Big Pharma Blues

1st word today kids.

Corrupt, something that rots from within.

Think of ancient hipster hacks like Patrick the musician.

Who thinks blowing off mama’s birthday early for band practice in his late forties is a jealous inducing hook.

Who thinks doing Enya cover songs on riverboats along the Hudson makes us in touch with the beautifying divine and dream alive hip hearts in us all.

Who thinks being in a band with a bunch of pharma tech developers and designers gives him the anti-authortorian edge to break on through to the cover of Rolling Stone in the sixties in no time. Then again, Steph Curry is on the cover of Rolling Stone these days, which is less rollicking than a young Cameron Crow being on the cover of Rolling Stone.

If you had a conflict with what drugs you were pimping big pharma websites for, you’d quite your job.

Yeah, and Dice would go soft on Neil Young on his podcast.

You ever want choke Joni Mitchell with one of her hippie haggard shawls to shut up long face Horse tooth for good?

Leaving your wife who survived cancer for Daryl Hannah is in poor taste, don’t you think Young? You going through a post midlife never banged a mermaid crisis or what?

You were scared during the height of Covid, Young? Didn’t you used to share heroin needles with Harvey Millk? You were scared of getting an itchy esphogus from Covid Young? I’ve been puffing Marbalo Reds since my twenties and my lungs feel great, since my bud Ari Shaffir turned me on to edibles and the weed pen; but you get the gist.

Not one big pharma company has spoken out against the clot shot.

Not one big pharma company has condemned the pushing of opiods in our coutry that have killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking it with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

Not one big pharma company has come to the defense of Eric Clapton confessing to experiencing temporary paralysis in his playing arm strung by the All Mighty by taking the Covid vax shot.

Not one big pharma company has commented on Justin Bieber’s frozen face or Katy Perry’s droopy eye twitch in Vegas or how the craziest thing about soccer is how my fellow Ameeicans still expect me to give a shit about soccer, World Cup or not.

The LA, Philly title game was the craziest thing that ever happened in soccer. I thought midfielders dropping dead midfield at a hard 30 from blood clot induced cardiac arrest through the operation death speed did the trick, my bad.

Flourish, to kick ass and take names, think Kari Lake once she teams up with Linda Hamilton and takes down The Dominion Machines, that being the new Skynet for good.

Fluky, think any hired hack replacement on Comedy Cental to replace Trevor Noah on the Daily Show, assuming he remains Bruce Springsteen’s gimpy bitch message boy for life. Insisting how all his blue collar fans 3 decades ago were n bomb dropping hicks, who only tolerated Clarence Clemon’s operatic, spine tingly sax work on Jungleland because jungle is in it and the song is West Side Story meets American Me meets New Jack City.

Just don’t call voter ID fair and inclusive. How else are you going to tell MS13 apart with all that shit on their face?

Practicing conflict resolution.

Samuel, don’t hit your brother in the spine when he’s not looking or you’ll paralyze him like Van Damne’s brother get’s paralyzed by the braided pony punk in Kickbocker. And when your paralyzed from the waist down, you can’t derive any prolonged merriment from futzing around with your schmeckel spot anymore. If you’re lucky your brother would feel a whiff of butt wind after going butt liquid in his pants but that’s it. You don’t want you brother in a wheelchair because he intentionally scared you in the morning by pretending to be a raccoon on the loose again, do you? Last, stuffing you in the trash and duck taping you in there with raccoons and your butt liquid nappies would be times worse, don’t you think?

Son says, “Stop stealing my butt wind, butt liquid jokes, Moron Jewish Son. Eat my butt rice, Challah. Thank you very much. And Patrick’s son is more boring than Patrick. Is that why you accuse his mother of micro dosing to make her kid more interesting because he takes after the father?

Big Pharma blues, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Spoiled Dumb Son

Do I believe in Climate Change?

I believe in never warming up to my asshole father.

Especially, after my son asks.

How much do you like Papa?

I say.

He openly questions how were related.

How much would you like him then?

Son says.

Does that mean you want to be an asshole too?

You’re not making any sense again, Moron Jewish Son.

Maybe he questions why your brain is so dumb compared to John Fetterman.

At least John Fetterman had a stroke.

What’s your excuse?

You’re spoiled dumb or just a medium suck son?

Who prepares more mock meat sandwiches that your dad would never eat like your Impossible To Top Cheesesteak.

What’s Impossible Burger meat made from again moron Jewish son?

Pea protein and synthetic enuchry?

Just busting your balls, I mean Nutsy Russells Daddy.

I’m just trying to make you tough because your father never did.

I loved the Sloppy Second Joes you made yesterday with Impossible Burger meat.

That’s named after Hair Plugs Sniffer, who resides in the fake news White House set, right Daddy?

Now write some more jokes for your last comedy record special from home, Spoiled Stupid Son.

At this point, you couldn’t write rotten dumb jokes if you tried.

Spoiled Dumb Son gets spoiled with more blood-on-blood love.

Bon Jovi, New Jersey lives, the beautifully good one, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”

            Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”            The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

            At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.”             Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”  

            Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.

            Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.

            Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.  

            Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.

            So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).

            Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.

            Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.  

            Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.

            “Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”

            ” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever. 

            “Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”

            Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.

            Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.

            Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.

            Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.

            “It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”

            Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

            Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”

            Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.

            American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.

            “Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?

            Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”

            Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).”      Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  

            Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”

            Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.

            “Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

            Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.”          Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”

Michael Kornbluth

When The Shredder Frets

Vinnie Boom Boom Burrata kissed his Fender Stratocaster more than his ex-wife. In his ex-wife’s defense, she was a self-conscious kisser on pure MDMA. Plus, nothing made Vinne Boom Boom Burrata smile more inside than making his Fender Stratocaster cry. Big tits get played out on the same wife compared to copping endless slides down your electrified shaft, which Vinnie could make come to life like no other. BB King had Lucille and Vinne Boom Boom Burrata had Amanda, named after his favorite power ballad by Boston who also wrote his 2nd favorite song ever, A Man I’ll Never Be, which reminded him of his dear Dad who died in his arms from fucking Gum cancer, despite giving up dip for Big League Chew ages ago.

Vinnie’s Dad, Roberto, hailed from a fine line of guitar makers in San Marzano Italy known for its olive farms and its fertile breeding ground of Ferrari red glimmery tomatoes that were sweet enough to pop in your mouth off the vine as if they were mother earth’s answer to organic nerd dispensers. After getting his strumming finger cut off by a local mob boss Domnick De-Gutter Grasi, for refusing to pay the protection money for his acoustic guitar making store for European royalty with plenty of free time on their hands to strum away the midday nappy booze under the sun. Because of that, Vinnie was forced to leave Italy for America and move in with his older brother in Staten Island who was an Italian Butcher known for his 100 Year Prosciutto curing hall beneath his shop on Arthur Kill Road.

Roberto became known as the 9 fingered butcher of Staten Island, who’d flip off the spoiled mafia offspring 6 degrees separated from the Gotti family whenever they’d drop by the shop expecting non-stop access to his primo aged pork samplings below the store, which sold for thousands per pound on the open market. Still, Roberto never lost his love of guitar creation and swore to God he’d make a Barolo wine red one for his 1st and only son Vitto Boom Boom Burrata to ensure he didn’t let the Italian Mafia kill off his family line’s gift of heart strumming serenades that put our heart’s together with our maker in one seemingly beautiful harmony.

But now Roberto’s only son, Vinnie Boom Boom Burrata, who was his best friend till the end can’t play his cherished Fender Stratocaster without crying his eyes out for his dearly departed Dad. Vinnie quit his band Shredder after they signed a recording contract with a new upstart record label Wailing Wall of Metal Records, based on the operatic, heart tingly instrumental guitar solo song, Roberto’s Son Shreds. Vinnie’s finger tapping work on Roberto’s Son Shreds was described by Guitar World as, “Getting finger blasted by Eddie Van Halen on your wedding night great.”

Little did Vinnie know, his biggest fan was a kid known on YouTube as Hardcore Hunga Rocks, who was considered pound for pound the greatest little drummer pounder prodigy since Buddy Rich headlined his own Bat Mitzvah at 10, like a young Cameron Crowe on the sticks from Almost Famous.

Hardcore Hunga Rocks tracks down his favorite shredder of all time in hopes of joining forces to make the greatest pop rock metal record Boston never made in the home recording studio Vinnie’s Dad had built for him before he was born to become the shredding beast of the six string that he could never be since pops fell in love with Led Zepplin and Jimmy Page’s masterful slide guitar work on In My Time of Dying.

Hardcore Hunga Rocks knocks on Vinnie’s door with such force, he knocks the entire door off its hinges in the process. Vinnie, a silky, long haired black stallion emerges from his Electric Playland Studio with a cigarette in hand and says, “Who invited you the fuck in?” Hardcore Hunga Rocks springs up from the marble floor and says, “How the fuck can you afford all marble floors? Your record advance from could’ve been that big? Besides, didn’t you have to give that record advance back after you quit the band to take care of your dad?” Vinnie takes a quizzical puff from his Camel Extra wide and says, “Your Hardcore Hunga Rocks. I’ve seen your drum solos on YouTube. I’ve never heard anyone smash the drums with harder edge than you kid. You should call your band Aftershock for Christ’s sake. Hardcore Hunga Rock says, “I’m not in a band, but I would want to form a supergroup with you. If Jack White and his fake news sister can do it, we can to. Make out with your guitar all you want. In fact, I was thinking we can make a video spoof of the November Rain video and have you walk down the aisle with your cherished Fender Stratocaster while doing a remake of the serially underrated cult classic, Till Death To Us Part by White Lion.”

Vinnie says, “Shit that’s my favorite song after A Man I’ll Never Be.” So, you want to join forces to become a super White Lion cover group?” Hardcore Hunga Rocks says, “When the Shredder Frets has a beautiful tonal ring to it already. Weird Al, I fucked him, I can’t take no more. My Dad was a huge Dice fan to.” Vinnie laughs for the 1st time in years as an incredible warm crash of sea calm washes over him and says, “Fuck Boston and Pete Davidson, let’s make Staten Island stand for something stand out special more than Russian gangsters sipping on espresso drinks in 25th Hour. I sold plenty of blow in the eighties, which paid for my marble laden home despite never touching the stuff. Hunter Biden was the gift that kept on giving my freshman year at Georgetown University.”

Michael Kornbluth

Busted Beauty

Busted Beauty, otherwise known as Becca Kornbluth, was in no singing mood on Saint Patrick’s Day today, especially during the chanting portion of her Bat Mitzvah without a Torah Scroll to hide her nose behind, which she inherited from her mom’s black Irish side. Still, Becca wasn’t too green with envy on her 13th birthday compared to Ivanka Trump’s daughter, who most likely chanted her Haftorah portion in Mandarin. In fact, Becca was feeling a tad luckier than most since she struck up a platonic relationship with her best and only real friend, Joshua Prize, who turned her on to Phil Lynott’s soul man and a half’s stylings as the lead bassist and head front man singer songwriter behind Thin Lizzy, who actually looked black Irish from head to toe in real life, sporting the super-size, fly guy 70’s afro to match.  Getting Becca into the Thin Lizzy wasn’t the easiest sell despite Phil Lynott being considered Dublin’s answer to the biracial Bruce Springsteen of his day because she associated everything Irish with her busted looking nose with a bump on top, that no amount of Irish Spring when applied to it, could smooth her ruptured soul, after the time she was forced to feel excluded because of it during a game of spin the Guiness bottle on Saint Patrick’s Day on her birthday no less, which is the double whammy of in your face shame.

It was one year ago when Becca was forced to hide in the closet at Joshua’s birthday party, who was born on Saint Patrick’s Day top, so maybe there was some truth behind there being a thing called luck of the black Irish after all. Normally, Becca didn’t attend many birthday parties, instead spending her free time at home listening to Neil Diamond’s record Hot August Nights while reading Cracked Magazines as her black Irish mom who possessed a piss poor tolerance for even low alcohol lagers like Killian’s Red yelled at her dad, Michael Kornbluth for not “touching” her anymore, which made her feel like the busted, broken beauty inside. But tonight, was different because Joshua Prize was a transfer student from Park Slope, Brooklyn, and not having any friends in this new suburban hamlet otherwise known as Croton Falls, 45 minutes north of New York City, home of the ultimate Saint Patrick Day’s parade, he struck up a friendly conversation with Becca after the teacher announced the classroom birthdays, despite both of them refusing to wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day. Joshua Prize’s excuse was that he didn’t think green was the most flattering color on him. Plus, his Jewish father, who married an Irish lassie also, was beat up by Irish kids non-stop growing up in Brooklyn, who called him a Christ killer ad nauseum, insisting his ancestors 9 degrees separated from Don Rickles ancestry were responsible for heckling the indecisive Romans into crucifying Jesus to death.  So, sporting green on Saint Patrick’s Day didn’t make Joshua Prize feel so money mighty on beat up on the Jew day for being associated with alien blood colonizing blood suckers who controlled the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. So, when Joshua Prize was given the opportunity to make an impression when introducing himself to the class, he did. Joshua says, “You’re probably wondering, why am I not wearing green today? A classmate yells, “Because you’re a dirty gay Jew bastard.” Joshua says “I was going to say, Celtics shirts darken my inner light and look too regular drab for my taste, but close enough. Anyway, I’m having a Saint Patrick’s Day Birthday at my parent’s house tonight, which also happens to be my birthday. We dyed the pool green, hired House of Pain to DJ and imported a brick oven pizza hand tiled in Italy that will be serving all the pesto pizza pies you can eat. The party starts at 7, hope to see you all there, especially Becca. She’s an extra loosey-goosey live wire one, I can tell.” The entire class laughs with surging derision despite Joshua letting off a winkish smile at Becca from afar while looking directly through her soul which screamed, new love is in town. 

2 seconds into the party, the class bully Liam O’Reilly, insists they play game of Spin the Bottle, but only if Joshua and Becca hide in the closet, because they refused to wear a shirt that says, “Kiss me I’m Irish.” Becca and Joshua oblige. Becca hunches over in a rather spacious closet while fighting off hanging minks and leather jackets to get a clearer view of Joshua, whose father Steven Kornbluth, was a big time TV development executive in Manhattan for FX who greenlit It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Rescue Me. Finally, Becca fights through the endless jackets and her eyes meet Joshua’s piercing hazel lit eyes. She goes in for a kiss but Joshua backs away from it. Becca says, “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” Joshua says, “I’m just nervous about kissing you Becca because I’ve never kissed a girl before.” Becca says, “That makes 2 of us for now.” Joshua can sense he’ll wreck Becca’s surge of self-esteem for the foreseeable future if he doesn’t try to get into kissing her immediately. Joshua leans in to kiss Beca with his eyes closed and they clank their teeth together, almost shattering them into the smithereens. Becca says, “So I wasn’t born to be your main squeeze, Joshua. We can still be friends, right?” Joshua says, “I snuck in a bottle of Guiness, why don’t we split it together and play truth or dare.” Becca says, “Fine, but you to have to pick truth 1st.” Joshua says, “Truth, Becca is pretty with no makeup on. And I get along with girls better than boys, my mother excluded.”

Now, Becca stands tall over the bema, which is the elevated stage in Synagogue where she performs her speech to commemorate the completion of her Bat Mitzvah and says, “One time a dear friend told me, “Rejection toughens you up for more rejection”, yet I stopped feeling excluded from a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day since Joshua Prize came into my life. All of a sudden, my birthday felt pregnant with feel good possibility again. Now, I no longer wanted to bury my nose in AP chemistry books till science camp to hide my mark of shame. I’ve wanted a nose job for the longest time. Originally, it was the only reason I decided to study for my Bat Mitzvah, after my father bribed me with future Bat Mitzvah money to pay for it.  But I don’t mind my nose anymore since my friend Joshua gave it a positive spin after we were forced to sit out a game of Spin The Bottle in the closet at his parent’s house on his birthday no less. Joshua said, “Don’t blame your mom for your busted nose, Busted Beauty. Blame your gay closeted dad for getting too drunk to pull out again. But seriously, who cares if you inherited your mom’s busted nose or not? Your dad’s the one you should be pissed off at, especially knowing how’s he pushing you to use your own Bat Mitzvah money to pay for corrective nose surgery that was his glaring production oversight in the 1st place. At the same time, you can’t be too mad at pops, because he gave me you. Granted, our kissing chemistry is non-existent. But new love was in town the day we met in chemistry class, and we could always produce a test tube baby together if you’d like. Like the late great Phil Lynott said, “If you’ve got nothing but a sense of humor, you will survive.” And we’ve got each other’s back, no matter what. Who cares if you’re into kissing girls more, more than I am. Pervs stick together. Hey, we just outed ourselves while still stuck in the closet. Regardless, you’ll always be my favorite busted beauty Becca.” I said, “Joshua, stop being such a drama queen already. Your gayer than Allen Ginsburg during Fleet Week. Oscar Wilde wants his quilted pen used to ball tickle the ghost of Lord Byron back. Moments later, we emerge from the closet while the game of Spin The Bottle during party continues. Then, I go into kiss Joshua on the lips, but he arches his back away from me this time, before cracking his head onto the sharp corner of the wall, which required 13 stiches soon after. So, what’s the takeaway of this story ladies and gentlemen? He’s only a fag hag if you end up marrying the fruitcake. And sometimes, a gay boyfriend is a girl’s best friend.”

Michael Kornbluth

COVID The Clown

COVID The Clown enters the room doing a half-formed Cartwheel to Everybody Needs Somebody To Love by the Blues Brothers, blasting on his old school Radio Raheem conjuring boom box from the Spike Lee joint, Do The Right Thing.  Matilda’s friend, nerdy yet sassy friend Devon, who suffers from premature, puberty disease, forcing her to wear heavy sweaters to conceal her awkwardly, mountainous formations underneath and says, “Who taught this clown how to a cartwheel? Is he drunk on discontinued Trump vodka or what?” COVID the Clown launches into his standup comedy act and says, “Who’s excited for a Burning Mask Party? All the kids cheer in unison with maximum glee. Rachel the BLM hat sporting Grandma interrupts a solid attempt at crowd work and says, “But you’re not even wearing a mask Bozo the Clown. Plus, you don’t annunciate to well in the 1st place. So why would wearing a mask be such a muffled disservice to your act in the 1st place?  I have a Doctorate in Speech Pathology from the University of Chicago and was kept on retainer by the Obama administration to instruct him on the best ways to help minimize his ums, ah’s and resurgent lisp off the teleprompter. Plus, I was instrumental in reversing President Obama’s awful habit of referring to his wife as Michael for some odd reason.” COVID Clown replies, “Maybe, Obama wishes the former 1st lady were more camera friendly like Mike or performed cooler under pressure after she threatened to break her arm up his ass ass if he offered Beyonce some Paul Newman’s lemonade over her own homemade Kombucha ever again.” Matilda’s father, howls with laughing approval as deathly silence engulfs everywhere else in the room, as the Stay-Home-Dad nearly bites off his lower lip in the process. COVID The Clown says, “Have you ever heard of divorce immunity during COVID? It’s a fake news to, doesn’t exist actually. I used to believe in divorce immunity during COVID, until my commercial agent dropped me after Twitter banned me for life for all those Wuhan lab cover up tweets. I also thought divorce immunity during COVID held out some applicable promise, after I got kicked out my Second City troupe, after killing on the main stage for 3 years straight since another cast member doxed my personal info the Chicago Tribune and had ANTIFA show up to door man apartment in the Loop after they shared my old tweet screenshots about Obama that said, “Fuck Trump, Obama’s the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized.  Mass extermination of all his pesty, hook nosed critics who criticized, his time out nuke deal with Iran would be a gas.” I’m banned from using Lyft and Uber now to because I went on the Gateway Pundit Podcast in attempt to sell some tickets for my one man show, Resist This, which isn’t happening now obviously and on air said, “Deplorable is anyone whose glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.” Rachel, the BLM hat sporting grandmother says, “I don’t think this material is child appropriate. If we were in the UK, you’d be arrested for flagrant violations of hate speech already.” COVID The Clown says, “I went to London against my will with my nurse wife before we got divorced and lost custody of my daughter, the brightest star in my universe. Wife got us tickets to see Bjork. I wanted to see Petrified Forest personally. Now, my choice is either entertain arrogant baby boomer grandparents on the kid birthday circuit as orange faced COVID The Clown or pack up my tricycle bag of clown noses and fly Southwest to Arizona to take a job as a Nurse Recruiter, next to parents’ estate in Scottsdale, Arizona, with my head between my legs, in search of my balls every dropping by for a surprise encore appearance again. Recruiting nurses for a living, based on their teamwork and ability to buy into synchronized Tic Toc dance routines for their Chinese spying masters is just what the doctor ordered.”

Matilda, the 10-year-old birthday girl chimes in and says, “I’m sorry to hear about your ex-wife COVID The Clown. And I think it’s really sweet, how you don’t want to move so far away from your little girl. But can you stick to the burning mask party material? Because my friends would rather play with my new American Girl tent set, then spend one more minute listening to your sad sack life story, with no comedic relief on the horizon in sight, no offense.” Rachel the BLM hat wearing grandmother adds, “I agree with Matilda. They’re already more people in this room than I feel comfortable with, knowing this birthday bash is a super-spreader bound to happen. Why don’t you just go home and call it a day? I’ll pay you whatever you were promised, just to stop you spreading such vicious lies and toxic disinformation about President Obama and Hollywood’s biggest overseas market today. COVID The Clown says, “I’ll give you a super spreader bitch”, and squeezes his flower lapel on his shirt which squirts a stream of Orange Crush into the BLM hat wearing, grandmother’s eye. Everyone in the room finally laughs together in unison. Matilda’s father says, “What’s wrong Rachel?  Would you feel more morally outraged if COVID The Clown shot grape soda into your eye instead? Because then you could’ve accused him of being a racist dictator clown, guilty of racially profiling your BLM hat, according to Trevor Noah. Ever notice how for 8 years when Obama was president, you never overheard anyone online at the Post Office, announce with sincere, palpable glee, “I love Obama.” Comedy Central Executives felt the same way when they decided to resign Trevor Noah for the foreseeable future.”

Michael Kornbluth

Gimmel Be Good

            Michael The Greek Kornbluth’s only vice was betting on the Greek Chariot Racehorses. He’d study the Greek Chariot Racehorses forums, detailing past racing performances and odds with divine-powered zeal on par with his Torah study because one day, with his winnings, he wanted to become the head financer behind restoring the great First Temple destroyed by the Romans, because following in his father’s footsteps selling quicksand maps and Hebrew alphabet blocks wasn’t going to get the job done.

            One day, the Hellenization of Israel got ugly fast. Now, there was a new Greek ruler in charge who claims to be a descendant of Arie’s Anti-Semite brother, who had a worse credit rating with Jewish money lenders than Alexander’s great trust fund baby with Cleopatra, Lenny Kravitz Junior.

            No Jewish lender in Israel wanted to show any royal respectful love his way because he’d already blown through his fortune on the loser Chariot Horseraces and on a wind-powered hashish farm in Damascus, resting on top of a pile of quicksand.

            The new Greek ruler of Israel now, Pontificutus The Putz, was in charge. A new hotshot Rabbi, Rabbi Mason, moonlighting as standup comedian on the rise, came up with the nickname, and it stuck like the fake news rumor of Jews heckling the Romans into crucifying Jesus despite Twitter not being existence yet.  

            Now, with Pontificutus The Putz in charge, any Jew caught studying the Torah at home was sentenced to death. But first, those Jews would be forced to eat ham and cheese sandwiches for twenty days in a row, washed down with rotten camel’s milk, ’till they puked up their innards, establishing the roots of Greek hazing that would be used at the American Greek university level centuries later.

            Circumcision was now banned, despite Alexander the Great never being into the Greeks at the spa and sporting the inch worm hiding its head in its holster look.

            But Michael The Geek Kornbluth loved to study his Torah because he knew it made God happy and he loved to grow closer to God every day, yeah, yeah.

            What’s a poor white Jewish boy, who can do long division equations with eight zeros in his head like a young Donald Trump without any startup investment money growing on olive trees in his favor, to do?

            Michael had to come up with a diversionary tactic; a new gambling game to play at home to divert attention from his cherished Torah studies, but knowing his stellar reputation as betting advisor to top Greek senators around, coming up with a new gambling game for kids to shift focus away from their forbidden Torah studies wasn’t enough.

            So why was Pontificutus the Putz such a Jew-hater, again? Because he was a slower runner than they? Because he was bankrupting his kingdom from all his non-stop gambling losses on Chariot Racehorses and loser bets on the Gladiators versus gangs of rock-throwing Palestians from the neighboring Syrian Slingshot League. He was never confused with being a professional gambler great like future great Arnold the Brain Rothstein.

            Pontificutus the Putz also got herpes from a half-Jewish prostitute, just like Hitler did before his herpes sores inflamed his desire to annihilate all of Europe when he was on crystal meth. Also similar to Hitler, Pontififcutus the Putz, had artistic ambitions. He even applied to art school in Athens, but he got rejected because his sculpture creations were crude (like the Swastika symbol, for instance. I don’t care that it was a Photoshopped Hindu symbol. The Swastika still looks like two stick figures doing a sixty-nine on crystal meth.)

            Still, Pontificutus the Putz, bulldozed his way to the top and became a ruthless ruler of the Greek army. Not bad, for a guy who can pass for a little Greek landlord Astoria in Queens, NY any day of the week.

            What made Pontificutus the Putz such a killer warrior-turned-general was his colorblind condition, so all he saw in life was black and white death. Plus, the herpes always seemed to flare up before every major war against the Turks. He’d pierce with a spear as easy as an inserting a skewer into a fresh-out-of-the womb piece of lamb shawarma. 

            So, how does a nice Jewish boy from Tel Aviv earn the nickname Michael The Greek Kornbluth? Well, he was genius at picking the Chariot Horseraces, making fortunes for all Greek senators who would ask him for race advice in exchange for wine and challah for his hapless Dad, Joshua Kornbluth, who was known as the Willy Loman of quicksand maps and alphabet blocks.        Michael’s father Joshua would get too wrapped up in telling Gentiles Versus Jews jokes, to be taken seriously by even Jewish customers.          He’d say, “What’s the difference between Jews and Greeks? Jews are in no rush to pledge their allegiance to the God of loud rain. It’s too soon for Zeus jokes. I don’t know why I waste my breath.” 

            Today was different, because the Super Bowl of Chariot Racehorses was happening, and Pontificus The Putz needed a winner, or else his army would take him out Marc Anthony style for backing such a perpetual loser after all these years, regardless if he was related to Arie’s anti-Semite brother or not. 

            Pontificus the Putz enters Joshua’s humble hut abode (which made young Luke Skywalker’s adopted home on Tatooine look like Trump Tower).      Michael The Greek Kornbluth hides his Torah underneath his pillow and replaces it with some alphabet blocks his father carved himself (but with Greek letters on it instead of Hebrew ones).             Michael spins the dreidel. Potififcus blurts, “What are you playing with, there, Michael? Is your dad selling Hebrew Alphabet blocks that spin, now? You do realize that’s not Kosher anymore, kid?”

            Then Pontificus picks up the dreidel and says, “Oh, the letters are Greek.”

            Michael replies, “With you in charge, everything is Greek to me. I tan nude at the beach like I’m a Greek senator on holiday at the Red Sea.”

            “Alright, enough small talk, Michael. I’m a sure bet for the Chariot Race this Saturday,” Pontificus the Putz says.

            “Have I got a horse for you Pontificus. He’s named Gimmel Ge Good. You haven’t heard of him yet because he’s a black horse from a Kibbutz in the Golan Heights. They say he’s faster than Hermes with a horny Medusa on his tail. He’s a 15-1 long shot. Let it ride.”

            Gimmel Be Good did good and won the race. And Michael the Greek Kornbluth was able to resume his Torah studies without any interruption again. His father Joshua was granted a performance space to do a one-man play, Greeks Versus Jews, which received much nonstop praise. Plato’s grandson called the one-man act, “Socrates-smart, flush with big time, funny man Jewish heart.”

            More importantly, Michael The Greek the Kornbluth later changed the lettering on the dreidel to Hebrew lettering, knowing that Greeks were on the lookout for Bibles whenever they raided Jewish homes, and had a harder time recognizing mythological bullshit than basic Hebrew lettering, for that matter.

            And pretty soon the Maccabees had enough of submitting to the Greek way of life, and reclaimed Israel as their Jewish homeland again.

            Michael The Greek Kornbluth wasn’t able to parlay his billion-dollar betting brain and help finance the restoration of the great Temple of King David. But, more importantly, he was able to help preserve the roof over his head that he shared with God and his dear Aba Joshua; which was that much more important, since their mom had died from childbirth along with his newborn brother, whom he never got to study the Torah with.

            At least now, every night, dear Abba (Hebrew for ‘father’) could study the glorious reflection of the Allmighty in his son’s (Michael’s), worry line-free face, and give thanks and praises the most high, for giving to him the divine gift of fatherhood, which made dear Abba feel more blessed than the rest. 

Michael Kornbluth

The Mustard House Is For Sale

Once upon a time, in 1903, there was a Stay-At-Home dad, Bukowski Kornbluth, who lived in the derided Mustard House within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, forty miles north of the original Yankee stadium known as Hilltop Park in Washington Heights. This was before it became a cocaine pickup haven for suburban kids in the eighties throughout Westchester Country, who required more stimulation that what the leafy suburbs and colonial house-populated streets offered, knowing that the only thing getting blown on a regular basis, there, were leaves.  

            Every day, Bukowski Kornbluth would stare at his newborn son Arthur and bemoan, “I can’t believe Hasbro rejected my game Condiment Land and chose Candy Land, those anti-Semite bastards.”  

            Before, Bukowski Kornbluth had worked as a shoeshine boy outside of Grand Central, making enough to live off Hebrew National dogs. But that was it. Now he was developing a stomach ulcer at ripe old age of 25, and was married to an Irish nurse, Chloe Duffy, whom he got pregnant by mistake (because pulling out on time was physically impossible, knowing that Bukowski Kornbluth blew his load in 1.1 seconds flat).

            After Chole Duffy’s prominent fireman lieutenant dad died, she inherited some money and made a down payment on the Mustard House, while using her collection of rare Irish whiskies that her father collected (tracing all the way back to Rob Roy times) for collateral because Bukowski Kornbluth was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under judicial review.

            Even during his shoe-shining days, Bukowski had dreams of becoming a professional songwriter, because growing up in a cramped tenement on the Lower East Side with nine other siblings, it was the radio which filled him with dreamy, big city success wonder. This made going to sleep still hungry again a tad more tolerable, knowing that his dad’s career as a pickle sales rep for Kosher Dill Delights wasn’t getting them a townhouse on Park Avenue anytime soon, either.

            Now, more than anything, Bukowski Kornbluth wanted to write a better song than ‘The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous’, to take him out of his Mustard House jail so he could finally enjoy some bright lights and big city success for himself.

            But one day, things changed when Bukowski had the radio on at home to hear the Yankees play, after he started throwing Cracker Jacks at his newborn son Arthur because he was hungover from drinking too many Rob Roys alone; because his nurse wife worked nights and he was stuck at home with his son again on Shabbat, with nowhere else to go but down self-pity lane (which was getting tiresome and beyond boring at this point in his life).

            Growing up in the Lower East Side, Bukowski Kornbluth was a solid stick ball hitter, which earned him the nickname Yard Blaster (which certainly beat the nickname his putz prone, younger brother earned on those same streets, Trips on Curbs).

            What if, instead of writing songs about ex-loves and depleted dreams, Bukowski Kornbluth could refocus his attention on baseball and dreams of being a big shot at the ball game for a much cheerier, less depressingly dreary change of pace? 

            Bukowski Kornbluth continues to pelt his son with more Cracker Jacks, yelling, “Duck! Cracker Jack attack!” Then an idea ẻmerges, and Bukowski Kornbluth says, “I finally got it this time, kid. I’ll write a song about going to the ballgame for anything except more fucking hotdogs, to remind me of this damn Mustard House.

            “But what if the object of universal interest I focus my song on is Cracker Jacks?

            “Old Bet, the famous circus elephant, was buried ín nearby Sommers outside the famed Elephant Hotel, so I’ll write about grabbing some peanuts at the ball game in his honor, too. There’s no reason why I can’t write a hit song about America’s favorite pastime and pigging out at the ball game. It’s a home run, kid.

            “Where can I find a pencil? Arthur, give me those crayons, if you haven’t eaten them up already.

            “Despite me being miserable about being an unemployed Stay At Home Dad out in the sticks, it doesn’t mean I love you any less, Arthur. But Stay At Home Dads can’t survive unless they have something grander to aim for in life besides being a loving, proud dad; and this is my last shot to hit one out of the park, kid.

            “Never stop swinging hard for the fences, Arthur. You’re an all-American slugger like Daddy. I can feel it in you just by the way you made me partially deaf from smacking me in the ear with your rattle, once.”  

            Bukowski Kornbluth wrote ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game’ as his son Arthur finally got to sleep in a pool of his own Cracker Jack vomit.            One year later, Bukowski Kornbluth got introduced at Yankee Stadium (then known as Hilltop Stadium) and waved his Yankee hat to all the adoring fans in attendance, raining down hollering praise for the man who wrote the official father/son bonding anthem for baseball games in America.

            Now his son Arthur pulls on his dad’s leg as the cheers grow even more vociferous for the Do It All Dad done good, and says, “I got a Honus Wagner rookie card, Dad.”  

            Bukowski Kornbluth says, “Stop ruining the moment, kid. They just sell you the cards for free gum.”

            Arthur says, “I think it will be worth something someday, Dad. Also, can you remind me why I can’t stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack, again?”

Michael Kornbluth

Waste Of Height Pitch

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 

Hacks With Words

Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky, it’s too bad Bill O’Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, Bill O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.

Last night, I tried the melatonin gummies that my wife has pushed on my kids as mommy vitamins for a bit.

Because nothing screams hands on parenting than Ambien with training wheels for kids.

The melatonin gummies for kids tasted like Marty making out with his mom.

No, it tasted like I just made out with one of the Flintstones kids after being put on puberty blockers.

Doing wrong for laughs, Gallagher lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Dave Chappelle on SNL

Kyrie Irving wasn’t near the Holocaust. Playing in Brooklyn surrounded by hipster Heeb nation is harrowing enough.

What about claims about Black dudes being the real chosen people spoken down to from the top of Mount Siani Dave? Like God could’ve have gotten in a word otherwise.

Do you still think Black Hebrew Israelites are the real chosen people, Dave? Sure, like King David is showing up on Kyrie Irving’s ancestry.com, Shaka Zulu.

You’re a moderate Muslim, right, Dave? Because you tolerate Obama Be Meh, banging What’s Talent Got To Do With in the Lincoln Bedroom after the new woke, She- Hulk pissed on the ceiling fan after Trumpy Poo Tits got inaugurated. Hours later, Trumpy Poo gets pissed on for real from the ceiling fan above and says to Melania, “Is this, what’s talent got to do with it meant? When the woke she-hulk said, “When they go low, we aim high?”

But nowadays, Michelle is packing on the pounds because of Menopause. And Adam Schiff never clicked on SoapyBottoms@Nothingtoseehere@moveon.org.



Accusing the crafty Jews of stealing their chosen people identity from the black Israelites is in poor taste, don’t you think so Dave?

Being a proud Muslim, would you be happy if Alex Jones accused Allah of culturally appropriating the child wife compounds from Mitt Romney country? I didn’t think so, you hypocritical, black supremacist, entertainer protector like the rest, King of The Prosecution Complex included.

Do I think Kayne should be denied a living? No, I support freedom of speech. Plus, I didn’t demonize Kyrie for refusing to take the clot-shot because your boy Rock plugged for Cuomo during the height of his pin up prime, despite always looking like Mama Fratelli from the Goonies and the Thing had a baby. If the King of Popping Cherries were still alive today, Dave, how would he defend himself against all his never land accusers again? Would the king of popping wood on Pee Wee’s Playhouse confess, “All the Beatles Royalty Points in the world, can’t buy me love.”

Hershal Walker is, “observingly stupid”, Chappelle. Hacks like you are making me return back to IT headhunting with an open, jade free heart, if you’re considered the apex standup comedy these days, my chest. You’re a race baiting piece of shit like the rest. Lebron and the CCP, SUCKING, but you’re glued to Obama’s dick way more, sniffing his sandals after Ramadan bike rides through Martha’s Vineyard if born again Muslim John Brennan hasn’t called 1st dibs 1st. You and Obama are nothing more than hacks with words.

Hershal Walker, “Has to think before Tic Tac Toe. That’s the best dumb joke you could steal from Kevin Hart’s writers Dave, you has-been, hack? Jim Brewer’s eyes and Steven Wright upholstery on your futon in Half Baked are twice as funny as you’ll ever be, Obama off the teleprompter included hacks with words, Challah. Thank you very much.



If Republicans want greater voter turnout for the Midterms moving forward or have any desire left to preserve election integrity, then they should showcase a shred of originality and counterattack the big tech machine with bound to trend hashtags on Twitter such as Late Term Abortions, Disinformation Dissing or Red States Bleed George Thorogood.  Lazily calling them the Midterms won’t get Democrats to do anything more than bone up on the basics the night before them. “Dr. Oz, neutered nincompoop. John Fetterman, Tom Segura after a chemo induced stroke.” So cut the Hoodlum Hack some slack.”

Hacks with words, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth