Nasty As Twitter Allows Me To Be

Hillary claiming half of her destroyed emails as Secretary of State were yoga-related is a stretch. The other 15,000 emails detailed funeral arrangements in the woods,  if Chelsea Clinton’s fiance decided to increase his asking price before walking down the aisle at the last second.  My wife says it’s sexist to make fun of Chelsea Clinton but she’s not ugly anymore. Plus, I think Alyssa Milano  is a nasty Twitter Twat 2.

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

Kind Of Sad

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

Michael Kornbluth

Pro-Creation Solution

New Yorkers are no longer procreating fast enough to replace their dying population. Over the hill hipsters, can’t get it up to pork their girlfriends, because they’re already glued to the couch from another pork induced coma.  Lena Dunham clones want to have sex but they’re not hot enough to impregnate by mistake either. Lena’s Dunham’s encouraged flappy look on Instagram isn’t helping.  Over the hill hipsters hobbits aren’t getting their girlfriends into the mood for sweet, sticky love either, when their ideal workout is picking up a phone to order more Pork Buns instead.  So, ladies, if you want your sweaty sex period with your boyfriend to last more than 2 seconds, than stop mimicking Lena Dunham’s encouraged frumpiness on Instagram. No man, bi, straight or gay, is sweating the prospect of missing out on the opportunity to mount the hunchback of Bushwick, who looks like she just swallowed Hipsterville USA during restaurant week, trust me.

Michael Kornbluth

Rock and Roll Ain’t Shit Without AC/DC

Rock and Roll ain’t shit without AC/DC and unlike Chuck Berry, legendary howling front man legends Bon Scott and the best picker upper follower up all time and it’s not even close, Brian Johnson, no offense Sammy Hagar, never put a camera in the girl’s room, to spy on new pubescent trim to break in at their restaurant to get a big Kansas City T Bone Special of her own. AC/DC is also Rick Rubin’s favorite band, and he’s the less cagier, earthier, hip hop hipper machine pop culture tectonic shifter shaper equivalent of Phil Spector minus the amazing made for HBO movie about the Ronettes loving, teenager in love soundtrack penning producer legend, gold record shitting Phil Spector, who for some reason decided to chuck it all for a C- bit never was actress, whose big break screen credit was playing the Amazon on The Moon extra 5000. I digress, but Brian Johnson the rip roaring shredding leader singer of AC/DC on Back In Black can no longer perform live because all of his pitch perfect, cannon ball powered shriek blasting for God knows how long has made him borderline deaf. Now all he hears God willing, is Hells Bells.

Michael Kornbluth

Failing The Friendship Litmus Test

Should friendships be stronger than politics? Yes, the solid ones should. But I’m tired of hearing about how entertainers like Dolly Parton have friends on both sides of the aisle, which is fine, yet if you’re not an established entertainer star like Dolly or married to Ivanka like Jared Kushner, brokering peace treaties with United Arab of Emirates with Israel, secure in you professional standing in life, the temptation to just walk away from those so called friendships and minimize contact with your siblings and parents is way stronger after you’ve made the decision to be pushover putzy no more to appease their offended ego’s for daring to think different like the asshole at Apple, who his daughter hated, while exploiting the brainpower of smarter, more technically sound nerds, whose only true innovation he can claim has is own, was Casual Friday.

The temptation to cut your losses or spend significantly less time with old friends and family members in your life, wife included, is because in this age of me smart, Trump bad, has exposed this so called inner sanctum for being the real narcissistic prick they obsessively claim President Trump to be. Also, you suffer from major self-esteem issues, if you allow these people to control you and censor you through fear by trying shame you into adopting their alleged, holier than now, point of view, no matter how much they’ve tried to make you question your sanity and sense of right versus wrong for the past 3 years and counting. People evolve or not, and I’ve lost zero interest in making an effort to stay in contact with those who can’t respect my individuality like I’m a brainwashed lone wolf recruiters wet dream for Al-Qaeda.

These past 3 years, have also taught Trump supporters how how certain friends or family members don’t make the ideal backup group in your life, when they refuse to concede any good generation in those you believe in.  You also glaringly fail the friendship litmus test, when you actually have the gaul to decry a friend’s political beliefs as dumb, when you haven’t even uttered how ANTIFA are a bunch of vigilante Punisher wannabes in hoodies tweaked out on Crystal Meth yet.

Last, you lose all motivational zeal to pick up the phone, when your parents, siblings or old friends call, knowing how the past 3 years and counting has only reinforced your depressingly nagging suspicion about how these people who are supposed to love your own special brand individuality, never valued your intelligence or capacity for critical thought to much in the 1st place, especially when they go out their way, to make you feel bad about yourself for trusting your own instincts, dreaming big and for rising above their limited, cubicle contained imaginations of what you’re capable of achieving without their huffy, belabored, no longer sought after approval after all.

Michael Kornbluth

 

The Greatest Cleavage Formation of All

I love Dolly Parton, her songs to. Still, Dolly Parton’s statement to Billboard magazine felt forced off for me. She says, “And course Black lives matter. Do we think our little white asses are the only ones that matter? No!” Is this semi-fiery, no nonsense sentiment on brand for the only musical artist to have scored a hit on The Billboard Top Ten for 5 decades in a row? Has her magnetic cleavage withstood the erosion of time? Still, I can’t shake off the feeling that this trailblazing wildflower of the finest kind, whose been in an open marriage with her husband forever by the way, hey now, is capable of articulating more than the obvious fact that black men like skinny white assess to, because they don’t discriminate against booty,  Whoopie Goldberg excluded, even if they just got out of  Folsom Prison and lost a bet to Suge Knight in the can.

Michael Kornbluth