Dragon Lung’s Year

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

















Spiritually Superstitious

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

Pissy Life Hack Tips

Do It All Dad, a self-described Stay at Home She-Male Comedian performs another killerset in his bedroom office on his Do It All Dad Time Podcast, titled, Pissy Life Hack Tips.

“My quest is to make my son a shallow sleeper, so he won’t piss his bed anymore from being such a deep-thinking sleeper. I’ll stop talking to him like he’s a Talmudic scholar for hire. “Rabbi Samuel, is it better to be loved by your kids or by strangers on stage every night at the Comedy Cellar, getting your funny man freak on for a living?” Son says, “Get a life ancient moron and figure it out yourself already. I’m still only 5 years old, remember?”

“But seriously, is deprogramming deepness considered a legitimate pissy life hack tip that’s a shortcut to improved parental happiness if forcing your kid to wear a nappy to bed is no longer a drawn-out tug of free will anymore?  Reality is, my son only pisses his bed at night. So, my pissy life problems have to be a result of my son being too much of a deep sleeper.  You might think I’m being a tad melodramatic for yuck, yucks sake, but having to duck under your kids bunk bed to make his bed again after washing his soaked Star Wars sheets and bedcovers is enough to push any man to the dark side. So if I want to avoid stripping my son’s wet sheets off his bed again like he’s a young Corey Feldman who’s been the hitting bottle too hard with Sam Kinson backstage at the Comedy Store again, why don’t I shame bribe him, by insisting we can’t watch Spaceballs ever again unless he comes out as Farm Boy from Princess Bride for Halloween, except whenever a homeowner giving candy asks, “Who are you dressed as for Halloween?” Samuel must say, “Piss Bucket Boy from History of The World”, before flashing his plastic pumpkin candy holder that’s packed with PJ Mask nappies to the rim.

At first, I thought banning my wife from giving our son Melatonin gummies would prevent him from falling into deeper states of extended sleep while contemplating who would win in a street fight, Rudy or Rocky, if Bruce Lee trained Rudy first. My son’s still wetting himself like I did after waterboarding myself as a 12-year-old kid from trying to jerkoff but only succeeding in hosing myself down with a golden shower after Emanuel After Dark on Showtime because I hadn’t gotten into the puberty pool party yet.  So, to avoid becoming my son’s permanent wet nurse like Jill Biden on demand, I’m going to groom a shallow beauty, so he won’t get lost in deep enough focused thought on ways to bitch slap the future 5th grader who dares to spoil his sister with Starbucks gift cards on Valentine’s Day without taking the time for a midnight bathroom break who identifies with Fatal Attraction Astronauts from NASA.

Instead of watching documentaries on Andre the Giant, which focus on Andre’s excessive drinking problem to drown out the pain of being treated like a regrettable freak of nature in airports like the man who dresses like Meghan McCain in drag for Teacher Appreciation Month to read, “Divine Gives Bi-Curious Geroge a Banana in His Tail Pipe.” Will binge on Keeping Up with The Sloppy Third Kardashian Sister, since Kim backed out to focus full time on studying for her bar exam because Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now.  

I’ll insist my son doesn’t flip on his hoodie to hide his chosen curls at the grocery store anymore to avoid more grown Italian MILFS hitting on him with lines like, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” Only for me to say, “No offense lady, but if James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

I can buy my son a Waterbed for his birthday to avoid more weighty deep thoughts. So instead of meditating on the rapidly encroachment of irreversible death like Hemingway does in Old Man and The Sea, my son can dream about the glory days of Boogie Nights Porn pre-VHS tape, before tatted up white girls cranked up on Crystal meth ruined the golden age of muff diving forever. Back when the mountain muff on the MILF from Scandal in the Mansion on the big screen looked like stacks of Brillo pads resting on top of a busted Slinky.

I could also deprogram deepness my forcing my son to sleep every night in a Tanning Bed. And instead of reading him poetry at night from Charles Bukowski about the serial bitterness and predictably dronish, small soul producing dullness swallowing up our empty, consumerist controlled lives, while sloppy drunk hookers come knocking down on his door in broken high heels at 2 o clock in the morning, will start rehearsing his Trump impersonation for Halloween. But not just any old impression of Trump, but an impression of Trumpy Poo after he tests HIV positive, after the Deep State pricked him with the same dirty needle used to take out Easy E to prevent him from running again. “Who are you for Halloween?” Son says, “Little Man Trump who just tested HIV positive because Melania slept with Magic to get me back for the Stormy Daniels fiasco. Do I have HIV?  Yes, but my t-cell count numbers, have never been stronger.”

But I like talking to my 5-year-old son like he’s my Talmudic joke whisperer manager. Son says, “Daddy, stop being an ancient moron. When are you going to record comedy record 96 already? After that, you’ll only have 4 more to reach 100. Rodney Dangerfield never did that. Even Papa would have to respect that. Johnny Cash told his daughter Roseanne Cash she had to learn to play 100 selected songs before she could set out to become a master working solo artist, remember moron son? I still like the title Genius on Tap for your next comedy record. Think good and will be good like Rebbe Schneerson said. You’re always a genius just Jack Kerouac told himself remember mega dumb son? Besides. I own you and you ain’t poop without me. So, finish strong like Stallone does in Over-the-Top Daddy, none of this meet halfway crap, go for it all the way. Fight the good fight, achieve perfect laughter with the Gods, loneliness is a gift, to test your will to prove how much you really want it. What, you’ve been reading me quotes from Bukowski on Goodreads since I was 2. So, get a lit agent to read your entire manuscript for Waste of Height, Really Short Stories already.  Then, we can afford that Comedy Gold Mobile and go on a book signing tour together, but never forget, more jokes for me, are more jokes for your comedy records, got it.  I can wear my Muscle Beach shirt when you do a book signing in Venice, despite you naming Arthur, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. I’m still really pissed at you for that by the way. But I get all the Black Sabbath records and get to watch Fist of the North Star with you, do Mad Libs with you, play blackjack with my Freddy Kruger cards and watch Japanese death matches on YouTube with Terry Funk with at you home whenever we hang out, before I start Kindergarten next year, which evens out the suck. Hey Daddy, ever think I may pee in my bed because playing with Freddy Kruger cards would scare the piss out of any little dreamer at night whenever those images of a burnt serial killer come to life?” And I say, “Thank God somebody in this relationship is playing with a full deck.”

Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Positively Moron

Being under house arrest post COVID isn’t a radical departure for a Stay-At-Home Dad like myself. I’m used to limited freedoms in life, especially when my wife’s smartphone sends her an alert after I make another questionable purchase. Wife calls, “Hey babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?” I was already used to being treated like a sheltered bum from grandparents who are never around to help out with the kids anyway for 8 years before COVID. I still can’t get enough of social distancing personally. Because if the grandparents do visit, they fade faster than Hunter Biden after a three-day bender with the Sons of Anarchy cast and crew, despite only hearing last call from the bathroom stall. Unfortunately, Facebook has made Baby Boomers the laziest grandparent generation of all time, so they can act like their slacker offspring for a change. Lifting a finger for Grandpa is liking a new hiking pic on Instagram, despite living in Arizona for 10 years and not once visiting the Grand Canyon. And I thought Neil Young was a fake news hippie, who’s dating Darryl Hannah now because he’s going through a post midlife never banged a Mermaid crisis. You live in Arizona for 10 years and don’t visit the Grand Canyon once, you’re a fake news hippie, that’s no better than Neil Young who thinks Joe Rogan is the evil siding, misinformation machine, not CNN, and Fuck Face Fauci, who are more than ok with forcing clot shots on our kids who are breaking suicide records left and right due to inflated death count talk, increased drug dependence and prolonged social isolation for kids who never got to be cool like the kid who fought back with the brass knuckles in 3 O’ Clock High. Instead, our kids have been forced to hide in perpetual fear in a mask, which has drowned out their collective age of innocence, one Karen deafening freakout at a time. Wear the damn mask. Suck the misinformation out of my chosen schlong 1st Karen. Pretend Obama ordered you to leak it. Remind me to get you a Trump Voiced GPS system for your birthday that says, “On your far left is Mohegan Sun, Elizabeth’s Warren’s home away from home.”

Neil Young told Spotify to censor Joe Rogan or get his music off their platform because of spreading dangerous misinformation about the COVID vaccine. Pointing out record high suicides among kids used as pawns to peddle an evil enshrouded, blatantly dishonest narrative about a rebranded flu with a 99 percent survival rate to distract the world long enough from a stolen election is a scary guilt trip to handle on extra strength boomers Young, I agree. Hundreds of quoted peer-to-peer studies proving how natural immunity is 40 times superior to your bullshit booster shots, which at best provided you the fleeting feeling of smug superiority till you catch COVID. Feeling duped by Big Pharma, when you’re a singer songwriter expert on needles and damage done, would enact plenty of damage to my big government siding, trusting psyche to Young, fake news hippie.

What other debunked damaging falsehoods were pushed during Joe Rogan’s interview with Dr. Malone Young? Unvaccinated Palestinians have resumed digging UN sponsored death tunnels to kidnap Jewish kids in Israel because they’re not experiencing any debilitating side effects from the clot shot like hypertension, narcolepsy or temporary rock throwing arm paralysis. And enough with downplaying Dr. Malone’s infectious disease credentials. He helped develop the platform used for MRNA based vaccination technologies and knows Dr. Gnocchi personally. Shit, Dr. Malone fluffed the monkey with the rotating banana driller that they created Aids for Christ’s sake. Ooh, Dr. Malone questioned the effectiveness of the vaccine that works less than Kareem Adul Jabbar as a parenting thought leader on the Good Men Project after his twenty-year-old son was caught stabbing his neighbor to near death over a trash dispute outside his driveway. Apparently, the neighbor triggered Jabbar’s son when he said, “How do BLM leaders that helped cause 2 billion dollars’ worth of property damage in honor of Thugs Lives Matter Most, who can’t afford 2nd homes in Topanga Canyon honor their moms on Mother’s Day? Take out the trash and move out of the house for good? I know, looting the Gucci store ain’t a thing, but a payback reparations thing, got it America’s Most Hunted.”

What else did Dr. Malone say to Joe Rogan that’s a ticking time bomb waiting to go off? Oh yeah, millions were hypnotized into believing the vaccine worked better than Russell Westbrook bringing back the Triangle Offense to the Showtime Lakers, despite the ESPN propaganda machine that makes the CCP blush in their coordinated effort to ensure the NBA remains a safe space for Lebron James ego. When Lebron’s chosen team loses in the playoffs this year, do you think Obama will console himself by grabbing his secret stash of Almond Joy’s hid behind a giant box of duct tape from Costco. Joan lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Why is every harmful reported side effect from the COVID vaccination shots, including hundreds of pro athletes dropping dead in their prime instantly derided as misinformation? Are reporters for MSNBC and CNN bribed with bitcoin, Hamilton tickets, or just tipped off to Hunter’s primo coke connection in LA that turns you into the Pablo Picasso of blow painting on accelerated speed? You can’t even sue big pharma for lethal side effects? Yet were supposed to trust Pfizer over Johhny Depp in blow? What has Pfizer done to earn the public’s trust? Or were millions shamed into getting the vaccination because their parents wouldn’t pay for a trip to Disney World on their dime without making you succumb to all the fear mongering, moral grandstanding bullshit because baby boomer arrogance never dies?

Superintendent of my kid’s school sends an email to address the recent court ruling that ruled mask mandates unconstitutional. Mr. Blue Balls incarnate says, “But the Attorney General of NY appealed the Nassau County’s Supreme Court’s ruling. Because who cares about what some Long Island hack judge rules in yenta breath county anyway? So based on the Attorney General’s appeal and our Commissioner of Education insisting we drag out this never-ending shit show some more where all the former smart kids at Bronx Science freak out about Study Hall being a super spreader event, the use of masks inside school buildings remains mandatory and is not optional at this time.” In other words, fuck your easily avoidable trauma. Were Karen’s with real life power motherfuckers and we like it, like it. And for all those parents who oppose our mask mandates, your domesticated terrorists who should be thrown in containment camps for not pushing clot shots on your kids because emergency use authorization trumps all and baby boomers still in power with their cushy tenured positions in academia and guaranteed pensions on the horizon want to perpetuate the deceptive delusion behind them really caring about our kid’s mental health over their own faltering state of smug filled superiority till their last dying breath, you lesser deplorable pieces of shit.”

I email the Superintendent back, ” Why do I sense more sneering annoyance than exalted relief from this court ruling in favor of smile rich tomorrows post burning mask party asshole? You’re fake news, loving hippie like rest. If you think the FDA denying anti-viral drugs like Hydroxychloroquine that’s resulted in 500,000 deaths because Trumpy Poo endorsed the product gives you the moral high ground, then you’re a fake news loving hippie through and through CCP sell out man.”

You know rock and roll is dead when the best protest song our country can come up with, F Mr. Groper, remixed by Kid Rock no less.

I love Bob Dylan’s scathing writing especially in song Positively 4th Street . Still, Blowing In The Wind is arguably his most childish sounding song from his miraculous song book. How many years can some people exist? Before they’re allowed to be free. That depends if you can get a good paying job in Florida or not. In Desantis we trust, Florida, gotta to love it, Challah, thank you very much.

Why is the left so scared of Tucker Carlson’s Vineyard Vines boxer briefs? He named his book of political essays Ship of Fools, which is a Grateful Dead song from Mars Hotel. The new spokesperson for Vineyard Vines, dress for new success, doesn’t have one pot head bud left from Boarding School since he took the job at Fox News.

The state motto for Vermont should be changed from the Green State to CBD Oil Only. Positively moron is any pothead celeb like Eric Andre for endorsing Bernie Sanders because Bernie Sanders couldn’t even make Vermont great for Pot Heads on vacation.

6 million hits later, I learn that 4/20 , the national pot smoking holiday, is Hitler’s Birthday. The last time I felt this betrayed was when Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.

I stopped smoking weed till I discovered edibles, stink free +plus ash free equals zero regrets when my kids are still up. I recommend Edible Nibbles to prevent you from being positively moron around your kids, especially when your daughter asks, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? “God went back in time, in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.” Daughter says, “That’s really convincing Daddy. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.”

This is Ziggy Marely being interviewed by High Times Magazine. Journalist asks, “How did your dad have 7 kids Ziggy? Doesn’t ganja drain your life blaster dry like the COVID 19 vaccine?” Ziggy Marley replies, “Fake News, Man.”

I miss Trump’s relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship. If F Face Fauci ordered one of his goons from the CDC to prick Trump with the dirty needle used by the Deep State to take out Easy E, Trump would tweet the next morning on whatever hate speech platform he’s allowed to make nicknames on next like Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi, and Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, “Do I have HIV yes, but my t-cell count numbers have never been stronger. Plus, Rosanne was correct, Valerie Jarret does have ties to the Muslim Brotherhood. I prefer to call her Obama’s live in Arabian Horse Whisperer but that’s just me.”

If Biden got more votes than Trump despite Mr. Groper’s miniscule rallies barely filing out the Little Mermaid’s clam shell bras. Then, Michelle Obama regretted pissing on the Lincoln bedroom ceiling fan before Trump’s inauguration, so he’d eventually get peed on for real. Hours later Trump takes a piss in the Lincoln Bedroom to mark his territory, gets a golden shower gift from Michelle above and says to Melania, “Is this what Michelle meant when she-hulk said, “When they go low, we aim high?”

And if Obama is such a good basketball player. Then why did he ride the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii? Growing up my dad called me a waste of height because the highlight of my senior year was scoring a whole ten points against an all-Japanese team that attended a private school within the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County. They thought the pick and roll meant their choice of fish. Every time I drove to hoop, their players scurried away like frazzled movie extras in a Godzilla film, except instead of saying, “Look Godzilla.” They’d say, “Look Hugh Grant on Stilts.”

Forget the total abandonment of admission standards among the elite public schools in New York City like Bronx Science. Because guaranteed money in the NBA regardless of never having to establish a reliable move to the left is so oppressive. Now, you can’t steal the basketball in a scrimmage during gym. Just for that I’m going to get my wife pregnant by mistake again and name our kid John Stockton Kornbluth after the all-time steal leader of the NBA. But my kid’s superintendent is ok with stealing my kid’s age of innocence by injecting fake new death concerns for 2 years, turning every day into an Ingmar Bergman retrospective on IFC while forcing my kids to wear masks like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain. Sounds like fair trade off to me. And we wonder why the US is China’s ball gagged bitch for life. China helps the Democrats steal an election through releasing the bat shit crazy virus, to push for mail-in-voting while ANTIFA and BLM get to cause 2 billion dollars’ worth of property damage, making every day for the cops standing down day, unless they have to get off their ass to ask cripples in wheelchairs for VAX cards at Bubba Gump Shrimp but no hands up on defense. State sponsored Chinese hackers can steal information from our Patriot missile systems, no problem kids, play along, democracy is dead since the Supreme Court abandoned its constitutional duty to enforce election laws since Amy Barrett got nominated whose Mia Farrow with better husband selection. Obama Be Good publishing a classified report on Medium about Israel’s Nuclear program in addition to posting photographs of Israel’s hidden nuclear sites on Al Jazeera Earth is kosher in the Muslim Brotherhood’s book, who rule our county anyway since the mongoloid moron mask shaming craze has made every day, Sharia Law Appreciation Day, got it kids. Now hands down on defense and stick to starring down at the floor on defense like a battered Muslim housewife shopping for pipe cleaners to clean out their husband’s hash pipes Infidel.

You’re thinking, stop being such a paranoid Jew. Obama only gave Iran 1.5 billion in unmarked bills in the still of the night as a parting gift for promising to take a time out from building Nukes used primarily for overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear, to make the Iranian economy less reliant on the sale of Hair Wax removal cream for the Kardashian’s.

Side note, Bruce Jenner wasn’t asexual when he was married to Kris Jenner. But I bet Bruce stayed harder longer after he talked Kris Jenner into cutting her hair short, so she’d look more like a dolled-up Ralph Macchio.

And stop saying Queens is hot, it’s not. Queens compared to Manhattan and Brooklyn is the sloppy third Kardashian sister. You know the one that’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a Lamb Gyro in Astoria.

I wanted to name my son Arthur Brooks Kornbluth, but I didn’t want to honor Mel Brooks or Albert Brooks anymore since they insist on sucking off Obama Be Good till their last dying breath or risk being branded as racist. So, naming my son Arthur Brooks Kornbluth would give my son the permission to be a Jewish pussy, who would never been deemed anti-establishment enough to get kicked off Twitter permanently like his daddy because I dared to tweet how China has resisted Wuhan lab leak investigations more than Aquafresh. In the end, I named my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, which was fitting because he’s a star powered artist, whose mojo keeps on rising, rising. Plus, he’s so good at math the Asian students are cheating off him. Now I understand that it’s complete sacrilege to shit on the golden Jew Mel Brooks, pre-Adam Sandler, just for writing, “The Inquisition”, which was based on the real-life persecution of picky Jews who refused to accept Jesus Christ as the Messiah, who when forced to eat pork, had to push for pricier samplings of acorn fed prosciutto or saltier, svelte cuts of Serano Spanish ham instead. The same “Inquisition” that existed to torture, humiliate and exterminate all the wise ass Jew descendants of Don Rickles, responsible for heckling the romans into crucifying Jesus, the original super Jew to death.

You know your mom’s heart was never into converting into Judaism, when she insists on blatantly shitting on the origin story behind the Hebrew naming ceremonies for her grandsons in your own Jewish loving home no less. I say, “So I named Samuel Jermiah Mom, because Jermiah wrote the Book of Lamentations, and I’ve always been into sad jazz music like Chet Baker according to Dad. More importantly mom, I chose the Hebrew name Jermiah because he’s a popular prophet who receives major brand name recognition in the Koran. And I wanted to provide my son with a Hebrew name that makes him immune to charges of Islamophobia. Especially, when I joke in my act about how a picture that was concealed for 8 years when Obama was president, where’s he laughing it up with Farrakhan and other members of his posse looking like the Lamda, Lamda pic from Revenge of the Nerds but much more Muslim Brother happy, after the honorable minister just emailed Obama about a Somalian refugee running for congress in Minnesota called Baby Face Omar Gona To Work It Out to YourMamaObama@Gmail.com. Then for a topper I add, “Obama loves Hitler. Obama wished he was that organized. Mass extermination of every proud Zionist who dared to criticize his nuke gifting deal to Iran for Obama Be Good would be a gas.” And I gave Samuel the Hebrew name Issaac because it means to “Laugh” and more jokes Hardcore Hunga Zone makes like, “Eat My Butt Brownies”, is more jokes for my comedy records right, Samuel?” Samuel says, “I have more jokes than you putzy moron.” Plus, I Iove the story of a hundred-year-old Sarah getting knocked up well past her eggs’ expiration date, like Sarah Silverman 10 years ago. Mom says, “The Issaac birthing story is a myth.”, in front of my kids. I say, “No mom, a myth is that Hillary lost to Trump because of Russian collusion. Huma Licker Breath lost because she failed to sell 64 million branded racists on why baby boomer mom knows best. Plus, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lost to Trump because she’s an unhuggable cunt. Now’s that a fact like Hillary acting nice around baby Samuel the one time he was having lunch with mommy at the Crab Tree house patio in Chappaqua. I said to my wife, “Babe, of course Hillary acted nice and smiled at baby. Hillary was getting warmed for dessert.”

Israel has an Arab supreme court justice, gives free medical care to all and has 4 Arab political parties yet were supposed to listen to Saggy Tits Silverman claims of Israel being an extremist racist, colonial state? Because Sarah Silverman is a full- time social justice warrior these days to detract the world online and off from her tits sagging popularity.

Israel is an extreme racist, colonial state? What does England before Muslim grooming rape gangs took over their country have to do with it? You know the Palestinians aren’t the most desirable bunch to govern, when the British government in 1917 decided to relinquish their ruling power over Palestine and declare their support of a Jewish homeland for Jews. Despite those money hording Jews still controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. When the Brits finally decided to with withdraw from Israel, the Queen tells her royal butler after having one dirty martini too many, “Let’s be honest Andrew, a state two solution is impossible if Hamas keep fucking.”

Memo to Hamas today, if you launch 5000 rockets into Israel’s backyard without being provoked first, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return with a thank note written in Farsi, with all the hardened pineapple tops chucked into the Red Sea for Meghan McCain to spit out as her inner bellybutton sucks up all the floatation water on her own.

But you have to give Obama credit when it’s deserved. He did rebrand ISIS, ISIL, so they’d sound more startup friendly in Wired Magazine’s 40 Under 40 Saw Wannabe’s Go Pro issue. At the same time, any dumb fuck can hit their quota as a headhunter for ISIS. All ISIS Headhunters do is recruit other lonely virgins on What’s App and on Facebook, who wish their phones blew up.

And how does killing the 2nd head of ISIS make it easier for them to recruit? Like the next in charge would ever respect a non-compete with Al-Queda.

Can you explain to me why Islamic terrorists are so into deflowering virgins in Allah’s gangster paradise? Doesn’t Jihadi John have enough blood on his hands already? Can I get Challah for some primo Challah to get me canceled permanently? Charlie Hebdo lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Wrong Target Audience

Why would Hulu advertise HIV suppression pills on Lego Masters? Only kids and 40-old virgins watch Lego Masters. Plus, I don’t see the flamboyant, pudgy dude in the repeat HIV suppression pill commercial socially distancing himself from carbs, let alone, showing a surging interest into overlapping brick techniques for added strength if he got HIV from not even bothering to single wrap his joystick with a Milky Way wrapper, before taking the plunge into anal hole sex land as a precautionary life preserver measure for super spreader prevention’s sake.

Michael Kornbluth