Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time, there was a famous jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once (one less time than Duke Ellington).

            Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background; yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra-strength heroin one night, home alone in his Queens apartment in far Rockaway Beach.

            (This would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience, for a change, and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window, too.)

            Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes again, to make sure that what horrific vision he saw (on what was most likely pure, real-deal heroin) was actually true. Yes, it was.

            In this vision while on mind-melding H, a so-called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini-tablet device, of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell, out the window into the frigid February snow with absolute relished glee to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz, prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before.

            Now Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling, and asks God, in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my jazz piano masterpiece?”

             The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks like he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  

            “And how dare this so-called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks I ever spent” after his carefree son flings my jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing that the jazz critic at the Village Voice called my jazz piano masterpiece “heroin hell” and “melancholy magic.”  

            Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due, Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well, guess what: you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me, motherfucker.         “Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American jazz songbook. So, instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mothers, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway, like Cole Porter or those those fancy schmancy Gershwin brothers, for a change? At least they dress nice and look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. But, hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you’ve got some brains cells left, to use more wisely.”

            Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung, this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door, this time, and bemoans, “Fight or flight, Junky: what will your destiny be? I get it. You’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep singing ‘The Man I Love’ whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  

            “So you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard—whoopty freaking do. I’m positive you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter, or get some sin-on-sin loving behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room, too.  

            “Innovate or die a broke, boring junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

            Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his piano, with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor, and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer, on the spot.

            His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens, alone, and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone, and says, “Jazz rock is the new groove now, Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, to where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative jazz or elevator music. on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in.     “Regardless, your sound helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me, in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, and made it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia Records to digest, too.

            “You played in a gorgeous, hair-tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget. Sorry about cutting out your work, on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit, Junky.”

            Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses, places them on his tombstone, and says, “I got these from your landlord after I learned you’d passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk, too.

            “Your landlord told me to “innovate or die.” Then I recorded Sketches Of Spain during my drying out period, which represented my new lease on life, Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank. But boy, could you play. And I am fucking jazz.

            “And Miles knows best—even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell can see that.”   

Michael Kornbluth

Sketches Of Ridgefield

The best thing about breastfeeding today is that you can’t blame low supplies on supply chain problems. Plus, you feel much less pain at the pump.

My wife The Boob Doctor, who works as a lactation consultant, sampled a speech on me last night about breastfeeding. When she said, “Were not in the business of starving babies.” I said, “Assuming, those mommies are modeled after Jessica Simpson. I don’t think my mom had one bottle leftover between her.”

Tried to go short shopping at Vans today. A checkered print of red shorts appealed to me, but then I thought, “You have too many grey hairs in your beard to pull of those shorts asshole.”

I’ve lost all patience with my daughter’s friends who don’t acknowledge my presence whenever I pick her up from camp. I say, “If Mazel hates her mom so much, she should stop acting like such a scrunchie face cunt in my presence, no offense.” Later, I try to act nicer and say, “Mazel just morphs into an uppity bitch in my presence when I pick you up from camp because she’s just pissed about having to part with the sweetest friend she doesn’t deserve to have.” Daughter says, “What do you expect Mazel to do in your presence daddy?” I say, “Dictate a thank note into her smartphone in front of me when I pick you up from camp in real time in front of all her counselors about why she’d turn into a Godless cum dumpster without the beautifying, anchoring influence that you bless her life with because you stem from my Do It All Dad Year Tree Trunk for starters, HASHTAG: Hang10Dad. Robert Schimmel lives, Challah! Thank you very much.

Did you know that Jeff Bezos dumped his wife for a woman who used to be married to Hall of Fame Tight End Tony Gonzalez? I don’t care how big his dick pics are. Happy denting, AJAX Man.

Then, the lady at the bookstore in Ridgefield, CT finishes laughing and says, “Are you in our system?” And I say, “All of a sudden, I feel like a registered sex offender with Woody Allen’s autobiography in my hand. Did you know that Woody used to keep naked polaroids of a 9-year-old Soon-Yi stuffed into his top sock drawer? The only pic missing from his spank collection was the one of Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine. I almost forgot, do you also have the book Comedy, Drama by Bob Odenkirk? Personally, my favorite Bob Odenkirk role was him playing Larry Sander’s agent on the Larry Sanders show when he wore his assholishness on a sleave. But it’s impossible to not think of my brother when I repeat the title Comedy, Drama, because he’ll do cocaine and Ambien at the same time. Next level sketchy lives. How indecisive can you be bro? You’re more indecisive than Jared Kushner holding up the salad bar line at the Bellagio. Actually, met Gary Shandling at an art show in Pasadena, when I was catering, working on my smile ready face, because growing up I didn’t have much muscle memory to flex from whatsoever. Gary Shandling said, “Keep writing and you’ll look like me.”

