives me a leg up on my competition, knowing how God’s hooking me up with more sheets of comedy gold in return. And like Ron Shelton wrote in Bull Durham, “You don’t fuck with a winning streak.” Plus, at this late in the game, I don’t want to cheat myself out of the holiness I feel from upholding my Koshertarian diet. I think my kids would be more disappointed if I carried on a new love affair with a fan on my WordPress blog than breaking my Koshertarian vows really. Have I made a vow to honor my Koshertarian Diet till my last dying breath? No, but self-imposed restrictions make me feel like a more in control beast similar to my year without beer so far. And it’s no longer just about my own self-serving needs but inspiring my kids to rise above being slaves to your give me now desires. The Metallica album Master of Puppets is about being a slave to drug dependence. Fine, eating a Shrimp Po Boy isn’t in the same league. Still, I miss the idea of having that option more than the action of inhaling a shrimp boy itself. But ultimately, sticking with the Koshertarian Diet has provided good restrictions that have forced me to be more creative that’s resulted in my primo, heavily workshopped, 2nds demanding Farfalle pesto with no cheese using a mixture of pecans and pistachios, always being the best, while throwing in some diced up Kosher chicken breasts from the air fryer in addition to some well salted, thinly sliced, cherry tomatoes top.

Other ungodly reasons to stick the Koshertarian Diet is ensure my book the Koshertarian Comedian gets published one day, in spite of the masked bitch at the bookstore in Rhinebeck, who acted grossed out, perplexed, when I asked, if they had a Kosher cookbook section. She gives me an immediate, “no.” And I say, “What if I asked for you for a Hallal cookbook section that gave shout outs to Allah in honor of all the porking you get do in Allah’s gangsta paradise as a reward for killing more infidel bitches like yourself, hashtag, hacking hymens to shawarma shreds.” Ungodly Reasons, Challah. Thank you very much.

It’s tempting to break my Koshertarian diet when I visit a semi-close bud from college in St. Louis later this summer to see George Thorogood and the Destroyers, Sammy Haggar is the opening act. I hear his Tequilla goes down Van Halen light. Will I be able to turn down smoked Brisket and burnt ends in St. Louis away from my beamish 3 kids for 2 nights with no restrictions outside of abstaining from bourbon and banging some random chick without passing out in my condom 1st? Will see, but I’m looking forward to some man-on-man bonding company more so than suckling down some Pit master made Brisket while pitching my bud new ideas for my screenplay Gum King Of New York, about a stay-at-home dad who reinvents himself as a pitchman star on the QVC during his year without beer while hocking his new brand of hop flavored Gum Hop-O-Rama Chew. I plan on selling the action-comedy adventure as a cross between Pineapple Express, Joy and The Founder except its origin story takes place in St. Louis in 2022 with some Midwest Jewish mobsters in Kansas City ala Casino thrown in between.

Ultimately, though I just don’t want to fuck up my winning streak on the keyboard. Call me spiritually superstitious then. At the same time, I also enjoy my slimmed down physique that’s a direct result of a veggie loaded Koshertarian Diet and I refuse to let Phil Rosenthal look more wide eyed happy slim for having less of a need for fostering a divine connection than the need for edgier, funny man commentary on his tour of Copenhagen for Somebody Feed Phil. “Copenhagen is known for its inclusive diversity embedded in its architecture such as these Moroccan titled fountains and fake news no go zone areas over here.”

Every morning, I thank God for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And sticking to the Koshertarian diet has allowed me to do that although Bill Maher would prefer to call him my imaginary friend, so be it. Rocky’s been Stallone’s imaginary friend for 4 decades straight and it’s paid off handsomely for Sly. Although learning that 420, the national pot smoking holiday is on Hitler’s birthday, was a total bummer man equal to when learning how Sly snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. I also close out every morning prayer session with thanking Hashem, the most high, for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And I feel that sticking with the Koshertarain diet is a nice tender touch that helps keep our love connection alive, versus my wife rolling over to the other side of the equator whenever I try to snuggle her for old times’ sake at night.

Is the Koshtertarian Diet my life preserver needed to achieve publishing glory or just a cute, gimmick fad to create a niche in on LinkedIn? Time will tell, but for now I’m all in on God, no more in and out of God shit, call me Superstitiously Faithful, I don’t give a shit. All I know, is that my son, the other day, says in a semi-joking manner, “I don’t like life”, to make me laugh before camp. But wish you were here vibes are easy to sense. And I say, “What you mean Samuel is that you don’t like your life when Daddy isn’t in it as much since you started camp. And you’re pissing in your bed again, because camp is ending soon and you’re scared about missing on more hangout time with Daddy once Kindergarten starts, correct? Son tears up a tad and says, “You’re not such a moron son, after all Daddy. But once camp is over, I get to sell your books and comedy CDs with you like Flipper Bird Baby, Daddy, deal?”

So, why I would want to give God sloppy second consideration for the sake of crawfish pie, when he continues to bless me with such an endlessly growing love life like this? Especially knowing how anger is normally a realer emotion than love, but not in this instance. For example, how often do you hear your wife or girlfriend say I love you without it sounding manufactured hoarse as if she’s forcing the issue to avoid a divorce? On the other hand, when you say, “I hate what New York City has become, because no bail policies have turned the Big Apple into OZ without any Proud Boys to bail your ass out of trouble in sight. When my son says, “I hate hanging out with mommy.” What’s he’s really saying is I really like hanging out with you that much more because he’s gets bored around her too easily. I always knew he was a quick learner. But what makes one parent more loveable than the other? Selective tenderness maybe, but I think it comes down to involving your kids in your life, which is easier to do when you’re Stay At Home Shemale Comedian for 5 years in row since my lucky 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born. Kids tend to love back with boatloads of tenderness because you make them feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Having your father’s shoulder’s collapse when you go in for a hug gives you the distinct opposite impression. Plus, funnier dad, happier baby. Victor Borge says, “Laughter is the shortest distance between 2 people.” So, if you can find a way to make your loved ones, especially your kids laugh more, you’ll grow closer to them for it. When your children laugh, especially from your own efforts, you grow closer to the divine, which for me is the cherry on top. And who doesn’t want a piece of that pie? And there’s nothing common or ordinary blah about that. Spiritually Superstitious, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

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