Tag: metal

Earthbound Heaven

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, storytelling, writing

Ridgefield, CT, doesn’t scream dreamy Metal Land, but it is, as the crowd roars to their feet to praise Guitar God Joe Satriani for the trip of a lifetime to the outer cosmos of our mind and back for only 110 bucks, no DMT discount from the Joe Rogan show required.

Last night, I played my son a video clip of Joe Satriani’s shredastic self on Surfing with An Alien from the Ridgefield Playhouse.

And my son says, “Learn how to play like that. Eat my butt wind, moron Jewish son.”

I say, “Joe Satriani gave Steve Vai guitar lessons at 16. And daddy is older than Aids.”

Son adds, “I don’t care, Daddy. Get lessons from Joe Satriani, anyway. The bus is coming. Reclusive rocker shreds, so get back to shredding already. Eat my butt wind, love you, Daddy, bye.”

The opening to Always With Me plays, and I’m in the delivery room with all 3 of my Snuggle Shine Snugglets again.

I never saw a show of any kind at the Ridgefield Playhouse. But what a chill, mature, handsome venue it is, like the neighboring town of Ridgefield, awash in stately, historically loaded glory.

I was expecting more members of Gen X to be in attendance, personally. Instead, I saw more adults and couples my parent’s age, which was a refreshing change of pace, because they’ve seen the evolution of hard rock metal 1st hand since the likes of Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, and Jimi Hendrix tore out the brain wiring of our DNA in exchange for something more elastic electric inside. Did GNR advance the sound of hard rock metal post-Aerosmith? Does Joe Perry require core balancing exercise tips on the Peloton app? Still, if Slash was the 90’s metal prototype, airy, tingly yet fierce, then Joe Satriani is 2050. Because if the sea levels do rise enough to come down crashing on us, at least we’ve had the soar-charged rush of what it feels like to hop on Joe Satriani’s killer cool wings as he takes us along for one rush-tastic ride after the next.

I was at one with the universe.

Hatred in my heart went poof.

Anxiety dissipated.

Worry took a hike up to Malibu around Adam Sandler’s funny man cave compound.

What about heavy metal music noise that makes us feel so alive?

Are words essential when the six-string can express more layered turbo-charged emotion than any sardonic-laced lyrics from Frank Zappa ever could? Watermelon In Easter Hay is purely instrumental and is Zappa’s best song by far; case closed.

I never saw Steve Vai in person, but I will now, so I can experience another true guitar virtuoso take flight while getting lost in such soul-flaming delight.

The knock-on guitar gods’ virtuosos like Joe Satriani and Steve Vai are that their concerts are self-indulgent jerk feasts.

And when you hear just one bulldozering smooth power riff on Thunder High On The Mountain, that flimsy premise is shattered into instantaneous smithereens.

Reducing Joe Satriani’s music as mere guitar hero filler is blasphemous beyond belief.

The moment he started strumming, I got catapulted to the top of Mount Metal, and I never wanted to come down.

A Joe Satriani concert must be experienced in person rather than through YouTube.

VR Goggles can’t simulate your heart flying through space at rocket-fueled powered speed.

And doesn’t your wife circumcise your happiness enough already?

Spotify can’t get you into the inner depth of Satriani’s space shredder land, either.

But only by seeing Joe Satriani live can you be awed by such jaw-dropping, melodic metal might.

I once read about how the Allman Brothers Band played for 6 hours at the Filmore East.

By the time they opened the doors, there was sunlight.

I only needed to hear the Elephants of Mars for one soartastic-stampede of sound to see the light.

Any doubt of metal sounding like cheesy, dated bimbette bobbing music just went out the freaking window.

Not that Joe Satriani’s spoken in the same breath as the bleached out Tasmanian Devil in the form of lead guitar shredder star CC Deville from Poison but still.

Still, what separates Joe Satriani from other mortal men is how he immerses you inside a song, more than his army of winged guitars already has.

When you hear Joe Satriani play in person, you’re also inside the rocket ship of his soul-powered brain.

When you hear Joe Satriani play in person, you’ll look down at your seat to see if your seatbelt is on before you’re braced to be hurled off to Mars and back next.