She says, “So did you keep writing?” And I said, “Yeah, I got my TV writing break with Vh1 Classic on America’s Hard 100 that was hosted by WWE star Chris Jericho. He wouldn’t touch the steroid shrinkage joke I wrote for him out of respect for Vince McMahon. He didn’t want to be Owen Hart without a safety net with no harness to pull him back from the point of no return. I’ve also recorded 113 comedy records since. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years. My last comedy record, Crazy Stones after Lapping Losers was made in honor of Oliver Stone’s crazy stones, whose half Jewish by the way. Put another one on that board. You know your dad is a fake news hippie if he vehemently denies the CIA’s role in taking out JFK. Never visiting the Grand Canyon after living in Arizona for 10 years, doesn’t help bolster your case against being a fake news hippie dad, fake news hippie. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora suggests otherwise. Also, where are all the Philosophy books? Oh, their placed all the way at the bottom here at the bottom of the food chain where all their diplomas belong. I’m in no position to act more evolved secure after graduating from a top communication school with a stutter to become another schmuck in a headset IT recruiter out of college like the rest. I went to Ithaca college in upstate NY, otherwise known as Cornell’s retarded next-door neighbor. But I could suck down back-to-back to bingers and not manage to stutter every other 2 seconds. Wait a minute, 30 bucks for Bob Odenkirk’s Breaking Balls, you’ve got to me kidding me. I snorted crystal meth thinking it was cocaine once. 5 hours later after one line, I acted like an extra speedy Tony the Tiger, going, “This shit is great.” The come down was far from great. Later, I call the dude who gave me the bump from hell and say, “Dude that was really strong coke. I thought I was going to die in my own arms that night.” He said, “Dude that wasn’t coke, that was crystal meth. I thought you knew the difference.” And I said, “I didn’t realize you were conducting the Pepsi Challenge.” Eighties Don Draper lives if he didn’t die of lung cancer in the eighties. Have I mentioned my push to push my daughter into becoming a lesbian yet? Because she can’t die of Aids or get cervical cancer from HPV if you get the vaccine for it that actually works more than Russell Westbrook running the Triangle Offense. This way my Lesbian leaning daughter can take a licking and keep on ticking. I don’t have any business cards on me but just ask Alexa to play Michael Kornbluth if I’ve aroused your interesting in wanting to be stuffed with more totality of me.” Challah, thank you very much.

Book Lady says, “Vince Mcmahon is a nice man. One time I went to a restaurant in Darien, CT and he paid for everybody’s dinner.” I said, “He gave a touching homage to Andre The Giant in his doc on HBO, unlike bleeding heart Rob Reiner. Who insisted, Andre the Giant was wasted throughout the entire shooting of Princess of Pride. Great job, ruining any last connection to my age of innocence asshole. Billy Crystal’s ho hum commentary didn’t help, adding, “I couldn’t understand Andre as a one syllable grunt as the Sasquatch in the 6 million Dollar Man.” Fuck you, Billy Crystal. Your face looks like a rotten apple head who identifies as a dried-up Danish with a goatee with all funny man color stripped from your hallowed edgeless core for the past 15 years and counting. Rob Reiner adds, “Andre could barely catch Buttercup descending from the castle because his back muscle was mushier than a plate of brie left in the summer Provence sun. ” Book Lady says, “Keep writing, Totality Of Me, keep writing. Thank you, very, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Gorgeousness Galore

Why have Jews written so many Christmas songs over Hannukah ones?

Because Adam Sandler wasn’t born yet.

Writing Heroin Hanukkah was a vein of humor not in Lou Reed after all.

Carole King was too busy playing wiggle toes with her cats.

Billy Joel didn’t marry Christie Brinkley because of her grandma’s brisket.

Because Adam Levine’s tatted up corpse can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery.

Lenny Kravitz was too lit to care.

Ira Gershwin stuck to WASP placation.

Randy Newman was stuck in detached irony land.

Barry Manilow’s nose don’t play that.

Leonard Cohen wouldn’t be caught dead in a skull cap if his Unisex hat collection depended on it.

Beck was lost in thought at Griffth Park on extra strength opium.

Dylan converted to Jews for Super Jew Jesus.

Leonard Bernstein considered Gustav Mahler overblown gorgeousness.

Art Garfunkel would’ve been sued by the Christan Right for sounding too angelic rich for their tastes.

Paul Simon would’ve triggered Woody Allen if Lorne Michaels helped pen a funnier Happy Hannukah song than the golden Jew Adam Sandler.

Michael Kornbluth

Fancy Fingers

Once upon a time there was a famous Jazz pianist known as Junky The Pianist, who suffered from imposter syndrome. He played with all the biggies of his day in the 1950’s and was on the cover of Time Magazine once, one less time more than Duke Ellington. Jazz critics sucked up off his classical pianist training background yet Junky The Pianist failed to feel good about his artistic heft after a depressingly dreary vision on extra strength heroin one night, home alone, in his Queens apartment, in far Rockaway Beach, which would’ve forced Miles Davis to face the audience for a change and stare down the motherfucker who dared to throw his Jazz record masterpiece Kind of Blue out the window to.


