Top 10 New Work Intros

  1. Joshua Kornbluth here, Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. Consider me a less annoying matchmaker than Kris Jenner or the sloppy third Kardashian sister.
  2. Joshua Kornbluth here, Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. I’m like Match.com without the doctored photo. It’s not how you met but who you meet, that matters, right?
  3. Joshua Kornbluth, Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. I’m a professional flirt for a living. Think Vince Vaughn in Swingers minus the SAG card.
  4. Joshua Kornbluth calling. Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. I’m a poor man’s Tony Robbins who doesn’t overcharge for my life coaching expertise.
  5. Joshua Kornbluth here, Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. I bring dead resumes to life like an EMT worker who moonlights as Dr. Frankenstein on LinkedIn Pulse.
  6. Joshua Kornbluth here, I’m a Recruiter for the Human Edge. I’m not an edgeless putz or else I’d still working for Robert Half.
  7. Joshua Kornbluth here, I’m an IT recruiter who specializes in mind control in Kayne’s mind.
  8. Joshua Kornbluth here. I’m an IT recruiter whose been talent hooking since Y2K. So, I wasn’t born with a vape pen in my mouth yesterday.
  9. Joshua Kornbluth here. Before I launched my IT staffing career. I worked as the number one assistant for Moses. Because I didn’t complain about my developing carpel tunnel after transcribing the Torah into stone.
  10. Hi Mary, Joshua Kornbluth here. I’m an IT Recruiter who wrote The Great American Jew Novel. So, you know I’m not your middle of the road schmuck in a headset either.

Michael Kornbluth

Family Friendly Pitch

November 15, 2022 

Dear Ramona Pina, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m looking forward to your reply. 

Best Regards.

Michael Kornbluth 

Waste Of Height Pitch

November 15, 2022 

Dear Michael Bourret, 

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

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

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

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

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

Best Regards.

Michael Kornbluth 

Marketing Manifesto Pitch

November 15th, 2022 

Dear Lindsey Smith, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Michael Kornbluth

Pitchwoman Of The Year

Aliens are capable of formulating and defending their own critical race theory, too. A bunch of Think Tank Alien Eggheads from Planet Scrambled Over Easy declared the American Dream dead and its entire race plain stupid for thinking otherwise, on both sides of the political divide, during its annual Brunch Expo address at their annual Northern Lights retreat on Planet Verde. It was known for its enormous avocado trees, tricked-out converted farmhouse party palaces, and was enveloped by hop farms galore and beautifully manicured baseball diamonds and fields of highly stimulating, brain-tickling weed.

            Even Think Tank Alien Eggheads need to cool off their hyperactive brains with some baseball, buds, and brews, from time to time.

            The Think Tank Alien Eggheads observed how unhinged and excessively biased the US media and Big Tech had become since the New Yorker from Queens exposed them for the feckless, misleading, self-serving, fear-mongering, deliberately divisive, commie sell out bastards they’d become.  

            Close Encounters Of The Third Kind was voted the number one-ranked sci-fi film for forty-four years in a row and counting, according to Egghead Alien Film Review Magazine, which still boasts an incredible print ad sales revenue because, on Planet Scrambled Easy, print is king and is considered the most prestigious medium, attracting the universe’s most talented writers, knowing they’re willing to pay up to three US dollars per word.

            There are no TV shows made on Planet Scrambled Over Easy except a hugely popular father/son alien cooking show called ‘Better Than Boobie.’ On this show, we learn the alien baby is a result of a mixed marriage between an alien and a busty, full-lipped, tan, Sicilian-blooded Italian, Barbera Bustiasti, originally hailing from Rochester, NY.

            On the show, our Stay-At-Home Alien Dad Host, Fried Brains Bourdain, a self-anointed in-house gourmand for the entire Planet Scrambled Over Easy, will ask his part-human, part-alien baby, Chef Samuels, what he thinks of his latest and greatest LEO Scramble Supreme, including smoked salmon lox, scrambled eggs, and sweet, not-too-bitter caramelized red onions.

            Normally, Chef Samuels will take a taste and pronounce the dish creation a double-fister instead of a yuck-yucker. But if baby Chef Samuels is totally enthralled with the dish, he’ll ask his cherished dada, Fried Brains Bourdain, to make the dish for him every day before he whizzes around the rings of Planet Scrambled Over Easy faster than Flash, in a high-calorie burning blaze of glory.  

