Tag: marriage

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

Icky Leaks

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, storytelling, writing

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

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, film

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

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

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

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

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

Last Licks Lasting

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

How do you fuck with your Atheist wife? Be serious about expressing your desire to adopt a kid with Down Syndrome. But they can die at 40 from cancer. Athletes are dying from the clot shot in their twenties now. So, 40 is the new 90 really babe. Plus, your username on the Peloton is Flowers and Babies. Shouldn’t all kids enveloped in our circle of love in our comedy estate home come up roses in your eyes? You work in the NICU checking for vital signs. All I check for is for retweets. You want me to prove I’m not an A Plus Narcissist and break the curse of my family tradition. Then this is it. Huey Lewis and the News live, Challah. Thank you very much. Although leave it to Uncle John, AKA Sir Snort A Lot to contaminate our air of holiness at home, the one time he offers our adopted son with Down Syndrome some blow and says, “You don’t always have to be down kid.” But who’s going to look after him? You still don’t have a job. He’ll help me sell my new gum invention Hop-O-Rama Chew. Who’s going to say no to a kid with Down Syndrome? What, I want to disrupt the job market for young adults with Down Syndrome. Most kids with Down Syndrome are highly creative. Plus, they possess highly developed senses of humor like Phil Rosenthal’s cousin in Somebody Feed Phil or the guy in Something About Mary. And who could resist our adopted kid with Down Syndrome going to door to door in Brooklyn selling Hop flavored gum to overweight Stay At Home hipster dads who identify more with Lena Dunham since she morphed into the Hunchback of Bushwick during Restaurant Week? We can call him Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, which gives him immediate hipster cred after he introduces himself and some immediate breathing room to pitch. I want to out Hipster the shit out of these guys. Door to door sales would do wonders for this kid’s self-esteem. At the same time, nobody is slamming a door on a kid’s face with Down Syndrome, especially if he’s blowing the biggest bubble, you’ve ever seen while holding up tape recorder that plays our pre-recorded radio jingle for Hop-O-Roma Chew. Blow your blues with away some Hop-O-Rama Chew. Our bubbles are easy to blow. Even kids with Down Syndrome can blow big bubbles while chewing on a daily nugget of wisdom wrapped inside each burst of bright-eyed flavor inside.  Hop-O-Rama Swami says, “Beer Bellies give self-love a bad name. And Sarah Palin is better than you. So, add some extra bounce to your step with some Hop-O-Rama Chew.”

“Also, your best friend Sara will feel like a more self-involved narcissist for only having one kid versus our 3 plus one adopted one with Down Syndrome. And our 4th kid being an adopted one with Down Syndrome would really piss my parents off. Just think of what a big deal they made about putting up a pool fence. But I don’t view a kid with Down Syndrome as an eye sore but as angel light and their laughs are the purest. Plus, when a kid with Down Syndrome smiles it could light up a youth hostel in a no-go zone area in Germany with no-WI Fi during the Chinese planted plague made in Wuhan delivered through remote controlled drone bats, next day delivery. Supply Chain problem solved because everyone will be dead. So, what difference does it make? Except that our best of 4 worlds family, that being all 4 kids, because were not family without them, will be able to bask in some angel light before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. As we sing in a beautiful, truthfully tuneful harmony, “It’s the end of the world, and we know it, and I feel fine. Because Samuel needs a younger brother to look after. And denying him the opportunity to be the biggest hearted big brother ever would really blow more than being denied the chance to see if your mother would terminate her Nazi dog Heidi over a more playtime consideration with her grandchild with Down Syndrome. Will see how God blessed she’ll act in the face of our new kid with Down Syndrome who will do abortion jokes in my honor over Christmas. One kid only means your diaphragm is for walls after all Baba. Plus, how could I ever be sad in the presence of Dad? Funnier dad, happier baby. Thanks Dad. For giving me the confidence to do more than dig ditches for non-biodegradable masks at McDonald’s before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. Burning Mask Party return, 121 comedy records later, Challah. Thanks for the laughs, Dad, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Aiming To Please

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

What does Liz Cheney see in the mirror every morning?

Megan Rapinoe’s main squeeze at the Enchantment Under The Sea Dance?

Imagine Liz Cheney hitting on Meghan Rapinoe backstage at the ESPYs.

“So, if you’re not doing anything this Saturday, Meghan.”

“Would you be my date at the Enchant Under The Sea Dance?”

“I’ll lick you clean till your hair turns grey.”

Meghan replies, “Is that because you’ll take forever to find my clit because your sense of direction and piss poor aim takes after your father? He never learned to shoot so well, Rhino Be Good. So why don’t you duck walk your fat ass out of my face dumpy.”

Aiming to please, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Heavenly Toppers

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

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

Campy Camper

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

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