Campy Camper

Mom calls. Can I speak with the kids about any camp updates?

I say, “You shipped me off to Sleepaway Camp for 8 years in a row for what felt like 3 years at the time, that went on longer than Paul Resier as the MC during the 92nd Street Y series on why Baby Boomer arrogance never dies. As I counted the days till Color War was over, which always made me feel whiter than White man’s Disease, at a Jew boy sleepaway camp in Kent, CT no less, especially knowing how I was the second worst athlete after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck. Yet I don’t recall you ever asking whether I was gay about going back to camp again mom or ever bothering to ask me how I liked being called Homo Head or Sphincter Clit, after you packed me jars of Vaseline like I was about to be shipped off to gay conversion camp despite that jar of Vaseline getting less touches than a Bible in a Bathhouse colony in Pronvincetown. Where Bathhouse Barry was broken in by Michelle Obama, What’s Talent Got To Do With It Turner, during their honeymoon phase. But at the time, I still had no understanding of how Vaseline was the AJAX’s man’s grown-up version of Slip and Slide with the Village People. Before Harry Styles came out as a Cherry Blossom Popping lube enthusiast under his new line of lifestyle lubes, Pan Sexual Brits Are Us. Because my sex education back then mom, was only limited to Taste Of Amber, Topless Tudors and Mountain Of Muff, on the VHS Tape mix tape that my Japanese American friend Kohji Toung made for me, that was a true labor of love on par with the chiseled lats on David that pointed you straight toward his gluteus maximus, which in Latin means, “Sphincter on Fire.”

Although I was super gay about the time when I jerked off in the bunk bathroom once and had to wipe up with the cardboard roller and decided to put it back inside the holder. Only to laugh the hardest I’ve ever laughed after this fat troll from Dalton prep yells, “Gross”, before realizing that his hand was covered in cum while trying to wipe his own ass. I literally turned the toilet paper dispenser into my own glory role repository. And I’ve never laughed harder, having to the bite down on my crusty blanket to prevent myself from being busted as the sole source behind such perverse howls of merriment masked delight. So, blowing 4 grand on camp that summer was totally worth it ma, Vaseline coupons included.”

I was written off as a nutty fruitcake by my mother and was written out of the will in real time in case you’re wondering despite my happy ending to that call. Can I get a Challah, for Love Limit Limitations? Last time I checked, Gropin Biden’s expired.

Fake news friend from college who pretends The Icky Shuffle actually beat Trumpy Poo says, “What do you think about Roe vs. Wade? ” I say, “I never get personal. But atheist cunts always act like they’re on the rag regardless.”

He didn’t laugh.

I text back, “Did you grow a vagina overnight? If so, I’d stay away from Biden in Delaware during local stump speeches on Making Skinny Dipping great again in front of his secret service agents stationed at his Greenville estate home, while murmuring to those female agents stuck on Presidential security detail, “I told you I was bigger than Boogie Boarder. Icky Shuffle showers with his daughter according to his daughter’s diaries. So, unlike Trumpy Poo, the Icky Shuffle is less likely to discriminate against who rubs against his dirty grandpa goo.”

Love limit limitations live, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Avenging Ghosters

I’m loving my monogamous relationship with sobriety. Straying from sobriety will only make me feel like a dirtier Jew than usual like going to the massage parlor on occasion, regardless of my conscious feeling squeaky clean soon afterwards, knowing how my grizzled Reflexology Therapist wasn’t yanked off the boat yesterday.

If I go to an AA meeting in the future, I’m going to introduce myself as a Scumbag Strayer Slayer, which sounds less defeatist depressing than, “Hi, my name is Michael Kornbluth and I’m a degenerate Jew alcoholic who has to use his fingers to figure out simple arithmetic. Daughter says, “Daddy, how many zeros are in a billion? Daddy, did you really have to ask Alexa for that? Doesn’t this disqualify me from getting Bat Mitzvahed? Are you financially illiterate daddy? I’m wondering if your Hebrew name, Money Bags Mordecai is under Judicial Review.”

Scumbag Strayer Slayer slays on, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Heavenly Toppers

If you don’t want to make out with your daughter. It’s because she’s wearing mama’s cloths again. That’s when the glitter fades. At least now my daughter won’t bang the stripper pole for a living as Destiny Epiphany anytime soon either, doing her best J Lo act at the Super Bowl, hoping Ben Affleck drunk dials her again. Mission accomplished. Unholy father makes show me your cock and balls Sandler blush. Heavenly toppers towering on, all up your gaping anus hole. Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Flexing On

Whenever a friend from high school who’s at the midpoint in his life like myself, announces to our text chain about having a 1st time kid. My collective response is the same inside each time, “Oof.” Or I think to myself. “And I thought my stand-up comedy act was guilty of bad timing.” It’s not as if I decided to become a working comedian since I came out as a COVID truther comedian 2 plus years ago. It would be one thing if my friends were trying to deliberately get their girlfriends/wives pregnant with their new and improved seed for 2 decades in a row. Only then, could I celebrate with feel good cheer about their collective pregnancy announcements knowing they’ve been directing feel good vibes toward fun under the sun holes for so long. Because if you’re still committed to jamming your pussy plunger wrecker rearranger into an omnipresent, rapidly expanding abyss for decades at a time with the same level of excitable boy glee and still able to get it up for mount worthy tomorrows. It means you’re in love with the act of creation the way I’ve been trying to bang out Sheets of Comedy Gold since I got under Lady Laugh’s skin 2 decades ago and counting. So, what’s my birthing father theory exactly Ayn Rand? My friends who got their woman pregnant in their forties, had no hobbies under COVID house arrest to give them sustained stiffage, so they did their in-house bitches greater frothy frequency on too many pills and jack and cokes instead. Plus, they’re woman have bigger tits, offering more fun filled fucks per doing it, doing it well, compared to my wife 3 unplanned kids later, because I never mastered the art of the pump fake. Wife says, “I’ve sacrificed to.” She acts like an aspiring comedian in his late twenties wanted kids ever. And we had a 3 way once before I got my wife pregnant by mistake. Because I was a major stoner back then who blanked on asking her whether she was on the pill. I’ve had 2 3 ways in my life, so I can’t be bitter, which is 2 more than most. Although I can’t say, I maximized the most amount of maximum spewing joy from these 3-ways sessions because I didn’t assume the role of Traffic Controller once. Insisting both girls assume synchronized ball licking detail in one seamless manner while have one draw a line down the middle of my good life-giving sack. So, the 2-ball salivating cum dumpsters understood the clear division lines of labor from the start before I promoted them to full blown lock jock love at the top. Also, it’s hard to have a wildly successful 3-way if you suck at multi-tasking. If only the Evernote app existed in my twenties and thirties. Keep that left nut moist. I just need to check my Evernote to do list today. Oh yeah, almost forgot. Start doing a sixty-nine with each other and I’ll take turns fucking you from behind after the Alexa timer goes after 2 minutes for each pump session, deal? This way, I’ll guarantee a more inclusive puncture pleasure experience. We can also diversify and graduate to anal later if my super soaker continues to slip out faster than Rebel Wilson’s chopped off tits on a Slip and Slide. Golden God Plant flexes on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Dragon Lungs Fires Back

At 10 my daughter has breast buds. Wife says, “She’s the last person in class to get them.” I say, “Then, why haven’t yours sprouted yet?”

Insult for my daughter to use on a mean girl bully in her class who calls herself Charlie Bear. Shut your bear trap Charlie, you commie bastard. Take the 1st shot, my friends and I will get the last lick in, and we will all go down together. Billy Joel lives, when the Lionshare of his greatest hits were considered lullaby music for eighties Republicans, Challah, thank you very much.

Son says, “Daddy, did you know 2022 is the year of the Tiger? ” I say, “I thought COVID vax patent owners and financiers of the made in Wuhan virus like Dr. Gnocchi and Bill Gates made it the year of the Four Eyed Snakes, my bad.” Challah, thank you very much.

Youngest son makes a dragon out of an egg carton during arts and crafts. I say, “Samuel, you’re too young to ask me why I called myself Dragon Lungs in college. Son says, “Because you were a blast off time moron long time, all the time in college, which is why it took you 5 years to graduate.” Challah, thank you very much.

Rachel Maddow is taking 2 weeks off from her show to block out the trauma of Chris Matthews harassing her yenta breath intern from Syosset, Long Island when he said, “Eating out Maddow, counts as your lunch break, babe.” Now, Rachel Maddow will be able to work on a new film documentary project directed by Ben Stiller called, “Cuomo, No I Don’t Want Jump Off My Own Bridge.” Challah, thank you very much.

Just to fuck with fair weather friends who couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge my text including a Grinding Out Greatness bit about Charlize Theron grinding off Anthony Mason’s dick off in the Woody Allen Movie Celebrity because they think I give a shit about their imposed measured indifference in relation to my surging mojo that keeps on rising, rising, I send a follow text paragraph that reads, “Magic Johnson caught palling around with Gavin Newsom at the Ram’s game isn’t the most flattering look since the governor is forcing vax shots on kids that cause more fertile issues than Magic’s gay son out of the womb. Forget the heart damage caused by these experimental vaccinations on kids who have been forced to become more emotionally jilted than Michael Jackson’s adopted kids on holiday in Bahrain. It’s not that I watch football anymore because I don’t endorse kneeling athletes who think it’s good look to kick Nazi destroyers in the nuts, again and again. But why the fuck would Magic Johnson be happy to pal around for the cameras with Gavin Newsome in the skybox? Metrosexual Getko has single handily turned the sunshine scurrying state into an abandoned tent city, sponsored by REI. Brentwood isn’t even considered safe for hairless Persian men to go cruising for Milo in town at a local Oxygen after Alex Jones has sucked down all the tanks for yelling at Fox News for not even reporting on the Canadian trucker caravan that has Trudeau running to Obama’s man cave in Martha’s Vineyard where he hides his secret stash of Almond Joy’s behind giant boxes of duct tape from Costco. Joan lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Did you know schools banned marking your tests with red marker? And we wonder why China gets away with biological warfare without batting an eye.

Son says, “Daddy, are you hoping the Groundhog shows his shadow, so we get 2 more weeks of winter?” I say, “Bill Murray will remain perpetually smug regardless, despite a puppet government installed with shadowy ties to China through Hunter Biden’s laptop since the day Democracy died. So, what difference does it make? Challah, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, strikes again. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth