Tag: lifestyle

Family Friendly Pitch

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, humor, writing

November 15, 2022 

Dear Ramona Pina, 

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories is a comedic showcase of flash fiction stories that’s made for these punchline topping times. I wouldn’t mind being translated in France and beyond. According to my Soundcloud stats, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan. These stories are rooted in real life struggles yet also flush with magical realism within the crossover adult space, which is why I see this material hitting the sweet spot for you.  

My target audience for Waste Height are members of Gen X, who do more than audiobooks and the Joe Rogan Podcast. Who will relish my pop culture heavy references throughout Smackdown Satan, When The Shredder Frets and in Radioactive Resume Theories. Understand, I don’t shy away from media criticism in middle age reinvention tales such as Trucking To Zion and The Zamboni Artist. 

Being a busy mom of 2, I can you see you gravitating toward do it all parenting tales about wanting to raise drug free children in Regaining That Cuddly Feeling. 

Other stories of interest that are reflective of my queer leanings include Slut in Straight Jacket, Busted Beauty and Perverted Science.

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories, is broken into different story sections: Stand Up Short Stories, Do It All Dad Stories, Funny COVID Stories, American Made-Up Short Stories, Stand Up Staffer Stories, Sloppy Second Stories and Do It All Dad Does Kid Stories. I incorporate every genre from magical realism, The Headless Headhunter, YA, Trading Birthdays and absurdist adult humor, Hop Farm Footsie Scare of 1859.

I refuse to have Louie yuck up the space for funny man adult stories involving hyper articulate children, especially when his kids choke on my kid’s star dust, long time, all the time, Judd Apatow’s included. Challah, thank you very much. 

I’m looking forward to your reply. 

Best Regards.

Michael Kornbluth 

Waste Of Height Pitch

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, poetry, writing

November 15, 2022 

Dear Michael Bourret, 

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories is a comedic showcase of flash fiction stories that’s made for these punchline topping times. I wouldn’t mind being translated in France and beyond. According to my Soundcloud stats, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan. If offbeat writing gives you sustained stiffage, then I’ve got a long-lasting treat for you.

My target audience for Waste Height are members of Gen X, who do more than audiobooks and the Joe Rogan Podcast. Who will relish my pop culture heavy references throughout Smackdown Satan, When The Shredder Frets and Radioactive Resume Theories. Understand, I don’t shy away from media criticism in middle age reinvention tales such as Trucking To Zion and The Zamboni Artist. 

Other stories of interest that are reflective of my queer leanings include Slut in Straight Jacket, Busted Beauty and Perverted Science.

Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories, is broken into different story sections: Stand Up Short Stories, Do It All Dad Stories, Funny COVID Stories, American Made-Up Short Stories, Stand Up Staffer Stories, Sloppy Second Stories and Do It All Dad Does Kid Stories. I incorporate every genre from magical realism, The Headless Headhunter, YA, Trading Birthdays and absurdist adult humor, Hop Farm Footsie Scare of 1859.

Thanks for giving my material a read and for the opportunity to give you sustained stiffage from it, long time, all the time, Challah. Thank you very much. 

Best Regards.

Michael Kornbluth 

Marketing Manifesto Pitch

by doitalldadyear, posted in lifestyle, poetry, writing

November 15th, 2022 

Dear Lindsey Smith, 

I want you to represent my book, The Koshertarian Comedians, which tells the inspirational tale of a Stay-At-Home Podcast Comedian who cleans up his act a bit during his year without beer while inspiring his wife and 3 kids to give the Koshertarian Diet a chance. Being married to a punk rocker, who’s also fan of voice driven narratives with some edge, I see no reason why you wouldn’t want to inhale the book whole from start to finish. I shed light on gender issues such as whether Stay at Home Dads can survive disdainful ridicule in between landing their next job eventually. They can’t. Although you’re able to ease the pain of scornful, degrative neglect in between with a little help from your Koshertarian comedian friends. How do I accomplish this miraculous feat exactly? Through earning more respectful impressiveness from the more laughs and yummy dance meal creations I make. All while growing closer to God and my 3 kids in the process for trusting in my God given powers of pleasure making dissemination. 

You’re an ideal audience for The Koshertarian Comedians considering your interests lifestyle, self-help, current events and pop culture references, which my Gen X target audience will understand. I also see you minting a publishing deal for The Koshertarian Comedians because it’s a self-help book about the self-empowering nature of creativity that instills pride of ownership. While also giving you the freedom to improve and perfect, whenever you’re making things with love, even if you’re not getting paid for it yet. Another important message imparted in The Koshertarian Comedians is the importance of not blaming the audience if your joke is a yuck yucker or if your latest dish creation bust is a suck, sucker, which is an important to message to impart among the younger, blame ready generation today.

I close The Koshertarian Comedians with a chapter called Exit Interview Day, which is my daughter’s exit interview from eating a strictly Koshertarian diet at home. Here, I lay the groundwork for a killer sequel, called The Pescatarian Comedians, where I declare to my daughter during our exit interview day, “If soulless shellfish was good enough for Jesus, the original super Jew, then it’s good enough for me.” 

Amazon has no books that are even close to being remotely interesting under the Koshertarian or Pescatarian realm, especially through a highly humorous family man lens. You can change that by selling a book James Beard and Anthony Bourdain wanted to read but never could. 

I’ve produced 136 comedy records over the past 14 months such as Brisket Mom Beater, Not Kosher Baby and the Liverpool Lip. The sales potential for these records sold in the form of audiobooks or E-Books, especially throughout overseas markets such as England, Canada, Australia, India and Israel are enormous. I also wouldn’t mind launching a new podcast platform with me as host called Do It All Coach Dads, which could provide the killer filler for our next best seller together. You can negotiate the digital rights with Spotify in between. 

We could also sell a pilot to HBO for The Pescatarian Comedians, delivering bits of food history, bit by bit involving my star seedlings, myself and other promising actors both old and new. Think Drunk History with a foodie minded twist.

Last, I also have 2 other books to secure six figure deals for, Waste of Height Really Short Stories and United We Laugh, all great titles I know. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his Stay-at-Home Dad Years. 

I resume my IT Headhunter career next Monday to finance self-publishing these book gems if I can’t find a lit agent willing to embrace the wild man leanings of the funniest Koshertarian Comedian who’s ever lived before the new year, God forbid. Because Florida and Anti-Semitism are so hot right now. 

Assuming, I haven’t turned you off with my supreme arrogance, thanks for giving The Koshertarian Comedians a chance.

Sincerely,

Michael Kornbluth

Gum King Of New York

by doitalldadyear, posted in beauty, entertainment, faith

What’s an anti-social impression? Recording 103 comedy records from home after producing 500 plus solo Do It All Dad Year podcasts over the past 5 years without much adult interaction outside of getting almost black out drunk to see Aerosmith in Vegas 2 summers ago with an old bud from California while resenting him inviting other friends to participate in the fun despite them all becoming fans of you almost overnight, certainly qualifies. 

But what does it take to get shocked into sobriety exactly? Is it from pissing your pants while passing out in your daughter’s bed for the 1st night of Hanukkah? Or is it from not touching the stuff again till May on a Saturday getaway at a Casino in the Poconos with your wife’s friend and husband, only to learn from your daughter the following day how you blacked out while taking forever to say goodnight to her after being kicked out of the bar prior for drinking 5 double bourbons in less than an hour knowing how you polished off a bottle of wine and multiple Arnold and Palmer’s with vodka earlier that day to overcompensate for the fact that it’s your year without beer while throwing in multiple weed edibles in between? 

Does it even matter that your wife’s friend husband was buying your drinks, despite you having no intention of drinking any booze or becoming black out drunk whatsoever? No, it doesn’t. At the same time, it’s safe to say most blackouts are accidental blackouts. Nobody sets out to have a good time only to blank on what they did prior. Then again, nobody ever starts drinking in high school with the intention of failing at adulthood into their mid-forties either. Nobody wants to feel like they got 10,000 morons stuck in their head for taking so long in life to realize what a bat shit crazy friend alcohol is because alcoholism and multi-tasking don’t mix, neither do hangovers and parenting for that matter. 

I don’t care if you’re a weekend alcoholic or not. If you’re getting bombed after God blesses you with 3 beautiful, pitch perfect children, you’re running away from something. In my case, it’s been money troubles, new friendship formation woes and major angry laced resentment issues stemming from wanting to receive more credit and praise for the good writing and comedy I’ve dedicated the entirety of my life toward producing with relentless fury for the past 5 years and counting.   I’m trying to get jobs with companies to do copywriting for them because I’m good at creating compelling content. I’m good at crafting click bait headlines. I’m good at sticking to main points while going on inspired comedic laced rants to. I’m good at building up my kids. I’m good at cooking yummy dance worthy meals for my family. I’m good at complimenting friends and praising artists who inspire me to strive for originality like Miles Davis, Bill Hicks and Bob Marley. I’m good at creating a funny man impression on my Do It All Dad Year Blog. Although, one could argue that despite all the likes my comedy records, stories or blogs receive, I’ve haven’t excelled at creating plenty of meaningful interactions on my blog based on the scattering of actual comments in between because those people might be discouraged from interacting with an anti-social pariah comedian who displays psychopath tendencies such as laughing hysterically whenever one of Dexter’s victims squirms in discomfort before meeting their maker, tapped to his kill table, never ready to die, just yet. 

But in the spirit of anti-social awareness month, I wanted to discuss my anti-social impressions in person here at the Father Expo, not by launching my own social media platform like Truth Social, but by stating my commitment to make friends with sobriety. Sobriety is my new friend resolution because if I can’t get high off the presence of loved ones, especially my kids who still believe Daddy can make it as a successful comedian and businessman writer entrepreneur of some kind, then I’m a lost cause who will never be capable of paying back his debut to his parents, wife and friends who have done nothing but encourage me to pursue my funny man path with all of my God given might along the way. So, I’ve decided to make a year without beer, not just about a self-serving desire to achieve dunking out Do It All Dad Glory by giving up what’s preventing me from flying, which is hop juice. What I’m also giving up that’s preventing me from flying is anti-social impressions by declaring my independence from alcohol forever. I want to become the most engaging, hardcore hilarious sober living personality on planet earth, even more so than Russell Brand, who can make sober living a sexy lifestyle to pursue. Plus, I’ve got way fewer grey specs of wisdom on my beard than Russell Brand does. Plus, he’s English and the Declaration of Independence was signed in Philly, not in Buckingham fucking Palace. Bill Hicks gave up all drinking and produced his best work on Arizona Bay as a result, so did Amy Winehouse on the Rehab record and I will to.  So later this week on Shark Tank, I’ll be presenting a new brand of Hop flavored gum called Hop Licious Chew. It’s a killer trade off worth taking. They say rehab is about recovering your former, authentic self before you sought pleasure and escape through alcohol and drugs, and what better way to reconnect with our glorious of age innocence before social media ruined everything than through embracing gum that comes with an adult flavored twist. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t cum in my pants after my 1st sip of Budweiser, because beer is an acquired taste, just like espresso or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale ale that never gets stale, until that lifestyle gets played out in your heart. I don’t want to be bitter anymore. But I wouldn’t mind the taste of hops in gum to remind me why being a lushy alcoholic degenerate dependent blows more than being stuck on Meghan’s McCain’s lost Cheeto stuck in her belly button detail on the View either. 

Because let’s be honest folks, sobriety monogamy is sexy. Sobriety monogamy gets me harder than a new porn installment of Trans Sitters on Third Legged Beauties.com.  Sobriety monogamy never leaves you feeling like a dirty scumbag for sucking down whatever anybody is willing to buy you. Sobriety monogamy comes with a happy ending guarantee, where you don’t have to question whether you’re an awful for person for making jokes about requesting only older happy enders knowing they weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday. Sobriety Monogamy makes you feel better than Mormons who voted for Mitt Romney twice. Sobriety Monogamy should be a no-brainer commitment when you can’t manage being a good role model for your kids by blacking out on tucking them in. Sobriety Monogamy will allow me to make sober friends. And let’s be honest, were all a tad jealous of those who have AA friends, who’ve been to hell and back but still emerged victorious while you’re still stuck in the doldrums of your do dick profitless existence. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking because you’ll show some steady backbone and prove you’re worthy of funny man redemption. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking, so you can have a positive impact on others while never coming across like a goody fucking two shoes who only dealt with a crippling mental addition to weed, alcohol, Adderall or painkillers for one year max, compared to 10 or more.  Sobriety Monogamy is the best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions by passing out prematurely at the party again, because you’re in no rush to bond or learn from others. The best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions is through sobriety monogamy because how much empathy do you really have for other’s people’s problems when you’re the loudest one at the bar, yelling, “Nobody gives a fuck here, we’re in New Jersey”, but you’re actually in Pennsylvania? Sobriety Monogamy ensures you don’t become another no-show bum on the grand stage of life like Lenny Bruce would say. 

Do Sobriety Monogamy for Lenny, knowing how he was denied a living at the end. Do Sobriety Monogamy because despite your fucked up degeneracy, you’d never blame a disparaging tweet you made about Valerie Jarrett on dropping a fucking Ambien no less. Shit Roseanne at least bang out a funnier tweet on Ambien allegedly by calling Valerie Jarett, Obama’s live-in Arabian horse whisperer. Do Sobriety Monogamy, so you’ll exude a sincere, palpable good-natured vibe, that doesn’t’ feel forced like Ellen DeGeneres after she comes out on her show as friends with W because she’s pro Bush all the way. Do Sobriety Monogamy because by becoming a gum mogul in New York you can actually act your size among all the other towering personalities in the Big Apple post weird, weak woke Howard these days.  Do Sobriety Monogamy because New York is deader than Yiddish anyway, so who gives a shit about partying in NY anymore anyway? Do Sobriety Monogamy because it will represent an actualization of your best self, the most giving, emotionally present, less jaded, always criticizing self, you know, the standard New York state of mind. Do Sobriety Monogamy so you can feel superior to bartenders in wool hats in July. Do Sobriety Monogamy to claim victory over conquering your crazy Hick DNA from Kentucky after all. Do Sobriety Monogamy to give other dads something weighty to chew on while struggling to balance the demands of being a star provider and involved father teacher life coach sage all at the same time through the advent of Swami Says sayings that come with each pack of Hopo-Licious Chew, designed to add a brighter glint to your eye and greater bounce to your step. Daily Nugget of Wisdom today is, “Beer bellies give self-love a bad name.” Because Hop-O-Rama Swami Knows Best.  You want more nuggets of daily wisdom from Hop-Rama-Swami, my new sober best friend? You got it. 

Hop O Rama Swami on Success:

Swami says, “Be better than best or be nobody worth giving a shit about.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Life: 

Swami says, “Live life in fear and you’ve got less to live for than a monologue joke writer for Stephen Colbert.  It’s too bad Bill O’ Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least Bill O’ Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Love: 

Swami says, “Loving the one you’re with is an overrated experience, especially when they resent being expected to suck off even an inch-ling of your existence every other 6 months ever again.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Creativity: 

Swami says, “If you’re mom doesn’t laugh at your jokes nobody will.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Attachment:

Swami says, “Don’t get too attached to flashes of alleged genius that came out of your creatively jacked dome if they’re not embraced online or off the way you envisioned as usual.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Status:

Swami says, “Status updates on LinkedIn scream respectability straining.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Money: 

Swami says, “Money grants greater middle finger power, just ask Stone Cold or Adam Carolla on his podcast.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Fame: 

Swami says, “Doing anything for fame alone is gayer than Roger Ebert’s aghast fueled review on The Foot Fist Way, Danny McBride’s 3rd hardcore hilarious movie by the way.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Choice: 

Swami says, “You’ll be fucked over by life with your face rubbed in your feces if you allow others to push you in whatever preferred direction they choose.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Want: 

Swami says, “Stroke yourself if nobody else will do it for you.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Self-Love. 

Swami says, “Overpriced IPA’s only leave you bloated with self-importance inside.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Your Problems. 

Swami says, “Find a new lover of you and they’ll go away.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Darkness. 

Swami says, “The extent of your impact on this earth can be writing disposable ad copy for a big pharma pimping marketing firm in San Diego. So, stop acting more depressed than your Euro-Pass being rendered useless once Europe transforms into one seemingly endless no-go zone without any access to WI-FI in your Youth Hostel after the next man-made plague made in Wuhan is released to finish off our collective pursuit of happiness again.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Unnecessary Suffering: 

Swami says, “I didn’t tell you to vote for Mr. Groper. And you call the other side mongoloid morons, douche bags are us. 

Hop O Rama Swami on Facing Fears: 

Swami says, “I’d triple wrap by super soaker before playing around with Madonna’s kick the can clit to.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Pain Management. 

Swami says, “Take up blow painting and leave me out of it.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Bullshit. 

Swami says, “If it sounds like bullshit, it means the person is underselling distressment again. ” 

So, stop bullshitting yourself dads. Trade in the dad bod in exchange for dunking out in do it all dad year glory. We can form our own 3 on 3 Do It All Dad League together. 

And never forget, funnier dad, happier baby. So, reconnect with your original, starring self, before you allowed alcohol to drive the asshole component of your personality into hyperdrive. 

Dependence sucks so don’t give into it anymore. And Michael Jordan admitting on the Last Dance doc about getting into drinking later in life after winning 6 championship rings was freaking weird. That’s like Charles Barkley taking up Adderall to study for law school like Kim Kardashian because social justice lawyers are so hot right now. And Sir Charles using manufactured speedy time pills to hit the books instead of more crab legs with Shaq and Ernie at Maestro’s after work for another raise dinner on TNT doesn’t mix. 

Do It All Dad didn’t get funding for Hop-Licious Chew on Shark Tank, but he finally got a talent agent after doing a joke about KP on the broadcast in front of Marc Cuban when he said, “There’s no way KP raped the neighbor in his apartment building, the same day he tore his ACL, right Marc? Because going strong to the hole was never KP’s forte. Plus, Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein would never try to rape Gal Gadot in her trailer on the set of Wonder Woman 3 on only one good leg. Plus, Do It All Dad did sell a screenplay to Hollywood called Gum King of New York where he comes out as the King of All Sober Living Media and develops a new best friend in AA, who becomes his talent manager, agent confidant, who made him a higher paid podcaster than Joe Rogan on Spotify while never coming across as a smarmy, CBD Oil evangelist, social media deferring apologist in the process either. Ok, so maybe becoming friends with sobriety doesn’t remove your complete frontal asshole lobe all together. 

Michael Kornbluth

Jolt Scratch Fever

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, storytelling

It was 1986. Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with a badass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life.    Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the fourth grade, spending more time now stargazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid, because she saw how tweaky and sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did.

            Her younger brother Arthur would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later-discontinued Jolt Cola, which was the equivalent of six cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep-deprived first-grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store.

            But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage, because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss because she had to write a paper about it for class.

            Actually, Matilda’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, goody two-shoes square.”

            Now Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Ways from Halloween that she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again ’till 2061.

            By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous astrophysicist who would eventually go viral (despite the Internet not having been invented yet), where she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt, too.”

            Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt, and in a frenzied spurt, she darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite her inner square telling her that she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice-in-a-lifetime event (if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow up bigger than you-know-what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads.

            As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur, still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister; yet, unfortunately, she inherited her dear dada’s clunky, heavy feet (which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon, either).

            Arthur turns his head, spots Matilda, and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt—on a school night, too.”

            Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arthur. I’m not Matilda—you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation.  I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind, like Han Solo after Leia unfreezes him from carbonite in Jabba’s place.”

            Arthur adds, “Don’t BS, me ‘Tilda. Wait a minute. I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.”      Now Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green force field-enclosing, brain-eating alien bug. Arthur freaks out, as expected, yelling, “I got killed, ‘Tilda! I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m gonna get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”

            Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching it, Arthur. I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet.”

             Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins.

            As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each other, landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with the discarded Milk Way wrappers on it.

            Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over, baby.”

            Matilda, who has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain-drilling noogie, looks up to her Dad and asks, in perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet, Dad?”

             Dad says, “But, then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grow on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need.” 

Michael Kornbluth

Loud Man’s Disease

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, family

How loud was Do It All Dad? For starters, when seeing Aerosmith live in Las Vegas two summers ago, with close seats to the stage before a mask muzzle was designed to kill freedom of speech forever, his incessant hollering and wooing made lead singer Steven Tyler shoot off retaliatory hate stares of disgust in his direction which screamed, “Somebody shut this loudmouth Jew up, already. This is my showcase career retrospective, not his. I didn’t blow millions on blow and almost derail my stadium-selling-out career in the seventies to have this big-headed putz project louder than me (without a microphone, Joe Perry, or a state-of-the-art sound system working in his magnifying favor, either).”

            There was also the time Do It All Dad saw Dice in a casino in Arizona with his younger brother, only for the Dice Man to single out the loudmouth Jew and yell, with exasperated force, “You’re an asshole!”

            And all he was doing was laughing for a long time, all the time, prior, while sporadically yelling, “Dice Lives, holla, thank you very much.”

            Dice was so flummoxed by Do It All Dad’s laugh, a throaty roar, that he beelined into his nursery rhymes prematurely, way ahead of schedule, to get the fuck out of dodge a hard 45 minutes into his set.

            Then, there was the time when Do It All Dad saw Bon Jovi at Mohegan Sun with his daughter Matilda (fairly up in the nosebleed seats this time behind the stage, yet his bombastic, rocket-fueled voice still managed to get under Zebra Print’s skin as the old-school long cowboy from Jersey projected a damning ‘you ain’t shit’ thousand-yard stare toward Mr. Loud Man’s Disease’s general direction as he sang along with rockstar-blasting authority, “Bad Medicine is all I need.”  

            Do It All Dad didn’t just piss off living legendary comedians and hall of fame rock star front men with surefire, unintentional precision. His omnipresent Loud Man’s Disease enraged his normally English-dour, future father-in-law over a dinner at his home in Delaware only two minutes after grace, compelling him to bark out, in depleted, drained-already disgust, “He’s more talkative than the other one.”

            ‘The other one’ being the gentile mute from Indiana whom his daughter was engaged to before his daughter found her real deal partner in love, this time (at least for the time being).

            The major issue now was Do It All Dad’s loud man disease causing his son, Art Show USA, to develop all-consuming migraine headaches, leading his son to sport a permanent PMS face until he started to take up mainlining extra-strength Tylenol, again.

            And Do It All Dad’s son was tough. How tough, you ask? Well, when Art Show USA required stitches for tripping on top of an empty IPA glass on the ground and had to wait 1000 lifetimes in the emergency room so the other doctors could serve all the first-in-line dreamers in attendance, the doc gave Do It All Dad two options:

            “Either A) Authorize the doc to use an anesthesia which would take twenty minutes to kick in, or B) To stitch up his son the spot, as his gaping gash continued to open wider than Octomom after Push 5000.

            Do It All Dad chose B, only for the doctor to say, “Your kid is tough.” Do It All Dad inquires, “Indulge me, doc: how tough?”

            Doc says, “One time, there was this black kid from Brooklyn.”

            Do It All Dad says, “Sold already, Doc. Thanks for giving my son tough guy bragging rights, for me to derive vicarious pride from ’till my last dying breath.”

            But how was Do It All Dad going to solve his Loud Man’s Disease, exactly? Would triple masking even get the job done, after getting his tonsils taken out for an extra safe precaution, too? Would Do It All Dad become a eunuch monk, despite already feeling this way, at times, from being a Stay-At-Home Dad and bitchy underling until his comedy writing career achieved blastoff, already? Would Do It All Dad seek out a Voodoo Doctor in Washington Heights to cure his Loud Man’s Disease by changing his pigmentation to ESL Asian?

            What could Do It All Dad do to prevent his son from receiving any more debilitating headaches in his presence again?

            Finally, Do It All Dad devised a cure-all solution. He’d buy his son a pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones to wear in his presence and would teach him fucking sign language. Because native New Yorkers were made to be heard.

Michael Kornbluth

Dreaming On Past COVID

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, faith

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone, allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking two 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, always inhalable on-the-spot, pitch-perfect southern belle.

            The always-magical chills down my spine were induced from mere memories of walking, hand in the hand, throughout Main Street in the Cape with my dear Katie King.

            Especially, they came from knowing how my bitch roommates at the time hated how the Jew boy from New York who’d struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in three 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 the one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never-draggy or 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 who, as you know, 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’s 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 to 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 hand in hand with at Rye Playland and 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 and 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 five-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 for years on Yom Kippur, knowing that 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 who’se 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 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 a lady laugh-off for long time, all the time, began.

            My parents raised me in the snuggle-soft confines of Westchester County. I performed 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 to 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 origins 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 that I’d stop breathing because I was being a degenerate Jew who again 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 forty-four bites works only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young, and 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 having entry into, knowing that Lou Reed could use some added some levity, up there, from time to time.

            This can happen next time he showcases the insufferable gall to insist on charging Billy Idol for the privilege 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 that prevents me from being embraced by your loving light in the 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. That would be on par with forcing him 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 of the earth, where us oh-so-fortunate, 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 in the front row to make love to my soul with her oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring memories of 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 Fillmore 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, too.

            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

Masturbator Equalizer

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, fiction, humor

“Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.”

Salvador Dali

“Money equals middle finger power”, is what my dad always told me growing up in our quaint yet artistically loaded Comedy Grant House 50 minutes North of Manhattan within the bucolic, historically tiny village of Croton Falls. Now famous for being the birthplace of my dear dada’s famous catchphrase, “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, on his Do It All Dad Year podcast that ultimately got him a recording label deal to produce comedy record 100 Too Tall Jew, on Blessed Records and the rest is comedy gold machine making history. Personally, I preferred the comedy record title, Birds Eye View Bitches, but Daddy thought that it was tad long winded even for Bob Dylan’s tastes. At the Montreal Comedy Festival Daddy got big laughs when he said, ‘”Sorry pops, but when you live in Arizona for a decade and counting and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora suggest otherwise.”

Still, growing up Papa, my grandfather, nicknamed my daddy Waste of Height because my father is a 6’4 Jewish New Yorker, who’s only highlight when playing Varsity basketball senior year was scoring 10 points against an all-Japanese team, which isn’t hard when the opposing players thought the pick and roll, mean their choice of fish. Now, my dad was being billed by Rolling Stone as Killer Set Kornbluth, while Variety magazine hailed him as the new giant of late night after replacing Bill Maher with a new talk show called Seriously Clowning. So, at this point in his life, my dad had every right to look down on any soul sucker dream detractor who tried to make him feel like a delusional, crazy man narcissist for pursing A plus comedic glory with a middle finger power mansion located at the highest point in Bel Air next to Jerry’s Lewi’s old school crib. So, the shelf life behind papa’s degrading nickname, Waste of Height, in relation to his 1st born blossoming son, no thanks to his encouraged direction had gone sailing, Dean Martin, lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

But daddy is what you would call a late bloomer, who didn’t start tasting big deal success till his late forties, combining that with a sexless marriage, with a man who is far from straight, on top of his mom wanting him to sling other’s people’s garbage instead of his own A plus gemry jokes for a living one day, combined with in-laws who force fed Eucharist on his Jew blood tainted kids behind his back, combined with zero creative collaborators outside of his own children during his 5 year journey into the wilderness while kicking is decade long addiction to Adderall for good, resulted in creating a tsunami of resentment fueled rage that almost burnt out what love spreader light that existed left in my dear dada’s endlessly beautifying, beyond spiritualized projecting soul, before it was too late.  Because of that, Daddy did everything in his power to ensure I established moonbeam blast shot goals early as possible compared to his mother urging her “artist son”, to settle and shoot for shit by chucking the joke writing career all together and become a full-time garbage man like Magic Johnson’s father in Lansing, Michigan. Obviously, Magic Johnson dad’s is a stellar example of being a God loving, do it all dad done good. Still, Magic’s dad also slung other’s people’s trash, so his son wouldn’t have to, similar to Papa schlepping over the George Washington Bridge for 25 years only to get nickeled and dimed by the likes of Potomka Pickles while working as VP of Sales for a plastics and glass company in Union, New Jersey, otherwise known as the Swamp Thing State, so his 1st born wouldn’t have to follow in his steps and blaze a new trail of funny man innovation to derive prideful enrichment of some kind on his own.

But what really pissed off my dad was Papa resisting the notion that I had genius potential in me because his waste of height son was too much a mongoloid moron in his eyes to birth such a star powered, out of this world seedling capable of moving millions with my own powers of imagination, poetic lift and storytelling powered song. Daddy went to Ithaca College, which he derided as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But he graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications, so he could suck down some bingers of extra strong Tompkin’s country outdoor weed and avoid stuttering every other 2 seconds. I loved the idea of going to Columbia growing up, yet Daddy viewed Manhattan as yesterday’s news and planted the idea of me attending Williams University in Massachusetts instead, because former owner of the Yankees George Steinbrenner, otherwise known as the Boss, was a famous alumnus and larger than life NY bred personalities like George Steinbrenner don’t get any big more time than that. Plus, Daddy loved the standup comedian Jim Norton who claimed Boston woman were the best to slay with. Also, at Uncle John’s wedding, AKA, Sir Snort a Lot, Daddy said, “God gave my younger brother more second shots at respectable redemption than what George Steinbrenner gave Steve Howe”, which got goonish at the time. Plus, I remember my dad driving us to the Manhattan to go skating at 30 Rock once for my birthday and he points out the new Yankee stadium off the Deegan and says, “Look Matilda, the new Yankee Stadium, the house that gentrification built.” I knew all about Reggie Jackson otherwise known as Mr. October, who hit not one but 3 first pitch baseball homers in 1979 to clinch the World Series for the Yankees at the original Yankee stadium, otherwise known as the house, that Ruth built. I also knew that Babe Ruth had the most homers during his day but had the most strike outs to, because there was nothing half ass about the Babe who went down swinging, coming through in the clutch with his back against the wall like the great Messier, Derek Jeter, Andy Petite, Eli Manning and Frank Sinatra all the way. Daddy imparted the lesson of why New Yorker’s have big time egos for a reason. When Daddy actually contemplated moving our family to Texas during year 2 of COVID, I said, “Daddy, how many great comedians are from Texas? Daddy said, “Bill Hicks and Sam Kinson.” I say, “Bill Hicks only made me laugh once. And Sam Kinson had one good comedy album from start to finish that was pure standup without the cheesy Wild Thing cover song on it, that’s it. Now, name me star comedians from New York? Daddy says “Rodney Dangerfield, Andrew Dice Clay, Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Greg Giraldo, Joan Rivers, George Carlin. Have I mentioned myself yet? Alright you’re right, Texan comedians suck compared to native New Yorkers, Joe Rogan included.”

For some time, I just wanted to be a singer and write my own songs, singing in pubs like Amy Winehouse without developing the heroin addition, yet my dad insisted I become an A Plus student and accept no other goal acceptable, so he could boast to his new comedy manager and rapper friends in South Africa, where his new record label was located, that his daughter went to Williams College, which rocks the old world King Solmon Royal purple. And my Do It All Dad thought the deep purple look exuded an edgy deep suave vibe similar to Jimmy Hendrix’s head tripping beanbag within the mixing room at Electric Lady Land studios in Manhattan. Daddy also had a black and white picture of famed writer director Bill Wilder in his old office where the famed writer, director of Ace In The Hole and Fortune’s Cookie, was marching in his office with his talking stick of sorts as his famed screenwriter partner Charles Brackett is on the writer’s  couch in letting him go long again, who is another Williams alum that helped co-write Sunset Blvd, which is good work if you can get it.  The other line Daddy would always pound into my cranium growing up was from Stephen Sondheim, which is, “God is in the details”, and the famous Broadway composer lyrist graduated from Williams to, so dumb, dumb burn outs didn’t even bother to apply. Reality is, I almost never got into Williams College nor ended up becoming the female Carl Jung of my day post COVID damage done after graduating Magna Cum Laude after triple majoring in English, Psychology and Philosophy, achieving the trifecta of liberal arts lunacy, I know. But believe it or not, my fate at William’s became sealed, not because of my college essay where I insist Carl Sagen was mothered by a starless atheist cunt who gave Booger face Behar on the View a whiff of semi-respectability in comparison for a change when she asked Don Lemon why he was nothing more than another race war inciting scumbag like Jussie Smollett minus the SAG card after she got red pilled by Russell Brand from turning her on to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast during bi-sexual pride appreciate month, I think. Actually, pursuing the harder, less shit laden path started by Daddy posting an ad on Craig’s List for a jerk buddy in search of more than a friend.  

“Why did I post an ad for a jerk buddy on Craig’s List? Because I thought it was healthy alternative to laughing at my own material on the couch after my daughter was tucked in, before breaking up with my wife off 11 years, again and again”, A 45-Year-Old divorced Comedian says to his chesty, red headed, Psychologist who was an English and Psychology major at Willaims herself. Mara Weitzman, the Psychologist from Williams says, “What if I jerk off your ego instead of some random stranger on Craig’s List, who would give Jim Norton the creeps?” Do It All Dad, now a divorced still struggling comedian, living on the couch of his Film Grip bud in Ridgefield, CT who wants to be the Bill Graham of Death Metal festivals in Upstate New York one day, says, “Does my health insurance cover that added expenditure on my behalf?  Psychologist Mara Weitzman says, “Remember, the time you talked about that 1st hand job you got from Carolyn Verdichio, in Cotswold Park, which you nicknamed Actionless Park in your bit at the Montreal Comedy about how you’re no gentle giant or else why would you insist on staying home to ignore your kid for the privilege of writing more jokes while choking your wife too hard financially, again and again? You described your 1st hand job as a throbbing extension of your brutishly rough personality, to the point where she almost skinned your pussy wrecker rearranger alive, while your jeans kicked wildly in the mud like a hardheaded hog in heat. Well, what if we reenact the moment right now? I played the steel guitar growing up in Plano Texas, so I’ve got stronger hands that most. Let me if see if I can yank out that rough side out of you for good. I’ll even put in a good word for your daughter at the Williams College during admissions season. Do It All Dad drops his pants and says, “I don’t feel like such a self-centric jerkoff anymore. Mara Weitzman, you’re the only masturbator equalizer for me. Now rip off that top and start jerking it like its 1999.  I’ll give those busty beauties a liberal load to boast about it when you pump up my long-term endowment potential to your fellow alum members after I blow you away with a blast of teen spirit of my own. Kurt Cobain lives, Challah. Mara screams in extreme anticipatory ecstasy, “Nirvana, come reign on me.”

Minutes later, Psychologist Mara Weitzman buttons up her top and puts her murky stained glasses back on and says, “See you next Tuesday Do It All Dad. Williams College will be lucky to have your daughter attend next fall, if she follows after your money blasting footsteps. Thank you, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Slut In A Straight Jacket

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, fiction, writing

David Kornbluth just finished sucking on the balls of his college roommate at NYU and felt ultra-gay about it. He looked at the mirror, thinking, “Why did it taste right in my mouth but not right now? Why am I feeling a sense of self-imposed gay shame regret after releasing in my normal 2 seconds flat prior?  I still haven’t lost my virginity, so I don’t know what I’m missing out on otherwise. Did I enjoy slobbering all over the girl in Israel at the Kibbutz who was a solid 7.9 by ultra-hot Israeli girl standards, to the point where her face resembled a wet mop, because I had no form of kissing style or technique to draw from just yet? Yes, but I’m not jerking off to fantasies of clanking teeth with her again and feeling up her non-existent tits either. Instead, I get way more sexually aroused at the thought of grabbing my roommate’s cock that’s tucked away neatly in his jeans under his tighty whities, before I suck on his salty, tasty balls again. After I’m done licking my lips at the thought of playing footsie with him again, naked, in his parent’s bathtub, next time they leave the city for an early Hamptons retreat. I used to blow off homework to watch the Cherry Pie girl video for months at a time, how did I ever come to this?”

Now, David Kornbluth, a 19-year-old freshman auditions for America’s Top Shocker at the college radio station, who grew up listening to Howard Stern before he came out as weird, weak Howard, who failed to give his longtime fans sustained stiffage of any kind. For his audition, David Kornbluth recruited a Jewish sex therapist who used to work as a Transvestite Worker to pay for her PHD in Psychology from Columbia prior. David Kornbluth propositioned her after hearing her give a guest lecture in his freshman psychology class called, “My Favorite Sexual Deviants”, that framed famed homosexual artists such as William Boroughs, DH Lawrence, Oscar Wilde and Mario Cantone as brave souls who lived out their fantasies despite so called claims of them suffering from a far-left mental disease. His exact pitch was, “Dr. Ballstein, I have a chronic masturbation problem and bisexual leanings and I’m interested in you hearing your real thoughts on my sexually obsessed leanings while I interview you on our local college radio station at NYU. It’s a mock, audition interview. So, I don’t have the Sex Talk radio host job yet, but with you in my corner, I think it’s a promising start, for good things to come.”

Dr. Ballstein is flattered and impressed by David’s pseudo developing confidence for only a college freshman at NYU and says, “Sounds splendid, I’ll get dressed up extra nice.” David Kornbluth says, “You could also wear a nice pair of white jeans, if you’d like.”

Now, the audition interview is in session with Dr. Ballstein, and David Kornbluth gets this party stared. “So, Dr, Ballstein, are you born with homoerotic urges or are they only activated when someone else pushes you in that direction, like suggesting you jerk each other off to Scandal in the Mansion before the Giants game on Sunday?”

Dr. Ballstein says,” Famed scientist Alfred Kinsey wrote a book called Sexual Behavior in the Human Male and claimed that no one is really 100 percent straight or gay while famed writer Gore Vidal said, there’s no such thing as gay, only “homosexual acts.” Or like Lenny Bruce said, after a man has been holed up in prison for 20 years, “He’d do mud.” 

David Kornbluth says, “Do you think I plastered my teen room walls with pictures of half-naked Hair Metal Gods like Sebastian Bach from Skid Row and the king of cock rock Vince Neil in his tight leather pants, because I longed to be them or in them?” Dr, Ballstein says, “I think it means you’re attracted to a more feminine, pretty faced type.” David Kornbluth doesn’t know what comes over him, never coming close to broadcasting his homosexual desires to anybody, let alone on the radio for the entire NYU campus to hear, regardless of it just being an audition or not and says, “Yeah, but I got a jerk bud at school, and when I’m sucking his balls before the Giants play and in between commercials, I’m not thinking about his highly defined cheek bones or pencil thin lips either.” Dr. Ballstein says, “So you’re a sucker for balls, join the club.” Life sucks without them in your mouth for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I agree. If you’re going to fag out, might as well go all the way. “Which reminds, me, I wore those tight white jeans that you requested. See anything you’d like? I haven’t squeezed into these bad boys in years, they’re literally bursting at the seams, especially around my zipper part.”

It just so happens that David’s freshman roommate overheard this beyond steamy audition interview, which drove him into a crazed rage, to the point where he greeted him back in the dorm room with a kick in the nuts, before smashing his Nintendo Wi console on his head which cracked in 2, yelling, “That’s the last time, I’ll be touching your balls ever again, DICK.” Now, David Kornbluth was sent to a mental hospital in Westchester Country for his shock jock antics after his roommate called his parents to tell them their son is a lying fag who deserves to be locked up in a loony bin to electroshock the lying, scheming fag out of him once and for all. His parents abided in a NY minute.

10 years gone, David Kornbluth is still in the mental hospital, yet his popularity as their own in-house shock jock continues to rise. The electroshock therapy, which David derided as Shock Jock Treatment, only made him gayer about being perceived as a freaky, deranged, wild man fruitcake, especially when laughing at his own jokes on air again like the time he launched his pilot show at the mental hospital and says, “Welcome to Homosexual Talk, I’m the hilarious gay friend you never had, otherwise known as America’s Top Shocker although if my parents acknowledge my existence over dinner with their friends ever I’m Slut In A Straight Jacket, Challah, thank you very much.” 

Michael Kornbluth

Chosen Curls

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

I’m against sex changes before Johnny Appleseed blooms under his Fruit of Looms.

Joy Reid never reports any stories about retractable buyer’s remorse.

Hello Kitty, formerly known as Johnny Appleseed grinds behind a fat ass Latina at the China Club as Rum Shaker turns the mother out.

Hello Kitty, formerly known as Johnny Appleseed, wants to flex his surging point of interest from behind, yet Hello Kitty’s missing link to rap’s golden era is gone, gone baby gone. Hip Hop isn’t the only thing that’s dead. So is solo flexing behind the second coming of Chaka Kahn, Challah. Thank you very much.

My 5-year-old son wants me to get him steroids for Hanukah so he could be diesel like Stallone in Rocky 4. He launched into a series of one-arm pushups the moment I played him the Rocky 1 soundtrack on vinyl for Hannukah. Technically speaking, my son’s Nutsy Russell’s can’t any smaller. Plus, he doesn’t like kids playing with his curls in class. Now, he’ll slap the smirk off the skinhead at school who was fucking with his chosen curls to begin with. Chosen Curls is bound to woo, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth