Always Clutch

Every other thought leadership post on LinkedIn.

Everything gets better when you’re making money in Corporate America despite being forced to take the clot shot. When you’re feeling cheeky enough to post about your loving wife who always supported your dreams no matter what on LinkedIn again. Pass the always boring barf bag please.

My workplace was toxic. So, I quit and work as a Toxic Dehumidifier Consultant for a living now.

Ryan Reynolds is an advertiser’s wet dream. Who wouldn’t want to slam another pic of his abs into your gym locker from Men Jen’s Journal again and again? He’s pretty enough like Justin Trudeau to never be deemed anti-establishment enough for the mass media’s tastes. Being a native Canadian, did Ryan Reynolds come out in support of the Trucker’s convoy in oh Canada? Or did her remain another Hollywood establishment sell out pawn like the rest? While he refuses to speak out against the tyrannical reign of Castro’s love child who has gone out of his way to outright steal any sense of independence or right to self-preservation that oh Canada used to offer. Fuck off Canada. You’re strip clubs were overrated to begin with.

This is another standard LinkedIn post that’s so in vogue today. I fashion myself as a new age Charles Bukowski without knowing who he is by writing bone dry, drama free, colorless lines about my past situation in corporate America like I’m supposed to give a shit. As I try to artificially impose dramatic oomph and majestic sweep to my life by separating always boring lines with dramatic spaces in between because Twitter got in the way my Hack Haku prose again.

I used to be a drug addict, now I’m sober and serious minded enough to share my journey on LinkedIn despite it being nothing more than a resume database for recruiters to pump for all it’s worth when it’s not operating as another propogandist arm for the Deep State to push for more news updates on the fucking Ukraine. Which nobody on the site pretended to give 2 shits about prior, including those who used to live in Greenpoint, Brooklyn because the local Ukrainians were never known for their bubbly personalities in the 1st place.

But when I’m on LinkedIn to create interview opportunities to keep my marriage together, I love to be reminded how Mr. Groper’s blank check for the Ukraine is being used to finance World War 3 in the making. Whatever it takes to downplay and hide and keep alive the money laundering operation for the Deep State in the Ukraine so nobody ever dares to inquire as to why the implanted Zelensky in his best Old Navy shirt should question why that Ukranian energy company paid Hunter Biden 50 grand a week to push Borscht as the new Kombucha.

But keep on posting updates about how Uncle Sam’s money is giving the Azov battalion Nazi’s a fighting chance in the Ukraine again while making no mention of all the destroyed biolabs confirmed by our State Department in between. Don’t expect LinkedIn to blame Biden on the acceleration of war by giving the Ukraine more bombs or from financing Putin’s war by lining his pockets with more oil money after making the decision to make gas unaffordable for middle class Americans who voted for Trumpy Poo twice, when the Icky Shuffle in the fake news White House set possess the power to make us energy independent by reinstating Trump’s gas drilling policies by the time Jill Biden says, “Blow”, on Hunter’s birthday before he snorts the cake.

Out of Formula, suck it up kid. If you were born in New York State, you’d be lucky if you weren’t terminated for being another unplanned Zygote blip on the ultrasound report for Planned Parenthood.

Need a baby crib, wait 6 months for it be shipped from Mexico. Supply chain issues motherfucker. But we can hold you over with some Fentanyl for some stress management once the new freedom convoy of drug mules is waltzed right in.

You want to solve our supply chain crisis. Require every dreamer crossing our border to work as freelance delivery driver for UPS to guarantee their next day delivery. Problem solved. Always clutch; MJ lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Pissy Life Hack Tips

Do It All Dad, a self-described Stay at Home She-Male Comedian performs another killerset in his bedroom office on his Do It All Dad Time Podcast, titled, Pissy Life Hack Tips.

“My quest is to make my son a shallow sleeper, so he won’t piss his bed anymore from being such a deep-thinking sleeper. I’ll stop talking to him like he’s a Talmudic scholar for hire. “Rabbi Samuel, is it better to be loved by your kids or by strangers on stage every night at the Comedy Cellar, getting your funny man freak on for a living?” Son says, “Get a life ancient moron and figure it out yourself already. I’m still only 5 years old remember.”

But seriously, is deprogramming deepness considered a legitimate pissy life hack tip that’s a shortcut to improved parental happiness if forcing your kid to wear a nappy to bed is no longer a drawn-out tug of free will anymore?  Reality is my son only pisses his bed at night. So, my pissy life problems have to a be a result of my son being too much of a deep sleeper.  You might think I’m being a tad melodramatic for yuck, yucks sake, but having to duck under your kids bunk bed to make his bed again after washing his soaked Star Wars sheets and bedcovers is enough to push any man to the dark side. So if I want to avoid stripping my son’s wet sheets off his bed again like he’s a young Corey Feldman who’s been the hitting bottle too hard with Sam Kinson backstage at the Comedy Store again, why don’t I shame bribe him, by insisting we can’t watch Spaceballs ever again unless he comes out as a Farm Boy from Princess Bride for Halloween, except whenever a homeowner giving candy asks, “What are you dressed as for Halloween?” Samuel must say, “Piss Bucket Boy from History of The World”, before flashing his plastic pumpkin candy holder that’s packed with PJ Mask nappies to the rim.

At first, I thought banning my wife from giving our son Melatonin gummies would prevent him from falling into deeper states of extended sleep while contemplating, who would win in a street fight, Rudy or Rocky, if Bruce Lee trained Rudy first. My son’s still wetting himself like I did after waterboarding myself as a 12-year-old kid from trying to jerkoff but only succeeding in hosing myself down with a golden shower after Emanuel After Dark on Showtime because I hadn’t gotten into the puberty pool party yet.  So to avoid  becoming my son’s permanent wet nurse like Jill Biden on demand, I’m going to groom a shallow beauty, so he won’t get lost in deep enough focused thought on ways to bitch slap the future 5th grader who dares to spoil his sister with Starbucks gift cards on Valentines Day without taking the time for a midnight bathroom break who identifies with Fatal Attraction Astronauts from NASA.

Instead of watching documentaries on Andre the Giant, which focus on Andre’s excessive drinking problem to drown out the pain of being treated like a regrettable freak of nature in airports like the man who dresses like Meghan McCain in drag for Teacher Appreciation Month to read, “Divine Gives Bi-Curious Geroge a Banana in His Tail Pipe.” Will binge on Keeping Up with The Sloppy Third Kardashian Sister, since Kim backed out to focus full time on studying for her bar exam because Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now.  

I’ll insist my son doesn’t flip on his hoodie to hide his chosen curls at the grocery store anymore to avoid more grown Italian MILFS hitting on him with lines like, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” Only for me to say, “No offense lady, but if James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

I can buy my son a waterbed for his birthday to avoid more weighty deep thoughts. So instead of meditating on the rapidly encroachment of irreversible death like Hemingway does in Old Man and The Sea, my son can dream about the glory days of Boogie Nights Porn pre-VHS tape, before tatted up white girls cranked up on Crystal meth ruined the golden age of muff diving forever. Back when the mountain muff on the MILF from Scandal in the Mansion on the big screen looked like stacks of Brillo pads resting on top of a busted Slinky.

I could also deprogram deepness from son my forcing him to sleep every night in a Tanning Bed. And instead of reading him poetry at night from Charles Bukowski about the serial bitterness and predictably dronish, small soul producing dullness swallowing up our empty, consumerist controlled lives, while sloppy drunk hookers come knocking down on his door in broken high heels at 2 o clock in the morning, will start rehearsing his Trump impersonation for Halloween. But not just any old impression of Trump, but an impression of Trumpy Poo after he tests HIV positive, after the Deep State pricked him with the same dirty needle used to take out Easy E to prevent him from running again. “Who are you for Halloween?” Son says, “Little Man Trump who just tested HIV positive because Melania slept with Magic to get me back for the Stormy Daniels fiasco. Do I have HIV?  Yes, but my t-cell count numbers, have neve been stronger.”

But I like talking to my 5-year-old son like he’s my Talmudic joke whisper manager. Son says, “Daddy, stop being an ancient moron. When are going you going to record comedy record 96 already? After that, you’ll only have 4 more to reach 100. Rodney Dangerfield never did that. Even Papa would have to respect that. Johnny Cash told his daughter Roseanne Cash she had to learn to play 100 selected songs before she could set out to become a master working solo artist remember moron son? I still like the title Genius on Tap for your next comedy record. Think good and will be good like Rebbe Schmendel Schneerson said. You’re always a genius just Jack Kerouac told himself remember mega dumb son. Besides I own you and you ain’t poop without me. So, finish strong like Stallone does in Over-the-Top Daddy, none of this meet halfway crap, go for it all the way. Fight the good fight, achieve perfect laughter with the Gods, loneliness is a gift, to test your will to prove how much you really want it. What, you’ve been reading me quotes from Bukowski on Goodreads since I was 2. So, get a lit agent to read your entire manuscript for Waste of Height, Really Short Stories already.  Then, we can afford that comedy gold mobile and go on a book signing tour together, but never forget, more jokes for me, are more jokes for your comedy records, got it.  I can wear my Muscle Beach shirt when you do a book signing in Venice, despite you naming Arthur, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. I’m still really pissed at you for that by the way. But I get all the Black Sabbath records and get to watch Fist of the North Star with you, do Mad Libs with you, play blackjack with my Freddy Kruger cards and watch Japanese death matches on YouTube with Terry Funk with at you home whenever we hang out, before I start Kindergarten next year, which evens out the suck. Hey Daddy, ever think I may pee in my bed because playing with Freddy Kruger cards would scare the piss out of any little dreamer at night whenever those images of a burnt serial killer come to life?” And I say, “Thank God somebody in this relationship is playing with a full deck.”

Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

All Metal Baby

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to Sloppy Seconds Hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Tabitha Soren, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his banger pretty wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H. So, I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism Man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows above all else, when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Korny Kornbluth

Was Korny Kornbluth sick of surviving off laughs, or wasn’t he? Being funny and spinning the most comedic gold out of his God given imagination was important to Korny Kornbluth because it made him feel most alive while riding on the shoulders of funnier, hardcore giants of laugh yanking song before him like the late great, always scariest elephant in the room, otherwise known as the Grand Poobah of hack attacks of Comedy Cellar past, Patrice You Better Fucking Know My Name by Now, O’Neil.  How could Korny Kornbluth not relish conquest rich memories of killing at the famed Comedy Cellar in Greenwich Village even it was only for a punchline powered sprint for 5 minutes at a time? Especially when Korny Kornbluth’s rapidly trusting funny man instincts paid huge dividends after throwing in an ad lib line which drove the crowd into a deeper, more aroused state of room enveloping ecstasy when he said, “I used to live in LA. I don’t miss the driving. But I do miss road head, especially along the Pacific Coast Highway, whenever I’d drive by the sign that said, “Malibu, 37 miles of scenic ball blasting bliss.” Only to flirt it up with a couple of banger pretty college girls from NYU close to the stage and add, “Did you girls just call shotgun?”

One time doing extra work for a film with Kristen Bell called When In Rome, Korny Kornbluth sampled one liners on a hot actress extra with a SAG card, which gave him sustained stiffage, whenever he got laugh yanks out of her long time because it made him feel like real deal funny man on the rise by being able to touch her on a deeper, more expansive, inside widening manner than any of his predictably dronish one note friends from high school ever could.

Korny Kornbluth uses the term friends from high school loosely because he didn’t feel particularly close to them anymore because friends want to hang out with each other and after Korny Kornbluth fell in love with his girlfriend during their sweaty sex period, where he’d manage to elevate the bed in her Greenpoint apartment despite his ferocious poundage downward, which defied all laws of gravity all together, the interest to seek out their company rapidly depreciated and flat out disintegrated after his 3 glorious, snugglet shine rich kids were born.  This jerkoff hot to, aspiring actress extra on set of When In Rome made an illuminating insight when she said, “You like to be naughty, don’t you?” Korny Kornbluth could’ve inhaled her on the spot for showcasing such insightful fervor in his honor. Reality is, Korny Kornbluth was a self-esteem strangled kid who was constantly stuck in his head throughout Junior High, who only came bursting out of his head, after he finally kissed a couple of girls in Israel one summer during a Masada Teen Tour, leaving one girl with a hickey from hell outside of Mount Masada no less as if he was the horniest novice zombie zygote alive. But now, 6 or 7 sales job later, whether it was slinging ads for the Village Voice, CitySearch or the billable techie gold talent of software engineers while working as an IT agency recruiter in both LA and Manhattan, he started to question his funny man chosen path because he had been fired more than a Palestinan Sling Shot. All of a sudden, Korny Kornbluth contemplated the brutal reality of being too over the top edgy for his own good.

Korny Kornbluth wasn’t overtly over the top edgy to appear cooler than he wasn’t. He was just being funny, so he thought. But what if Korny Kornbluth was headed in the wrong direction to nowhere? What if Korny Kornbluth alienated old friends and family members because of his raging desire to always be on, 600 podcasts and 91 comedy records later? What if Korny Kornbluth proved to be too overpowering for others to bear, which made them feel like ineffectually, cheesy hackling weaklings in his presence? Or was Korny Kornbluth just guilty of glaring egotistical overreach on the behalf of his perpetually swelling noggin again and again? How the fuck was Korny Kornbluth going to make money off his endless sheets of comedy gold at 45 years old during the cancel heavy culture of 2022 after producing comedy records titles on Spotify such as The Day Democracy Died and COVID The Clown exactly? You can make the argument that the best thing going for Korny Kornbluth was how he didn’t have an enviable, profit rich career to cancel just yet. He released a political album Resist This at 43 years old, the same age of his comedic idol Rodney Dangerfield released his debut album, I Don’t Get No Respect before he broke big and was able to support his family by slinging jokes versus aluminum sliding for a living for good. Korny Kornbluth actually used his IT agency background and cold called Rodney’s grown up daughter when he launched his Do It All Dad Year Podcast 5 years ago and after getting her on the phone he pitched, “I want put a spotlight on your father Rodney, the original Do It All Dad star, and tell the world about how he turned down a residency in Vegas and opened up Dangerfield’s on the Upper East Side of Manhattan as his own personal work out lab space to test out new material for the opportunity to be a more involved father at home.” Tremendous pitch I know. Still, Rodney’s daughter declined. Rodney’s daughter deciding to sell private footage of her dad’s heavily workshopped, money maker Vegas act to Comedy Central for a documentary about him pre-YouTube without his permission doesn’t portray the ungrateful bitch in the most flattering light anyway. No wonder why Rodney suffered from depression and found perpetual solace in the magic green to sooth his achy, weary weepy soul. Regardless of how many more killer sets Korny Kornbluth produced on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, he wasn’t going to book any appearances on the Late Show with Colbert with jokes such as, “Our state of the union today is like Colbert’s handle on funny for the past 5 years and counting, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O’Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate for a living. At least at the time, Bill O’Reilly gave Colbert Gravitas. Or how does John Stewart does not question the wisdom of Obama Be Good’s nuke gifting deal to Iran with more hardcore sardonic bite on the Daily Show franchise he built before Comedy Central decided to resign his woke successor Trevor Noah for the foreseeable future?  Why did Stewart only direct his comedic venom at W only, whose best friends now with Ellen, which proves what a non-divisive, evolved comedian she is because Ellen is pro Bush all the way. Why not ask Obama, so what do you consider your greatest accomplishments as president besides rebranding ISIS, ISIL so they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times? Or why not make fun of the 1.5 billion Obama bequeathed to Iran, Israel’s number one enemy and largest sponsor of worldwide terror worldwide, that was used for overseas job creation for Vermont’s own Build A Bear corporation to make the Iranian economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal cream for the Kardashians?

Korny Kornbluth was already kicked off Twitter for constantly stating how the COVID vaccines worked less than Carmelo Anthony and Russell Westbrook running the Triangle Offense for the Showtime Lakers in Los Angeles, California, insisting the new caped duo should become the official spokesperson team for Tampax Tampons. Because name another bitchy faced pair throughout NBA history, that’s been responsible for stopping so much flowage. So Korny Kornbluth wasn’t getting on the woke Grantland Podcast with Greenwich, CT bred nerd Bill Simmons either, especially since the NBA’s sole existence existed to be nothing more than a safe space for Lebron James ego. The lion share of Korny Kornbluth’s comedic blast targets received diplomatic immunity against charges of black supremacy racism on Twitter and beyond like King Of The Persecution Complex Lebron James, AKA, America’s Most Hunted. So what could a proud, practicing killer Koshertarian Comedian do to make money from his funny man writing for his family when Twitter allows terrorists in charge of Palestine from Hamas to keep their Twitter profile up and running, knowing how a 2 state solution is impossible to achieve if Hamas keeps fucking? How could Korny Kornbluth ever build a profitable online presence through selling his comedy records, audiobooks or podcasts on Patreon after her got banned for being a hate speech disinformation machine by defending Israel’s right to defend itself, that he compared to a nation flush with acerbic Kyle Rittenhouse’s at large? Because if you launch 5000 UN funded rockets into Israel’s backyard Hamas, Terrorists Are Us, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return, with a thank you note in return written in Farsi, with all the hardened pineapple tops chucked in the Red Sea.

Regardless of Korny Kornbluth’s propensity to bludgeon your unasked-for ears with a tsunami of a plus loaded gemry made for these times in his eyes, Joshua Prize was capable of mixing the profane and heartfelt better than most because unlike other guys from his senior class of 94, he considered himself far deeper than the eighteen hole. Korny Kornbluth wrote funny love poems of all sorts for his wife of 11 years and 11-year-old daughter Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, 10 Homer Daily, to prove the totality of his ego wasn’t wrapped up into receiving funny man approval confirmation long time all the time. Still, Korny Kornbluth used humor to process his rageful feelings stemming from being denied a living at being a funny man writer as a paid blogger, vlogger, copywriter, podcaster or professional standup comedian because of his far from edgeless digital imprint after working as a Hair Metal historian Comedian as the Head Writer of America’s Hard 100 on Vh1 Classic no less, while blatantly turning off every booker this side of the eastern seaboard with his debut comedy record Resist This, that included joke blasts that proved to be a tad too radical racist for their tastes such as, “I just read about an all-girl Muslim prom in Detroit. So, the prom was like mine, pork free. And stop calling ISIS good recruiters, all those Headhunters do is target other lonely virgins on Facebook Instant Messenger who wish their phones blew up.”

At this point, Korny Kornbluth wasn’t prepared to give up on getting paid for being professionally funny, but TV no longer offered the allure of steady employment in fantastic LA since the city of blue ball wrecking dreams descended into an extended tent city sponsored by REI. Nor did Korny Kornbluth possess the tolerance to endure lesser hack comedians in his eyes, plow through their meh sets while waiting for his turn to kill, knowing they all played it cheesy safe compared to him, which was twice as lame because he didn’t think he was doing anything blazingly original outside of tripling down on being his unapologetic, reclusive rocker shredder self all the way. But what if Korny Kornbluth started to care more about making his kids laugh the most with funny fast short stories he semi-performed on his rebranded Pause Daddy Podcast, super funny fast stories for you and me? What if Korny Kornbluth performed these funny man stories like a Jewish Paul Mooney, the Black Zappa in his eyes while sitting on his far from straight ass for a change? What if Korny Kornbluth decided to chill out on dropping his killer catchphrase “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, every other 2 seconds while in essence sucking off his material long time all the time again and again for a change? What if Korny Kornbluth played it semi-safe for change and decide to dramatically lessen his over-the-top edge to help increase his chances of a lit agent offering a letter of representation on his material’s behalf, if they could locate their ball sack this century, God forbid?

At 45 years old going on 46 in April, who gives a shit about impressing your so-called close friends from high school anymore? Especially, when those same dudes never aroused any jealous feelings of in-your inferiority compared to them ever. What if Korny Kornbluth focused a new book project called Year Without Beer instead of making more comedy records for a change? Writing a Year Without Beer would be a loving homage of sorts to Rodney In Easy Money and would be much easier to achieve off Adderall, assuming an occasional weed edible was always at arm’s length as a mini reward on Shabbat after the kids are asleep to give Korny Kornbluth’s creatively jacked brain a well-earned rest for a change after splitting a bottle of wine with his lifetime partner in love wife, Snuggle Up My Shaft, Duffy Kornbluth. What if Korny Kornbluth stopped giving a shit about his slighted, picked upon teen soul despite him not possessing the means to fight back through soul powered righting punchlines at the time while Kurt Cobain slept under a bridge, dreaming of the perfect time to raid his grandma’s closet for a throw away sweater to wear on MTV Unplugged, after Courtney Love’s claims to self made fame without him and Billy Corgan helping her co-write the rock masterpiece Live Through This, started to become rapidly undone? What if Korny Kornbluth stopped fretting about being pushover putzy in Junior High before he developed fists of fury in his forties from wrecking one Everlast chained bag after another, before allowing his beautiful seed son Hardcore Hunga to wail him in the face while the Rocky 4 Soundtrack blared in the background, as a continued form of flinch freeing therapy?

Rocky Marciano never lost a match because he invited the pain and always remained on the offensive. But what if Korny Kornbluth after turning 46 went on the Love Speech Machine offensive for a change off the speedy demon Adderall barking in his ear anymore, to bitch and lash out at any less creatively impaired human being who ever dared to question or criticize his funny man chosen path in the 1st place? What if Korny Kornbluth rebranded himself to the podcast universe as the Love Speech Machine through his super funny fast short stories on his Pause Daddy Podcast, which some could argue is reflective of his original, pure self in the 1st place because he assumed nuclear attacks on all who made him feel like an ineffectual, worthless jerkoff who failed to provide for his family the way he knew was capable of doing? Although trying to become the Desmond Child, Hair Metal power ballad writer maestro for Bon Jovi who penned hits such as Living on A Prayer and Without Love for the Hallmark channel wasn’t going to pay for his kids Bar Mitzvah party catering bill, let alone future trips to Budapest, Hungry with his beautiful wife and 3 kids, to soak up the soulful, majestic edge of the Danube to inspire for more family friendly tale adventures that could give Adam Sandler triggered jealous moments of despair for once in the Golden Jew’s life either.

Korny Kornbluth was always triggered by more manly writers like Hemingway knowing how he boxed Kangaroos for fun, yet Hemingway was a humorless bore as a whole who blew his brains out, so who gives a shit about Hemingway being taught in English Literature classes despite Old Man and The Sea being another stellar example of excellent, concise, immaculate, sturdy strong prose at work? That’s not who Korny Kornbluth was or ever would be. What if Korny Kornbluth become known as the Zamboni Artist and got a job driving a Zamboni at the local hockey rink, so he could afford to buy his daughter state of the art skates during Hanukah for a change, and start creating more winter land rich memories between them skating together versus Dad locking himself upstairs only to lash out at the propagandist media again with more divine powered, evil condemning authority on comedy record 5000, Mega Dumb Daddy, God forbid? No, Korny Kornbluth would end obsessing over the need to feast off Lady Laugh long time all the time because if his wife ever did kick him out of the house away from his 3 favorite people in the universe, Samuel, Arthur and Matilda, best home team ever, his world would become darkened overnight, stripping Korny Kornbluth of the zest beneath his wings, that contributed to him becoming the empowered funny man with a plan to search and destroy. Iggy Pop lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Moving forward, Korny Kornbluth wouldn’t abandon his need to get laughs, but would put that incessant, all-encompassing need on the backburner and not give it as much prime time real estate in his heart anymore, in favor of growing closer to his kids and wife, though focusing on writing stories, which celebrating his inner love speech machine because he wasn’t considered Korny, The Emotor Kornbluth on Yelp back in the day for nothing. Hacks criticize for a living and never create. Like famous classical composer Jean Sibelius said, “No statues were ever built in a critics honor.” Now, Korny Kornbluth would let his love light shine on what brings us together versus what drives us apart, despite common hatreds possessing a huge binding element in us all like unhuggable cunt Mother-In-Laws who force eucharist on her Jew blood tainted grandchildren for starters.

Now, Korny Kornbluth would focus the totality of his being not on being less cheesy, because he wasn’t that cheesy in the first place, but focus less on the need to be perceived as never cheesy ever, God forbid.

God blessed Korny Kornbluth with beautifying love of the highest magnitude for a reason and it wasn’t to solely make wisecracks from the sidelines of life for a living while not celebrating the binding beautiful within us all either.  Korny Kornbluth never wanted to become professionally funny for the money, fame or endless selection of new tight puss selection galore. It was because he finally found something he did good a job at, that offered the potential to achieve greatness with that wasn’t a decision made by his fucking parents on his behalf either. Plus, showcasing an early flair for laugh yank generation was encouraged by others he admired and looked up to growing up like his dearly departed Alternative School Teacher, the perpetually dapper, always unflappably sharp cool funny, Judy Cook, especially after a post pubescent Korny Kornbluth returned a new man from the Land of Milk And Honey with a lighter glint to his step Senior year after giving the hickey attack of 1993 before Nirvana killed off the glorious, crazy train reign of wonderful Hair Metal sleaze more so than Aids ever did. Plus, when Korny Kornbluth got laughs as an air guitar shredding teen or as a bombastic, punchline blasting middle age encroaching clown now, he no longer felt like a highly disorganized, pushover putz breath, no more, no more. Aerosmith lives, Challah, thank you very much.

But that was 28 years ago already. And Korny Kornbluth was more comfortable in his last kid to get into the puberty party and bloom under his Fruit of Looms skin now, having written well reviewed self-published books like Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story and The Great American Jew Novel while still having new books to sling and complete such as The Koshertarian Comedian and Waste Of Height Really, Short Stories. So finally one day, Korny Kornbluth decided to lay to double down on the cheese factor and propose to his wife the concept of renewing their vows in Australia, the place of her birth, assuming their COVID damage done mandate passport bullshit was lifted. Still, it’s the cheesy thought of renewing his vows to his wife and mother of his 3 beamish kids on Mother’s Beach only for him to recite a new poem in her lovely honor called, My American Dream. Because like the late great Hair Metal crooner legend Jani Lane from Warrant once bellowed shrieked with big deal redemptive oomph, in Sometimes She Cries, “Maybe, give love one more shot, yeah.” And doubling down on love was worth the shot, or else Korny Kornbluth would be circumcising his happiness like forsaking ballsier, fuller flavored Double IPA’s in his mid-forties over measly pale ale’s despite Sierra Nevada being the pale ale that never get’s stale.

My American Dream

My American Dream lives in my heart. Because of her, I’d never want to depart.

My American dream was made in the land down under.

When real deal love came to live in my heart, it shook my core like sky splitting thunder.

My American Dream gave me the freedom to spread my funny man wings, which has been an endlessly arousing heaven on earth fling.

Lady Laugh is a booty call who’s always a blog post away, yet what I want more than anything now is an actual payday.

I’ll get any job no matter what it entails, so we can dine al fresco again as I watch you eat snails.

Providing for your family more than laughs and gourmet meals isn’t cheesy.

It’s just that giving up the dream of making people laugh for a living all together yet isn’t so easy.

Shell Silverstein lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Wrong Target Audience

Why would Hulu advertise HIV suppression pills on Lego Masters? Only kids and 40-old virgins watch Lego Masters. Plus, I don’t see the flamboyant, pudgy dude in the repeat HIV suppression pill commercial socially distancing himself from carbs, let alone, showing a surging interest into overlapping brick techniques for added strength if he got HIV from not even bothering to single wrap his joystick with a Milky Way wrapper, before taking the plunge into anal hole sex land as a precautionary life preserver measure for super spreader prevention’s sake.

Michael Kornbluth