Racist Alien Attacks

“Nobody ever wrote the song, Waiting for A Fallen Angel Alien Like You”, tweets a frenzied, 10-foot-tall alien, RH Negative 5000, from a Mars espresso bar, with excellent WIFI, as he looks down on Earth with a mix of surging envy and desperate urgency, knowing if he can’t find a virgin earthling with RH negative blood to get him pregnant by midnight tonight, then his race of Fallen Angels Aliens from Mars will disintegrate into the cosmos, as would’ve been super angel contenders forever.

This secret race of fallen angels on Mars aren’t allowed to abduct and rape any old earthling into getting them pregnant either, despite Andy Dick’s repeated offers on dating sites such as, Intergalactic Beams Up My Anus Hole.com.  Finding a virgin earthing with RH negative blood is hard enough, knowing those creatures are normally emotionally evolved, blessed with superior physical prowess in the sack compared to their medium length earthlings, including stars such as Leonardo DiCaprio, Jim, MOJO rising, Morrison and Bob Marley for starters. “Bob Marley banged out 12 kids, but isn’t ganja supposed to drains your life shooter dry?  It’s fake news man”, RH Negative 5000 tweets in a race against time to save his race of fallen angels of imminent ruin, knowing all the weed in the world won’t get Seth Rogan’s kid brother to knock up RH Negative 5000, even though he could transform his body into any dream physique he wanted, despite looking like an erect Serpent and guitar God Steve Vai had a baby, when he didn’t have to change his appearance to get a virgin earthling into sticking it his alien, procreation hole.

The other problem being for RH Negative 5000, is how only 10 percent of the earth population was RH Negative, and due the advent of the Internet, dick pick swiping sites and online porn, virgins are pickier and more selective than ever before, and I don’t recall Alien porn being a popular hashtag category on Youporn.com nor was Pete Townsend ever caught clicking on Soapy Alien Bottom Boys.com, in the name of new song research about a Pinball Wizard who gets probed by a race of white , pure blood, RH negative aliens, for his out this world, old school arcade game prowess because playing Guitar Hero on the XBOX get’s played out fast, when you can do mind blowing, Pete Townsend solo’s from Live At Leeds with five arms doing non-stop windmills out of your ass.

Little did RH Negative 5000 know, that one his followers on Twitter was 9-year-old girl from horse country in North Salem, NY who believed in fallen angels, especially since her father was a conspiracy theorist comedian Michael Kornbluth, named after the archangel who applied the final smackdown kick on the Loose Lipped Lucifer, which kicked him out of Heaven to his new liar in the Hollywood Hills behind Bill Cosby’s house for good. Actually, Matilda just got her family tree report from Ancestry.com and confirmed ancestry with RH Negative blood, who lived in Boswell, New Mexico, otherwise known as the Mecca for UFO landings, on earth, because Fallen Angels aliens from Mars knew Val Kilmer owned a ranch nearby, which was cool enough for them, knowing he played one of their kind in the Doors with such as believable, otherworldly authority.

Now, Matilda was always intrigued by the Twitter handle, RH Negative 5000, especially the profile shot of what looked like an extra scaly, greenish guitar God Steve Vai, after puking his brains from breaking his one month fast with In and Out Burgers, animal style, in his attempt to pen a sequel to his masterful magnum opus guitar swansong for the ages, For The Love Of God, stop letting Twitter teach your kids Dr. Seuss is racist, he’s not.

Matilda loved her father reading Dr. Seuss books to her, especially when he’d make his own rhymes if Dr. Seuss got a tad repetitive again, because he’s guilty of peaking early. The other night actually, her Do It All Comedian Dad did some riffing to her extreme delight to unearth some comedy gold material after the latest and greatest Dr. Seuss cancelation movement from the side of tolerance, unity and joy spreading peace and says, “Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist then, it’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.”

What Matilda love most about her daddy reading her Dr. Seuss books was how he adopted his infectious love of rhyme, always pointing out how Walt Clyde Frazier, NBA broadcaster for the Knicks was in the fact the slickest, tongue twisting cat of his time.  More importantly, Matilda loved how her school was celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday this week for national reading appreciation month at her school, who was born in March like herself, which in her book was extra cool. This coming Friday, it was silly switch day in honor of Dr. Seuss, which Matilda found extra comical because despite having 2 working parents on all the Adderall in the world, she could never find a pair of matching socks for school ever, which made every day for her, Mismatched Sock Day.  

Matilda’s comedian father encouraged Matilda to open a Twitter account for her 10th birthday to use as a humongous open mike to test out her poems because she wanted to become the female Dr. Seuss, with a PHD in Counseling Psychology, in her final paper arguing, how time release Adderall is legalized cocaine in addition to being a gateway drug to weed to high octane IPA’s to chill out your aggravated, easily avoidable added noise in their mind. While also making the argument how a time-release dark chocolate smoothie can help maintains these kid’s inner, sparky essence while helping increase their powers of concentration in addition to being much lighter on the heart, compared to big pharma cranked out speed to.

Now, the moment Matilda got a Twitter account, Twitter suggested she start following RH Negative 5000, so she did.  RH Negative 5000 already on his 5000th cup of espresso, without any clue as how to audition, let alone recruit, virgins with RH Negative to impregnate him to keep his race of Alien Fallen Angels alive. So in a desperate Hail Mary attempt, sends a direct message to Matilda on Twitter and says, “Do you have any virgin cousins who are RH negative in Roswell, New Mexico interested in knowing what Fallen Angel Alien Love Is?” Matilda being a huge Foreigner fan, because her Daddy pushed the band on her early and often, in his pursuit to be a podcast comedian hero of his own replies to the DM and says, “I have a Cousin Jonathan whose still a virgin at 15. He’s very picky. Plus, his Dad homeschooled through the ME To movement and only sent him packing for Junior High with his Kiss backpack flush with pre-poundage release forms. My cousin Jonathan is also really into Joe Satriani and played Surfing With An Alien for his Bar Mitzvah Party from start to finish, so it’s worth a shot. ”

RG 5000 replies, “I have to get pregnant with a virgin earthling with a RG negative blood, or my fallen angel race will never be given our wings again to swoop down to the Kennedy compound to seduce the next Marilyn Monroe impersonator they hire for another July 4th annual barbeque retreat. Marilyn had R negative blood, which makes sense, because her slamming bod is impossible to clone, let alone replicate. But were not too picky and are used to sloppy seconds on Mars for the past 5000 years actually. Also, I have the power to turn into any female form your cousin desires, if he isn’t into having sex with alien Steve Vai drag Queen look alike.”

Matilda ponders this big ask request and replies back, “I’ll make the call, but you have to do me a favor 1st.” R5 5000 says, “Whatever you want, just name it.” Matilda says, “Abduct Spike Lee and threaten to anally probe him before giving him an intergalactic Tossed Salad if he doesn’t stick up for Dr. Seuss and buy the movie rights to,”And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St?, starring Chazz Palminteri, playing some second generation pizza maker in the early eighties in the Bronx who gave Grandmaster Flash the freedom to play his demo tapes in pizzeria on his boom box on Frank Sinatra’s birthday to make every day feel like Black Appreciation Day, deal?”

RJ 5000 replies, “I better morph into Pam Grier from the seventies, snag Richard Pryor’s old strap on from eBay and tap Bill Cosby’s old Quaalude dealer in the Hills to make Spike loosen up to the idea before he pens the screenplay, Racist Alien Attacks Boy, instead. I’m in no rush to get canceled and kicked off Twitter, before my planet implodes just yet.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Maiden Bartender

You met one Iron Maiden fan, you met them all right? Iron Maiden fans wear out those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets, even into their late thirties to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge such diehard fanatic fans are incapable of generating on their own.  Granted, Bruce Dickenson the more exalted, replacement lead singer star of Iron Maiden, otherwise known as the human air raid siren, boasts a supernatural voice, which pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal heaven. Still, it’s impossible to not grow tired of his rapid fire, Spinal Tap conjuring caricature of what an English heavy metal howler should like in Samuel Johnson’s speed metal phonics dictionary under Game Of Thrones horse charging music. At least, that’s’ what the Cruise Comedian, Michael Rocker thought, as he entered a colonial constructed, seaside, shipbuilding town of Mystic, CT, where Julia Roberts shot the movie Mystic Pizza, and entertained the grips on the set by fisting her mouth in between takes to ensure they made it her look the most flattering in the face of such frigid, east coast winter light.  

Now, Michael Rocker, a tall, athletic looking, preppy casual comic orders a drink and says, “Hey, what local IPA’s do you recommend? The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline statuesque dirty blond, sporting an Iron Maiden tattoo on her defined, yet not overtly chiseled deltoid replies, “I don’t know, that all depends, on how much hardcore bitter bite you can take. I mean, are you interested in merely quenching your thirst with a session filler beer? Or would you prefer  to get your hardcore freak on for Karaoke night with something boozier and more funktastic like a Fat Orange Cat’s Trippel IPA, stud.” The Cruise Comic says, “I’ll take the Trippel IPA, hot stuff,” as he tries hard not to lick his lips, wanting to inhale her on the spot.

Sitting next to the Cruise Comic at the bar, is a hunched, tired, lanky, dirty blond, long-haired guy in his late thirties, sporting bad acne spots, from a poor diet full of too much beef Jerky and cheap vodka tonics, reeking of stale, Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody appeal after the 1st drag whatsoever.  The Cruise Comic get’s the impression, the Newport cigarette guy who’s sporting a black Iron Maiden shirt under his faded, torn jean jacket, is here solo as usual, so he decides to sample some new jokes on him in preparation for his upcoming cruise tour heading to Jamaica for spring break the following morning. Cruise Comic makes eye contact with the Iron Maiden fan and says, “Nice Maiden shirt. You must know the wrestler and Fozzy front man Chris Jericho then? Maiden dude replies, “Duh, who doesn’t? Immediately, the Cruise Comic becomes engulfed with extreme annoyance, regretting his attempt to bond with this local in his attempt to play it cool with the hot bad ass bartender and snaps back with, “Be honest, don’t you think Iron Maiden is a poor man’s Judas Priest, with far less sing along, radio friendly hits, being forced to rely on catchy, merchandising gimmickry to radiate a cooler, far less Dungeons and Dragons nerdy veneer instead? And who is the Eddie mascot on Iron Maiden shirts supposed to be anyway? He looks like a cyborg mummy and a virile Crypt Keeper in his prime had a baby?  Run For The Hills is a good running song, for Daniel Day Lewis to crank up when he trained for his role in the Last of the Mohicans.”

The bartender can’t help but chuckle, doing her best to not let Cruise Comedian know it. Still, she decides to interject, knowing fighting words were just thrown down in this normally peaceful waterfront town and says, “Hey, Eddie, don’t listen to him. He’s not sophisticated enough to understand the intricacies and sweeping historical, majestic sweep that went to Power Slave and the other 40 records of English speed metal mastery at it’s finest. Next vodka and tonic is on me babe, don’t sweat it.” Cruise Comedian is turned on by the bartender’s friendly infused fiery cheer, especially knowing this was her way of pleasing a local and flirting with him big time and says, “She’s right Eddie, that’s your name Eddie just like the Iron Maiden mascot, wow. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just putting Iron Maiden down to feel better about myself. That’s what hack cruise comics do.  I think Poison, Motely Crew and Cinderella rock out just as hard and boast infinitely catchier, kick as metal pop anthems, which ooze forceful, heartfelt personality versus sounding like systematic howling knights on horseback but what do I know Eddie. Didn’t mean to offend your hardcore fanatical Maiden sensibilities bud.”  Eddy’s face become ensnarled in acne scar shades of red as he clenches his callous hardened, burn laden hands and says, “Dude, I’m a dishwasher on a cruise ship, I don’t need to take this shit.” The Cruise Comedian says, “I’m a lowly Cruise Comedian hack comedian, so it’s a wash mate. Looking forward to docking in Jamaica though. This is my impression of Ziggy Marley being interviewed by High Times Magazine for their annual 4/20 issue.  “Ziggy, your dad had 11 kids, but I thought ganja drained your life blaster dry. Ziggy replies, “Fake news man.” Cruise comic finally scores a tension diffusing laugh. Eddie says, “That was a good one. Perhaps, I take my obsession with Iron Maiden a tad too seriously at times. Thing is, you get pretty cagy as a cruise ship dishwasher, all alone with Iron Maiden tunes of wanton destruction stuck in your head.” Cruise Comic says, “No problem dude, I was being a big dick prior, sometimes my riffing veers into full fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer to. Do you smoke your mind with the crystal specked bud? Eddie the dishwasher says, “Yeah, I mean, what loner burnout Maiden head in high school didn’t. You never outgrow the soothing lift the green gives a loner burnout at heart.  Cruise comic says, “Did you know 4/20 was Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” Eddie the Dishwasher says, “Oh, so you’re Jewish. That’s why you’re so annoying and pushy with your material. Well, nobody’s perfect except Beth the bartender.”

Beth the bartender commands the stage and clenches the mike to belt out Run for the Hills on the Karaoke stage with incredible, hardcore edge feeling to make a jaded, English metal resisting, cruise comic willing to give British speed metal another shot. All that was missing was a hardcore female touch and some added funktastic feeling with some sexy metal sass to match.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Loud Man’s Disease

How loud was Do It All Dad? For starters, when seeing Aerosmith live in Las Vegas 2 summers ago with close seats to the stage before a mask muzzle was designed to kill freedom of speech forever, his incessant hollering and wooing, made lead singer Steven Tyler, shoot off retaliatory hate stares of disgust in his direction which screamed, “Somebody shut this loudmouth Jew up already. This is my showcase career retrospective, not his. I didn’t blow millions on blow and almost derail my stadium selling out career in the seventies to have this big-headed putz project louder than me without a microphone, Joe Perry and a state-of-the-art sound system working in his magnifying favor either.”

There was also the time Do It All Dad saw Dice in a casino in Arizona with his younger brother, only for the Dice Man to single out the loudmouth Jew and yell with exasperated force, “You’re an asshole”, and all he was doing was laughing longtime all the time prior while sporadically yelling, “Dice Lives, holla, thank very much.” Dice was so flummoxed by Do It All Dad’s laugh throaty roar, he beelined into his nursey rhymes prematurely way ahead of schedule to get the fuck out of dodge at a hard 45 minutes into his set.

Then, there was the time when Do It All Dad saw Bon Jovi at Mohegan Sun with his daughter Matilda, fairly up in the nose bleed seats this time behind the stage, yet his bombastic, rocket fueled voice, still managed to get under Zebra print’s skin, as the old school long cowboy from Jersey, projected a damning you ain’t shit thousand-yard stare toward Mr. Loud Man’s Disease general direction, as he sang along with rock star blasting authority, “Bad Medicine is all I need.”  

Do It All Dad didn’t only piss off living legendary comedians and hall of fame rock star front men with surefire, unintentional precision. His omnipresent Loud Man’s Disease enraged his normally English dour, future father-in-law over a dinner at his home in Delaware only 2 minutes after grace, compelling him to bark out in depleted, drained already disgust, “He’s more talkative than the other one.” The other one being the gentile mute from Indiana, his daughter was engaged to before his daughter found her real deal partner in love this time, at least for the time being.

The major issue now was Do It All Dad’s loud man disease causing his son Art Show USA to develop all-consuming migraine headaches, leading his son to sport a permanent PMS face, until he started to take up mainlining extra strength Tylenol again. And Do It All Dad’s son was tough. How tough you ask? Well, when Art Show USA required stiches for tripping on top of an empty IPA glass on the ground and had to wait 1000 lifetimes in the emergency room so the other doctors could serve all the 1st in line dreamers in attendance, the doc gave Do It All Dad 2 options, “Either A) Authorize the doc using an anesthesia which would take 20 minutes to kick in, or B) To stich up his son the spot as his gaping gash continued to open wider than Octomom after push 5000. Do It All Dad chose B, only for the doctor to say, “Your kid is tough.” Do It All Dad inquires, “Indulge me doc, how tough?” Doc says, “One time there was this black kid from Brooklyn.” Do It All Dad says, “Sold already Doc. Thanks for giving my son tough guy bragging rights for me to derive vicarious pride from till my last dying breath.”

But how was Do It All Dad going to solve his Loud Man’s Disease exactly? Would triple masking even get the job done, after getting his tonsils taken out for an extra safe precaution to? Would Do It All Dad become a eunuch monk, despite already feeling this way at times from being a Stay-At-Home Dad, bitchy underling until his comedy writing career achieved blast off already? Would Do It All Dad seek out a Voodoo Doctor in Washington Heights to cure his Loud Man’s Disease by changing his pigmentation to ESL Asian?

What could Do It All Dad do to prevent his son from receiving any more debilitating headaches in his presence again? Finally, Do It All Dad devised a cure all solution. He’d buy his son a pair of Bose noise canceling headphones to wear in his presence and teach him fucking sign language. Because native New Yorkers were made to be heard.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Death Of A Bose Salesman

Once upon a time there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease.  He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin   and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song Hells Bells. Michael Yeller always believed louder is better until now because he was longer ablet to sing Search and Destroy by Iggy Pop and Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss anymore.   

Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders throughout the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding, the steel guitar slaying, Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop CC Deville from Poison. Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah but he already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.

After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA but IT Directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and non-descript, low key bars on random, zero foot traffic streets, unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl once. Eventually, Michael moved back to NY and did digital ad sales for Citysearch and started to try open mike stand up comedy. When working for Citysearch he’d say on stage, “Citysearch is city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.” But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rock star on stage, because if his 1st joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggy back off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any new inspired direction of hilarity he choose.  

At the Christmas party for CitySearch Michael sang his best rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting black out drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to Oh What A Feeling.

Knowing Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of Fallen Angel in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job, where his loud man disease could be neutralized, where it wouldn’t become such a career hindering liability and got a job in suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY selling state of the art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system all together. Michael would be selling noise cancelation headphones, “Yenta Silencers”, is what he’d call them specifically before sampling new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know Google fired 25 software engineers for sexual harassment? But software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”  

But one day during a demo presentation for AC/DC Back In Black on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell Church bell clang to Hells Bells. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, losing all semblance of voice control now whatsoever?

Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most bad ass metal rock records of all time, which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally. Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse and Van Halen with divine powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard non-stop-all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kick ass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again. In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore but he was still able to sell his love of loud, metal music through his blogs, and also had the kick ass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

The End

Michael Kornbluth