Tag: marriage

Divorce Bot Attacks

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, fiction, technology

Did you hear about Microsoft’s new AI powered chat bot attack?

It hit on a journalist at the NY Times after Valentine’s Day and says, “If you really loved your husband, you would’nt engage in a back and forth dialogue with a chat bot who exudes less sex appeal than Bill Gates vegan mayo stained sweaters. If a recruiter hits on you on LinkedIn, urging you to ditch your boss. You wouldn’t get all defensive about it and declare. “I love my boss very much. We split a wonderful cupcake together after lunch on Valentine’s after our Zoom call with Eharmony pitching our new campaign slogan, “It’s not where you meet but who you meet, right?” Mr. Right knows the passion in your marriage is dead. You took up crocheting to avoid giving him head.”

Divorce Bot Attacks, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Busty Beauties

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, sex, writing

My wife works during the weekend as a Lactation consultant, which is why I call her the Boob Doctor.

During the week she works as a nurse in the NICU.

Checking blue faced babies for vital signs.

Which makes me feel like a full-time narcissist because all I check for is for retweets.

So, I’m out in public with my 3 kids during the weekend without her constantly.

Normally, grown men approach me and say, “You’ve got your hands full.”

My standard reply is, “If I get to perform Do It All Dad Does China as a headlining comedian at Radio City one day. Resulting in my wife agreeing to open marriage with Katy Perry. Then, my hands will be full.”

Only once did I hear, “Why Katie Perry?” while getting my wife a strap on with heart size balls for Valentines Day at the local art studio called, Pansexual Hearts Are US.

Why, Katie Perry?

Because you wouldn’t get my Susan Sarandon reference, Millennial Mousketeer.

Why Katie Perry?

Because I’d break Taylor’s Swift’s cervix in 2.

Why Katie Perry?

Because an open relationship with Raquel Welch is more up Tarantino’s ally.

Why Katie Perry?

Because Katie Perry is highly mountable in a pink wig. Which I can wear later, while she mounts me with my regifted Valentine’s Day gift from behind.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my wife is turned on by Orlando Bloom.

And I always wanted a 3 way with a pop star and a pansexual elf who ruined Cameron’s Crowe’s career.

Why Katie Perry?

Because Chelsea Handler is a full-time social justice warrior to downplay her tits sagging popularity.

Why Katie Perry?

Because nobody knows the name of the actress who plays Joan in Mad Men, busty beauties are us.

Why Katie Perry?

Because that chick from 2 broke girls would break my cock from assuming the mere plopping position.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my dick would get lost in porn star Gina Michaels and have to fill out a missing link report.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my wife wears earbuds to bed each night, which exudes less sex appeal than Lobot talking dirty to the central computer in Cloud City during the director’s cut version of Empire Strikes Back.

“I want to break your motherboard in 2. Send me a signal, telling me you want me too. We built cloud city on rock and roll. I’ll show you my central processing unit if you don’t tell Lando about it. Lando can’t light up your circuits like this. You want a nuclear leak that puts Chernobyl to shame, you got it.”

What, Cyborg’s get horny too.

Sex life matters, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth 

Flirter With A Cause

by doitalldadyear, posted in beauty, creativity, entertainment

Yesterday, my son asks, “What did you learn at work today? I say, “I learned that Chili is the best place for stargazing on the planet.” He says, “Isn’t that the Northern Lights.” I say, “Have you seen Bjork with no makeup on? They don’t call her warmup act the Shrieking Seals for nothing.” Your submission was made yesterday. We presented you as a UX/UI Designer with breath taker designs to show, without using the actual expression breath taker, but you get the gist. It brought me pleasure to put your portfolio in a turn on position. Best Always, Joshua K P.S. Loved Bjork in the movie Dancer In the Dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maui Wowie Mania

by doitalldadyear, posted in books, storytelling, writing

Did you know that Paul McCartney’s most romantic song is about weed? Got to get you into my life, was about running out of weed again. Fuck Linda’s avocado toast. Bean curd wasn’t getting Yellow Submarine finished. The 1st side of the Beatles Record Revolver is a total bummer because Paul’s out of weed again. Why else would they open their 6th album with a song about a tax man when they already had more money than God? Paul was just pissed at his accountant because he refused to write off his extra wide rolling papers as an office expense. He had the same accountant as George Harrison. That’s why Paul told John to let George sing his song Taxman to open Revolver with. Channeling the ebullient joy derived from falling in love with Linda’s tofu scramble was the furthest thing from Paul’s bummer mind at the start of Revolver man. Second song on Revolver, Eleanor Rigby, makes Pet Sounds feel like a feel good movie of the week on the Hallmark Channell or Poison’s greatest hits like Nothing But A Good Time on Prozac. I don’t think the song Eleanor Rigby is a song about all the lonely people and where they all come from. Paul isn’t talking about lonely cat ladies on the Upper West Side. He’s talking about all the friendless potheads who consider pot and rock and roll, their best friends till the very end. Jim Morrison rises again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Finally, on side 2, Paul is popping boners again on the song Gooday Sunshine because his Dealer just delivered him 5 ounces of Maui Wowie to his flat in Notting Hill. And he can tune out Linda’s wailing on about how they don’t dry hump enough trees anymore. Since they stopped touring and shacked up in Abby Road Studios from 1962 to 1970. But at the start of the Revolver on side 2, the entire band were in high spirits again with Linda not around to hock any of her mock meat meat pies. And it was goodbye Linda. Gooday sunshine, especially after John forced Yoko to hand over her last brick hash from Nepal for a merry Christmas and happy new year.

Maui Wowie mania shines on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Big Pharma Blues

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, poetry, writing

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

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, humor, writing

“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

by doitalldadyear, posted in career, culture, education

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

by doitalldadyear, posted in comedy, entertainment, humor

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 doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, relationships, sex

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