AC/DC’s Back in Black inspired me to play air guitar, leading to me using my youngest son Hardcore Hunga Rocks, as my mini air guitar appendage.

Yet getting lost in Joe Satriani’s wall of wailing sound is different.

You’re taking the rocket ship to the outer cosmos of your mind and back with renewed verve and holy-powered awe.

You’re surfing with an alien and giving Jerry Garcia a high five on the rings of Saturn as Captain Trips rollerblades with Mountain Girl in jam band Heaven simultaneously.

The song, All My Friends Are Here, feels like a modernized refresh of the Boys Are Back in Town, minus the football ruffian brawling feel.

Joe Satriani’s influences are far-reaching and profound, especially on songs like Cherry Blossoms, where it sounds like he’s picking out knots on your back for geishas’ spirits to infiltrate with soothing stretches of sunshine.

I always tell my kids that you can sense half-ass tuchus love from a mile away.

And that’s why you must see Joe Satriani make love to his guitar in person.

He caresses those strings like frozen-in-time hymens.

He makes the guitar an endless stream of oceanic crashing sound.

Joe Satriani went through many guitars.

One looks more primed, polished, and perfect than the rest.

For every guitar change, I wanted to cite the Shema prayer,

“Here, O Israel, The Lord is our God; the Lord is one.”

Is comparing the opening and closing of the Torah scrolls in Synagogue to Joe Satriani’s guitar changes blasphemous?

Who cares if it is? Hardcore Kabbalists are at one with mysticism and big believers in God revealing himself through nature-powered sound.

And nothing sounded more otherworldly majestic than this.

And there’s nothing half—ass-tuchus about that.

Michael Kornbluth

The Metal Edge

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, travel

The mother responsible for her son’s developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at age two, called Torticollis (where the neck muscles contract, causing the head to twist to one side, as a result of too much newborn plopping time alone in the crib), summoned the gall to ask her son, who’s about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY, lounging on a monied polo lounge green Adirondack chair overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into fencing?”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, ‘Headbangers Baller’, is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed the Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their necks.

            “So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker, with the colossus wind power to match.  

            “Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden, is a championship fencer, yet his nerdy-hued Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge.

            “I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski, and Slash, all wrapped into one.

            “He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and will tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss-plowing play.

            “Force=Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indomitable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line (which will be recession-proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in a post-COVID universe gone wild ’till our last dying breaths, anyway).”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than basketball and baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old-school fencing decorum bullshit out the window.

            “Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, and you name it, so he could afford to pay any fines for inappropriate, hotdogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  

            “Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.            “Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before fencing matches, booming “Let’s get ready to rumble,” Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin” while ‘Kickstart My Heart’ by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surroundsound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair.

            “I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant; nor is he third-generation wrestling royalty like the Rock, nor has a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho.

            “So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible?

            “He also plays with collection of lightsabers now, more than he does with his cherished wrestling figures, and he owns the original rubber dog toy-size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat (among many others the with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off Ebay, to match).        “Kayne West is worth six billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for one grand and upwards; yet there’s no limited, in-demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all.

            “I envision a flashing middle F-You finger logo that sports the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred,” to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers and ripped jeans and shorts (obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red).  

            “He’ll have his own line of studded belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats, and tank tops to show off to his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise workout videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as ‘Moth Into Flame’ by Metallica plays at full blast is responsible for his shredded physique, once he steps into something more comfortable for post-fencing fight interviews.          “I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes, and Steve Vai for love-of-God, kickass metal guitar solos and for his metal-loving American Dad, who pushed him to shred for bread.

            “On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.    “I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale’s mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into fencing, Mom.”

            Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson; like football, for instance.

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “We’ll be sticking with Nerf football in yard, Ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, Mom—no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for nine years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once, yet. Case closed.

            “Also, Dad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock.

            “Because, if I bowed down to this belabored, weak-ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from boarding school, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody so Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt-right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a tiki torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in ’89.

            “And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all three of my kids, and my speedboat, Slashing Thunder.”

            Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?”            Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine-powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric-fueled comedy gold.

            “I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids; because they’re my kids, not yours. Especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis-correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time.

            “I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing the work I was good at, which made me feel the most kickass, happy, and alive.”

            Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer two fencing scholarships a year, max.”  

            Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing three times in a row, shredding every fencing record of the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords, now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion-dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops, and speed metal belts with his signature middle finger logo that sported a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred.”

            Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world, whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed-addicted seed or not. Shredders soar. Shredders fly high with the angels like ‘Three Guitar Attack’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird.

            Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip-strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

Death Of A Bose Salesman

by doitalldadyear, posted in creativity, culture, entertainment

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 that louder is better until now, because he was longer able to sing ‘Search and Destroy’ by Iggy Pop and the Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss.   

            Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders on 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’d 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 nondescript, 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, 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 a city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.”

            But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rockstar on stage, because if his first joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggyback off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any newly-inspired direction of hilarity he chooses.  

            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 blackout drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to ‘Oh What A Feeling’.

            Knowing that 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.

            He got a job in the 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 altogether. Michael would be selling noise cancellation headphones (“Yenta Silencers” is what he’d call them, specifically, before trying new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know that Google fired twenty-five 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’s ‘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, now losing all semblance of voice control whatsoever?

            Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but the 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 to rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most badass 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 nonstop all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing that his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kickass 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 kickass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head, for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him that two out of three ain’t bad.

Michael Kornbluth

The Maiden Bartender

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, life, relationships

You meet one Iron Maiden fan, you meet them all, right? Iron Maiden fans wear those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets even into their late thirties, to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge that 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 Cruise Comedian Michael Rocker thought, as he entered the 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 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 IPAs do you recommend?”

             The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline-statuesque dirty blonde 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 blonde, 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. He reeks of stale Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody’s appeal after the first drag.  

            The Cruise Comic gets the impression that 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 try 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, badass 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, and is 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’ was 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 that 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 into Power Slave and the other forty 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 that 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, kickass 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 becomes 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 eleven 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, before. Sometimes my riffing veers into full-fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer it 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 enough of an 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.

Michael Kornbluth

Reimagining Cuomo Book Titles

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, family

Did you know Jared Kushner talked Dad out of Motley Crue playing at his inauguration because he insisted Tommy Lee looked too Alt-Rightish. Later he adds, “And my Hebrew Hammer can’t compete Dad.” Holla, thank you very much.

A leadership book by Cuomo carries less impactful weight than a Stacy Abrams romance novel, especially after she ditches the fat suit for a parachute jumper on casual Friday. Holla, thank you very much.

Knowing how New York State boasted the highest death rate of any US state, largely due to Cuomo’s policy of forcing sick old patients with COVID to shack up with other sick old New Yorkers older than Yiddish, to die, cursing the Italian Reptilian inside against their dying of the light, it’s time to reimagine new book titles for the thug in Armani, don’t you think? If Cuomo’s lucky, he can win another Emmy with a TV show on Netflix in his honor based on these killer, headline hooker titles alone. Let the alt righting book title reimagining being.

  1. That slut Blanch from the Golden Girls was going to die from a urinary track infection anyway. Wait a minute, in Florida she’d still be alive to suck a golf ball through a garden hose for another day, my bad.
  2. Ben Stiller thinks I’d play a convincing mob boss in a remake of the Goonies because I look like Mama Fratelli and the Thing had a baby. Wait a minute, who wrote this shit for me, Joan Rivers. I thought that annoying, Jew bitch was six feet under already for insisting Michelle Obama let it flop around on Ellen like she he don’t care. Joan lives. Holla, thank you very much.
  3. Trump’s shipped in hospital beds were just for show. Who cares if they got less touches than a bible at a bathhouse colony in Provincetown?
  4. I got Chris Rock to do a mask up PSA in my honor despite President Trump helping push prison reform to give his people new leases on life. I just gave BLM more rope to hang themselves with within the court of a public opinion.
  5. I destroyed the greatest city in the world in 14 months flat. What have you done with your life, besides wish the big, bad blond wolf could give me a nipple twister under the comment section on the Gateway Pundit?
  6. Born to Kill like Anthony Gnocchi.
  7. Vince Lombardi Lives
  8. Thugs in Armani Matter
  9. Broadway Blue Balls
  10. Andrew Black Eyes
  11. Destructive Mook Knows Best
  12. No, I Won’t Jump Off My Own Bridge.
  13. Reckless Endangerment Is Good
  14. Hijacking Hydroxychloroquine. Cuomo confiscated the entire supply in NY for his own personal stash and banned Doctors from prescribing it because the Italian Reptilian Inside had a surplus of body bags to fill, never mind.
  15. How to Kill Without Throwing Granny Off The Train
  16. From Good Too Imprisoned for Highly Avoidable Crimes Against Humanity.
  17. The Ponzi Push of Death
  18. The Art of Getting Away With Granny Choking On Her Pasta Fazool, metaphorically speaking.
  19. Too Big for Late Term Abortion
  20. Why I’m Smarter Than Tony Soprano
  21. Eating Meatballs Alone On Death Row
  22. The Hit Man’s Dilemma Around Real Made Men Tough Guys
  23. How to Get Banned From Rao’s For Life
  24. Dysfunctional Democrats Always Win Last

Michael Kornbluth

The Livewire One

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, poetry, writing

The UN just passed a resolution to deny all Jewish ancestry connection to Temple Mount by calling it Haram esh-Sharif, which in Arabic means, “King Solomon didn’t build shit”, despite remnants of the Western Wall still standing. And there being archeological evidence of lamb skin condoms buried deep under the 1st Temple used by King Solomon with the Queen of Sheeba, so he could last longer, the next time she flashed her bushy legs under the influence of some primo Ethiopian weed, which was never confused with the dirt sprayed kind from the Bronx that tastes like Windex.

What would you consider more suicidal behavior? Accusing the founding father of Islam of cultural appropriation on the BBC for hijacking the great Mosque of Mecca despite Abraham and Ishmael building it. Or becoming known as a Dome of Rock Truther Blogger Comedian on Real Time with Bill Maher to take heat off Salmon Rushdie by comparing the UN’s attempt to rebrand the Temple Mount as a Muslim only holy site to Mr. Roger’s Land of Neighborhood Make Believe. Dome of Rock Truther Blogger Comedian reveals his last words on Real Time with Ball Maher, ” A 2-state solution is impossible if Hamas keeps fucking Bill. The Dome of Rock is also a 3-minute walk from the Western Wall. So, claiming ancestral connection to the original resting place that housed the 1st great Temple of Solomon is a stretch Bill, like Hillary claiming all her destroyed emails under subpoena were yoga related while the rest detailed funeral arrangements in the woods in case Chelsea’s finance decided to increase his asking price at the last sec. I also don’t recall Drago popping out of my voting booth to command, “Vote for Trump or I’ll break you.” Russian Collusion isn’t why Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lost to Trump. Hillary lost, because she’s an unhuggable cunt Bill. The same Huma Licker Breath who failed to sell 70 million branded racists on why Baby Boomer Mom knows best. I’m still waiting for that bumper sticker Bill, Baby Boomer Arrogance Never Dies. But Trump has ties to Russia, duh, what mail order bride owner doesn’t? Cut me off before the Muslim Brotherhood does Bill, hook up another 50 percent heeb when you can.

Bill Maher says, “You’re growing on me Michael like Dexter on Showtime although I don’t see you getting renewed for 7 more seasons.”

Suicidal Comedian throws in some final last words, “But Bill, I forgot to promote my new comedy record, “Not Kosher Baby.” The original record cover concept was a picture of my 5-Year-Old-Son licking Finn’s butt from the new woke Star Wars. My son does share my DNA, so he’s bound to take a dip into the dark side eventually. My son licking Finn’s butt was my son’s idea actually. I don’t want to you think I’m grooming future fluffers for the Rebellion. Son even said, “Finn being a black guy makes it funnier Daddy.” I said, “I agree, Samuel. Licking the Asian girl’s butt who plays the Rebel Mechanic wouldn’t work because I don’t see her being popular enough of a character to warrant a giant doll size action figure on her behalf either. Although the last image we settled on for the record cover was my son blocking his face with a Playboy magazine while holding up a playmate centerfold from a Suzanne Sommer issue that I got myself for Hanukkah. Next to my son in the pic is his Teddy Bear, who’s sporting an orange foam roller between his legs. In the end, my son and I decided to use the Teddy Bear foam roller hardon pic instead of the one catching my son in the middle of licking Finn’s butt. Between pictures, my son knocks over the orange foam roller with the Playboy. Later, I make him laugh when I said, “You knocked over his penis.” But yeah, so we went with the orange foam roller boner pic, because we didn’t want the butt licking one to do give the Podesta brother’s any funny ideas. And don’t act coy Bill. Google Tony Podesta artwork. There’s enough pedo installation artwork on those fundraising walls to make Marilyn Manson blush. At the same time Bill, going with the record cover of my son licking Finn’s butt for my 45th Comedy Record, Not Kosher Baby, would be innocuous compared to sicko states like California forcing kids to take COVID vaccine shots to attend Kindergarten like they’re grown-up Billy Madison’s who are wastes of life to begin with. The only long-term side-effects that we know off for kids are a false sense of security or a fake news return to normalcy because they work less than Hunter does on his Blow Painting since he gave up blow in townie bars in Wilmington, Delaware on the night before Thanksgiving, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall. And China loves open borders Joe, because Chinese made fentanyl smuggled across our southern border has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram. Pregnant moms getting the COVID vax stab are causing an increase in stillbirth babies Bill. Vaccinated mothers are giving birth to kids with cardiac problems out of the womb. Grown healthy dads at 42 have been reported to drop dead of heart attacks on the vaccination room floors seconds later. But I’m supposed to trust Dr. Fauci who’s suppressed effective early-stage treatments like hydroxychloroquine to treat an itchy esophagus for anyone under 70, who never condemned Cuomo for forcing elderly homes to house infected COVID patients after Trumpy Poo shipped in hospital beds for needed spacing, that got less touches than a Bible at Barry’s favorite bathhouse colony in Provincetown. But my mom wants me to get stabbed with the vax before visiting her and my dad in Arizona. Mom tries to pre-close me on the phone with, “I don’t ask much of you.” And I’m thinking, “Experimenting with the most dangerous vaccine of all time, which a preponderance of PHD’s have resisted taking, so you can steal my free mind and warrior soul away is a pretty big ask mom. Your side already stole an election and got away with it since the day Democracy died. All of this drawn out COVID theater way past its expiration date, where all the evolved ones pretend to care about the health of their neighbor when most diehard leftists want all Trump voters dead already is a serially unfunny comedy, that’s offering no comedic relief in sight. Unless Mike Dikta becomes the new president of the CDC and calls masks a worst prevent defense than pissing off Walter Payton by calling him a pretty boy faggot in headbands. I know you don’t have kids Bill. But I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to see their kids masked up off the bus looking like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain. But the masks work. Woke bloke please. Masks work less than Melo running the Triangle Offense. Why hasn’t Melo become the spokesperson for Tampax Tampons yet? Name another NBA lifer responsible for stopping so much flowage. And doctors who refuse to treat unvaccinated patients aren’t doctors anymore. They’re wannabe George Clooney’s in stethoscopes who belong in Straight Jackets for acting like COVID depresses your immune system more than backend entry into the Dallas Buyer’s Club. Last, I don’t like interfaith families Bill. Not that my wife gives me a choice in the matter. The only thing I hate more than my kids being used as extras like the kids from Pink Floyd the Wall to feed the media manipulated narrative behind vaccinated lives mattering the most, are fucking Gnomes Bill. Gnomes look like Santa’s stoner slacker offspring in Succession. I had to give up taking edibles before I thought my daughter was asleep already because I’d feel like a mongoloid moron trying to answer her super deep questions on the stuff. She’d ask, “So daddy, if God created the universe. Then, who created God. I said, “God went back in time in a Time Machine, made my Elon Musk.” Daughter says, “That’s a real convincing explanation Daddy. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.” The Livewire One lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Gayer Than Thundercats

by doitalldadyear, posted in comedy, entertainment, humor

I thought porn ruined my imagination till I saw Thor: Love and Thunder with my 2 boys, Stud Alerts On The Loose. I refuse to send them packing for Junior High without a Lawyer on their person at all times to hand out pre-poundage consent forms before hammer time ensues. The director was quoted as saying, “Instead of watching Pornhub when I got home, I’d watch Guns and Roses videos.” And all he did was play their greatest hits during every fight scene. And ask Disney to cut Axl Rose a check for 80 million space bucks. Innovate or die, blow me. Disney’s got my back no matter what Alt Right Matters. Were openly grooming fluffers for Jedi Mind Trick Camp and you can’t do dick about it.

“Bear, Wookie, what’s the difference? You’re nuts about Jedi Mind Trick Camp. Now get pecking Robot Chicken. What happens on Dagobah stays on Dagobah. DeSantis won’t drain shit. If he only knew the power of the dark side. He’d have the FBI remove that bug out of his ass and exchange it for a Lexington Steel replica already. Don’t say gay, it’s happiest place on earth day.”

Gayer Than Thundercats, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Career Suicide Train

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, books, writing

What’s more depressing? Scheduling a Zoom connection call with a woman who uses terms like “positive energy”? Or to learn she’s booked solid till early February? When you just pitched the possibility of doing craft beer jokes at her brewery in Wildwood, New Jersey and not dying faster than Christopher’s male modeling career after he became a paler junkie than Kate Moss on a model shoot in Iceland.

“Normally Jews aren’t big craft brew beer drinkers, unless they’re degenerate shishy bitch dads like me who describe 21st Amendment’s Watermelon beers as 5 sippers max. That go down easier than your wife on pure MDMA on your birthday after insisting Obama Be Good ordered you to leak it. I actually gave up drinking beer last summer, because I got embarrassed, spending so much time hungover recycling, endless reminders of my lushy littered past, as entire Rocky marathons on AMC passed me by. Has anyone tried Sammy Hagger’s Tequilla yet? I hear it tastes Van Halen light. And Nirvana didn’t kill Hair Metal, Aids did. Before Magic made HIV disappear. Jesus would impress me if he turned bong water into wine that tasted better than Snoop Dog’s new cabernet wine that tastes like mouth wash used in porn hood hell. It’s hard to get kinky with your wife when you’re a stay-at-home Dad because you’re already choking her too hard financially. And it’s impossible to feel like your own man when you’re a stay-at-home dad whenever your wife’s smart phone sends her an alert after you make another questionable purchase. Wife calls, “Hey babe, so how was bride of Chucky?” Bruce Lee triggers my hyper competitive kids. Daughter says, “Daddy, did Bruce suck at anything?” I said, “Fart control, because Bruce Lee ate too much soy.” The one show Netflix won’t reimagine is Richie Rich unless Juno plays Richie Rich and blows his entire inheritance on financing brewery scholarships at Berkley for advanced chemistry majors who were too young to be influenced by Snoop Dog video promos for Old English, Death’s Row’s go-to ho sprayer of choice. I’d buy an IPA hop bomb made from a black brewer hipster from Northern Liberties in Philly with promised hopes of its special brand of hop juice helping me cure my chronic white man’s disease by injecting the malt, hops concoction with Cardi’s B’s perpetually rising yeast infection. I went to Ithaca college myself, otherwise known as Cornel’s retarded next-door neighbor. But I was in the distinguished school of communications, so I can take bongs hits of extra strong outdoor weed and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds. Bonding with Ithaca alum in Ithaca hoodies is off the list, because it’s a connection fail every time. I’ll say, “I went to Ithaca.” And they’ll say, “Unless you went to Cornell, I’m not interested in what your limited network on LinkedIn can do for me asshole, so go fuck off 8 days a week buddy because you obviously need an extra day to rest your far from blooming burnout head for thinking I’d care to entertain everything you can’t do to improve my social standing in life already jerkoff.”

Imagine He-Man reimagined as a Mallrat in Kevin’s Smiths next woke reimagined sequel. He-Man says, “I love the smell of Newbury Comics in the morning when Little Nas, Pete Davidson and the Mandalorian actor dominate the social media airwaves with super imposed pushed upon authority. But God didn’t give me 3 kids to have a panic attack over it, which is more than I say for Pete Davidson, the voice of Generation Z, the boy toy rebound king of Staten Island who looks like Annie Liebowitz and Barnie from the Simpsons had a baby going through a goth phase while smitten with Kim Kardashian’s porcupine puss. Social Justic Lawyers are so hot right now. Yesterday, my daughter says, “A girl in my school says, “Fairy Club is only for little girls.” I said, “Fake news, Superman is into fairies now to. Now the man of steel will drain Little Nas’s balls faster than a speeding bullet.” Resist this woke Wolverine, Challah, thank you very much.”

Frank Miller on moderate Islam. Join my army to rape our enemies’ wives is a tad extremist for even devilish white boy limey crusaders as a whole.

David Crosby on finger tapping Joni Mitchell. If I can’t be Eddie Van Halen, at least I can try to cause an eruption in Joni’s droopy dry snatch for old time’s sake.

Imagine Bruce Springsteen inviting Obama to dance on stage with him on Broadway to Dancing in the Dark to prove his soul glow limitations have no bounds.

Tree of Life Rabbi claims he never met Joe Biden after the massacre there. He adds, “Do you really think I’d hang out much at Ben and Jerry’s these days?”

If Hunter Biden was the least favored his son, he’d be stand-up comedy’s answer to Charlie Sheen. January 6th was some armed rebellion to make Joan of Arc shake in her tunic top. The only thing Trump supporters were strapped with were MAGA hats, credit card bills from Walmart and water guns full of discontinued Trump vodka to ease the leftover pain since the day Democracy died. Did I ever tell you about the time my dad lifted the travel ban on my 15-year-old girlfriend for shoplifting a gold-plated coke spoon in France? Of course, my dad can sniff out a pay back opportinity when it presents itself.”

Michael Kornbluth

Nazi Rocker Historians

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, music, writing

Did you know that the lead guitar player of Slayer Jeff Hanneman paid a fan 1000 dollars for an Eagle Cross? This is the highest honor you could get from Aryan Nation besides free government grade Crystal Meth for life. 1000 bucks for an Eagle Cross from white trash metal guy seems like a paltry sum for such an in-demand Nazi collectible on 4 Chan, don’t you think? And they call my half Heeb crazy side, cheap. Former lead guitar player of Slayer and major songwriter for the band behind hits such as Angel of Death, God Hates All Of Us, the Jews Especially, and Arian Nation Placation, died of liver failure. It turns out that Lemmy from Motorhead outlived him a bit from playing a Jager Bomb drinking game together during Christmas that requires you to throw down another every time a new Adam Sandler film ad appears on Netflix.

But back to the metal white trash metal guy who sold his Eagle Cross to thrash metal maestro Jeff Hanneman for 1000 bucks, which is more offensive than a Jewish banker charging Muhammed 5 percent interest on a new car loan after Hitler teamed up with the Muslim Brotherhood to make the Mercedes Benz, the drive by car of choice of its day. Who taught American History X to negotiate exactly? Shouldn’t he be carrying a highlighted copy of Art Of The Deal in his back pocket, Anti-MAGA Country? White Trash Metal Guy should know he had leverage over such a well-read Nazi Rocker historian like the late great Jeff Hanneman, known for penning torture porn lyrics in Angel of Death about Jospeh Mengle such as, “Showers that cleanse you of your life”, better late than ever, you dirty Heeb, “Smell your death, as it burns deep inside you”, so put that nosy schnoz to good use for once in your putrid, plague spreading life, “Pathetic, harmless, victims left to die.” He almost makes it seem like it’s Hebrew National’s fault as he binge whacks to the Saw films one through 8 million for eight crazy nights after the Christmas Bash with Lemmy ensues. What Jews weren’t the only ones gassed to death who were found guilty of forsaking the ant eater tip dick look. Any self-respecting Nazi Rock Historian knows that. But hoard more Eagle Crosses, Speed Metal Nation. You speed freak white boys give ANTIFA a good name, Challah. Nazi Rocker Historians dying laughing, not, Anthrax lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth