What’s My Blog About Rapewood?

It’s about an ex pot head lost boy who found his mojo as a stay at home dad comedian.

It’s about falling for fatherhood hard and rising from slug to stud as a paid remote American writer on the rise.

It’s about proving I can deliver the funny and heart on both the universal and topical better than most.

It’s about showcasing my Neil Young productivity and Metallica brooding intensity.

It’s about not sounding too rehearsed or sounding too formulaic like every other jerkoff on the Twitter-Verse.

It’s about mining for comedy gold and exercising my freedom of speech, so my wife no longer treats me like such a treacherous leach.

It’s about getting laughs from strangers which is what comedians live to do but I have 3 kids now. So chasing down open mikes in the city aren’t as easy to do.

It’s about promoting the benefits of attachment parenting. Which is turning your bed into a 24/7 open milk bar. But my kids complexions glow as opposed to other kids who look like they took a load to the face with Elmer’s Glue gun so far.

It’s about calling out fake news racist charges against President Trump. Unlike Obama, he never drank, smoked or did bumps.

It’s about becoming a voice for the remote work revolution and stay at home dads who get less respect than IT recruiters.

It’s about doing my own version of Charles Bukowski’s zero bullshit poetic prose, Thomas Paine’s freedom of speech loving verse and Walt Whitman’s making love to the world through words.

It’s about becoming an unplanned parent of 3 and how it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

It’s about writing the funniest parenting book ever about working remote, falling for fatherhood and controlling my kids through comedy.

It’s about recycling my jokes on Twitter which shadow bans my material every time I get on another hot streak which has been 2 years straight.

It’s more than just a creative outlet babe. It’s the greatest do it all dad show on earth.  But I’m glad you’re making tomato soup grill cheese sandwiches with your boyfriend now to reduce your combined girth.

It’s not about bashing whitey because that’s more played than dedicating the song, We Won’t Get Fooled Again to the Clinton Foundation at the only local Karaoke bar in Hatti.

It’s not about getting noticed by a Creative Director in Manhattan for a Copywriter job anymore.

It’s not about just complaining about my parents abandoning me for Scottsdale, Arizona 350 days a year with 3 grandchildren back east with me.

It’s not about just entertaining myself or my own ego enlargement purposes although more likes than usual helps.

It’s about figuring out what writer I want to be.

It’s about writing my way into your heart, not whether I come across as a notch above learning disabled smart.

It’s about minimizing my intense, aggressive, NY asshole aura by emoting about how wonderful my children are and how much they adore me instead.

It’s about taking my writing career more seriously than ever. And revealing more about myself than my predominant tendency to bludgeon your ears to death with clever.

It’s about becoming an important voice for Gen X Dads. Who in the age of Meto, care about preserving their nads.

It’s about becoming a voice for do it all dad’s who don’t get enough props, who need me time entertainment to enjoy with their IPA hops.

It’s about I how I have to become a parenting author because capturing voices is my forte and getting inside my children’s is the most fulfilling form of child’s play.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

LaVar Ball As My Sub Dad Growing Up

I’d have more brothers to play with over my GI-Joe Figures way past puberty. It was a road block to my emotional development.

He’d hold spin the bottle house parties in my honor.
But only invite stuck up Jenny down the block.
2 minutes in, he barks. The Yahoo bottle doesn’t spin itself bitch.

I’d be more inclined to my buy my dad a Bentley with unbridled enthusiasm. Instead, of the gift giving possessing a cold, transactionary, I owe you for college and for paying Pre-K way.

I’d prank call Cuba Gooding. And challenge Cuba and Laurence Fishburne to games of 2 on 2 for 64’s of Old E. Just to watch my Dad LaVar Ball pour the 64’s on Fishburne and call him a low IQ baller.

He’d make sure I lost my virginity before my younger brother did. So I wouldn’t feel like a big brother bust like Eddie Curry or Greg Oden. With an even shittier, less reliable hook shot.

My highlight varsity year would be more than scoring a whopping 12 points against an all Japanese team in suburban NY. The players ran away from me like movie extras in a Godzilla film.

My dad still wouldn’t be sporting the same pair of ashy sweats from 88.
Totally ruining his 1st type Skype call with his grandchildren in retirement splendor from Scottsdale, Arizona.

My father’s favorite nickname for me wouldn’t be a Waste of Height but instead be Manifest Baller Destiny.

We mirror our dad’s behavior. So I wouldn’t have taken up smoking cigarettes at the time or only get off the couch to tear down my John Stark’ poster after he failed to elevate the Knick’s past Houston.

He’d send me to Big Man Camp to build up my toughness. Instead of to a Jewish sleep away camp where I was the 2nd worst athlete after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck, Long Island.

My 1st concert would be Public Enemy with Anthrax, for the Bring the Noise, bring the funk tour. And I wouldn’t have to feel so self-conscious Jewish in the presence of skinheads and one percenters in attendance.

He’d offer Rihanna future sneaker profit participation points for popping my cherry. So I’d pick and pop from way downtown with bigger baller authority.

I’d still get busted for stealing Hockey Cards at Child World in attempt to snag an Eric Lindros rookie card.

By,

Michael Kornbluth