            So, the reason Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy was smitten with the movie Close Encounters Of The Third Kind stemmed from the aliens portrayed in it being musical savant mutes, of sorts, like Holly Hunter in The Piano.

            The problem, on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, is how their recent open borders policy resulted in a gazillion different languages spoken at once at any given Farmer’s Market—enough to make C3Po’s language transmitter chip melt down from an intergalactic auditory sensory processing overload. So, the clamor in the streets had reached a fevered pitch, with no universal language in place capable of instilling a more melodic cadence.           And none of the star magazine writers on Planet Scrambled Over Easy were capable of banging out musical showtunes (such as West Side Think Tank Alien Stories), because Broadway tunesmith legend Stephen Sondheim declined the invitation to procreate with the alien civilization (because he was gayer about the prospect of lunging at the Othello backstage in tights, whenever asked to do his best Kevin Spacy impersonation by his cast and crew at Sardis for wrapup show celebrations, after hours.

            Stephen Sondheim gave the anal probe a shot after the Alien Think Tank Leader, Gershwin Goo, convinced him they were doing it the name of stool DNA sampling science in their long, hard, in-depth exploration pinpointing the exact genetic makeup roots responsible for sprouting such a mature musical genius out the womb.

            At six, Mozart was touring Europe, entertaining French nobles with the nimble quickness of a French prostitute who got two customers to spew with joy in one minute flat, each, so she could squeeze in her favorite customer, famed American Jewish writer Henry Miller, in one more, before closing hours, for the road.  

            So, not only was the roaring decibel of noise on the streets of Scrambled Eggs Over Easy consisting of every guttural, gross alien language imaginable, that collectively heard together sounded like the antithesis of French pillow talk in Eric Rohmer films such as Busted Burgundy Girls and Paris Dicks Are Burning, thereby making their home planet a highly grating, excessively annoying place to be; but there was also not a singe lone, beautifying voice to even sing their new planet anthem in an attempt to promote, celebrate, and unify the country behind a star’s beautiful voice in their own native tongue, Hebrew.

            What, you think the pyramids and the first great temple were built by the Israelites alone? I’ve known Jews who are allergic to Home Depot, who suffer from immediate panic attacks upon entry.

            On retreat, The Think Tank Aliens sucking down endless IPAs and puffing non-stop high-grade green over a killer double header of baseball surrounding the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, with a young, rising star egghead about to pitch his famous speedball splinter known to make most fellow aliens whiff more than Charlie Sheen at an AVN afterhours party, these days.

            An idea emerged. “Hey, fellas, instead of blowing up Planet Earth for our annual Fourth of July Celebration (to celebrate our freedom of banning the Internet in 2000, because we knew Y2K would serve as a slow-acting bomb to blow up Earth’s any last remaining capacity for critically thinking, mass-produced independent thought ever again), we convince Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth to become our permanent-in-house Planetary Anthem singer?

            “Granted, we have incredible leverage, knowing that if she refuses, we’ll go head and blow up the Earth for the best fireworks show we’ve ever seen. Bulldozing a casino is child’s play compared to planet blasting. Plus, I think the universe is ready for a new Earth to emerge, again (assuming God’s in the mood to give the human race another shot at redemption).”

            The Think Tank Aliens of Scrambled Over Easy Planet actually thought of Singing Rose Kornbluth immediately, the moment they coined the idea of establishing a Planetary Anthem in Hebrew, from eavesdropping from space whenever she’d recite the Shabbat prayers over the candles, challah, and wine.

            To them, Singing Rose Kornbluth was blessed with the most angelic-laced, beautifying, spiritually rich, jade-free voice of all time. It sounded ten times more soul-tantalizingly pretty sung in Hebrew, which she’d do in Synagogue, shining through the most whenever the Torah was taken out of the arc for the infamous Shema prayer “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”

            The Think Tank Aliens from Scrambled Over Easy Planet are able to eavesdrop into different galaxy systems due to their alien race being crossbred with Alien Hybrid Elephants reared by Alexander The Great. Alexander The Great would use those elephants to eavesdrop on his enemies or on Cleopatra the next time she plotted to roofie him, tie him up, and jam some precious gemstone beads up his ass for shits and giggles, to see if they came out looser since the last gender-neutral interkingdom orgy at her Luxor party palace.

            Now, Singing Rose Kornbluth is at home in her bedroom within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, fifty minutes north of Manhattan, brushing the mane on her new American Girl horse doll Lavender Love and singing her own made-up tune: “Lavender Love has beautiful hair, my brother Arthur better not threaten to turn him into fake news dog chow, if baby Samuel double dares.”      Then the Palomino American Girl Doll horse Lavender Love comes to life and speaks to her from the baseball diamond on the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, and says, “Singing Rose Kornbluth, don’t be alarmed. For starters, my voice can’t be any freakier than when you confuse your American Girl Doll Horse for an actual little person, on occasion.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Keep talking.”          Think Tank Alien says, “We think your singing voice, especially in Hebrew, is the most beautiful, God-loving, effortlessly sweet signing voice we’ve ever heard, without any deep vibrato rumblings (which ruin Adele and Demi Lovato’s chances as potential picks for us, if you really need to know).”     Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “And who is “we,” exactly?”

            Think Tank Alien says, “We’re Think Tank Aliens from Planet Scrambled Over Easy. Our natural tongue is Hebrew, and we just came up with our first-ever Planetary Anthem, and it needs work, because our alien civilization isn’t musically inclined whatsoever.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Do all aliens talk through American Girl Horses? I knew Aliens were real.”

             Think Tank Alien says, “Singing Rose, we love your voice. God made your supernatural voice for a reason. Still, we will be left with no choice but to blow up your planet, if you don’t let us use your gift of creation and singing love songs which touch the innermost sanctum part of the Divine.”

            Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “I’ll only help you out if you agree to take over control of our Internet, unleash virus worms to corrode all the software code for Twitter, Facebook and Google, and fill in that gaping voice of Internet bandwidth with my father’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast every Friday for another Meandering Shabbat Shalom Special.

            “My daddy is hilarious. He said, ‘Beyonce sat out the national anthem because Demi Lovato sounds like a white privilege version of Alabama Shakes.’”

            Think Tank Alien laughs a long time and replies, “We don’t have the Internet on our planet.”            Matilda says, “I’ll be your new best friend. And you’ll get one sleepover invite a year, deal? Think Taken Alien says, “Deal.”

            One year later, Singing Rose Kornbluth graced the cover of Time Magazine. On the top, the headline read ‘Pitchwoman Of The Year.’ She saved her country’s planet from being wiped off the solar system map for selling the Think Tank Aliens on making her Do It All Dad the most popular, downloadable, highly quotable podcaster in the universe.

            So, he could afford the opportunity to shine like the brightest rising comedy star in the galaxy and drive his family back from the hospital in his new Comedy Gold Porsche SUV with a new baby sister addition in the back, Lavender Love Kornbluth, to make his Do It All Dad year mission complete.

            Now Singing Rose Kornbluth could sing duets with her new baby sister, Lavender Love Kornbluth, for a double dose of beautiful wonderfulness on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, so she’d never have to feel homesick again.

Michael Kornbluth

Reference Check Girl

Once upon a time, there was a high-energy, constantly-red-in-the-face, yet easily excitable IT agency recruiter in his early twenties from Long Island, Patrick Dublin, who worked for a small staffing agency above Madison Square Garden called Unicorn Staffers.

            Unicorn Staffers specialized in recruiting and placing Unicorn UX Designers, who also did the nitty-gritty back- and front-end coding. They made billion-dollar apps and various new age tech startups come to life, blessed with visionary founders brilliant enough to avoid sexual harassment charges at work by creating in-office innovations such as designing a panic-free, jerkoff-safe space bathroom.

            So, security never had to escort you from the building, legs first, from the bathroom stall, only to knock your head against the mildew-lined walls one more time before hearing the security guard croon, in his best Tom Petty voice, “You don’t come around here no more.” 

            Since the era of #METO began, Unicorn Staffing had to conduct more rigorous background checks with ex-girlfriends for the Unicorn star studs they represented who couldn’t control their urges to whip it out during a Zoom call, despite the Head of Application Development from South Wales, Australia trying to manage unwanted sexual harassment claims at work in a post-virtual meeting, COVID-controlled universe gone cagy nuts by addressing his team of developers and designers with, “Welcome, all. Now, if everyone is going to feel safe during this Zoom meeting, let’s raise all our hands high, where I can see them.            “Please don’t be such a knee-jerk reactionary cunt about it, you Jefferey Toobin wannabes at the New Yorker; thanks.” 

            Sexual harassment was a dirty secret infesting the tech startup world today, even among the biggest tech company in the world, Google, despite most of the employees being too busy banging out to code to actually hit on girls at work while sporting their yenta noise cancellation headphones, in the first place.

            Plus, your typical software command script at Google (or elsewhere) wasn’t “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”

            Now Patrick the IT Recruiter is conducting a background check with a 25-year-old, chesty Digital Marketing manager, Lisa, based on her LinkedIn profile picture. She used to date his star candidate (who was awaiting a verbal offer of 145K for a new permanent Creative Technologist Director position with a cannabis lifestyle startup, Budranker.com, from Oakland, CA, that was looking to expand its online digital magazine division here in NYC. It was targeted towards working, functional pothead millennial mousketeers).

            Patrick takes a deep breath, loosens his tie a tad, and gets ready to call Lisa, the Digital Marketing Manager for Hip Hops, a new multi-level old-school hip-hop gastropub club in the East Village. He wants to talk about the extent of her past relationship with his star candidate, whom he’s very proud of connecting with after LinkedIn banned him from the site for sending too many failed connection requests before he enrolled in a Spam A Lot Less Sales Seminar offered by a former power ballad songwriter-for-hire-turned-Life Career-Coach, Michael Rocker.

            Patrick calls and says, “Hi, Lisa. This is Patrick Dublin. I’m an IT recruiter for Unicorn Staffers, and I’m calling you about Max Diesel, who’s being considered for a top Creative Technologist Director position for a cannabis startup, Budranker.com.

            “Can I ask you a couple of quick questions about your relationship with Max, in the past?”

            Lisa says, “Yeah, we only hooked up once after meeting at the Windows Expo in downtown LA.

            “It was right around the time Microsoft bought LinkedIn. I was working as a bartender hostess at the event before I met the CEO of Sierra Nevada at that same event, before becoming their Digital Marketing Manager, after I started riffing while making some drinks, insisting that Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA blows all other IPAs out of the water.          “Then I crafted their sentimental-laced campaign for the 30-year anniversary of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, calling it “the pale ale that gets stale.”

            “I conceptualized the guerilla marketing campaign for printing a bunch of bar napkins with love poems on them in honor of first loves; my personal favorite being, “I fell in love with you from the start. You’re my favorite valentine etched on my heart. You made love spill out of me like overflowing treasure. The idea of pounding you again gives me non-stop pleasure. You were my first love, when I didn’t know what that meant. All I knew is that we’re heaven-sent. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, You Never Got Over Us, Did You?

            “So, Max starts flirting with me after I snagged the business card for the CEO of Sierra Nevada, and said, “This is my impersonation of merger talk between Dr. Dre and Eminem after Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn: ‘Hey, Slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, ‘Worrdddddddddd. LinkedIn lamer than ever yoh.’

            “Personally, Max had me at ‘Hey, Slim’, because he dropped his voice low enough to pull off a semi-decent doctor impersonation.

            “Hey, did you know Hitler’s birthday is on 420? Puffing the bong to more Tuff Gong never felt so wrong. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.        “So, to answer your question, I hooked up with Max on the dance floor sky bar in West Hollywood later that night, but then Frans Drescher from The Nanny caught his interest, and I never heard from him again.

            “He left me a business card and said we should stay in touch through LinkedIn, which I’ve never got over, completely, especially knowing how I got interested in hooking up with Max only after he dumped on LinkedIn in the first place.”

            Patrick finally interrupts Lisa, trying to be as diplomatic as possible, afraid of blowing his potential nine-grand commission tip in the making, and says, “Well, Max thought enough of you to list you as reference for ex-girlfriends, to a conduct a background check to assess his sexual harassment factor risk at Budranker.com.

            “Did Max ever touch you on the dance floor too aggressively, at the Sky Bar?”

            Lisa says, “Hell no. I’m the one who shoved his hand up my skirt. I told him my panties were packed in my purse and we could go skinny dipping at this house in the hills that my friend was house-sitting for. It’s next to Roman Polanski’s old house (he’s a serially underrated rapist compared to Cosby, in my book. I still don’t understand how they pulled the Roseanne show off the air, yet have no problem showing ads for Ambien between replays of the Cosby Show, on syndication on Nick at Night).”

            Patrick says, “You’re really funny. Why are you doing wasting your time doing digital content marketing for a living?”

            Lisa says, “I’m too sexy for stand-up, Patrick. Sara Silverman and Chelsea Handler twenty years ago were never in my league of looks.

            “Also, I don’t see myself posting endless naked pics of myself, like Chelsea Handler, with another book in hand to showcase my social justice warrior-reading credo to downplay the world from my tits’ sagging popularity in the process, either.”

            Patrick says, “So, if Budranker.com called you tomorrow to ask you if Max was a sexual assault liability in the making, what would your response be, exactly?”

             Lisa says, “That all depends on you, Patrick. Do you like old school hip-hop like most old school wigger Irish dudes from Long Island?”

            Patrick says, “How do you know I’m from Long Island?”

            Lisa says, “I already looked you up on LinkedIn. You’re cute. Why don’t we wrap this interview up at Hip Hops, later tonight?

            “I crafted the playlist. I’m playing only old school rap, myself. It’s flush with songs by Biggie, Nas, and even Snoop. Who cares if Snoop’s brain hovers a notch below Porn Hood Hell?” 

            “My exact measurements are 36d; my pic on LinkedIn doesn’t give my balling beauties justice.”         Patrick thinks to himself, “I better learn how to code, because that safe space room to get my whack on can’t come soon enough.”

Michael Kornbluth

Shell Shocked Snappy

Wine Coolers, jello shots, and reluctant repeat sips from your first can of Budweiser help melt teen shyness away. But pet snapping turtles aren’t ninth graders in junior high who haven’t got into the puberty party yet, either.

            At this point, Matilda, a twelve-year-old entrepreneur and inventor of a suction sticking party ball strobe light machine called Party Magic, was willing to blow some of her Kickstarter startup money on a Past Life Regression consultation with an Animal Communicator at a nearby Crystal Shop in Ridgefield, CT to get her new pet snapping turtle, Snappy, to come out of his shell already, because changing his name from Waxy to Snappy wasn’t helping.

            More than anything, Matilda wanted to boogie board in Australia, her mama’s home country, along Mother’s Beach (30 minutes north of Melbourne) for her parents’ ten-year anniversary. Yet, she didn’t feel safe in those jellyfish-infested waters without a trustworthy snapping turtle to ward off attacks, by her side, knowing their preference for scarfing up electric, purple haze stingers.

            The seventy-something, bushy-haired, frumpy, shawl-strangled Sedona sun wrinkled transplant, Animal Communicator Talks With Toads, lounges out in her cubby-sized office within a crystal shop in nearby Ridgefield, CT, and takes of her bifocal glasses to examine Snappy The Turtle more closely.

            Matilda reveals hiding him in her old beat-up backpack, knowing his tendency to fart uncontrollably (especially around strangers, which she considered a reason for why Snappy The Turtle’s head was hid in perpetual shame, so often).  

            Talks With Toads says, “Matilda, over the phone you said that Snappy won’t come out of his shell around strangers.”

            Matilda says, “I’ve offered him lobster rolls from Stew Leonard’s, smoked nova from Russ and Daughters, and bought him the Tony Robbins audiobook box set (which wasn’t cheap, either), so I’m running out of options, hêre.

            “Our first Kornbluth family vacation to Australia is tomorrow, and I don’t know what to do, because Snappy is my second line of defense against all those jellyfish in Australia after the jellyfish nets (which aren’t even available in the beaches in Bondi, and that’s where all the serious boogie board action happens, anyway).

            “My parents wanted to get married in Australia, where my mom is from originally, yet my Grandma shot it down. She calls my dad and says, “Australia is a long trip from New York, Scoops, and your dad doesn’t love you that much.”

            “Then my dad made a compromise with my mom and says, “If we have boy one day, we’ll hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision, just to hear a room of Jews say, “Now, that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

            Talks With Toads spits out a deep, weighty laugh, opening up her throat chakra more than any downward dog pose ever could, and says, “Does Snappy ever come out of his shell around your daddy, or does he get intimidated by larger-than-life comedians, too?

            “I saw his performance at the Montreal Comedy Festival on YouTube and coughed up a lung in the process. He made such a strong, funny man impression the last time your family dropped by the crystal shop. And I don’t care for most stand-up comedy these days.

            “Plus, how creepy is the comic Anthony Jeselnik, knowing that he considers psychic surveys on how many missing children they’ve seen through their carrot cards as being the height of God-loving hilarity today?”

            Matilda says, “In Anthony Jeselnik’s defense, God commands his chosen people to forsake the counsel of psychics in Deuteronomy, but my dad told me it was Kosher to make an exception, in Snappy The Turtle’s defense.”

            Talks With Toads does her best to shrug off a smart-ass Jewess rubbing God’s law in her face with such effortless fluency, and decides to plow forward with her Past Life Regression reading for Snappy The Turtle so she can get back to watching some bestiality horse-on-man porn on her lunch break, which now can’t come soon enough.

            Talks With Toads grabs a sapphire crystal from a cramped, unorganized drawer that represents the entire kitchen sink of healing, past life reading gemstones known to mankind, and places it on Snappy The Turtle’s shell.

            Talks With Toads says, “I see a Deadhead at Giant Stadium in a soup truck RV called Terrapin Soup, blowing high grade, seventy-five-dollar-an-eighth weed into Snappy The Turtle’s face again and again as the live version of Scarlet Begonia’s ‘From Cornell 77’ blasts on the tape deck in the background.

            “I stopped going to shows after I stopped smoking weed, myself.”

            Matilda says, “After my second birthday, my dad took me to a Dead show in Bethel Woods, in upstate New York. I pointed at a dinged-up-looking Deadhead sucking down a nitrous balloon and said, “Birthday.”

            And my dad said, “No, Burnout Day.”

            Talks With Toads unleashes another full throaty laugh again and says, “Wait a minute. No, he can’t be.”

            Matilda’s interest in Talks With Toad’s Past Life Regression Reading has reached the peak interest and she says, “What do you see now? Is the Deadhead owner feeding Snappy The Turtle’s head with a sheet of acid, or what?”

            Talks With Toads takes a deep breath, doing her best to conceal her startled state as she pulls back her long, tangled grey hair and utters, in a whispery, barely audible tone, “The Deadhead owner is serving Snappy The Turtle’s family for dinner.”

            Matilda jumps out of her chair in a bewildered state of dísgust and yells, “I thought Deadheads ate grilleđ cheese sandwiches after Dead shows, when they got the munchies.”

            Talks With Toads says, “Munchies don’t happen when you’re on four tabs of acid, dear. Hold on—I see a line of Deadheads around the parking lot in Giant Stadium, waiting for this Terrapin Turtle Soup truck to serve bowls of turtle soup to cure more endless bad trips on Hęrculean amounts of acid. 

            “The Merry Pranksters used to spike garbage cans full of fruit punch with acid during three-hour Dead jam sessions back in the day, before you tripped over shit throughout the cable car-lined streets of San Francisco.

            “Eventually, the college dropout hippies who weren’t banking on replacing Santana anytime soon became howling, starved lunatics, left with no other choice but to eat stray cats behind the dumpster at Mu Shu York’s.

            “Soon after, a famed chef from New Orleans, Gumbo Greg, who went on to become the executive chef at the Philly Club for years before opening his own restaurant in North Beach (Chowder Panisse), gave Jerry Garcia the idea of serving one of his freaked-out tripping groupies some turtle soup in their house on Haight Ashbury to cure her bad trip, after doing the same for Dr. John during Jazz Fest once, after he curled himself up into ball on stage, thinking that he’d turned into psychedelic, night-tripping crawfish. “Crawfish (you know: shrimp with more personality) is similar to John Mayer teaming up with Grateful Dead and Company, injecting Scruffy Smooth with a dose of much-needed personality.”            Snappy The Turtle finally snaps out of his shell and yells, “Thanks for the flashback, bitch.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Headless Headhunter

Once upon a time, there was a journeyman headhunter, Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, who wasn’t much of a rainmaker. He was more of a trickler. He placed copywriters with major ad agencies along Madison Avenue with middling success, only for Don Draper to qualify these candidates even further if they got the past the initial phone screen with zero bullshit, cold-as-ice gentile inquiries such as, “Tell me, again, why you haven’t been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot, because your portfolio shows less promise than Jimmy Carter’s solar panel-powered weed plant in the White House’s new greenhouse garden.”

            It was 1976. Boston broke big with ‘More Than A Feeling’, and Peter Frampton jammed with Jimi Hendrix’s trippy, metal-type finesse on Frampton Comes Alive in your daughter, again, (assuming she looks like a less-big-backed Brooke Shields, with eyebrows that don’t take up her entire face, either).  

            Zevon was married only a year, yet his relationship with Mellissa wasn’t filling him with ‘She’s The One’ crooning vibes anymore, especially since blowing her hubby became a once in a lifetime event, like Haley’s Comet or Joe Namath seeking a shrink for depression, or Reggie Jackson sweating the dry-cleaning bill for his mink coat (assuming that George Steinbrenner refused to pay for it out of sheer winning, dependent spite alone).

            Every day, Michael would cold call creative directors in Manhattan to get them interested in copywriters who grew tired of working as freelance writers for Esquire because Norman Mailer had a monopoly on all the good Ali articles—or they grew tired of more short story rejection letters from the New Yorker, who sucked off John Updike’s short stories because he made their editors come across as less boring and annoying than usual. (If only Gore Vidal’s personality and erudite edge could’ve rubbed off on John Updike through sheer osmosis).

            But, one day, Zevon was running late for work after one too many bourbons at a strip club in Times Square called Honeysuckle Divines. He lit a cigarette on the subway path, totally oblivious to his surroundings, and before he knew it, a Metro cop smacked the cigarette out of his mouth with such force, he accidentally knocked him over and down to the subway track before the Lex line knocked his head right off from his perpetually tense, growl-heavy internalized neck.

            The problem is, The Headless Headhunter was really looking forward to his best friend Ari’s bachelor party at Honeysuckle Divine’s in Times Square the following night, which is why he was there in the first place, to scout some local stripper talent he could recruit to talk his best friend out of marrying his finance, knowing he could do better and was settling for the meh new thing.  

            More importantly, The Headless Headhunter knew what a sigh-heavy, living hell his life had descended into once he allowed his parents to push life-ruining decisions on his behalf, such as who to marry, what job to take, and when to make up with his younger brother again, thereby losing all enviable sense of righteous, self-assured, pissed-off rage (whenever he felt duly entitled to feel that way without any guilt-imbibed, parental interference to make him second guess his innermost guttural instincts again and again.

            For example, Zevon was a struggling recruiter who normally didn’t hit his monthly quota and was always coming from behind, so he didn’t have enough money to buy his future wife an engagement ring, and only got one after his mom pressured him to do so, assuring her he could pay her back after the wedding. This felt more forced for him than the time he’d tried taking it up the ass with a strap-on from his girlfriend (later, wife), only for him to question whether something extra was missing from this relationship, if this added stimulation was necessary for him to get excited about going through the motion of pulverizing her slippery snatch on her birthday again.

            Now the bachelor party is in motion, yet Ari isn’t in the most festive mood, since his best friend Zevon (now known as The Headless Headhunter) was just decapitated by New York’s closest version of a bullet train. The Headless Headhunter is in the bathroom but doesn’t know how he ended up there; and in front of the mirror, he realizes he has no head as he overhears some dudes in the nearby bathroom stall talk about seeing Kiss at MSG as ‘King Of Nighttime World’ blares in the background.

            One of the Kiss fans in the bathroom stall whips out some coke and says, “Dude, you got to take off your Gene mask if you want to do some of this blow.” The guy with the Gene mask on flings it over the bathroom stall, landing it smack in the middle of the sink, which The Headless Headhunter grabs with zero hesitation and throws over his headless head to see if sticks (and it does).  

            The Headless Headhunter bolts from the bathroom and bumps into a stripper with tits which are so humungous, they almost knock him on his ass from their sheer force of jiggly might alone.    Stripper says, “Watch where you’re going, Gene. I thought you had a show at MSG tonight. Is it true, what they say about your tongue?”

            The Headless Headhunter decides to play along in his Gene Simmons character and says, “Yes, I can tongue my own balls if I were into that sort of thing, but I’m only into licking up Playmates and groupies who I can bang standing up, with my chosen people blessed, circumcised love gun.

            “To blast with gunky-filled fun all night and every day, too, is pushing it.”

            Stripper says, “I’m only working tonight, for a bachelor party. It’s normally my night off. I had to scalp my tickets to see your band at the Garden tonight, Gene. Can I call you Gene?”

            The Headless Headhunter says, “Let’s stick to Love Gun Master, for now. But do me a favor—give the bachelor Ari more than a lap dance. Give him every reason why getting married to his fiancé is the worst idea than Neil Young starting shit with Lynyrd Skynyrd.

            “She wants him to abandon his dreams of becoming the Jewish Bob Newhart, and he’s blessed with the funny Jew bone, too. Also, she’s already moaning about having to constantly walk on eggshells around him, acting as if she’s the helpless Olympic athlete during the Iran hostage crisis.

            “His finance is a gentile, too, so there’s no way she’s going be Kosher with raising their kids Jewish, either (which he’ll bang out by mistake because he got stoned again to Lenny Bruce records, forgetting to ask her if she were on the pill).

            “Plus, I met his future English mother-in-law, and she’s less original than a Kiss cover band with a Gene Simmons character, who Crazy Glued on a prosthetic tongue because he thought it was a bright idea. He was on too much acid, one night, despite me never doing any drugs, ever.

            “Last, his fiancé has zero tits, which offers Ari zero sustained stiffage one year into the relationship, already. I just hate the idea of Ari losing his edge to become another ordinary sales rep selling pharmaceuticals for a living because his future CFO father-in-law can make a phone call at Johnson and Johnson on his behalf.”

            The stripper says, “I’ll ride his joystick off for you, no problem, Love Gun Master. By the time I’m done with this fiancé, he’ll be drained dry ’till Yom Kippur.”

             The Headless Headhunter says, “That’s funny. Only through you can I finally call myself a rainmaker.”

Michael Kornbluth

Biggest Prick In The East

Who’s the bigger prick? The boss who insists you get a vaccination shot for COVID when you’re working remote? Or the guy in charge who gave Jeffrey Toobin a promotion at the New Yorker, including his own safe space to jerk off at work? So, office security won’t yank him out of the bathroom stall, feet first, singing, “You don’t come around here no more.” Tom Petty lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Bill Gates’s daughter just got married. Say what you want about the depopulation genius, but the four eyed Hitler, who couldn’t grow out the stash if he tried, is a more conservative investor than you’d think. Why else would Warren Buffet’s BFF only have his clone wear the same sweater for interviews on MSNBC that makes vegan mayo stains disintegrate on impact? Why else, would old four eyes insist his daughter just order his daughter to play Coldplay on her voice activated Cortana speakers at her wedding, instead of paying 200 grand for Coldplay to sing the Scientist in person, when his better man Fauci would feel like a shortchanged, non-essential idol in comparison?

Bill Gates avoided a disaster in the making by refusing to pay Chris Martin in rolls of X Box stock. Otherwise, Chris Martin sings, “Fix You”. Dr. Gnocchi crawls on top of 3 booster seats at the wedding, but still can’t reach high enough to hang himself by his mask on top of the ceiling fan. Next, Coldplay plays, Yellow, so Mr. Hydroxychloroquine Fighter Cockblocker has second reservations about killing himself at Bill Gate’s daughter’s wedding in front of a former Lotus Notes sales rep turned freelance caterer. Then, Cold Play plays, “Don’t Panic”, and Fauci pees his pants in front of all the wedding guests after being confronted by the Ghost of Aids Past played by Freddie Mercury who jams a bat up his ass, engineered in Wuhan to give the million dollar elf man, a fatal case of full-blown Aids on the spot immune to Magic’s Johnson’s top secret HIV suppresser stash.

Dr. Gnocchi drops dead on the wedding dance floor, to “Oh What a Night.” And Freddie Mercury as the Ghost of Aids past says, “Another mass murdering scumbag bites the dust. Build back better AZT drugs next time, you Golden girls killing shit. The bat I jammed up your hell hole was crossbred with Rock Hudson’s DNA samples. If anyone deserves to be canceled, it’s this queen killing prick.

You’re my best friend now Freddie. Thanks for your service in my dream revenge sequence. Why should Tarantino have all the fun? He’s not the only fast talking perv, who can craft killer queen attacks of his own.

Michael Kornbluth

Crypto For Kids

Explaining crypto to my kids.

Remember when Samuel blew 1 million dollars’ worth of energy drinks in Toca Boca on Arthur’s account with digital tokens he worked hard to amass. Now, imagine those digital tokens were worth one million dollars in real life. That’s what cryptocurrency is, it’s tokens used to buy stuff in Toca Boca in real life. Plus, cryptocurrency isn’t controlled by the one world new order, including the Rothchild’s family, who control the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. Big Mouth Moses lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth