Do It All Dad Does Radio City

At Costco, Karen screams, “Wear the damn mask.” I say, “Not until you suck the hate speech and white privilege out of my chosen schlong first. But I’ll make it easier for you Karen because I’m a giver, and not another greedy heeb like Bernie Sanders. Pretend Obama ordered you to leak it.  Vermont should change their state motto from the Green State to CBD Oil Only. Bernie Sanders couldn’t even make Vermont great for potheads on vacation. Cuomo getting paid to write a book about leadership is like Woody Allen getting a book advance to write about a book about hands off parenting. If Google doesn’t manipulate search research results and actively censor right wing favoring content. Then, why is it harder to find positive mentions of hydroxychloroquine on Google, than it is to find a film blogger on Rotten Tomatoes who called the Irishman underrated? Also, is it me, or does Robert Dinero on the View these days, look like Betsy Ross falling apart at the seams? Masks prevent you from getting COVID. Yeah, and Joy Behar is the new Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart. Dave Chappelle says black people have always wore masks in America. Stop acting like the Kardashians care about unmasking the size of Ben Simmons basketball IQ in the 1st place player. And if Obama is such a baller Chappelle, then why did he ride the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii? What’s really hilarious Dave, is how your boy Lebron, America’s Most Hunted, AKA, King of The Persecution Complex, got the idea of wearing a fake news cast during the NBA Finals after Michelle Obama gave him the idea to do it, after she threatened to jam her arm up Obama’s ass if he ever offered Beyonce Paul Newman’s Lemonade over her homemade Kombucha ever again. And stop fronting Dave, you know Obama, not Trump is the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Mass extermination of every hook-nosed journalist, blogger or vlogger from Breitbart who dared to criticize his nuke gifting deal to Iran, would be a gas. I think my brand of weed, must make me more paranoid than Drama Queen Diaries. Obama Be Good  gave Iran 1.5 billion dollars to create overseas manufacturing jobs for Build a Bear, to make their economy, less reliant on the sale chest hair removal cream for the Kardashians. Just read about an all-Muslim girl prom in Detroit. So, the prom was like mine, pork free. Does Dave Chappelle do a bit in new act to prove he isn’t a black supremacist by posing the type of tweet Baby Face Omar would send on the anniversary of Amy Winehouse’s death to appease Democratic reps in congress who don’t like Israel being compared to Hamas? Like, “Something happened, to a beehive sporting, devil horn concealing, parasitical Jew bitch, who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth?”  If Dave Chappelle had the balls to say to his fellow brothers in the struggle to stop resisting arrest, all lives matter, wouldn’t be the new n word. Can I get a holla for some Challah?” It’s not my fault, I’m a funnier black Carlin than Chappelle could ever be. I was blessed with the supreme powered funnier Jew bone for a reason. Offended yet, then go woke yourself? Holla, thank you very much. Last, memo to the NY Times, if you fire 4000 rockets into Israel’s backyard. Don’t expect an edible arrangements gift basket in return, with a thank you note written in Farsi. I can’t work after sunset, Jewish God’s rules, but I’ll leave you with one final nugget of comedy gold for the road to prove I’m not greedy heeb or that Vince Vaughn isn’t the only big-headed asshole who’s louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. If Joe Biden, AKA, Mr. Groper, got the most votes in US history, even more than your precious Obama Be Good, Chappelle. Then, Michelle Obama regretted pissing on the ceiling fan in the Lincoln Bedroom before Trump’s inauguration. Later that night, The Donald comments to Melania, “Is this what she-hulk meant, when she he said, when they go low, we aim high?” Joan lives. Thank you very much.  Michael Kornbluth

 

The Koshertarian Offensive

I tried to get a Kosher butchering knife on EBAY called a Chalef knife, so I can feel like I’m capable of living off the farm like a Jewish Hank Williams Junior. But customer service told me they’re not available anymore because they’re dripping with hate speech against Halal butchers who give shout outs to Allah before butchering cows instead. Plus, they added, “Kosher butchering knives are too aggressively Israeli for EBAY’s tastes.” Holla, thank you very much.

Why do I care about rocking the Koshetarian Diet? First, I don’t have to do any of the blood draining myself, so it’s the least I can do. Second, the Koshertarian Diet makes me feel like a less all over the place Jew, which is a welcome change of pace. Third, it’s the least I can do to show my love for Hashem for blessing me with the three sweetest, most hilarious, fuss free kids in the universe. Fourth, the Koshertarian Diet allows me to look down on my younger brother and parents for never giving the Koshterian Diet inside the house and out an extended chance. And I have zero interest in being a fake news, God dissing hippy. Sorry, when you live in Arizona for 9 years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once. You’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora disagrees. Fifth, my younger brother orders bacon cheeseburgers at Wendy’s with extra bacon on top yet he thinks being lactose tolerant is responsible for his chronic stomach pains, which have nothing to do with 2 decades worth of cocaine abuse, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall. 6th, I love the Koshterian Diet because if I do go out to eat, my options are significantly lessened. So now, whenever I do dine out, I no longer feel as indecisive as Jared Kushner holding up the salad bar line at the Bellagio. 7th, I rock the Koshterian diet because I wrote about a book about my divine powered quest to get my 3 fuss free kids excited about giving the Koshterian Diet a chance. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years. And if I don’t back up the talk, I’m no worse than my fake news hippies’ parents. 8th, I embrace the Koshertarian diet to ensure God continues to bless my funny Jew bone as I bang out more sheets of comedy gold. 9th, I practice the Koshertarian Diet because it forces me to generate more mo money minting ideas such as the Do It All Dad Hero Food Truck, which peddles the1st ever smoked Kosher brisket cheesesteak, using a plant-based cheese wiz in my debut middle age coming of age story, The Great American Jew Novel. Last, the Koshertarian diet reigns supreme because it triggers Italian deli workers, whenever I order an egg and cheese with no bacon on it. Italian Deli worker says, “No Bacon on that?” And I’ll give him the same response I give my 4-year-old, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, whenever he whips out his pubescent life shooter in the making during dinner again, “Not Kosher baby.” Can I get a holla for some Challah? Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

 

Whipped On Fatherhood

Why are mama made dinners not enough? Because it’s always better to create and guys can’t birth life. And we all know how well it turned out for Dr. Frankenstein for trying. Trying to play God didn’t create the male clone of Lady Gaga ok. Mary Shelley lives, holla, thank you very much.

For Passover, Jewish families around the world retell the story about the emergence of God’s, right hand on earth wing man, Moses, in addition to reminding us how without divine intervention, the golden Jew Adam Sandler couldn’t keep David Spade steadily employed through Netflix over the past 2 decades either and counting. What always stayed with me from my Passover seders past, is my Jewish father from the Bronx always A) Being more super relaxed calm happy than usual B) Citing the Hebrew prayers, beautifully and fluently and C) Quoting the unlikely savior of the Jewish people Moses, the stuttering abandoned orphan who says to the Israelites, “I am, what I am.” Actually, after Googling the quote from Moses, I was reminded how Hashem gave that line to Moses, “I am, who I am” as his hooky, intro sales script line to use on the Israelites when they ask him why Hashem sent the stuttering Jew to free them from enslaved bondage forever. Regardless, suffering from a slight, low self-esteem, nerve plagued stutter during my pre-pubescent years within the more snuggle soft confines of suburban Westchester Country, 30 minutes north of Manhattan, myself, it was easier for me to emphathize with the low confidence legendary prophet in the making.

Mama was working for both Seder nights yet in the spirit of the Passover holiday song homage in honor of Hashem, Dayenu, one sparkling seder night with my 3 bundles of sunshine over 4 separate wine prayers without mommy hogging up all the wine for herself was enough. First, I come home after fetching some Matzah at the very last minute, remaining true to the spirit of half my people being disorganized slobs for Doctors, Bankers and Lawyers to sneer down on us with dismissive, dumb, dumb disdain. The rest of us descendants from the 12 Tribes of Israel, either work in sales, advertising, show business, book publishing, fashion or become Democratic party peon following sheep hack journalists for a living. Matzah for all those non-Hebrew readers out there is a typically a giant unleavened, flavorless cracker, which grows on you as the days progress. If you can get used to Kale on anything, you can get into anything, Meghan McCain’s stomach rollage hitting the ground from the John, not so much. The most exciting thing about the use of Matzah on Passover besides getting the cracker size ones to place perfect nosh size bits of smoked salmon and cream cheese on it for your Female Flash, super strong, proud Jewess daughter, Singing Rose Kornbluth to make disappear in her belly at rapid fire speed, is the hiding of the Afikomen, which is the piece of Matzah you hide for your kids to find and get money for in return, because Jewish kid traditions matter, holla, thank you very much.  Blasting Songs In The Attic by Billy Joel on Vinyl while singing Streetlife Serenader, “Working hard for wages”, only to hear your pitch perfect son scream with unmatched glee from upstairs “I found it”, is more than enough to make this Passover night, a cherished night etched in my heart forevermore.

The second night of our seder managed to become more special than the last, mainly because of the Sephardic tradition, tanner, Arab looking Jews, of whipping your loved ones at the dinner table with scallions to enact the smackdown for those content to be enslaved. To say my youngest kid, Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo got carried away with whipping his older brother is an understatement. If he threw his bum into those whacks of fury anymore, he would’ve thrown out his vertebrae. I made an orange chicken marinade to use on an Icelandic Salmon wrapped in parchment paper, a secret gentile tip from Martha Stewart actually. I also made a hearty batch of Carolina brown rice to swirl the sweet Salmon love into with sautéed bits of broccoli florets. It was the torn off pieces from my 8-piece batch of slow baked brushed, orange marinade glazed kitchen, including, meaty, scrumptious thigh meat, mixed with Carolina rice and more orange marinade love, which inspired the most emotive praise from my kids, earning lines such as, “Daddy, save some for tomorrow” and “Daddy, make this for me every day.”

My daughter helping tidy the house for the 1st seder and even placing a clean tablecloth on without my nudgy direction was more than enough joy for one night already. Despite me yelling at my son for being teary eyed, spoiled petulant about his sister taking away their precious one on one playtime together for a whole fifteen minutes max. Later, I learn from my crying son how every time he makes a wish in a fountain, he wishes, “For my books to become a success.” Again, I’ve already received more than enough love before our 1st seder night celebration began.

Still, the highlight of our Passover celebration for myself, was upholding Jewish tradition and making it sparkle anew. Fatherhood grants man the opportunity to do even greater good through our children than our fathers before us. Fatherhood grants Jewish men the golden opportunity to retell our tale of survival, redemption and eventual triumph, especially over those darn Nazi bastards and beyond. Fatherhood never grows old, for this middle age encroaching clown. With a home team like this, following my funny man leading steps, it’s impossible to frown.

Michael Kornbluth

The Pigheaded Jew

Whose more pigheaded stubborn the gentile or Jew? And I’ll take the Crusades 1 through 5000 Alex.   

But for some reasons Jews are always attacked for being the most stupid stubborn of the 2.  I thought we controlled all the world’s media messaging. I’m right, you’re wrong Christian Right country, sorry.

You want to talk about abominations? What arises more disgust, the Catholic Church never excommunicating Hitler or any Pope never excommunicating himself for granting pedophilia priests Nick At Night casting couch immunity.

You want to talk haughty.  What’s more ostentatious, Vatican’s party palace, Trump’s gold-plated hair dryer or Adam Sandler’s throwback Jam shorts on the set of Grown Ups 1 and 2?

You want to talk traitorous. Whose worse, fake news Christian Mike Pence for letting Democracy die on his watch or Obama Be Good who gifted Iran 150 billion to create overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear to make their economy less reliant on the sale of face removal cream for the Kardashians? 

Growing up in a Kosher household, eating pork outside of it, wasn’t always a guilt free experience.  Even when I used to house my morning bacon, egg and cheese at the school cafeteria, I’d feel a tad dirty like the time I touched myself over my Everlast sweatpants in the nurse’s office as the perpetually busty Lauren Lighthall entered, with her nips fuller erect than my pubescent life shooter in the making at the time, knowing I still hadn’t gotten into the puberty party yet. So, playing with myself, resulted in me giving myself a reverse golden shower. I wouldn’t saying eating bacon was the equivalent to the dirty sensation of giving myself an accidental reverse golden shower at 15, up late after watching a steamy session of the Golden Girls, where Blanch tries out to be America’s next Jane Fonda, but the surge in icky guilt came close.

Jesus declaring all foods were clean had to piss off the pigheaded Old Testament God a bit, don’t you think? 400 years after God communicated the Torah in full to Moses on Mount Sinai, Jesus the frail carpenter admits out loud, “I need more protein in my diet and having to wait for a cow’s blood to be drained, is too much of a drain on my time already. Don’t worry fellow Hebrews. God doesn’t care if you break his Kosher law anymore. Accept me as the Son of God and your only means to get into Heaven. And you can eat pulled pork sandwiches in no go zone sections in Damascus, for all I care.” Holla, thank you very much.

Gentiles love their ham. It’s the chosen family tradition on Easter to prove they’re not pigheaded, stubborn stupid Jews, I get it.

Matthew was informed through a vison, declaring all pork Kosher in God’s eyes, assuming, you said grace, got baptized, ate symbolic parts of Jesus in Church, accepted him as your only possible messiah, thêreby gâuranting you a free pass into Heaven no matter what. Regardless, if you never repented or confessed to spreading intentional Jew killing blood libel about Jews being Christ killers because he was heckled to death by the devilish ancestry of Don Rickles.

While I’m on the subject of heckling, Gentiles don’t get enough credit for being the glaringly unoriginal hecklers. Jew Devil, Jew Pig that, although dangling bacon on poles in front of Jews in the streets of London when they had a Jewish Prime Minister in power for a bit, as a form of low budget, lowbrow Guerrilla Marketing used to promote the infinite goodness of the pork brain diet, wasn’t completely chop liver either.  Oh yeah, the other popular Jew heckle back in the day was Jews are descendants of pigs. Pigs are always being heralded as smarter than Ben and Jerry’s stoned out cows by woke white elitists.  So, I still don’t see how this insult is supposed to sting as intended. A Jewish doctor invented the polio vaccine and gave it away for free. Regardless of Hunter Biden getting paid 50 grand a week to jam nose candy up his nose, for what he thought was a sports energy company in the Ukraine, pushing borscht as the new Kombucha, makes him the greedier pig in this instance. Then again, Hunter never bothered to ask his baby mama strippers to get abortions, so he’s actually least likely to be excommunicated compared to pôps who off the record, insisted the hair on Jamal’s leg doesn’t make him a person in the annual profit and loss statement for the CEO of Planned Parenthood, sorry.

How does Farrakhan celebrate Holocaust Remembrance Day?  Spray Eli Wiesel’s Twitter page, with Termite Emoji’s from dusk till dawn.

How did Baby Face Omar acknowledge the death of Amy Winehouse’s death on Twitter? Did she call Amywinehouse a horn hiding devil spawn, who exploited the great Palestinian Song Book for all it was worth.

I can pick on my people to. For example, why do Jews think it’s kosher to eat non-kosher out of the home? Do these people, think, “Porking my wife with the lights on feels more off wrong to me, if I had to choose.”

What message was a gentile sending by throwing a pork chop against a Synagogue?  Costco is our Church of Later Day Saints to. So, we’ve got some extra loving grace to spare.

And why should I thank my in-laws for ordering pizza on my daughter’s birthday with pork on it in our Jewish home?  Should I feel blessed knowing my mother-in-law didn’t tag on the pizza box, Jesus Was Here?

Again, how are Jews more pigheaded stubborn than Gentiles exactly? It was the Spanish who pushed Jews to show a gesture of goodwill by eating pork in front of them during the Spanish Inquisition to qualify the seriousness of their conversion. Despite the converted Jew being picky pushy about it, asking, “Would it kill you to grab me some acorn fed Serrano Ham to nosh on instead?

Still, the smell of smoky succulent bacon in addition it’s divine blessed crispy crunch snap is hard to beat. Thank God, he invented vegetarians to resist Jesus’s instructions to give up pork skins for Lent in his honor centuries later. Who later invented Morning Star Veggie Bacon because they never got the delectable smells of brunch centric swine out of their system either.  The key to opening up all the full blossomed flavor potential of a Koshertarian BLT is to fry the veggie bacon in veggie oil at medium heat in your double handle pancake griddle.  Now, thanks to Jewish inventions such as greenhouse grown tomatoes, Koshertarian BLTs don’t have to limited to selling your spleen for some Heirloom tomatoes in July at your local Farmer’s Market during the summer only, having a blast, till major sticker shock ensues seconds later. Also, be at one with God’s graced earth, and use cut up pieces of leafy, sparkly shimmery sage from your garden to swirl into a bowl of mayo, salt, pepper and peeled garlic to make your bomb fresh, A plus, aioli mix.  

Personally, I like to use toasted country white bread for my kids Koshterian BLT’s because most wheat toast sucks. And New York Jews like are very picky, pigheaded Jewy about what bread we use or else we’d move to Scottsdale, Arizona and act like every day is Passover day, because the sunbelt was never chosen for endless, on-demand, baked bread delight.  Although one of my favorite memories is my 3 kids conducting a cherry tomato party in our garden with my smart phone flashlight last summer to use for our Koshertarian summer loving having a blast BLT special, which felt twice as blessed knowing how these balls of rounded, red cherry tomato perfection, derived from the earth amongst our home sweet, Koshertarian promoting home.

Michael Kornbluth

Dr. Seuss Is Tony Robbins For Kids

Dr. Seuss’s illustrations are steeped in harmful stereotypes they say. But I don’t recall him drawing a picture of BLM protestors looting the Gucci store, who refuse to pay.

Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist then, it’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.

Has anybody complained about the hooked nosed, Goblin Bankers in Harry Potter yet? You know Mel Gibson was overjoyed with that movie set. Did JK Rowling, think, I’m hiring Mel Gibson as the set designer on my flick, Mel being a throbbing Jew hater dick, makes him my automatic number one pick.

What if I don’t care for Green Eggs and Ham? This means what, I hate the Irish race and refuse to play beer bong with them at such a rapid fire pace? Or does it mean, I insist on watching Irish movies with subtitles because of the funny way they sound, while also refusing to unfold my arms and dance in junior high to more Jump Around?

Dr. Seuss drew pictures of Asians eating with chopsticks, how sick. It’s worse than drawing a picture of Cardi’s B dropping chopsticks into her cum bucket, full of other forgotten stuffing’s in there like a lost lost chicken nugget.

What happens in the book, And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St? Did Sonny and his crew beat up a bunch of rowdy bikers on the street, because they sprayed beer on the bartender and should’ve stuck to ordering their drinks neat? Wait a minute that happened in the Bronx Tale. American made mafia tales about the working man can’t be beat. I only wish Chazz Palminteri’s acting career, still packed so much heat.

Dr. Seuss is the Tony Robins for kids, who continues to inspires millions of kids to keep fighting for their dreams, instead of recommending they watch, 13 Reasons Why, whenever they feel their lives are falling apart at the seams.

Dr. Seuss was right. There is fun to be done and games to win. Just stop playing the victim, give Twitter a time out or just dump your tablet into the trash bin.

Michael Kornbluth

Cracker Free Casserole

Did you hear about Paula Dean’s new clothing line? What are they calling it exactly, Plantation, Nation? Holla, thank you very much. Ritz Crackers were never that special to begin with, let alone worthy to be the primo breaded topping on top of any casserole to mask the disgusting mishmash of green beans below. More importantly, looks play a huge role in whether your kids get excited to try a 1st dish or not and every casserole image on Google with crumbled Ritz Crackers on top looks like Garfield got a severe case of the runs, thank you very much.

The problem with most casseroles, whether they are inspired southern comfort food or not, is they look like premade frozen TV dinner meals for mass consumption on death row. And who the fuck puts spaghetti in a casserole? That’s like putting spaghetti on a Pastrami sandwich on rye and twice as gross. Obviously, when you’re not following Kosher law, Casseroles get a tad more interesting with the inclusion of chicken but unless you’re making Chicken Tamales, Chicken Parm within a casserole type shaped, dish, I’m not interested in your Chicken Noodle, Tortilla Chip, Hash Brown, amorphous, full blown schizophrenic Casserole, all over the place dump either. Also, your roasted veggie, broccoli, zucchini dump job with cheese with more crumbled Ritz crackers on top fails to give me enough woo worthy dinner substance to get excited about long time ever, holla, thank you very much.

And am I the only one who resents the term comfort food? In other words, nice hate hick. You might as well say, “Sucks to be living on the same budget from 78, holla thank you very much. Comfort food, you mean Southern staple dishes involving gravy, cheese, butter and a fried crust of some kind that you’re comfortable inhaling because they don’t infringe upon your spacious Farmer overalls, Spanx for Southern men who grow their owe ole-tomatoes and homemade wine because a country boy can survive. Hank Williams Junior lives, holla, thank very much.

I’m not trying to start a cracker fight with live off the land, Military serving, southern bad assess and southern belles who flocked to New Orleans for Marti Gras my sophomore year in college adding effortless grace, charm and wholesome, sensualized heat to anything in touch with their endlessly beautifying orbit. No, I simply want to retell a tale about perfecting perfection and using some southern inspired direction from Paula Dean back in the day, before creating my own Kosher Casserole Supreme, which also happens to be my 10-year-old daughter’s favorite dish on this planet, which is nice work if you can get it. George Gershwin lives, holla, thank you very much.

First, softer the better and hard bites suck, meaning I make my Kosher Casserole Supreme with rigatoni, which isn’t al dente to add much needed substance for a veggie laden casserole dish without it tasting like a late night, lazy brain uninspired microwave dish for practicing vegetarians like Malia Obama at Harvard University. Later, after sucking down some bingers, Malia admits to her freshman roommate, “Yeah, I get high with dad all the time now that he’s not President. On it, he sounds like a biracial, fake news deep Bob Marley.” Holla, thank you very much.

I also prevent my Kosher Casserole Supreme from being the same old casserole situation from blanching my broccoli in it, which entails boiling it before plopping into an ice bath to extrapolate its extra bright green, emerald essence from within. I’m not high on extra strength weed from Northern Cal thank, I assure you, thank you very much. Did you know Hitler was born on 4/20? Talk about another glaring failure of our public school system today. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. Blanching rules, I highly recommend the experience, before sauteing your blanched broccoli florets into a butter olive oil mixed bath with red onions to add more well-rounded, fleshed out primo green flavor.

Curious about the makings of more Kosher blessed casserole magic yet? Now, as much I like blanched Broccoli, which helps retain the soft yet firm texture without it becoming a stringy, mushy mess, the Kosher Casserole Supreme only becomes a crowd pleasing woo worthy favorite dish force by including the killer one 2 combo of Shitake and Oyster Mushrooms swirled into this irresistible never played out veggie mix. You’ll be spewing for more mushroom magic joy in no time. Splurging on mushrooms such as exotic Oyster mushrooms are always worth the extra expense, knowing your baby boomer mother would never dare spend 12 dollars on a cluster of meaty, head spinning good mushrooms draped in peeled garlic and butter, caramelized in nothing more than NY state tap water to take this Kosher Supreme Casserole dish so much higher. Sly Stone lives, through my star studded, mouth-watering prose, deal with it Boomer, holla, thank you very much.

Also, use any kind of canned or boxed serving of mushroom soup other than Campbell’s for your Kosher Casserole Supreme, because Campbell’s Soup doesn’t make you feel superior to Hank Williams Junior does it? Then again, you’re not country music royalty, good friends with Kid Rock or ever penned legendary, hilarious songs such as Family Tradition or All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down. So, you’re no in position to be feeling superior to Hank Williams Junior ever. So, you can go woke yourself long time, holla, thank you very much.

Last, you can’t knock the cheddar just like you can write off Jay Z’s Empire State Of Mind as a mere cheap rip off, which exploited our post 9/11 stupefied, malaise for all it was worth. So resist using colorless, zero personality cheeses such as Monterey, Jack or the mass produced, generic mozzarella kind for your Kosher Casserole Supreme, unless you want to be the Drake of Casseroles, holla, thank you very much.

Never forget, extra steps such as blanching the broccoli and sauteing it separately from the mushrooms with the red onions are worth the mini time suck involved. Don’t let your wife or significant other inject doubt into your surging cooking level of creative genius either, come rain or shine. Frank Sinatra lives, thank you very much.

And if you don’t want your children to be in a perpetual bitch spat mode against each forever more, refrain from showing blatant, beyond palpable favoritism and instead focus that personalized energy on creating favorite dishes each one can fondly remember you by the most. It’s good work, perfecting your daughter’s favorite dish, if you can get it. I highly recommend getting your girl pregnant by mistake for the experience. Last, fuck plantation nation. Cracker free casseroles rule. So, stop being a copycat, wannabe refined Reese Witherspoon clone, and give the Koshertarian Diet a chance.

Michael Kornbluth

Cracker Free Casserole

Did you hear about Paula Dean’s new clothing line? What are they calling it exactly, Plantation, Nation? Holla, thank you very much. Ritz Crackers were never that special to begin with, let alone worthy to be the primo breaded topping on top of any casserole to mask the disgusting mishmash of green beans below. More importantly, looks play a huge role in whether your kids get excited to try a 1st dish or not and every casserole image on Google with crumbled Ritz Crackers on top looks like Garfield got a severe case of the runs, thank you very much.

The problem with most casseroles, whether they are inspired southern comfort food or not, is they look like premade frozen TV dinner meals for mass consumption on death row. And who the fuck puts spaghetti in a casserole? That’s like putting spaghetti on a Pastrami sandwich on rye and twice as gross. Obviously, when you’re not following Kosher law, Casseroles get a tad more interesting with the inclusion of chicken but unless you’re making Chicken Tamales, Chicken Parm within a casserole type shaped, dish, I’m not interested in your Chicken Noodle, Tortilla Chip, Hash Brown, amorphous, full blown schizophrenic Casserole, all over the place dump either. Also, your roasted veggie, broccoli, zucchini dump job with cheese with more crumbled Ritz crackers on top fails to give me enough woo worthy dinner substance to get excited about long time ever, holla, thank you very much.

And am I the only one who resents the term comfort food? In other words, nice hate hick. You might as well say, “Sucks to be living on the same budget from 78, holla thank you very much. Comfort food, you mean Southern staple dishes involving gravy, cheese, butter and a fried crust of some kind that you’re comfortable inhaling because they don’t infringe upon your spacious Farmer overalls, Spanx for Southern men who grow their owe ole-tomatoes and homemade wine because a country boy can survive. Hank Williams Junior lives, holla, thank very much.

I’m not trying to start a cracker fight with live off the land, Military serving, southern bad assess and southern belles who flocked to New Orleans for Marti Gras my sophomore year in college adding effortless grace, charm and wholesome, sensualized heat to anything in touch with their endlessly beautifying orbit. No, I simply want to retell a tale about perfecting perfection and using some southern inspired direction from Paula Dean back in the day, before creating my own Kosher Casserole Supreme, which also happens to be my 10 year old daughter’s favorite dish on this planet, which is nice work if you can get it. George Gershwin lives, holla, thank you very much.

First, softer the better and hard bites suck, meaning I make my Kosher Casserole Supreme with rigatoni, which isn’t al dente to add the much needed substance for a veggie laden casserole dish without it tasting like a late night, lazy brain uninspired microwave dish for practicing vegetarians like Malia Obama at Harvard University. Later, after sucking down some bingers, Malia admits to her freshman roommate, “Yeah, I get high with dad all the time now that he’s not President. On it, he sounds like a biracial, fake news deep Bob Marley.” Holla, thank you very much.

I also prevent my Kosher Casserole Supreme from being the same old casserole situation from blanching my broccoli in it, which entails boiling it before plopping into an ice bath to extrapolate its extra bright green emerald essence from within. I’m not high on extra strength weed from Northern Cal thank, I assure you, thank you very much. Did you know Hitler was born on 4/20? Talk about another glaring failure of our public school system today. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. Blanching rules, I highly recommend the experience, before sauteing your blanched broccoli florets into a butter olive oil mixed bath with red onions to add more well rounded, fleshed out primo green flavor.

Curious about the makings of more Kosher blessed casserole magic yet? Now, as much I like blanched Broccoli, which helps retain the soft yet firm texture without it becoming a stringy, mushy mess, the Kosher Casserole Supreme only becomes a crowd pleasing woo worthy favorite dish force by including the killer one 2 combo of Shitake and Oyster Mushrooms swirled into this irresistible never played out veggie mix. You’ll be spewing for more mushroom magic joy in no time. Splurging on mushrooms such as exotic Oyster mushrooms are always worth the extra expense, knowing your baby boomer mother would never dare spend 12 dollars on a cluster of meaty, head spinning good mushrooms draped in peeled garlic and butter, caramelized in nothing more than NY state tap water to take this Kosher Supreme Casserole dish so much higher. Sly Stone lives, through my star studded, mouth watering prose, deal with it Boomer, holla, thank you very much.

Also, use any kind of canned or boxed serving of mushroom soup other than Campbell’s for your Kosher Casserole Supreme, because Campbell’s Soup doesn’t make you feel superior to Hank Williams Junior does it? Then again, you’re not country music royalty, good friends with Kid Rock or ever penned legendary, hilarious songs such as Family Tradition or All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down. So you’re no in position to be feeling superior to Hank Williams Junior ever. So you can go woke yourself long time, holla, thank you very much.

Last, you can’t knock the cheddar just like you can write off Jay Z’s Empire State Of Mind as a mere cheap rip off, which exploited our post 9/11 stupefied, malaise for all it was worth. So resist using colorless, zero personality cheeses such as Monterey, Jack or the mass produced, generic mozzarella kind for your Kosher Casserole Supreme, unless you want to be the Drake of Casseroles, holla, thank you very much.

Never forget, extra steps such as blanching the broccoli and sauteing it separately from the mushrooms with the red onions are worth the mini time suck involved. Don’t let your wife or significant other inject doubt into your surging cooking level of creative genius either, come rain or shine. Frank Sinatra lives, thank you very much.

And if you don’t want your children to be in a perpetual bitch spat mode against each forever more, refrain from showing blatant, beyond palpable favoritism and instead focus that individualuzed ẻnergy on creating favorite dishes each one can fondly remember you by the most. It’s good work, perfecting your daughter’s favorite dish, if you can get it. I highly recommend getting your girl pregnant by mistake for the experience. Last, fuck plantation nation. Cracker free casseroles rule. So stop being a copy cat, wannabe refined Reese Witherspoon clone, and give the Koshertarian Diet a chance.

Michael Kornbluth

Not Kosher Baby

Ratting out hairdressers, DJ’s, and underground standup comedy club organizers in Manhattan to the cops or Department Of Health in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild isn’t Kosher. My 4-year-old son whipping out his schmekel in the kitchen before I suck down my 1st Nespresso shot in the morning is, “Not Kosher baby.” At the same time, the same son busting my balls as I bonded with mommy over watching an old episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations in Burgundy later this morning after our 2 other ones got on the bus is Kosher, especially when he delivers hilarious lines such as, “Daddy your head has a moron inside”, or when he referenced the oyster dish Tony was eating on his show with a bunch of French chefs from Burgundy when he says, “Not Kosher Daddy”. In other words, don’t even think about it because nobody likes a fake news Koshertarian Comedian.

Reality is, all my favorite food memories before my Koshetarian Comedian book journey began didn’t involve Kosher food at all, sorry mom. Do I have pleasant memories of eating mom’s brisket for Passover? Sure, but those memories with family don’t compare with eating a grass-fed rib eye with an old dear high school bud at Smith and Wollensky’s in Manhattan, after almost not getting out of LA alive. The fact my Larry Sanders loving, lifetime basketball bud Jesse paid for everything on his FX expense account helped my enjoyment factor tremendously to. Growing up, if we went out for a Kosher meal as a family, we’d go to Epstein’s on the derelict, shabby downer section of Central Ave close to White Plains, NY, which failed to give me sustained stiffage ever. How can you compare the climax free experience of more obligatory, rubbery blubbery nosh size bites of Kosher certified Pastrami at Epstein’s, on borderline depressed, flavorless rye to more howl rich, late night drunken gorge feasts at the local Mont Greek dinner on Central Ave with your entire high school crew there in attendance, for your standard order of not one but 2 bacon and egg and cheese on bagels, which required zero nudging to inhale whole?  

Was the always crackling crispy, always well-seasoned, clean tasting rotisserie chicken at the zero frills Kosher butcher on Yonkers side of Central Avenue a respectable, borderline enjoyable Sunday afternoon nosh treat? Yes, but it didn’t compare to more late-night drunken revelry with my meathead friends at local legend bar tavern haunt the Candlelight Inn, for more delectable beef gyros, American Cheese laden, grilled stringy onion topped, hot sauce drabbed cheesesteaks, fries in cheese and gravy, on top of those steaming, extra meat piles of hot wings whose fame extended all the way to hill free suburbs of yenta country in Long Island.

Did my dad manage to fire up tolerable edible Hebrew National dogs on the grill, devoid of blistering burnt marks as a whole during the summer for the 2 days I was home before they shipped me off to sleepaway camp for 3 months a summer for a decade straight, so I could feel smug superior about being the second worst athlete there compared to the sheik’s son from Great Neck but not really? Yes, but memories of my Dad’s Kosher grilled dogs on semi-stale buns suffering from severe shrinkage problems off the barbeque will never match the warm-hearted memories of grabbing those scrumptious, airy light, always bomb fresh, Cheese Dogs at the Left Bank in the town of Lake Forest, Illinois with my college freshman roommate Kowal as a couple of pot smoking, long haired hippies in the making.  

My fondest dining memories growing up with my mom, dad and younger brother was at red and white checkered tableclothed draped Italian joint off the Grand Concourse where Italian cooking love is made. We’d load up on New Zealand style mussels, the size of fucking canoes, garlic crispy, breaded backed clams and the most slurp worthy linguini in white clam sauce ever concocted. Before I’d go in for the kill and manage to eat at least 75 percent of my pounded think veal scallopini stuffed with prosciutto in a white wine mushroom, cream sauce, mama Mia, what a country. My high school buds were in awe of the place, especially my friend Ari, who was a 50 percent Heeb like myself, who literally looks and sounds like Harvey Keitel with a far, better proportioned head.  

When I reflect on the good old days with my Pinko crew of buds of yesteryear, I become smile rich inside, when I think of our dear Korean American friend Clark, who would whip up us batches of fried rice with Kimchee before it became a thing, at his parent’s apartment after we all collectively lost our shit from watching Dazed and Confused at Phil’s apartment next door prior over some sprayed weed form the Bronx that tasted like Windex.  

How can I forget my end of summer goodbye date at the fanciest restaurant in Chatham, Cape Cod with my dear fabled Katie King? Until then, I had no idea 3o bucks could score you one whole, lumpalcious crab cake to share.  I’ll always cherish these Kosher free memories with old school brothers in arms and past summer loves before social media or even smart phones existed, when face to face quality hangout time with our favorite people in the universe couldn’t be beat. Back when everybody wasn’t consumed with the propulsive compulsion to document every parcel pixel of their fucking social lives. Checking beer scores for more obscenely overpriced 4 packs of hazy, New England brews on Beer Advocate was the farthest thing from my mind in 94. The predominant governing thought on my mind in 94 was what time my friends were going to pick me up for more bar crawling adventures along North Avenue in New Rochelle or throughout the never asked for ID bars such as Kelly’s Corner in the Upper East Side instead because they were all far better drunk drivers than me. Hazy IPAs weren’t a thing a yet either, nor was there a Beer Advocate website, let alone a barely functional Internet back then, equipped with an AOL modem, which took longer to load than Sammy Hagger after running of out of gunk from banging endless groupies after shows after the release of 5150 but you get the gist.

I don’t care that these bonding memories with decades old friends were alcohol fueled or not. We were hanging out more for each other’s company and accessibility to available, less annoying girls from our senior class, more so than obsessing over social bragging props about where we partied the following day. Although a good sign of a night out in the city, is not recalling the name of every place you danced to rum shaker either. The thrill of drinking all night till daylight started to break with your high school brothers in arms, when birds got up, chirping sweet, soul music throughout, our leafy suburban wonderland, helped our mutual enjoyment factor long time to.

Hitting up Papaya King on our way back from the city was far from Kosher baby yet at the time, blaring 36 chambers by the Wu Tang on the FDR Drive home back to Westchester with a sports playing, fun loving, tight crew of buds was all we needed to get through the night with ravishing over the top glee. Oh Lord, I love upholding your Kosher law to make you happy and feel like a less all over the place Jew. But boy or boy, those were magical, bonding cementing days to.

Michael Kornbluth

Not Kosher Baby

Ratting out hairdressers, DJ’s, and underground standup comedy club organizers in Manhattan to the cops or Department Of Health in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild isn’t Kosher. My 4-year-old son whipping out his schmekel in the kitchen before I suck down my 1st Nespresso shot in the morning is, “Not Kosher baby.” At the same time, the same son busting my balls as I bonded with mommy over watching an old episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations in Burgundy later this morning after our 2 other ones got on the bus is Kosher, especially when he delivers hilarious lines such as, “Daddy your head has a moron inside”, or when he referenced the oyster dish Tony was eating on his show with a bunch of French chefs from Burgundy when he says, “Not Kosher Daddy”. In other words, don’t even think about it because nobody likes a fake news Koshertarian Comedian.

Reality is, all my favorite food memories before my Koshetarian Comedian book journey began didn’t involve Kosher food at all, sorry mom. Do I have pleasant memories of eating mom’s brisket for Passover? Sure, but those memories with family don’t compare with eating a grass-fed rib eye with an old dear high school bud at Smith and Wollensky’s in Manhattan, after almost not getting out of LA alive. The fact my Larry Sanders loving, lifetime basketball bud Jesse paid for everything on his FX expense account helped my enjoyment factor tremendously to. Growing up, if we went out for a Kosher meal as a family, we’d go to Epstein’s on the derelict, shabby downer section of Central Ave close to White Plains, NY, which failed to give me sustained stiffage ever. How can you compare the climax free experience of more obligatory, rubbery blubbery nosh size bites of Kosher certified Pastrami at Epstein’s, on borderline depressed, flavorless rye to more howl rich, late night drunken gorge feasts at the local Mont Greek dinner on Central Ave with your entire high school crew there in attendance, for your standard order of not one but 2 bacon and egg and cheese on bagels, which required zero nudging to inhale whole?  

Was the always crackling crispy, always well-seasoned, clean tasting rotisserie chicken at the zero frills Kosher butcher on Yonkers side of Central Avenue a respectable, borderline enjoyable Sunday afternoon nosh treat? Yes, but it didn’t compare to more late-night drunken revelry with my meathead friends at local legend bar tavern haunt the Candlelight Inn, for more delectable beef gyros, American Cheese laden, grilled stringy onion topped, hot sauce drabbed cheesesteaks, fries in cheese and gravy, on top of those steaming, extra meat piles of hot wings whose fame extended all the way to hill free suburbs of yenta country in Long Island.

Did my dad manage to fire up tolerable edible Hebrew National dogs on the grill, devoid of blistering burnt marks as a whole during the summer for the 2 days I was home before they shipped me off to sleepaway camp for 3 months a summer for a decade straight, so I could feel smug superior about being the second worst athlete there compared to the sheik’s son from Great Neck but not really? Yes, but memories of my Dad’s Kosher grilled dogs on semi-stale buns suffering from severe shrinkage problems off the barbeque will never match the warm-hearted memories of grabbing those scrumptious, airy light, always bomb fresh, Cheese Dogs at the Left Bank in the town of Lake Forest, Illinois with my college freshman roommate Kowal as a couple of pot smoking, long haired hippies in the making.  

My fondest dining memories growing up with my mom, dad and younger brother was at red and white checkered tableclothed draped Italian joint off the Grand Concourse where Italian cooking love is made. We’d load up on New Zealand style mussels, the size of fucking canoes, garlic crispy, breaded backed clams and the most slurp worthy linguini in white clam sauce ever concocted. Before I’d go in for the kill and manage to eat at least 75 percent of my pounded think veal scallopini stuffed with prosciutto in a white wine mushroom, cream sauce, mama Mia, what a country. My high school buds were in awe of the place, especially my friend Ari, who was a 50 percent Heeb like myself, who literally looks and sounds like Harvey Keitel with a far, better proportioned head.  

When I reflect on the good old days with my Pinko crew of buds of yesteryear, I become smile rich inside, when I think of our dear Korean American friend Clark, who would whip up us batches of fried rice with Kimchee before it became a thing, at his parent’s apartment after we all collectively lost our shit from watching Dazed and Confused at Phil’s apartment next door prior over some sprayed weed form the Bronx that tasted like Windex.  

How can I forget my end of summer goodbye date at the fanciest restaurant in Chatham, Cape Cod with my dear fabled Katie King? Until then, I had no idea 3o bucks could score you one whole, lumpalcious crab cake to share.  I’ll always cherish these Kosher free memories with old school brothers in arms and past summer loves before social media or even smart phones existed, when face to face quality hangout time with our favorite people in the universe couldn’t be beat. Back when everybody wasn’t consumed with the propulsive compulsion to document every parcel pixel of their fucking social lives. Checking beer scores for more obscenely overpriced 4 packs of hazy, New England brews on Beer Advocate was the farthest thing from my mind in 94. The predominant governing thought on my mind in 94 was what time my friends were going to pick me up for more bar crawling adventures along North Avenue in New Rochelle or throughout the never asked for ID bars such as Kelly’s Corner in the Upper East Side instead because they were all far better drunk drivers than me. Hazy IPAs weren’t a thing a yet either, nor was there a Beer Advocate website, let alone a barely functional Internet back then, equipped with an AOL modem, which took longer to load than Sammy Hagger after running of out of gunk from banging endless groupies after shows after the release of 5150 but you get the gist.

I don’t care that these bonding memories with decades old friends were alcohol fueled or not. We were hanging out more for each other’s company and accessibility to available, less annoying girls from our senior class, more so than obsessing over social bragging props about where we partied the following day. Although a good sign of a night out in the city, is not recalling the name of every place you danced to rum shaker either. The thrill of drinking all night till daylight started to break with your high school brothers in arms, when birds got up, chirping sweet, soul music throughout, our leafy suburban wonderland, helped our mutual enjoyment factor long time to.

Hitting up Papaya King on our way back from the city was far from Kosher baby yet at the time, blaring 36 chambers by the Wu Tang on the FDR Drive home back to Westchester with a sports playing, fun loving, tight crew of buds was all we needed to get through the night with ravishing over the top glee. Oh Lord, I love upholding your Kosher law to make you happy and feel like a less all over the place Jew. But boy or boy, those were magical, bonding cementing days to.

Michael Kornbluth