Junky The Pianist hunches over a pile of his own brown tarred puke, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes again, to make sure what horrific vision he saw on what was most likely pure, real deal heroin, was actually true. Yes, it was. In this vision on mind melding H, a so called Stay At Home Comedian Podcast Host in 2021 was filming a video on a strange mini tablet device of his son tossing Junky The Pianist’s prized jazz album, Heroin Hell out the window into the frigid, February snow with absolute relished glee, to be finally rid of such horrible trash, forever. On the video, Junky The Pianist recoils from repeat visions of the kid throwing out his “horrible” jazz record out the window, hoping it would break on a tree, after the little one admitted to liking jazz prior, which made him more putrid sick in his stomach than ever before. Now, Junky The Pianist wallows in the lowest form of self-pity, looks up to his leaky, decrepit, light flickering ceiling and asks God in the most dejected, harrowing way, “How can you like some jazz, but not my Jazz piano masterpiece? The Junky Pianist drones on, adding, “Who cares if I’m a white boy in glasses who looks he should be a furniture salesman from Fort Lee, New Jersey?  And how dare this so called Stay At Home Comedian proclaim, “Best 20 bucks, I ever spent”, after his carefree son flings my Jazz masterpiece into the yard as if it was another frenetic, Herbie Hancock hand job record, knowing the Jazz Critic at the Village Voice called my Jazz piano masterpiece, “Heroin Hell”, “Melancholy magic.”  

Junky The Pianist hears a loud thump on the door. Landlord screams, “Rent is due Junky. How can you be on the cover of Time Magazine, but not afford your rent in a rent-controlled apartment, motherfucker? I’ve seen those fancy cats you roll with, like Miles Davis. Well guess what, you’re not Miles Davis. So, you’re in no position to turn your back on me motherfucker. Look, Frank Sinatra is doing ok, singing songs from the great American Jazz songbook. So instead of composing more piano jerk music for jazz critics who still live with their mother, why don’t you compose some fruitcake songs you can sell to Broadway like Cole Porter or those those fancy, schmancy Gershwin brothers for a change? At least, they dress nice and the look the part. You look like a junkie furniture salesman from Fort Lee, Jersey. Buy hey, you wear glasses and play at all the hip Jazz joints downtown, so I’m positive you got some brains cells left to use more wisely.”

Junky The Pianist pukes out a lung this time. Landlord leans his ear closer to the door this time and bemoans, “Fight or flight Junky, what will your destiny be? I get it, you’re most likely a closeted homo. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep, singing, “The Man I Love, whenever Ella Fitzgerald is on the radio again.  So, you can’t hold hands with your imaginary lover throughout McDougal Street after a show at the Village Vanguard, whoopty freaking do. I’m positive, you can get plenty of privacy at the Plaza with Cole Porter or get some sin on sin loving, behind any old dumpster behind any old Broadway theatre dressing room to.  Innovate or die a broke, boring Junkie, fancy fingers. I don’t know why I waste my breath.”  

Junky The Pianist musters the strength to crawl over to his Piano with no other furniture around, collapses on the dusty hardwood floor and dies of a heart attack to avoid heroin hell one second longer on the spot. His landlord paid for his casket and the remainder of his funeral expenses. Months later, Miles Davis visits his gravesite in Rockaway Queens alone and places a rock on his Jewish tombstone and says, “Jazz Rock is the new groove now Junky. Sorry for turning my back on you, when that junk started to ruin your fancy fingers at an accelerated rate, where you couldn’t tell if you were playing meditative Jazz, or elevator music, on really slow acid, that takes forever to kick in. Regardless, your sound, helped mold my best-selling masterpiece, Kind Of Blue. Having Train on the record with me in charge as the bandleader to rein in his self-indulgent stroke sessions, didn’t hurt the overall marketability of the record, to make it more palatable for uptight white boy devil lawyers at Columbia records to digest either. You played in a gorgeous, hair tingly way on my birthday during a jam session on Milestones, which I’ll never forget it. Sorry about cutting out your work on that track. I couldn’t have a furniture salesmen from Fort Lee, New Jersey outshine me on my own shit Junky.”

Miles reaches into his camel skin coat pocket to grab Junky’s abnormally thick black glasses and places them on his tombstone and says, “I got these from your landlord, after I learned you passed. I can’t believe I was listed as your only emergency contact when I was still on the junk to. Your landlord told me to “innovate or die”, then I recorded Sketches Of Spain, during my drying out period, representing my new lease on life Junky. And I’ll always have your junky ass to thank, but boy could you play. And I am fucking Jazz. And Miles knows best, even your homo ass all the way down in heroin hell, can see that.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Kind Of Sad

Who told Samuel L Jackson it looks cool to dress up like Spike Lee’s grandmother? Who identifies, as a Jazz critic descendant of Sonny Rollins in Tyler Perry’s new film, The Uppity Cunt. Co-starring Jeffrey Wright, who plays a wannabe OG, sax savant brother dropout from Julliard, who plays himself in the latest David Simon joint, after telling his Jazz critic brother, to blow his crap review of his debut, self-produced album, Kind Of Sad, up his ass.

Michael Kornbluth