The Boob Doctor

Samuel was so fond of boob; he became a Boob Doctor one day. Growing up, he’d suck mama’s boobs dry after he turned his parent’s bed into a 24/7 open milk bar. One time, it got weird because his big sister was in his parent’s bed when he said, “Booby”, only for his sister to lift her shirt up and say, “Sike, April Fools Day Samuel”, before pulling her nightie shirt immediately back down, before her younger brother could punch her nipple dots into bruised ones. Big sister was only 9, so she had no lumbering boobs, weighing down her structurally damaged vertebrae from massive overextension already, although if she did opt to get breast reduction surgery when she got older, for some selfish, stupid reason like mild back pain discomfort from bending over on clay courts in Florida in Palm Beach from playing tennis too long, chances are, it wouldn’t be a huge load off her shoulders if she filled out on top even less than mama did.

Baby Samuel would hold up one of his sister’s naked Barbies on occasion and ask his Dada, “Do you think she’s hot Dada?” And Daddy would say, “By southern belle standards, I’d give her a 7.3, although if she lived in the East Village of Manhattan these days, I’d give her a solid 9, because she’d be taller than most of the munchkin gals off off Saint Marks who you could never mount standing up, unless you held them up high up against the wall, which your Do It All Dad is too putzy to pull off, if you really need to know.” Baby Samuel was always fascinated with his Dada’s human anatomy book, which he got so his kids would have an easier time coming up with funny sounding body parts whenever they played Mad Libs, anus hole, being a made-up body part name, that became their go to personal favorite. Baby Samuel always wanted his Daddy to show him where he come from in mama’s vagina, as he constantly implored his dear Dada, “Show me where I used to live in mama’s vagina, back in the day, when I used to sip booby milk through her umbilical cord.”

Now, Baby Samuel is The Boob Doctor with a big pimping plastic surgery office in Miami Beach about to consult a 39-year-old exotic dancer, Buttercup, about a potential breast reduction surgery. Buttercup wears a tight white sweater and cheap sunglasses to her appointment with The Boob Doctor as she examines various framed degrees on the wall before The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters. The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters his office and Buttercup’s nipples begin to jingle with nervous trepidation. Dr. Kornbluth taps her shoulder ever so gently, which sends shivers of titillating tingles up and down her spine like never before, before he get’s comfortable in his desk chair to deliver his breast reduction surgery consultation.  Dr. Kornbluth says, “So, my tennis partner Dr. Ken says, “He doesn’t want you dancing at Senior Tatas in South Beach anymore.” Buttercup says, “He’s very possessive of my glittery busty beauties, but that’s not why I’m here Dr. Kornbluth.  You see I read on the Internet how breast reduction surgery causes scars, and I was wondering why any woman would be willing to risk damaging their natural beauties the way God intended them to be.  Do you ever feel like Dr. Frankenstein for playing the role of Nip Tuck God, by picking off where he left off? I was double major in philosophy and English at the University of Florida, in case you’re wondering.” Dr. Kornbluth says, “I’m confused Buttercup. I thought you came here for a breast reduction surgery consultation but it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already. I’m still getting paid by the hour, so I don’t give a shit, especially knowing how I get to glance at your luscious lobes of perfection jiggle with anticipation in my presence. I have that impact on all my female patients, except the hardcore dikes, but they normally have nothing to flaunt and hide under their natty looking, dress sweaters for a reason.” Buttercup says, “I do play plenty of tennis in my downtime with Dr. Ken and I have noticed a slight strain on my back as of late Dr. Kornbluth. Plus, I own a hot Pink Range Rover, my own boat and a condo with high ceilings and fancy fuck bags made of shaggy futon in the fancy arts district of Miami, so I’ve gotten plenty of ROI out of my gorgeous gals on top already. I just want to know what love feels like without them being the centerpiece, force field, which dominates every man’s universe.” Dr. Kornbluth says “Like Kayne West says, one good girl is worth a thousand bitches, with depleted tits on top making them half the woman they used to be, BAM.” Buttercup says, “You mangled that Kayne West line a bit Doc, but I heard your message loud and clear.” Buttercup stands up erect, pulls down her cheap sunglasses ever so slightly and says, “I wouldn’t trade in your posh Miami Beach office for a shit box in Park Slope, Brooklyn either Doc. New York is so yesterday’s news.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

High Schooler Hoody Problems

“Hear my bus coming Daddy”, says Art Show USA. Do It All Dad says, “Pretty soon, Art Show USA is going to buy this town, and put it all in his shoes, that’s what he’s going to do.” Art Show USA says, “I know the town of Croton Falls is small Daddy but don’t be ridiculous. Plus, I’m going to build my own house in the woods next to another house I build for you one day, so we can be neighbors. Plus, if I put the whole town of Croton Falls in my shoe, everyone will bother me in the woods to pick up their mail since I’ve absorbed the post office in my shoe, which defeats the purpose of me living in the woods in the 1st place Daddy. Got to go now or I’ll miss the bus. Love you daddy but only if you keep on rocking the high schooler hoodie loo or I’ll stab with our sharpest knife for real. Art Show USA whizzes across the street to catch his bus in time in one spark smooth motion, which his fills his Do It All Dad’s heart with tremendous nachas, which means vicarious joy derived from your kid in Yiddish, especially when your 7-year-old son otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day, becomes more grownz up every day, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Do It All Dad though was having reservations about rocking the high schooler hoodie look anymore, which he should’ve retired in his thirties at least, when he used to be a semi-sporadic performing open miker at the New York Comedy Club in Manhattan, if he could rally enough friends in attendance again. Now, Do It All Dad was questioning the extent of his maturity, knowing he’d never outgrew his truly tasteless jokes phase, still puffed the green out of a one hitter at 44 in a hoody like Sarah Silverman minus the career. Now, Do It All Dad still got asked for ID at Target with his 3 kids, whenever he couldn’t resist snagging another 6 pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for only $9.99, knowing it’s the pale ale that never get’s stale. Still, it was impossible for Do It All Dad to stare at his sudden grey specked beard in the mirror at 44 while still not showing any touches of grey on his chosen curls on top and think, “You look better than John Oliver these days but that isn’t saying much. Can’t wait to see his new segment on the Biden inauguration called, The Day Democracy Died. I wonder if bean breath tonight possesses the balls to make a joke about a 3rd political party called, The Burning Mask Party. Now, I have to worry about a podcast hosting opportunity slipping away, because I made a joke over our 2nd call about a donkey shaped pinata with Governor Cuomo’s ugly mug on it, except instead of candy spilling out when it breaks, piles of pink masks come out instead, that say, “Cuomo Blows”, which got a big, cathartic laugh out of my future potential benefactor at the time. I’m so tired of acting like some gun shy stiff, out of fear of never getting a job in a post woke corporate America again or snagging a comedy manager ever, because I dared to make fun of Obama for gifting Iran 150 billion for overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear, to make their economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal products for the Kardashians. At the same time, why do I have to be dressed up in a Brooks Brother button down in jeans to feel more dressed to impress the Internet one love entertainment gatekeepers on my Do It All Dad Podcast, which is only audio anyway? I think my son Art Show likes to see me rock the high schooler hoodie look because it helps ensure I stay young at heart and don’t lose heart to, when I can’t even get the Jewish Book Council to review my book, The Great American Jew Novel after sharing stellar previous reviews, because I’m not an atheist has been like David Cross who hasn’t made a good W joke in 15 years or even an edge insult about Laura Bush for that matter, who just wrote a book which criticizes The Wicked Witch Of Chatham, NY in Northern Westchester County. At least Hillary had the balls to get rich or die trying bitch. Deep down, I think my son Art Show wants me to sport the high school hoodie look more than ever, to ensure I keep on rocking in our big tech ruining world, as a symbol of non-conformist resistance, knowing my comedy career can still take flight, if I never lose touch with what make me feel most kick ass and in control alive, which is getting laughs longtime all the time, with big deal talking, NY made, ball busting flourish, all the way.” Son, Art Show USA enters the the bathroom and notices his Do It All Dad, lost in thought, grazing the specs of grey on his beard with the tips of his fingers and says, “Don’t even think of shaving the beard Daddy. You look weird without one, like when you shaved it to dress up like Stan Smith from American Dad. Remember, dressing up our family like the Cleveland Show family one was no longer an option because Megyn Kelly already stole our thunder. Plus, Cleveland holding up the sign, “Build The Pool Fence”, for Mimi and Papa to see on Facebook in Arizona, would’ve lost his impactful oomph to. Also Daddy, I like you with the beard, because without it, you’ll look like a Pre-K schooler hoody. So, you won’t be able to boast on stage about the Jews being chosen by God to perfect the human race through your gorgeous sons, who stem from your Do It All Dad Year tree trunk.” Do It All Dad hugs his son, Art Show USA and says, “The beard stays kiddo. It’s just that the high schooler hoodie look rubs me the wrong way sometimes, because it reminds me too much of Sarah Silverman, which annoys me since she came out to Twitter as a social justice warrior, to detract from her once mouthwatering tits, sagging popularity.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Dreaming On Past Covid

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking 2 packs a day of Turkish blend, extra wide Camel cigarettes fended off my surging lung cancer either. I’ll never forget how top of the world scrumptious that Camel extra wide tasted after losing my virginity to Katie King in the Cape. If there was ever a reason to take up smoking again, so I could enjoy sucking face with my summer wind love who enjoyed her Camel extra wide smokes even more than I did, it was for my sweet darling, inhalable on the spot always, pitch perfect southern belle, the always magical, chills down my spine inducing from mere memories of walking hand in the hand throughout Main Street in the Cape, my dear Katie King. Especially, knowing how my bitch roommates at the time, hated how the Jew boy from New York struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina, who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in 3 years flat. Oh yeah, that’s right, one of those girls went to McGill in Canada, which was a safety school for stoners obsessed with free healthcare and Justin Trudeau’s purple specked socks. So, it looks like I’m one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never draggy dumpy, 36D tits.  

So, my parents, younger brother, friends, and ex-girlfriends can’t visit me, but I’d sure love to kiss the never annoying, always pleasantly plump on top, Katie King again. The last time I kissed her was when I surprised her while driving cross-country to California for my last semester of college, with an aching in my heart. She was more than a friend of mine Lord, Katie was a guardian angel as you know, who was sent down from Heaven to make me a true believer in the power of prayer and modern-day miracles, which benefited my love life immensely for a change. I remember praying to you alone on the beach in Cape Cod Kennedy country, during the summer when the Fugees broke big, finally giving me a woman to cry about in my heart after our romance came too a sudden, crashing end. I said, “God, I love Hair Metal ballads because they’re hopeful songs full of longing, and I always longed to have a real-life girlfriend to walk hands with at Rye Playland to win stuffed animals for, as I drained more basketball shots from way downtown with effortless, in the zone, choke free ease.”

You’ve always provided me with divine intervention comfort Lord, so I’m not going to fret against my dying of the light this late into the 9th Inning, with me going up against Mariano Rivera with a 5 run lead at the new Yankee Stadium, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. Gentrification Lord, you know, liberal talk for less black people. I wouldn’t have written that a plus joke gem without your divine powered assistance as usual. Has my sadness enshrouded heart weighed heavily on my weepy, hurting inside soul in Synagogue some years on Yom Kippur, knowing it’s another year, where I ask for another shot to be a productive, functioning member of the Jewish race versus another schmuck in a headset, whose been fired more than a Palestinian Slingshot. I’m also not going to bitch about certain friends or family members not always being there to consistently support my comedic ambitions, which lead me to killing at the Montreal Comedy Festival, thanks to your steady, unrelenting support in me doing me all the way. Those friends came to my bringer shows in Manhattan at the New York Comedy Club, when I was an average nobody putz, because they believed in my potential, which you always have Lord, back when my pursuit of getting lady laugh off long time, all the time began.

My parents raised me in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, performing well at high paying jobs, which were no labor of love either.  Plus, acting like an excessively obnoxious, supremely spoiled, entitled twat, never felt right with my labor of laugh lust pursing heart either. You made me grow up and become a man in LA, when my parents cut me off, forcing me to overcome a debilitating stutter as an IT Headhunter, cold calling through the Los Angeles Journal Book of Lists like a man possessed to be a pushover putzy no more. I got to sing Karaoke in the valley and perform high kicking, windmills to Baba O-Reilly, proving to myself I was meant to strut my stuff and sing the gift of comedic song on stage for a living one day.

Should I order Chinese for my last meal to earn myself social justice righting props on Twitter, instead of insisting how those bio-chemical warfare starting commie bastards have resisted investigations into the origin behind the Wuhan lab originator of the virus more than Aquafresh? The only time I ever feared dying was from weed induced panic attacks, thinking, I’d stop breathing, because I was being a degenerate Jew again who was bound to lose his gift of gab sooner or later.

Dying semi-alone through Zoom, doesn’t appeal to me much Lord. I say semi-alone because you’ll always be the bursting source of light in my laugh loving heart come rain or shine. Also, I prefer to say goodbyes to my parents, friends, ex-girlfriends, and younger brother through emotive, giving letters like this, which touch the soul far deeper than any belabored, drawn out Zoom call could, while our new Chinese slave masters monitor our every last show of vigorous, in your face emotion.

Dying prematurely at 44 bites, only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young blares with rollicking empathetic flourish like no other on Rocking In The Free World. I’m positive that song gets plenty of play in stage performer heaven, which I wouldn’t mind entry into, knowing Lou Reed could use some added some levity up there from time to time, next time he showcases the insufferable gaul to insist on charging Billy Idol for the priveledge of recording with him while waiting for his man Marlon Brando again off Broadway upstairs for A Streetcar Named Desire, now that’s he’s love with the act of on-stage creation again. I’m not worried about being a pseudo homo preventing me, from being embraced by your loving light in afterlife. Desmond Child isn’t dead yet, but there’s no way a loving God would damn the writer behind Livin’ On A Prayer to endless agonizing hell on par with forcing him to to act like he enjoys hearing the Fleet Foxes live in front a log cabin, on his one ordained night out for his birthday in homo performer hell, year after year.

Thanks for the thrill of killing and for the heart soothing memories involving my dear Katie King, oh, sweet Lord. Dear Katie King, the magic fairy dust beneath my wings, who took me to the other side on earth, where us oh so fortune, cosmic comedic perfectionists roam. All the bombing in life was worth the thrill of killing at the Montreal festival, especially with my dear Katie King in attendance front row to make love to my soul with her Oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring our last departed goodbye kiss, when she said in the Cape, “I never knew someone could make me so happy before.” I do, it’s you Lord, all the great good in my life stems from your miraculous handy work on my behalf. I must make you laugh more than yenta breath Seinfeld ever did, to be blessed with such infinite beauty in my life, because like your other star creation Billy Cox, Jimi’ Hendrix’s old school paratrooper buddy sings with number 1 soul brother authority at the Filmore East New Year’s Eve in 1970, “With the power of soul, anything is possible.” Being blessed with the funny Jew bone, which you gave the obsessive drive to develop to the best of my God given ability helps to. I’ll love you forever Lord, for my summer wind Katie King and for making such an out of this world beauty, beautify my life, with such a majestic, soul tantalizing sweep that summer wind dreams are made of.  

All My Love,

Michael Joshua Kornbluth

Gender Fluid Pink Ziti

If identifying myself as Gender Fluid will increase my chances of getting a job interview for a paid remote writer position, then I have no problem filling out that hole. Why not write myself a starring part in a modern update remake of Tootsie, except instead of an out of work actor dressing up like a woman to get work, I’ll play a Gender Fluid blogger who dresses up like Bobby Doll from Poison for Zoom calls based on his make up complexion on the record cover Look What The Cat Dragged In? I’ve also been a stay at home dad and our in-house gourmand chef for my 3 kids much longer than your typical paid time off maternity period. So I’m more than accustomed to my nurse wife treating me like her gimpy, bitchy underling for sometime actually, the way weapons maestro maker Destro would constantly belittle Cobra Commander’s commanding heft or leadership authority of the Crimson Twins, relegating them to nothing more than, “Overrated, Trust Fund Terrorist Babies.”

Stay At Home Dads, regardless if they more than 800 followers on their WordPress blog or not, are more than used to subduing their urge to dominate a conversation and play the role of submissive puss next time the subject of whether stay at home mom’s should get paid because they’re not fake feminists who suffer from severe egotism as much either.

So now for the million dollar question, how you can make baked ziti at home for your kids while in the process of making it feel more manly about doing it? Easy, make gender fluid pink ziti. Wear out the pseudo feminent label on your rolled up button Ted Baker sleeve or live the remainder of your life scared of being outed as a shishy bitch enricher. Also, get extra flamboyant with your presentation and announce to the world in a loud and proud fashion, ” Blanket your Baked Ziti with herbed Rosemary bitches. It’s only Alice Water’s favorite herb, which she told Bill Maher on Real Time once. Oh, that’s right, only gay guys know the names of brand name female chefs, my bad.”

Using an excessive preponderance of over the top spreading of ricotta in your gender fluid pink ziti, doesn’t make the preparation of making this old school Italian classic, make you feel anymore rough and tumble manly, that’s for sure. I’d also refrain from considering the subbing the use of cream to add that pinkish, alluring glow, in favor of using Coconut Milk, if sticking with the Koshertarian Diet to please God isn’t a predominant consideration if you decided to throw meh diced up chicken bits of protein in there either.

Frying up some peeled off bits of garlic, diced fine bits of shallot in butter and virgin, cold pressed olive oil, interspersed with cut off specs of rosemary dust before plopping the pre-made Rao’s marinara sauce, doesn’t make you feel like Rocky pulling Pauli in a sled during his training sequence in Rocky 4 either.

Using locally sourced pecorino from Yonkers, DMX’s hometown, adds some salty, hardcore edge to your overall gender fluid baked ziti presentation but not nearly as much as you’d think. It’s getting pretty hot pink in here, I thought while revealing my gender fluid pink ziti, which my family inhaled with scrumptious glee. So if making delectable pink gender fluid ziti, makes it hellish hot up in here, so be it. The endless sporadic Mmmms, were worth losing whatever masculine edge I have left.

Michael Kornbluth

Gender Fluid Pink Ziti

If identifying myself as Gender Fluid will increase my chances of getting a job interview for a paid remote writer position, then I have no problem filling out that hole. Why not write myself a starring part in a modern update remake of Tootsie, except instead of an out of work actor dressing up like a woman to get work, I’ll play a Gender Fluid blogger who dresses up like Bobby Doll from Poison for Zoom calls based on his make up complexion on the record cover Look What The Cat Dragged In? I’ve also been a stay at home dad and our in-house gourmand chef for my 3 kids much longer than your typical paid time off maternity period. So I’m more than accustomed to my nurse wife treating me like her gimpy, bitchy underling for sometime actually, the way weapons maestro maker Destro would constantly belittle Cobra Commander’s commanding heft or leadership authority of the Crimson Twins, relegating them to nothing more than, “Overrated, Trust Fund Terrorist Babies.”

Stay At Home Dads, regardless if they more than 800 followers on their WordPress blog or not, are more than used to subduing their urge to dominate a conversation and play the role of submissive puss next time the subject of whether stay at home mom’s should get paid because they’re not fake feminists who suffer from severe egotism as much either.

So now for the million dollar question, how you can make baked ziti at home for your kids while in the process of making it feel more manly about doing it? Easy, make gender fluid pink ziti. Wear out the pseudo feminent label on your rolled up button Ted Baker sleeve or live the remainder of your life scared of being outed as a shishy bitch enricher. Also, get extra flamboyant with your presentation and announce to the world in a loud and proud fashion, ” Blanket your Baked Ziti with herbed Rosemary bitches. It’s only Alice Water’s favorite herb, which she told Bill Maher on Real Time once. Oh, that’s right, only gay guys know the names of brand name female chefs, my bad.”

Using an excessive preponderance of over the top spreading of ricotta in your gender fluid pink ziti, doesn’t make the preparation of making this old school Italian classic, make you feel anymore rough and tumble manly, that’s for sure. I’d also refrain from considering the subbing the use of cream to add that pinkish, alluring glow, in favor of using Coconut Milk, if sticking with the Koshertarian Diet to please God isn’t a predominant consideration if you decided to throw meh diced up chicken bits of protein in there either.

Frying up some peeled off bits of garlic, diced fine bits of shallot in butter and virgin, cold pressed olive oil, interspersed with cut off specs of rosemary dust before plopping the pre-made Rao’s marinara sauce, doesn’t make you feel like Rocky pulling Pauli in a sled during his training sequence in Rocky 4 either.

Using locally sourced pecorino from Yonkers, DMX’s hometown, adds some salty, hardcore edge to your overall gender fluid baked ziti presentation but not nearly as much as you’d think. It’s getting pretty hot pink in here, I thought while revealing my gender fluid pink ziti, which my family inhaled with scrumptious glee. So if making delectable pink gender fluid ziti, makes it hellish hot up in here, so be it. The endless sporadic Mmmms, were worth losing whatever masculine edge I have left.

Michael Kornbluth

Trading Birthdays

Nobody wants to be born on January  3. At that point, everybody is either partied out or enacting New Year’s resolutions already. Honestly, by day 3 of partying in a row, whether you’re just drinking, or doing drugs, combining the 2, or you’re just dancing the days away at a 5-week rave Germany, based on pure adrenaline and highly charged sexualized vibes alone, you’re still dragging like Hunter Biden on any given Monday afterwards. If God gave you the universe, you morphed into Art Show USA, who was born on New Year’s Day, inspiring his dear Dada to call him Number 1 Capricorn. His dear Dada didn’t nickname him Number 1 Capricorn to make him an insufferable, know it all twat bore, but to praise the almighty, the most-high, Hashem, for perfecting human civilization with his beautiful boy, who he blessed with out of this world good looks, hilarious acting chops and a beautiful builder artist mind, ripe with unlimited imaginative topping possibility. I’m also positive Art Show USA would make a great looking brother like Rick Fox if he used the black face filter through Instagram to.  Every day, Art Show USA’s best friend Shawn Wayans-Stein resented his existence half the time, because he was born on January 3rd and had less birthday rocker gathering memories than the Elephant Man had bottles thrown at his head for trying to crash games of Spin The Bottle after his black-tie makeover one 2 many times.

One day, Art Show USA was having lunch with Shawn at school and he says, “Why don’t we trade birthdays Shawn.”  I was born on New Year’s Day, as you know, which everyone treats like their own personal birthday celebration, so everyone is in a perpetual state of good cheer, until they strike out at midnight in their desperate dash to suck face with the nearest available girl to love. So, you don’t feel like a loser benchwarmer scrub in Junior High again. When you’re born on New Year’s Day, everyone is out of the house to celebrate their unique brand of specialness with their planned lifetime’s partners in love, whether it’s not done of out of begrudging spite or not. The point is even if you’re  stuck home alone on New Year’s Eve, have zero friends to party with, parents who don’t reserve much bonding time with you ever, unless they feel stranded and a pronounced pang of empty loneliness when they retire to Arizona in their more advanced, retired, CNN consuming years amid so called Pandemic scares, where fewer people died this year than last, you can still make out with your blown up balloons with pretty drawn on faces, and not feel completely deflated for making out with a poor man’s blow up doll because deep down, you know you’re not the only one making an extra effort to reward yourself with some extra good loving on New Year’s Eve or not.” You’re my best friend and I love celebrating your birthday on January 3 with just you, like the one year we went Duck Pinning and had the entire place to ourselves, or the time we had an entire Laser Tag room to ourselves, or the time we snuck into weird, weak Howard Stern’s floor seats to see the Knicks, because he was still debloating at home from eating one too many Turkey Burger salads at Jimmy Kimmel’s house for New Years. Still, it feels cooler to be in Manhattan on your birthday, than in an abandoned duck pin bowling alley in Danbury, CT, that looks more dated than the low rent, white out paint job on the walls. Shawn says, “I appreciate the gesture Art Show. I’ve thought about what it would feel like to have myself celebrated on New Year’s Eve instead of on January 3, which gives sloppy thirds a bad name. And you’re a good friend for offering to trade birthdays for the year. Now, I know why you spent all the time watching those graphic design tutorials on YouTube to make me a fake ID, reflecting my New Year’s day birthday, just so I can hear a bouncer at some swanky club in the city, look at my ID and say, “Oh snap, happy birthday New Year’s boy. Don’t forget to pace yourself. I’d postpone New Year’s resolutions till January 2, because you’re not sleeping tonight.”

Art Show says, “I did to make you a fake ID for your birthday. I know you don’t drink alcohol like me, but I wanted to give you the feeling of being a number 1 Capricorn for a change.” Shawn says, “Again, I appreciate the gesture Art Show, but I actually prefer the celebrities born on January 3. Eli Manning was born on January 3rd and he’s much bigger pimp than Tom Brady. He’s NFL royalty before we became a woke plagued universe gone wild. Plus, Eli beat Brady in the Super Bowl and prevented his perfect season from happening due to him asserting his big-time clutch gene. So, Brady is married to Gisele, big deal. She’s like 80 in model years. Robert Loggia from Scarface was born on my birthday, who plays Tony’s Jewish mobster boss for a bit who drops the hilarious line, “Never underestimate the other guy’s greed.” Art Show says, “I hear you Shawn. JD Salinger was born on New Year’s Day like me, and he became a reclusive freak who spent 4 decades in the New Hampshire wilderness, writing books for himself like a tweaked Holden Caulfield, on an endless trust fund funded retreat, with all his time-release Adderall delivered to his doorstep by his various pharmacist groupie fanatics at large. So how much did he relish the company of others on New Year’s Eve? Which I never really thought about until now.  J. Edgar Hoover was a glamorized peeping tom, also born on my birthday, New Year’s Day. It’s not as if Mini Me born on New Year’s Day who died prematurely in his forties could boast a sustainable, long lasting career with legs after Austin Powers 3. “

Shawn says, “But we can’t let your killer fake ID go to waste Art Show. I read about a Beastie Boys cover rap trio group performing at some dive bar on the Lower East side on New Year’s Eve, this year. Why don’t we go there together and get our bodies moving to some Intergalactic Planetary? Will have to fight for room to dance because of the ban on smart phone devices to make old-school hip hop city life great again.” Art Show says, “Didn’t you say the name of this gastro pub on the lower East Side was called Hip Hops? Shawn says, “You got it Art Show. With a friend like you in my corner, I’ll always have a bigger hop to my step than the rest.”

Michael Kornbluth

Kosher Klaus Sushi

Once upon a time there was a Kosher sushi chef prodigy Art Show USA who opened Kosher Klaus Sushi on Christmas Eve in 1994 before the Internet became mainstream and Asian elite Yelpers went hog wild.  Kosher Klaus Sushi was located in the heart of Scarsdale Village, which earned immediate rave reviews in the Scarsdale Inquirer from local food critic Debbie Wasserman, who described Art Show’s mind blowing specialty roll creations as “Orgasmic before they reach the back of your throat good.”  What made Art Show unique outside of his unmatched imaginative heft and juggling sushi knife work at the bar were his God given star powered looks, which commanded legions of groupie Yentas to schlep from the far reaches of Long Island to wait on line in the dead of winter to just catch a glance of the new age pretty boy bad ass Sushi Chef through the window, cranking out one swoon worthy, inhalatory Sushi specialty roll after the next, like his signature one, Living On The Edgemont Edge, which had smoked salmon, Cream Cheese, capers and caramelized shallots throughout to inject an extra special loaded lift.   

Every day, Art Show USA would sharpen his Sushi Knives together made from Israeli steel used in bullet proof vests made for their special force’s unit Mossad, which would woo, with sparkly, dazzling delight as patrons at the Kosher Klaus Sushi Bar gave impromptu standing ovations throughout.  Art Show USA was a 6 foot 4, spikey blond haired, blue eyed, lean, mean, Sushi slicing machine, who made Tom Cruise from the movie Cocktail look like a stumpy, homely hobbit hipster hack, in comparison, regardless if he kept his rolled up sleave button shirt, tucked in or not.   But one day, a bunch of rowdy Irish wiggers, entered Kosher Klaus Sushi to track down a hot yenta breath from Syosset, Long Island Rachel Weinstein, who rocked swinging, booby beauties, 36 D’s to be exact, who was also a solid 5 foot 9, making her mountable from behind standing up, assuming you weren’t a stumpy Irishman, unlucky in the height department.   Rachel was a full lipped, Sephardic Persian tan busty beauty, even Roger Waters from Pink Floyd would pulverize her fetching snatch until he was comfortably numb.  The leader of the wigger Irish pack was Liam O’Reilly who sported a Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus, which scared off most, but not Art Show USA. Art Show USA was a black belt in Judo by the time he was 13 for his Bar Mitzvah. For Art Show’s Bar Mitzvah Party, he played Siamese Dream by the Smashing Pumpkins on the guitar with his feet and teeth.  So Art Show USA was never sweating the prospect of losing a fight or a girl to an Irish wigger moron from Long Island, who thought stamping a permanent Newport cigarette tattoo on his esophagus was a bright idea, regardless if it ensured him a truck driver job for Killan’s Red or not.

Liam and his crew of Irish wiggers came down from Long Island to start a fight with Art Show USA because they attended the same high school as Rachel Weinstein and only had eyes for inhaling her whole. Plus, they weren’t enthralled with the Rachel wearing an underground, circulated hoodie with a picture of Art Show USA on it, sporting an American flag bandana and star of David gold necklace around his neck, showcasing well earned, non-banking job related bling.  

Liam cuts the line with his Irish wigger posse and bursts into Kosher Klaus Sushi like Mark Wahlberg on the set of SNL after Andy Samberg did a sketch about Marky Mark talking to farm animals. Liam bum-rushes the sushi bar and says, “Hey, faggot. I’ll kick your ass right now, to show all your groupies what a pretty boy faggot, gay pussy bitch you are in real life.” Art Show ignores Liam’s Alpha Dog attack. Liam jumps over the sushi bar to strike. Art Show does a look away kick to middle of his forehead, which sends Liam flying into the ceiling fan, which knocks him out senseless. Art Show USA says, “Alexa, play Jump Around by House of Pain.” Kosher Klaus Sushi erupts into instantaneous jubilee, Jewish pride pounces the air, inspiring Rachel Weinstein to flash her tits at Art Show USA as the entire restaurant throws their gold necklaces with Stars of David’s on it in her general direction, in honor of all those sweet, harmless Jewish boys who were never taught to defend themselves like the Hebrew Hammer, Bugsy Siegal or Art Show USA.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Hot For Hummus

Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review.   Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.

Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahani flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for hummus but only after I stared making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese Pieces Butter Cup, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.

If you never tried hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought hummus or homemade hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.  

Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing.  So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day.  At the very least, your kids will love you more putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Plus, your kids won’t become instantly tubby and resent your existence for it later. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.

Michael Kornbluth