Big Pharma Blues

1st word today kids.

Corrupt, something that rots from within.

Think of ancient hipster hacks like Patrick the musician.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Practicing conflict resolution.

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

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

Big Pharma blues, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Triggered Tearjerker

“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy!” Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy forty-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie, doc.”

            Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think you’re incapable of experiencing joy for others.”

            Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past two hours?”

            Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York, and a Victorian mansion in Mount Vernon, NY.

            That’s Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground, by the way, and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself. That’s how I know, motherfucker.”

            Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already, and we just met. Look, I’m only here because I just got remarried; yet my kid from my previous marriage is already causing a strain on our marital relationship.

            “All the melatonin gummies in the world can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace Mommy or not.

            “My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy, happy movies like Rudy, too, and questions whether I really want to have a do-over baby with her, after all.”

            Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?”

            Matt says, “I don’t know, doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit? I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless of whether The Lord of The Rings franchise was huge for his career or not.

            “I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint, as a kid, than helping me develop a halfway decent hook shot or believable pump fake, in the post.

            “I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother, instead.

            “I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone, which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother to realize that she uses a nickname for me, Scoops, and for my younger brother, too.

            “If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, wouldn’t you have issues crying at the end of Rudy, too?”          Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel, to learn your mom uses the same nickname on your younger brother?

            Matt the furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman; a nobody; an unwanted futon with bedbug bite marks after college.

            “I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy, doc. I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife.

            “Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer; yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away, since giving me a daughter, because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life when she’s barleying around to help with my kid in the first place.”

              Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother, besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?”

             Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug. This saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess.

            “Fuck radical empathy, Doc. My mom’s default sourpuss mode around my happiness-spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish.

            “Either you’re excited about your firstborn raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket-drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video, or not. 

            “I get it, Mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild, instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for four decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, and yet somehow blames it on being lactose intolerant.

            “When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror or change your depraved ways. Just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep the crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking and wish fulfillment at it’s finest.     “And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited, after insisting I get a maid, which I can’t afford, or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever.

            “Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with; got it. All I know, Doc, is that my mother would never break into a constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.”

            Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married?”

             Matt says, “I love her, Doc, but it’s not my role to criticize my daughter so soon. Four years down the road, sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then.

            “So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall, Doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my first marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference, really.”

            Doc says, “Looks like our time is up.”

            Matt replies, “So, what movie magic do you have planned for me next week, Doc? Remember The Titans, or Hoosiers, perhaps?”

            Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home, waddling in drunken squalor, before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you, Dad”?

            Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.”

            Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you deplorable piece of shit.”

            Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the furniture salesman from Nyack. This made him feel like a fluke and another vastly depreciated, average nobody, too, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equally distributed, encouraged love.

            Now Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straightjacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once, during outdoor play. He spends all his days, now, in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face and chanting, with increasing force, “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy,” only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you, Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know that I’m not among the walking dead, yet.

            “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”  

Michael Kornbluth

Beyond Personal

More hardcore edge is funnier.

Governor Cuomo getting paid to write about leadership is like R Kelly getting early release to babysit the latest Kardashian out of the womb, Woody Allen writing a book on hands off parenting or Kevin Durant, Mr. Millennial Mouseketeer himself, getting picked to do a Ted Talk on how to defend yourself against Cyberbullying.

Celebrity couples who can’t keep their hands off each other are stuck in a perpetual sweaty sex period. That’s the secret sauce ingredient that makes any sexually charged relationship stick.

Russell Simmons addressing rape allegations with Gayle King. Gayle, read my lisp. I didn’t rape any of those vengeful, over the hill ho’s.

New marketing idea for my book Do It All Dad Does Jokes. Donate them to the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility where Martha Stewart stayed. Sample some Snoop Dog jokes on the Corrections Officer in charge of accepting donations for the Prison Library. “Have you tried Snoop Dog’s new red wine yet? Wine Spectator says it tastes like mouthwash used in Porn Hood Hell. Can I donate some Dr. Seuss books or are they not woke enough for the Warden’s tastes? Did you hear? Dr. Seuss is racist for drawing a pic of an African wearing a grass skirt. I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.” Correction Officer laughs long time.

Dad giving you parenting advice 3 grandchildren later over the phone again from Arizona is annoying. Oh, you don’t like the idea of your granddaughter attending Cornell University eventually because of sudden mental health concerns post COVID pops? I think all the outsourced, invisible suicide nets used in factories for Nike and Apple in China got the 13 Reasons Why class covered pops. I bet Cornell made a Suicide Prevention App that has the Skulls and Bones logo on the button to make their snowflake prone students feel extra protected inside. Like Cornell alum Bill Maher for getting away with naming his production company Kid Love Productions, with no media inquiry into its pedo friendly name whatsoever.  If W’s kids weren’t such airheads, they’d download that app at Yale, knowing the Skulls and Bones logo makes you immune to fucking up again consequences like W after 9/11 for doing dick to prevent the inside job on his watch. Plus, whenever you press the Suicide Prevention App button, Bang Your Head by Quiet Riot plays pops, which gets you out of your head after you try to headbutt Joe Rogan through your laptop for promoting how much his brand of CBD oil matters man, despite it giving you no mental lift worth giving a shit about whatsoever like any heady rush takeaways from the Dax Sheppard podcast. That’s right, another interchangeable boorish, CBD disciple comic on The Joe Rogan Podcast sprinkles his killer sets with jokes about how Deadheads only attend Dead Shows for the drugs. Yeah, Dicks Picks Volume 1 through 9000 documents nothing but scattered tracers dude. But seriously pops, once you press that Suicide Prevention App and hear Bang Your Head by Quiet Riot, your anxiety level drops lower than Al Gore’s balls at the sight of finding one more Klondike bar left in his sub-zero freezer on the 4th of July.  

Imagine a kid trying to jump off a bridge at Cornell only to bump into the invisible net. Kid says, “I can’t even ace a perfect landing to end my endless shit show of a life.”

This is my impression of a Tour Guide at Cornell downplaying mental health concerns for the incoming class of 2021. “Freshman don’t even have time to squeeze in a 20-minute Peloton ride between classes. White Pelton Privilege doesn’t exist behind these Ivy draped walls. So, what makes you think, Cornell freshman can afford to spend their down time attending pill parties, listening to 13 Reason Why on Vinyl backwards? While looking for secret hidden messages like, “Sell your soul to Apple Music like Trent Reznor did. And you’ll look less tormented menacing in 700-dollar leather jackets in no time.” Also kids today post COVID can’t enough of social distancing, especially after their ears get raped to death from all the yenta breath sorority sisters during rush week in the school cafeteria, chanting, “Gama Roe, were so hot. We rock the Keto diet. So, we don’t become fat feminist Karen bots.”

Don’t go there question on Thanksgiving. So, dad, what brings you more shame, your son getting addicted to opioids or your eldest trying to wean himself off the comment section of the Gateway Pundit? You never heard of it? Its’ another alt right, dirt rag like the rest, according to Uni Brow Maddow at MSNBC. Hey dad, tell me if you think this impression is funny. This is Chris Matthews sexually harassing a new chesty, yenta breath intern from Long Island on MSNBC. Eating out Maddow, counts as your lunch break babe.”

Waiting for my car appointment to get a new key and some old guy starts asking questions about login codes for the internet. I said, “What are you really missing out on, besides the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and Do It All Dad Year Blog? Personally, I want to kick it old school and get a flip phone again if I’m honest about only wanting to hear my own opinions most of the time.  Describe the Internet in 3 words Twitter, “I’m smart stupid.”  Also, I want to start using my imagination for jerking off again, so I don’t feel like a slacker jerkoff at the same time in real time. Are you feeling me yet old timer? Old timer says, “I like using the Internet to read articles from the New York Times and Washington Post. I say, “Nobody’s perfect. Billy Wilder lives. I don’t do unnamed sources like you know who.” Holla, thank you very much.

At the library trying to donate some books and getting endless laughs by pitching all the book titles of my books to donate to a local prison in Bedford after receiving the suggestion from the Librarian like Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, Do It All Dad Does Jokes, etc. Then, the librarian says, “You remind me of my nephew. He’s a comedian.” I say, “Your warm-hearted embrace of my funny man identity doesn’t remind me of my mother one bit.”

Why should I care about the Swiss beating the French in soccer? The Swiss are guilty of cultural appropriation by storing Mark Chagal designer lamps for their Nazi rulers to sell at Sotheby’s whenever they needed to stock up on more Malbec and crystal meth during their golden years, living it up in the Andes mountains, while writing more glowing reviews of Mein Kampf on Amazon under Nazi Scientist Protection Programs Rule.

New agent seduction plan. Only purse female lit agents, that give me sustained stiffage, which is extended arousal derived from their money shot loaded manuscript sales list. Playing with the idea of making mama jealous with a new potential Jewish Godmother fill in lover embracer regarding the totality of me wouldn’t hurt my increased motivation factor to woo them with more than my pulsating prose either.

Getting a new key at the Toyota dealership and start flirting with the slightly chesty, pretty faced enough, raven black haired, Latino gal who helped reorder the key for me prior in painless, super-fast fashion. I made her laugh long time prior the day before, when I said, “I don’t mind waiting. My unhuggable C Word of a mother-in-law is being forced to play fake news involved grandma for the week, so I’m whistling dixie regardless. Today, I say, the name Vilma is growing more on me every day. It’s more cinematic sounding than Penelope Cruz. In fact, I think Pedro Almodovar should make you his new muse and kick that uppity lisp to the curb.  Everyone working there laughs long time. I add,” I’m glad that my Philosophy and Film Class that my parents paid 50 thousand dollars for just materialized there.” The entire Toyota worker crew laughs long time again. United we laugh, oh, what a feeling.

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad’s Tree Trunk

My daughter playing Marriage Counselor. Pause Daddy. Mama got your point, mid breath.

Every night, my daughter asks, “Daddy, what do you after you tuck me in. Last night I snap, and say, “I squeeze in me time alright.”

What’s it like being an unplanned father of 3? Drinking alone, is no longer an issue.

I actually gave up drinking beer last summer. I felt terrible spending so much time hungover, recycling, endless, empty reminders of my lushyness, as entire Rocky Marathons on AMC passed me by.

6 million hits later, I learned the national pot smoking holiday 4/20 is Hitler’s birthday. I haven’t felt this duped since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.

Has anyone tried Snoop Dog’s new red wine? Wine Advocate says it tastes like mouthwash used in Porn Hood Hell.

This is Ziggy Marely being interviewed by High Times Magazine. Ziggy, how did your dad have 7 kids? Doesn’t excessive ganja use drain your life blaster dry? Ziggy Marley says, “Fake News Man.”

I had to stop smoking weed after I thought my daughter was asleep because I’d feel like a total moron trying to answer her questions on it while trying to get her to sleep again. She says, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God?” Eventually I come up with, “God went back in time in a Time Machine, made my Elon Musk.” Daughter says, “Real convincing Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.”

But God didn’t give me 3 kids to have a panic attack over it, which is more than you say for Pete Davidson, the voice of Generation Z, the rebound boy toy king of Staten Island. Plus, 4 kids would really piss my parents off because they’d feel like more ineffectual grandparents from afar than usual. But I’m afraid of getting a vasectomy because I don’t want my ball sack to feel like Edward Scissorhands face.

If my daughter’s 2 younger brothers played with her Barbie dolls, I’d think playing with my GI Joe figures way past the acceptable age was way gayer, especially when I had Gung Ho manhandle Cobra Commander like his gimpy bitch in Pulp Fiction.

One time, my son says to me, “I’ve seen mama’s vagina before. I prefer a vagina with no hair.” I say, “Big boobs compliment it better.”

Wife says, “Our 3rd child Samuel, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, get’s bored whenever he spends too much time with her.” I always knew the kid was a quick learner.

I call my son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo because Italian grandmas flirt with the kid non-stop at Stop and Shop. They’ll say to my son, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriend to juggle. I say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates, wouldn’t be so conservative.”

Chosen’s Curl’s older brother’s name is Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. I wanted to name him Arthur Brooks Kornbluth in honor of comedian Albert Brooks but I changed my mind because I didn’t want to give him permission to be become another Jewish pussy.

The best thing about having a son is they’ll tell you whenever you’re being a slacker for you. Son says, “Daddy, why didn’t you go on the Peloton today? I say, “I got food poisoning from the Halal Guys last night. Son says, “Enough with the excuses daddy. You’re worse than Hillary.”

Dr. Seuss is racist because he drew a picture of an African in a grass skirt. I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.

Wife is from Australia originally. My mom calls to shoot down our plan to marry there. She says, “Australia is a long flight from New York. And your father doesn’t love you that much.” I put my wife at ease and said, “Assuming we have a boy one day, instead of hiring a Rabbi for the circumcision. Will hire Crocodile Dundee. Just so we can hear a roomful of Jews say, “Now, that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Grandparent bad manners is when your dad transfers the smell of stale cigarettes on to your April fresh daughter only 2 days out of mama’s snuggle shine snatch, which makes your 1st born smell like Don Draper’s corpse draped in Aramis.

Grandparent bad manners is your your in-laws spending more on doggy day care than what they’ve spent on their 3 grandchildren combined so far. One year for Christmas, my in-laws got my daughter a plastic, Fisher Price Toy Chest with no toys in it. I put her at ease and said, “Don’t worry Matilda. When we get back home to New York. Will fill it up with your eight thousand Chanukah gifts.

The best part of getting socks from your in laws for Christmas each year, is that you get to postpone laundry for another week. Although, if my nurse wife has to work on Christmas Eve, I won’t get any socks that year because the cost of postage cost more than the socks themselves.

Days before last Christmas, I told my wife that the Good Men Project, was going to publish 10 of my blogs like Funnier Dad, Happier Baby and she says “What are they paying you for it?” I said, “Less than what your parents give us, so nothing.”

My wife is a lactation consultant, so I call her the Boob Doctor. She also works in labor and delivery in addition to the NICU, revitalizing blue faced babies for a living, which bolsters her claims of me being a narcissist because all I ever check is for retweets. At the same time, her Irish catholic dad admits to never attending confession. So, I’m more a fake news narcissist compared to precious pops, sorry babe.

It’s also hard to warm up to your in-laws when they didn’t care for the ending of Inglorious Bastards, knowing they bolted to see Apocalypto opening weekend, booking reservations on Fandango for the 1st time, 6 million months in advance.


I’m Generation X. Kids today in Steph Curry jersey’s who’ve never stepped over shit in San Francisco in Northern call are the Bandwagon Generation.

I grew up fretting about getting AIDS before Magic made HIV disappear. As a result, I like my comedy like my coffee, dark and bitter, dark roast to be exact. Or else I’d be circumcising my happiness and my wife does that enough to me already.

She says, “I’ve sacrificed.” She acts like an aspiring comedian in his late twenties wanted kids ever.” I’m 45 now. I’ve aged well, I know. My wife hasn’t sucked the life out of my face just yet, with lines such as, “If I give the baby boob now, he’ll be on the boob on all night long. I say, “All of a sudden, your boob has more important places to be. Be happy your torn up nips are getting any attention at all. Last night, I sucked on her nips for a second, before realizing they still taste like a regrettable non-fat latte.

My wife works nights, so I’ll be out with my 3 kids plenty and random grown men will approach me in public and say, “You’ve got your hand full.” And I’ll say, “If my book, “The Great American Jew Novel scores me a talent agent sometime this century, resulting in my wife agreeing to open relationship with Jessica Simpson, sexual napalm herself. Then, my hands will be full.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Flirting Conductor

By forsaking flirting, we’re cheating ourselves of a richer life to tap into for more joy spewing tomorrows. At least, that’s what I’m teaching my son today as we near close to ending his homeschooling apprenticeship, on the importance of flirting power. But why does flirting power matter? Because sometimes, loving the one you’re with isn’t enough. Screw Stephen Stills. Loving the one you’re with is a whole lot easier in 1970 when your able to forsake condoms for silky smooth lining instead of plastic covered seats. At the same time, my son is only 5 and hasn’t started Kindergarten yet. And I haven’t even joked about sending my kid to junior high during the post me to era with a lawyer on his person to hand out pre-poundage consent forms just yet. But I never think it’s early enough to get your kids into flirtation meditation. But what is flirtation meditation exactly? And since when is small talk at the bar considered fantasy material to get off your mind anytime?  Similar to Magic Johnson visualizing what no look passes he’d turn heads with while running the Showtime Lakers at the Forum on the fast break, flirtation meditation also helps you get into the mindset of picturing what scoring and balling means to you, that’s done with the intent of being the main floor general and driving force of your life instead of remaining a starless scrub on the bench who just goes through the motions of life like a passive, beaten down dog who only eats whatever scraps he’s lucky to get thrown his perpetually downer way.

My biggest regret growing up was letting my father bully me into disinviting my dear friend Coop from attending a Motely Crue concert during the Dr. Feelgood Tour because he deemed my new friend Ari a more deserving choice. I don’t remember the reason why pops pulled an Indian Giver move at the last minute, but it might have been because Coop was the fat kid and Ari wasn’t, I don’t know. All I do know, is that I sucked that much more than my dad for not sticking up for my friend by allowing my dad to bully me into bringing my friend Ari to the concert instead.  Another huge regret was letting my father bully me into selling all my basketball rookie cards to use as drinking money in Cancun during Spring Break my senior year in High School, without pushing back at forsaking my age of innocence for pass out money on the Booze Cruise. Understand, collecting basketball cards was a major labor of love for me as a kid, to the point where I somehow was able to amass enough loose change from my father’s change dish to afford almost every rookie card of those who played on the original Dream Team such as Patrick Ewing, Scottie Pippen, Charles Barkley and John Stockton. But dad was paying for my trip to Cancun, so how much leverage did I really have at the time? Could I threaten to burn my Bar Mitzah photo album if I refused? Still, in retrospect, I’m the one responsible for allowing my dad to push me into selling my basketball cards without ever taking the time to question whether passing out on a Booze Cruise off the coast of Cancun was more important than my cherished basketball card collection that gave me prideful ownership of my own.  So, in life, don’t always be so willing to let other’s map out what moves you make. Nobody remembers the King who financed the Columbus expedition into uncharted waters, but history sure as shit remembers who the fuck Christopher Columbus was. Christopher Columbus was the original old g new life commander, and nobody could take that away from thee, who gave birth to the rebranded Indigenous Day, motherfuckers.

So, what does bequeathing any sense of free will over to your dad have to with flirtation power and being a shallow, spineless friend with zero sense of loyalty who’s already moved on to the next best thing have to do with Christopher Columbus discovering the land of Fats Domino, Micky Mantle and John Huges comedies again?  Easy, Christpher Columbus refused to settle for what shit sandwich his superiors insisted he be content eating without ever daring to flirt with major changes of his own making to make on his own, his way, all the way. Sinatra lives before he was born, Challah, thank you very much.

Christopher Columbus flirted with change and made change his booty call, muse and go to top bitch to plow for deeper, unforeseen treasures never dreamed imaginable prior. In short, Columbus allowed himself the freedom to dream of a more adventurous, conquest heavy, freedom favoring life before taking such courageous, corrective action to live in order to avoid a subservient, gun-shy, die a thousand deaths before you die existence. Loving the one you’re with wasn’t enough for Columbus and shouldn’t be enough for you either, unless you’re the type who actually enjoys going on long walks with your significant other 10 years into your relationship already.

Pig Pen, the unofficial leader of the Grateful Dead and honorary member of the Hell’s Angels during the late sixties, who looked like Captain Morgan and the Sons of Anarchy had a baby, knew a thing or 2 about the importance of flirtation power. Pig Pen was also a powerful harpist, soul fused keyboardist and blues rap singer extraordinaire who had a summer fling with the gypsy queen of ramshackle soul Janis Joplin no less. It was 1967 at the Winterland Ballroom in San Franisco, a converted ice rink converted into a jam rock palace paradise, where Dickey Bets from the Allman Brother’s jammed out with Duane Allman with ferocious fluidity into uncharted, previously unexplored horizons as endless odes to spacious, soul piercing blue skies on the Stratocaster prior filled the air, when Jimi and Santana weren’t making endlessly beautifying a plus atmospheric space hurling blues rock of their own.

But on this night, Pig Pen turned on his love light on the crowd when he encouraged the gun-shy Deadhead stoners to snap out of their stoner stuck funk, when he bellowed with big man, flirtation power, “Get your hands out of your pocket, shake your love maker, and find somebody to love, so you won’t go home again lonely tonight. Love the one you’re with, that being yourself for life, by not letting that pretty girl with rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes pass along by without saying more than hi. In other words, get it while you can, you burnout bitches. Janis did. Flirtation power is your hands. So don’t squander it all just to trip face on tour with the band.”

And that’s why Pig Pen badgering his fan base into acting like more cocksure conquistadors for a change is the greatest flirting conductor story ever sold.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Icky Leaks

Note to self: Underwear prevents cum stains, on your only nice pair of dress shorts. So if you don’t want to feel like a leaky bitch during your Zoom call in 10 minutes in nothing more than a Polo and Hugo Boss briefs, then refrain from cumming like a racehorse the moment you spot an opening, Sea Jiz. Icky leaks leaking, Jerkoff moves, Jeffrey Toobin whacks on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kormbluth

Sloppy Second Son

If you laugh at the idea of your dad ever learning sign language to speak with his son, then you might be a sloppy second son.

If your mom gets the humpty dance on to a slow song at your brother’s wedding with her idealized partner in love to prove Freud still maters, then chances are you’re the sloppy second son.

If you brother remains the focal point of your parent’s existence, who continues to encapsulate all their best hopes and desires, despite making Hunter Biden look like a slacker, underachiever in comparison, then you’re mostly likely the sloppy second son.

If your mother insists you become a garbage man, because you’ve been on shit detail as a Stay At Home Dad for the past 4 years after writing for TV twice, then you’re the sloppy second son. Especially when mom’s attitude is, “At least my son has on the job experience to cite for a steady, six figure salary. It would finally mean he had his shit together for a change versus being another burnt out IT agency recruiter whose been fired than a Palestinian Sling Shot.”

Postponing the dildo talk with my 10-year-old daughter after discovering’s mom’s dildo stickers for an upcoming bachelorette party. Daddy, “What’s this sticker supposed to be?” I say, “Look, you already know about the Holocaust and 9/11, but I’m still not prepared to have this conversation now. For now, let’s just agree to call them, symbols of self-sufficient love, when your partner loses all interest in pleasing you without being guilted it into first because that same person supports kids being forced to wear masks, which kills off any chance of sustainable stiffage in their presence, naked or not over the long run.” Eagle’s lives, Challah, thank you very much.

UPenn Swimmers getting uncomfortable with Trans Phelps in the locker room.

“If he’s really a girl, then why does he flaunt his man meat in front of us? And are you sure Joe Rogan didn’t slip him boner pills laced with CBD? Because those estrogen pills aren’t working. Plus, I thought trans between middle leg mutilation, had a hard time keeping it up without being pumped with enough DNC fundraiser crystal path to keep the party going. Last, why is Trans Phelps immune to the gravitational pull of post pool shrinkage? How does that even work, you identify as being a girl yet pop boners around a bunch of flat-chested nerds? If Trans Phelps is really a big, backed lesbo in the making, shouldn’t he she be more turned on by four eyed slobs in hand me down wool sweaters on Chestnut Street who have less interest in scented bathing salts than dieting during finals week on Adderall, avocado balls and fish oils alone? Assuming, Trans Phelps is bisexual, what kind of girl does he fashion himself to be? A cross between Suge Knight and the Showrunner from Orange Is The New Black? I don’t get it. You’d think Trans Phelps would have a Go Fund Me Page to complete the gender reassignment surgery already yet he’s dragging more than his balls in our girl’s locker room floor. I’d tell Trans Phelps to cut out the act and just admit he’s undecided on cutting off his link to manhood but I’m not holding my breath like Joe Rogan taking a gravity hit for old time’s sake either.” Old school weed references rule, Challah, thank you very much.

It’s hard to bring up an article about fellow UPENN swimmers complaining about the Trans Swimmer from UPENN showing off his dick in the locker girl’s locker room without injecting your kids into the conversation one bit. I say to my wife, “Babe, I don’t want any dick, straight, bi, or Trans around my daughter when she didn’t ask to see it or actively seek it out in the 1st place, do you? Besides, aren’t you the one who told our daughter about artificial insemination? Trust me, I love the idea of no penis ever entering the gravitational pull our daughter but look how Hillary turned out. At the same time, our daughter as a lesbian doesn’t have to worry about getting Aids because she can take a licking and keep on ticking. I’m not enthralled with what limited options she has for celebrity role models either. Ellen admitted on her show that she’s actually friends with George Bush after being caught palling around with him at a Cowboys game because regardless of political affiliation, Ellen is pro Bush all the way. And how patriotic is Meghan Rapone for siding with fake news Collin Kaepernick who made every day in the NFL kicking Nazi Destroyers in the nuts by taking a knee day. What, Collin Kaepernick sports a fake news fro? Have you ever seen a bi-racial afro that large before? Slash tried to grow it out and it was a total flop. Lenny Kravitz, my favorite bi-racial Hebrew could never make his fro bounce that way. And do you really see Meghan Rapino running for President babe? What’s going to be her campaign slogan? “Penetration is overrated.” That’s the same line she used on her prom date at the Enchantment Under The Sea Dance. Or will her campaign slogan be, “Fuck Spotify Obama, and bring back the L Word to Netflix. Your our only hope. I can make a cameo in a new TV show starring Michelle Obama about a Drag Queen Tina Turner tribute act in Martha’s Vineyard called, “What’s Talent Got To Do With It? Just don’t expect me to be chill about our son’s wanting to get their dicks chopped off because pee hard-on blues in elementary school are more embarrassing to shoulder than pic pen spills into their progressively ripping Bugle Boy jeans. At the same time, I don’t see baby samuel wanting to part with his dick anytime soon, when he says to his big brother, “Arthur, sit on my penis.” Before I say, “Not Kosher Baby.” Challah, thank you very much. Just don’t expect me to buy any Meghan Rapino endorsed products at Victoria Secrets since she became their new spokesperson babe as tempting as it is to blow 80 bucks on pair of edible shin guards that taste like hair fish sticks.” Sloppy Second Son shoots and scores, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Baffling Ranker

Ranker lists are always disappointing because I can never find what I need.

Hottest pregnant naked celebs on Ranker, nothing.

All I got was a list of actresses who filmed while pregnant.

At this point, Jennifer Garner is just one endlessly menopausal pitchperson for the Lifetime Channel as far I’m concerned.

Like I give a shit about user reviews of movies with actresses who were pregnant while filming. That’s like giving a shit about the most cost-effective morning after pill once that becomes banned faster than Henry Miller’s new art exhibit in Waco, Texas, Brushing Up on STDs, Hashtag: Paris Dicks Are Burning.

I want a pregnant naked celeb to watch my thigh spreader grow at the sight of their bare feet at the coffee shop. Thinking, “Pregnant woman can’t enough of double stuffed fillings, right?” “Let me bang your future albatross free.” “I’m sensing a growth spurt coming on.” “Walk out the nots on my back you front heavy bitch.” “Squat on my life blaster, so I can split your cervix in 2. You’re hot enough to get knocked up by mistake again on a semi-regular basis, minus the enhanced, chewtastic tits or not.” Slut in a Strait Jacket baffling Ranker again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Pregnant naked celebs, normally means some celeb no longer in their prime banging years, cupping their tits. Granted, I have more free time on my hands than most.

But Jessica Simpsons boasts the sexiest pregnant naked pic of the pack. Her olive oil skin is smoother than Dane Cook’s crowd work with busty teenage girls from Boston at MSG bursting at the seams. You girls like Candy Crush? I love Candy Crush. I want to shoot a love burst between your sun burnt tits so badly right now. Does that kind of rhyme? I don’t care. I just want to chew up your tits and blow them out again till they explode in my face. Don’t act like you can’t stomach this material, you Candy Crush sluts. I squeeze into these ripped jeans easier than your hollering hymen in the presence of my Bubble-Licious balls. Tea party for 2 Bitch. What only, Jim Norton gets to wear his inner pervert on a sleave? What a gyp. I’m not even supposed to be performing standup comedy anymore after banging Jessica Simpson in Employee Of The Month. I crushed her pink-a-licious pussy so good, it fell off into her Daisy Dukes in her trailer soon after.

I get most horny around clothed pregnant woman the most, with Connecticut License Plates. Fuck the Mile High Club, I want to get into The Stepford Wives new mommy swinger club to keep alive the possibility of more toppable tomorrows, with an expecting mommy who has bigger tits than my wife before she had a soulless Zygote brewing inside her belly. Fuck fucking a Trans girl with 0.0 body fat around the mid-section, I want a 3-month pregnant mom from Darien, CT on my Hannukah to do list this year. Wife asks, “What do you want for Hanukkah this year?”

“The chance to cheat on you with a pregnant mom from Connecticut to keep alive the possibility of more toppable tomorrows like Dane Cook saving one last candy crush blast for Jessica Simpson during the film wrap party for Employee of the Month. Clean up in Aisle 2, sexual napalm, blew my banana rammer to pieces.

Demi Moore started the pregnant naked selfie wave pre-smart phone on the cover of Vanity Fair, yet I don’t remember her sporting such a saggy ass. I just remember being thrilled to get a sight of some side boob because online porn at your fingertips didn’t exist yet before a bunch of tweaked, tatted out girls on Crystal Meth ruined the golden age of muff diving porn forever. Mountains Of Muff being a personal VHS staple after Scandalous Snatch Mansion, and Gargantuan Gaping Pussy Girls back in the day. Plus, when I saw Demi Moore standing online for a movie at the Century City Mall in LA after college, she lost all her curves or maybe had them airbrushed on to appear womanly in Vanity Fair because in person she looked like an emaciated boy ghost, who could be best described as Tommy Lee’s more effeminate, less banger pretty sister. Too fast for love, I think not. Baffling Ranker again, Challah. Thank you very much. Trump wanted to have Motley Crue play at his inauguration, yet his son-in-law Jared Kushner cock blocked it. He said, Tommy Lee looks too alt-rightish and my Hebrew Hammer can’t compete Dad.”

If I were to pinpoint my surging reinterest in wanting to bang a pregnant woman again, it was at the supermarket recently, when this blond with a so-so face and I’m being generous in glasses no less, was gyrating her bicycle pants bum in my general direction while exposing her 5-month pregnancy bump. Who in my head was screaming, “You couldn’t knock me up if you tried bitch, but who’s going to stop you from trying, besides your good guy conscious that feels guilty about doing what you want to do, despite your youngest son, constantly proclaiming, “Do what you want, you’re the boss.”

“So be the boss of my box, Hugo Hungtree The Third. My husband won’t mind. He likes to share pineapple scented snatch. He’s really into air fresheners since he inherited his father’s chain of carwashes throughout Carol Gables. So come on stud, your air of superiority awaits you under my suckalicious skin Do It All Dad.”

Florida, gotta love it, Baffling Ranker again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Selective Tenderness

I don’t like my dad claiming a spiritual connection to my younger brother’s cat, because he bought him Fancy Feast the one week, he was in town this summer. Typical A Plus narcissist. He thinks his presence alone is enough to warrant non-stop pussy love. Wait a minute, that’s his favorite son, who owns the cat, that’s the only thing he got to keep from his divorce, my bad, who makes Hunter Biden come off as a serially underachieving slacker in comparison. We own a cat Miss Kitty, AKA, Miss Pretty, and I enjoy feeding her more than my own kids. And my 3 kids give me running jump yummy hugs like when I made them pecan breaded, Swordfish with a Strawberry, Mango salsa when my parents were in town. Actually, that dish deserved an extended hump leg hug actually. Still, I made the dish because my mom proposed a Shabbat dinner that we host at our place, because my younger brother is less grateful than AJ from the Soprano’s on Indigenous People’s Day after he started banging the model he met at the psych ward for 50 grand a week, I think. Or was that John Snow paying 50 grand a week to attend a rehab center in CT, which ruins everything. John Snow was supposed to be the Alpha Dog Orlando Bloom, minus the pan sexual star leanings. Except now, your left with the impression that John Snow would flinch after receiving a cutting stare from Gordon Ramsey on Top Chef, Celebrity edition. “These Dothraki Lamb burgers taste like burnt villagers Snow.”

I hate to attach symbolism to everything. But my dad claiming a spiritual connection with my brother’s cat that he got in the divorce, that they came back east to clean up for him, rubs me the wrong way. All of a sudden, my dad is a poet laurate of cats, who thinks he’s the Charlies Bukowski of Dutchess County, representing cottage life for the Hudson Weekly, the one week he’s around all summer, I don’t think so. Especially knowing how the cat’s name is Suey as in Chop Suey served in Chinese restaurants with her family. I’m offended personally, because I don’t recall my dad making any positive mention of our cat Miss Kitty, who’s the most fuss free feline imaginable, who licks my feet nonstop and mama’s to, which means she isn’t afraid of no bunions. Death wish lives, Challah. Thank you very much. But hey, I should be used to being the sloppy second son by now. So our cat receiving shabbier, selective tenderness treatment from my Dad shouldn’t be such a painful shock to my system anymore either. Like Trans Father Day, not being a thing on Twitter yet. Get over yourself Nipple tits, either you’re an involved father who doesn’t specialize in selective tenderness or not. Plus, feeling fucked over shouldn’t be such a major shock to your system anymore either, sloppy second sons included. Resisting selective tenderness, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth