Hot For Hummus

Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review.   Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.

Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahani flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for hummus but only after I stared making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese Pieces Butter Cup, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.

If you never tried hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought hummus or homemade hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.  

Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing.  So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day.  At the very least, your kids will love you more putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Plus, your kids won’t become instantly tubby and resent your existence for it later. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.

Michael Kornbluth

Sloppy Second Joes

Sloppy seconds are underrated, especially if they inspire back to back inhalatory attacks.  Do homemade Sloppy Second Joes using Kosher meat from my local butcher in Mount Kisco, NY compare to the same intensified level of joy I received from sucking down every last parcel of my delectable Porterhouse during my 1st IT recruiter sales promo dinner at Morton’s Steakhouse in Beverly Hills, as I cursed my father afterwards for exposing to only mere anemic, anorexic Kosher steaks growing prior? No, but I also wasn’t slightly tiffed the next morning, to learn my wife had nearly polished off what little Sloppy Second Joes remained, because she just needed the “extra protein”. Just like I need a memory easier to delete any instance when my wife used the expression “zero calories” to describe anything because I’m not telling Rolling Stone she’s a hippier version of Jessica Simpson, whose sexual napalm in the sack either.

Sloppy Joes are in need of rebrand refresh because the name alone grossed all 3 of my kids from the start.  Raw ground Kosher meat looking like Plato grinded cow brain doesn’t help Sloppy Joes overall appeal either, regardless if it’s coated in ketchup, onion and brown sugar from Mick Jagger’s secret stash either.  So I renamed Sloppy Joes, Sloppy Second Joes, to inject more sexualized, loving feeling into my making of them because nobody is going to back to make out with the Sloppy Joe lady from Billy Madison, regardless if you’re in and out of a black out or not.  Also, calling these scrumptious bad boy, sticky sweet, sandwiches nestled between bomb baby egg challah rolls, Sloppy Second Joes, I’m double daring you to resist coming back for repeat inhalatory attacks with sloppy drunk conjuring relish.

The Sloppy Second Joes weren’t huge hits with my 3 kids. Exposing them to Kosher meat based dishes is a new development for them, and they can’t quite get over the look of lumped together, blood splattered cow brain, which is what Kosher ground meat looks like in a Sloppy Joe before being browned into scrumptious, supple soft, garlic and mustard imbibed lifted perfection.  

But I’m not quitter. I’m a doer. That doing doesn’t include my wife anymore, especially since our 3rd kid turned our bed into a 24/7 open milk bar but that’s beside the point. Yesterday, I stock up on another serving of ground turkey and make my own version of Sloppy Second Joes not married to the recipe from the Modern Jewish baker for good old fashioned regular Sloppy Joes either. No, this second batch of Sloppy Second Joes lived up to its name because my son Arthur went for rabid attack seconds from my vegetable oil fried up cheese-less ground Kosher Turkey quesadillas, flush with diced up bits of rosemary and parley coated fennel, red sweet pepper, red onion, white meaty turnips, which took this improvised, made up reimagining of the standard Sloppy Second Joe so much higher.  I also served my Sloppy Second Joes with some homemade, chunky hot sauce from a local farm, which my son went to triple dipping in without my nudging whatsoever, prompting memories of my favorite summer loves dipping past. Sloppy seconds isn’t always a bad thing and we all can’t taste like sexual napalm in the sack either.

Michael Kornbluth

Sloppy Second Joes

Sloppy seconds are underrated, especially if they inspire back to back inhalatory attacks.  Do homemade Sloppy Second Joes using Kosher meat from my local butcher in Mount Kisco, NY compare to the same intensified level of joy I received from sucking down every last parcel of my delectable Porterhouse during my 1st IT recruiter sales promo dinner at Morton’s Steakhouse in Beverly Hills, as I cursed my father afterwards for exposing to only mere anemic, anorexic Kosher steaks growing prior? No, but I also wasn’t slightly tiffed the next morning, to learn my wife had nearly polished off what little Sloppy Second Joes remained, because she just needed the “extra protein”. Just like I need a memory eraser to delete any instance when my wife used the expression “zero calories” to describe anything because I’m not telling Rolling Stone she’s a hippier version of Jessica Simpson, whose sexual napalm in the sack either.

Sloppy Joes are in need of rebrand refresh because the name alone grossed out all 3 of my kids from the start.  Raw ground Kosher meat looking like Playdo grinded cow brain doesn’t help Sloppy Joes overall appeal, regardless if it’s coated in ketchup, onion and brown sugar from Mick Jagger’s secret stash either.  So I renamed Sloppy Joes, Sloppy Second Joes, to inject more sexualized, loving feeling into my making of them because nobody is going back to make out with the Sloppy Joe Lady from Billy Madison, regardless if you’re in and out of a black out or not.  Also, calling these scrumptious bad boy, sticky sweet, sandwiches nestled between bomb mini egg challah rolls, Sloppy Second Joes, I’m double daring you to resist coming back for repeat inhalatory attacks with sloppy drunk conjuring relish.

The Sloppy Second Joes weren’t huge hits with my 3 kids. Exposing them to Kosher meat based dishes is a new development for them, and they can’t quite get over the look of lumped together, blood splattered cow brain, which is what Kosher ground meat looks like in a Sloppy Joe before being browned into scrumptious, supple soft, garlic and mustard imbibed lifted perfection.  

But I’m not quitter. I’m a doer. That doing doesn’t include my wife anymore, especially since our 3rd kid turned our bed into a 24/7 open milk bar but that’s beside the point. Yesterday, I stock up on another serving of ground turkey and make my own version of Sloppy Second Joes not married to the recipe from the Modern Jewish baker for good old fashioned regular Sloppy Joes either. No, this second batch of Sloppy Second Joes lived up to its name because my son Arthur went back for rabid attack seconds from my vegetable oil fried up cheese-less ground Kosher Turkey quesadillas, flush with diced up bits of rosemary and parley coated fennel, red sweet pepper, red onion and white meaty turnips, which took this improvised, made up reimagining of the standard Sloppy Second Joe so much higher.  I also served my Sloppy Second Joes with some homemade, chunky hot sauce from a local farm, which my son went triple dipping in without my nudging whatsoever, prompting memories of my favorite summer loves dipping past. Sloppy seconds isn’t always a bad thing and we all can’t taste like sexual napalm in the sack either.

Michael Kornbluth

The Regrettable Road Traveled

I thought making brownies with my kids for the 1st time would be a dose of old school American fun. It wasn’t.  Domestic bliss is a lie when a semi straight man tries to make brownies with his kids. Now I know why I occasionally watch The Great British Bakeoff with my wife to feel a tad more snug secure in my drooping masculinity. I’ll never get into the domestic science of experimenting in the kitchen with my 3 kids hovering around me wanting to get involved in making brownies again because caring about perfecting a homemade desert is too fussy sweet for my taste. Also, did you know most brownie recipes, require an entire stick of butter? I’d rather stick to pounding more Sierra Nevada Pale Ale’s, the pale ale that never gets stale, thanks. And microwaving down an entire stick of butter in a measuring cup is gross. It’s like watching what happens to Martha Dumptruck after a whopping minute on the Peloton.  

So, what does raising my kids Koshertarian have to do with my brownie bust experiments? Did I use Kosher salt over Pinko Himalayan Salt?  No, I stuck with Kosher salt because using Pink Himalayan salt didn’t feel Kosher to me because whenever I think of Nepal I think of mind melting hash I got baked with in Amsterdam, which would’ve stripped the old school, this land is your land, American vibe I was trying to tap into for my brownie bust experiment regret of 2020 man.  Still, trying to make brownies with my kids was important to me at the time, because I wanted to instill a sense of American community and a dash of do it all dad bliss, so I could prove to mama, whatever you don’t do, I can do a smidgen better.  The ghost of Robert Frost can go pound Kosher salt, because I took the road less traveled to please my kids and do a group of activity that didn’t involve me wrestling with my kids on our yoga mat, throwing them around our blown up pool this summer from China or playing blackjack with our fancy poker chip set, and regretting every second of it. Our 1st batch of brownies was too cakey, the other batch was too sugary, and I don’t have a spare third testicle, so doubling down on my shot at becoming Betty fucking Draper tweaked on Adderall to feel like a more essential domesticated homemaker hearth warmer failed to fill me with good intended cheer, leaving me with nothing but morning after disgust generated from doing Martha Dumptruck more than twice.

So, what is the magical recipe for domestic brownie bliss. Easy ,use flower, egg, coco powder, sugar, butter and your wife to do it, unless you want to feel like those permanent eunuchs in Empire Of the Sun. Do I sound like a bitter clinger to my non-baker bust past? Yes, but I’ve lost all interest in acting like an American sweetheart when I don’t want to be. Gen X Dads understand. We grew up in the age of Aids, 9/11, multiple recessions and now have massive mask shaming hysteria to contend with from our NPR worshiping wives. So, don’t expect us to do cartwheels over the prospect of relishing the campy, airy, non-divisive feel of The Great American British Bakeoff. No, our tastes in sweets and coffee is like our preferred taste in comedy, dark and bitter, with a dash of some fun filled, foam party conjuring foam on top. Gen X dads are the Macchiato generation, hyper focused, around the clock hustlers obsessed with American made success and teaching our kids more than Different Strokes did such as how a Macchiato is a circumcised Cappuccino, which makes you feel like a less empty, blowhard baby boomer inside.

Michael Kornbluth

Put Your Uncle Sam Sales Hat On

Did you know America is in the midst of a coin shortage right now? In a post COVID world, we can’t stomach the idea of looking at the significant others we live with one second longer, so we’ve taken up coin collecting to maximize face time with Dead presidents while taking up the most boring hobby again instead. Wife yells from downstairs, “What are you doing honey bun?” Husband yells back, “I’m working on my coin collection babe. It’s our country’s new favorite hobby after prayer shaming, spitting on Vets graves and trivializing the Holocaust through banning the Pledge of Allegiance because we live under Big Tech’s rule, especially since Good Will Hoodie at Facebook sold his soul to the Chinese Ministry Of Truth. Who cares if Chinese made fentanyl has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram? Who cares if Facebook has anointed China as the ultimate judge of good versus evil, despite the Corona virus made in China being responsible for your dad having to give his mother in England only a virtual kiss goodbye on her death bed? But at the least the New Yorker will know better to start every Zoom call now moving forward with, “Hands up high Toobin, where I can see them. You’re having a hard time getting a grip over the fact that Hunter Biden is starting to make Charlie Sheen look like slacker underachiever, I get it. But take a load off on your own time and don’t come around our Zoom calls no more.”

So, if you’re a parent in America today, who’s not enthralled with the prospect of enabling a future generation of ungrateful, hate filled Punisher vigilantes for ANTIFA or intent on blowing a mini fortune on an Ivy league education for your only kid to become a glaringly unoriginal, uppity, knee-jerk reactionary, blah breath hack reporter like Jefferey Toobin for the New Yorker, then I’d start selling your kids early on why patriotism matters because our schools won’t anymore. My kid’s elementary school just canceled the Pledge Of Allegiance. Will my kids school cancel Apple Pie next because it’s too aggressively cheery for kids raised on 13 Reasons Why? I never received an email from my kids school about why they canceled the Pledge of Allegiance although I suspect the expression “under God” was no longer deemed inclusive enough for the parental sect of east coast atheists who send their kids there, intent on sucking off their Gods like Bill Maher till their last dying breath. Plus, if working parents today want to keep their jobs, they must show a commitment to improve their social justice righting credit score at work by only retweeting AOC tweets comparing our border detention facilities with centralized AC, designed to stop rampant sex trafficking of minors to Nazi death camps. Plus, parents today need to be equipped with endless President Trump insults at the tips of their tongues to remain uncanceled by their far younger, mope maligned Millennial Mouseketeer coworkers over shared Taco Tuesdays, since eating lunch within their walled in office of yesteryear is now branded too alt right white collar xenophobic for their ad tech startup tastes.

It’s beyond time for American parents today to assume the responsibility of selling our kids on the importance of patriotism because respect for our elders today is lower than Hunter Biden’s Yelp rating for the Mac Shop he forgot existed until the NY Post reported on it, in Wilmington, Delaware. But parents today can still entrust Netflix, EPSN, CNN, the NY Times and especially Twitter, to teach their kids the importance of standing up for the National Anthem and putting their hands over their hearts for it at ballgames instead of futzing with their smart phones to watch Tommy Lee videos on Instagram, shouting at fake news Devils. Yeah, and Judd Apatow is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

When I push my kids on the swing, I assume the persona of Sly Stone from the original Woodstock and sing with real deal fly guy feeling, “I’m going to take you higher.” How does this playful sing-along push routine teach my kids patriotism matters? Because I tell my kids Sly Stone was a star voice behind a prideful, black nationalist musical movement in the sixties, which was a source of empowerment, not divisive derision, which didn’t command whitey to never eat in peace in a restaurant patio again.

I teach my kids patriotism, which is love of country, by teaching them about the great melting pot New York City is, which boasts more than 200 dialects, so insisting only black lives matter insults a boatload of other immigrant sects. I teach patriotism to my kids by emoting about the greatest Moderate Muslim of all time Muhammad Ali, who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee, inspiring other mouthy kids from Louisville, Kentucky to boast to Dad, “One day, that’s going to be me.”  My 3-year old son requests Jimi Hendrix Blues on vinyl, what about yours? So, stop acting like teaching your kids about patriotism is such a white nationalist laden snore.

My 9-year-old daughter knows Joan Jett is a lesbian punk rocker who sang Love Is Pain but made it big in the face of discrimination for refusing to be the same.

At night before story time, I mix it up and tell my kids about how Walt Clyde Frazier beats Dr. Seuss as the coolest cat of rhyme who lead the Knicks past the Lakers in 73 at the Garden by dishing 19 dimes.  My kids hug American flags in the street, because I’ve shown them pictures of President Trump doing the same, which is pretty sweet, proving infectious love of old glory is hard to beat.

I teach my kids that taking a knee is the equivalent to kicking Nazi destroyers in the nuts and spitting on Vets graves, housing those unfortunate drafted sons who Jesus could never save.  I teach my 3-year old son love of country for pointing out how America the Beautiful gave birth to thrash metal guitar great Dave Mustaine, by showing him a clip on YouTube of him playing the Star Spangled Banner at a Little League game, which inspired my head banging son to say, “I’m going to play that one day.” Patriotism sells, so put your Uncle Sam sales hat on and soon enough, your kids will be hugging flags down on main street to.   

Michael Kornbluth

Sexualizing Book Review Requests

Dear Fans,

The Great American Jew Novel is finally available in old school book form.  I trimmed the fat, which detracted from the thrust of my plot long time.  You can consume the book in one inhaling easy.  I’d love reviews in exchange for a signed a copy, which will be worth big bucks someday. The meatier offering version of The Great American Jew Novel, loaded with more mouthfuls of hilarity is available on Audible, for those who require an occasional breather from time to time.  Have I sexualized my books enough for your tastes yet?

Email me anytime for a complimentary book request on the house at doitalldadyear@outlook.com.  I blogged the Great American Jew Novel into existence under the Corona lockdown of 2020 through the grace of God and his sustained belief in me rising to the occasion.  I also wouldn’t haven written this book with such extreme gusto without the sustained interest of all you hardcore WordPress fans throughout every new chapter post I made. My daughter Matilda, inspiring me to write a mini star vehicle in her honor and entertaining her 2 younger brothers with creative play while I banged out my 1st semi-autobiographical novel on the cusp of my 44th birthday helped long time to, despite the last thing my wife wanted to hear was that I was writing another book again.

Thanks for making me a big dreamer doer again, WordPress fans at large. My Do It All Dad Year Podcast, this blog and past 4 books wouldn’t have possible without you being the best open mike audience God has blessed with me outside of my 3 biggest fans in the universe on the stay at home comedian front, no offense.  Also, thanks again to my old school Twitter peeps, for all your past retweet joke love, which helped give me the confidence to take down all the big dogs in comedy throughout my pre-election comedy special Resist This book. You’re the best to.

Last, on Yelp they don’t call me Michael the Emoter Kornbluth for nothing. So, I’d have zero problem reviewing any of your books in exchange for a review of The Great American Jew Novel or for Resist This, only 60 plus pages, available in print form now to.

My Very Best,

Michael Kornbluth

Love My Blog, Would Love A Book Review

Dear Fans,

The Great American Jew Novel is finally available in old school book form.  I trimmed the fat, which detracted from the thrust of my plot long time.  You can consume the book in one inhaling easy.  I’d love reviews in exchange for a signed a copy, which will be worth big bucks someday. The meatier offering version of The Great American Jew Novel, loaded with more mouthfuls of hilarity is available on Audible, for those who require an occasional breather from time to time.  Have I sexualized my books enough for your tastes yet?

https://www.amazon.com/The-Great-American-Jew-Novel/dp/B08D53JB8B

Email me anytime for a complimentary book request on the house at doitalldadyear@outlook.com.  I blogged the Great American Jew Novel into existence under the Corona lockdown of 2020 through the grace of God and his sustained belief in me rising to the occasion.  I also wouldn’t haven written this book with such extreme gusto without the sustained interest of all you hardcore WordPress fans throughout every new chapter post I made. My daughter Matilda, inspiring me to write a mini star vehicle in her honor and entertaining her 2 younger brothers with creative play while I banged out my 1st semi-autobiographical novel on the cusp of my 44th birthday helped long time to, despite the last thing my wife wanted to hear was that I was writing another book again.

Thanks for making me a big dreamer doer again, WordPress fans at large. My Do It All Dad Year Podcast, this blog and past 4 books wouldn’t have possible without you being the best open mike audience God has blessed with me outside of my 3 biggest fans in the universe on the stay at home comedian front, no offense.  Also, thanks again to my old school Twitter peeps, for all your past retweet joke love, which helped give me the confidence to take down all the big dogs in comedy throughout my pre-election comedy special Resist This book. You’re the best to.

Last, on Yelp they don’t call me Michael the Emoter Kornbluth for nothing. So, I’d have zero problem reviewing any of your books in exchange for a review of The Great American Jew Novel or for Resist This, only 60 plus pages, available in print form now to.

My Very Best,

Michael Kornbluth