Tag: movies

Selectively Suspicious

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Harboring more screenplay fantasies is off the list.

Halfway into Tarantino’s book Cinema Speculation, Tarantino pauses to point out what a foaming racist Dinero’s character is in Taxi Driver, before he started popping off at the mouth on the View, looking like Betsy Ross falling apart at the seams.

If Travis Bickle was such a lone nut racist, then why stop halfway with the Mohawk Quentin?

Doesn’t Travis invite a black chick out for a date who works in a porn theater in Times Square?

“So, if your Great, Great Grandmother was good enough for Thomas Jefferson. I wouldn’t mind pursing happiness through titty blasting bliss with you sis.”

In the book, Tarantino even goes out of his way to tell us how Harvey Keitel couldn’t find a white pimp throughout New York City to study under, yet Travis Bickle doesn’t hesitate to blow away this wannabe wigger. It’s not as if Travis Bickle gets cold feet at the last second and thinks, “Wiil this kill be applied to my quota when I apply for the Grand Dragon’s new opening in Hell’s Kitchen next month? That’s being advertised in the back pages of the Village Voice under the classified section ad for Ethnic Cleanser Cleaners needed, that reads, “Colorblind Vigilantes and Shaft wannabes aren’t allowed.”

Travis Bickle even admits to taking black riders in his taxi, while most of his fellow taxi drivers don’t.

And don’t you think Taxi Drivers of all colors have earned the right to be selectively racist? Meaning taxi drivers of all creeds, are allowed to be more selectively suspicious than others.

“Wow, this is a pretty big tip. I don’t do drug run drop offs for Frank Lucas, just because I’m dropping you off in Harlem dude. I actually prefer the bigger hipped sisters. What, only Lou Reed gets to cruise for some brown sugar around these parts like a Midnight Cowboy from Long Island.”

Just because Travis Bickle shoots a black guy robbing a liquor store, I wouldn’t call him the second coming of Ed Buck. You know, piece of shit, Democratic fundraiser who’d cruise for black homeless dudes in West Hollywood only to drug them to death with Crystal Meth while trying to get some drugged out love in the process, forget about it.

Countless lives lost, 2 billion dollars of damage later, post summer of love, in honor of George Floyd Appreciation Century. God forbid you be selectively suspicious of those who shout racist. When they don’t charge elitist white cucks in positions of power in the media and big tech and government for being selectively racist when they broadly brush MAGA country as a whole as racist, mongoloid morons who refused to get blood clots from vax shots that work less than Russel Westbrook running the Triangle Offense.

I’ll reserve the right to be selectively suspicious of more woke tard bullshit, whenever I want Quentin thanks. Like how on Joe Rogan, you played dumb about your film patron Harvey being a serial rapist. Look, I get it, Quentin, Disney wasn’t financing your next project. But at least, fess up and say, “I wanted to make more films and looked the other way. And close with a hard-hitting slashing joke.

“But at least Harvey’s wife finally left him after 12 years, to focus on her lifetime battle with Amnesia.”

Selectively Suspicious, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Year Without Beer Film Premise

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, psychology, writing

I never liked my old drinking buddies enough to seek out their company sober.

I’ve never gotten bombed with new buds in my life come to think of it.

Plus, the one relationship I rekindled that I care most about maintaining is a college bud whose been sober for 15 years.

I still like my gummies, but the idea of meeting up with old drinking buds for drinks offers less appeal than saying grace whenever my mother-in-law launches into a grace at our own Jewish observing house that sports a Big Mouth Moses Nutcracker to freak out fiercely protective gentiles at large in November before expecting a complete monopoly of Christmas decorations for December in full and the following 3 lazy stash away months that follow.

Year Without Beer, is shaping up nicely, my belly too, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Triggered Tearjerker

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, humor, writing

“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy!” Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy forty-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie, doc.”

            Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think you’re incapable of experiencing joy for others.”

            Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past two hours?”

            Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York, and a Victorian mansion in Mount Vernon, NY.

            That’s Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground, by the way, and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself. That’s how I know, motherfucker.”

            Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already, and we just met. Look, I’m only here because I just got remarried; yet my kid from my previous marriage is already causing a strain on our marital relationship.

            “All the melatonin gummies in the world can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace Mommy or not.

            “My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy, happy movies like Rudy, too, and questions whether I really want to have a do-over baby with her, after all.”

            Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?”

            Matt says, “I don’t know, doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit? I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless of whether The Lord of The Rings franchise was huge for his career or not.

            “I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint, as a kid, than helping me develop a halfway decent hook shot or believable pump fake, in the post.

            “I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother, instead.

            “I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone, which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother to realize that she uses a nickname for me, Scoops, and for my younger brother, too.

            “If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, wouldn’t you have issues crying at the end of Rudy, too?”          Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel, to learn your mom uses the same nickname on your younger brother?

            Matt the furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman; a nobody; an unwanted futon with bedbug bite marks after college.

            “I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy, doc. I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife.

            “Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer; yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away, since giving me a daughter, because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life when she’s barleying around to help with my kid in the first place.”

              Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother, besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?”

             Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug. This saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess.

            “Fuck radical empathy, Doc. My mom’s default sourpuss mode around my happiness-spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish.

            “Either you’re excited about your firstborn raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket-drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video, or not. 

            “I get it, Mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild, instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for four decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, and yet somehow blames it on being lactose intolerant.

            “When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror or change your depraved ways. Just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep the crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking and wish fulfillment at it’s finest.     “And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited, after insisting I get a maid, which I can’t afford, or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever.

            “Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with; got it. All I know, Doc, is that my mother would never break into a constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.”

            Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married?”

             Matt says, “I love her, Doc, but it’s not my role to criticize my daughter so soon. Four years down the road, sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then.

            “So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall, Doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my first marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference, really.”

            Doc says, “Looks like our time is up.”

            Matt replies, “So, what movie magic do you have planned for me next week, Doc? Remember The Titans, or Hoosiers, perhaps?”

            Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home, waddling in drunken squalor, before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you, Dad”?

            Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.”

            Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you deplorable piece of shit.”

            Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the furniture salesman from Nyack. This made him feel like a fluke and another vastly depreciated, average nobody, too, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equally distributed, encouraged love.

            Now Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straightjacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once, during outdoor play. He spends all his days, now, in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face and chanting, with increasing force, “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy,” only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you, Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know that I’m not among the walking dead, yet.

            “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”  

Michael Kornbluth

Fast Forward Funny

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

Younger Brother says, “Have you shown your kids Goodfellas yet?”

I say, “Pop more Herion pills. Your brain hasn’t taken enough of a beating yet.”

Brother adds, “I got a tad misty when Ray Liotta died.”

I say, “Why, because you waste your life taking more heroin pills after being revived by a narc gun while I’m still treated like the deplorable fella by mom and dad for being guilty of supporting Trumpy Poo on my podcast for free? Before he pushed the amazing clot shot that dug Ray Liotta’s hole in his heart and premature grave without selling coke behind Paulie’s back?”

Younger Brother adds, “I didn’t know the kids ate meat now.”

I clarify.

“Kosher meat only. I’ve only been a practicing Koshertarian Comedian for the past 2 years, resulting in 108 comedy records such as the Koshertarian Offensive, Big Mouth Moses and The Pig-Headed Jew. Rebbe Lives for comedy record 109, coming right up. Try to keep up already. Pretend you’re trying to keep track of how many more heroin pills you can pump your next woman for all she’s worth, her credit card line and punctured ruined heart included. The Good Men Project published my letter to God about breaking my Koshertarian diet for a night because I sensed it ruining Cheap Trick perform Live at Budokan in full at the Capital Theatre on Valentines’ Day, which was an avoidable shame. Because my wife was pushing me to try her Shrimp and Grits prior with divine powered fury like a religious fanatic freak who insisted I watch the Passion after all these years to prove my undying love of promoting Jesus Jew killer theories about Jewish ancestors six degrees separated from Don Rickles being responsible for heckling the Romans into crucifying the original Super Jew to death. I’m sorry, wrong target audience, you booked stadium seating to see Apocalypto on Fandango 6 million months in advance. In between, I pen The Great American Jew Novel that gives birth to the Do It All Dad Hero comedy tale about the 1st ever Kosher smoked Brisket cheese steak sandwich truck, that uses a plant-based cheese wiz, which produces a series of career launching friendships that prove Do It All Dad isn’t the last-self-loving Jewish New Yorker after all. Times of Israel produces my blogs Back To Hebrew School and Growing Up Koshertarian, putz for brains before they fired me from a free guest blogger job for insisting Andrew, no I won’t jump off my own Bridge finally found a way to kill old school Italian Grandma without throwing her off the train, while having to die all alone under his all-knowing morally grounded watch no less. I don’t know why I waste my breath. Then again, only a scheming A-plus, plus, plus scumbag like yourself would coin expressions such as 100 percent happy after rehab, assuming you could afford enough coke to impress your friends and keep your ego afloat. Don’t blame yourself for sending mom to the loony bin in her mind after she invested all her hopes and dreams for a star-studded seed in you to bloom. Which is like waiting for Hunter Biden, AKA, Sir Snort A Lot to give up blow for blow painting after the election steal was in the bag. But being a lying, degenerate sleaze who causes more collateral damage than Agent Orange isn’t your fault. It’s the demons who raised you in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, only 20 minutes away from your 3rd generation coke dealer, Julio Silver Blade The 3rd from Washington Heights. So don’t fret, Jesus forgives or God if you believed more in the Old Testament God, assuming you fess up to making Hunter Biden come across as a slacker, underachiever in comparison. Just say Jesus, God, I’m a self-serving cunt for brains who makes the Clinton foundation appear like a charitable foundation for others. But you can’t blame me completely for trying to demean my big brother’s comedic mojo because it only makes my parents love my big brother less than they already do, because we played 0.0 role in the development of his fast forward funny ego. I’d make out with my mom if it could score me an advance on some more inheritance money already. Mama’s Boys oblige. Plus, Dad is on my side no matter what. He loves cleaning up my messes more than retelling stories about how he was the Jew in shining armor from the Bronx who saved mom from a life of abject poverty distress in Kentucky. Before he retired and rode off into the sunset with mom in Arizona against her will with his head held high despite his shoulder’s collapsing if you decide to hug him with real deal, reciprocity feeling for old times’ sake, not. Who cares if Dad’s nickname on the streets of the Bronx growing up was Trips on Curbs? I only care about being 100 percent happy on my terms. Me, not you, gets to be Ayn Rand without the talent. It’s not my fault A Plus narcissism is our family tradition. ”

Hank Williams Junior lives. Fast forward funny, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Burning Burnouts

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, writing

I stopped taking weed edibles because I got tired of feeling like a moron while trying to answer my daughter’s questions that were keeping her up, after I thought she was asleep already. Edibles kick in, Daughter asks, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? I say, “God went back in time, in a Time Machine, made by Elon Musk. Daughter says, “Keep on doing edibles daddy. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.”

Pothead dad texts, “You got to see Jurassic Park 3, Jeff Goldblum.” I text back, “Why, because your wife told you to follow fake news scientists on Twitter like Dr. Gnocchi. After you gave your kid clot shots to prevent them from catching an itchy esophagus. Let me guess, you got your wife pregnant because you got stoned and forgot to ask her if she was on the morning after pill? Join the club. Actually, had a pothead friend in college who had a Production Assistant job on the Universal lot. So, we’d sneak into Universal Studios through the parking lot into the Jurassic Park ride all the time. At the same time, this was before California became a giant tent city sponsored by REI. We didn’t have to show ID or a wrist band to enter the park once we snuck in through the Jurassic Park ride through the parking lot. Today, we wouldn’t have to show proof of vaccination if we had a good tan holmes. It’s not as if Universal Studio’s was giving away free parking passes so anybody under the sun could enjoy all the rides for free. California Democrats didn’t have to steal elections and woo new voters in broad daylight just yet, those were the days. When Spielberg’s daughter didn’t do porn to keep up with Kim Kardashian. I know, she’s studying to become a social justice lawyer now. Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now. Hot enough to snag Pete Davidson in his prime who looks like Annie Leibowitz and Barney from the Simpsons had a baby. The voice of Generation Z, the boy toy king of Staten Island shouldn’t get burnt out on pimping for Big Pharma by shaming clot shot resistors on SNL for a living. So, what difference does burning burnouts make? Burning Burnouts, 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

Herky Jerky Reaction

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, death, life

Who’s hiring? Funeral Homes, you don’t say, LinkedIn. But I thought the clot shots worked more than COVID truther comedians. I could become a well-paid eulogy ghost writer after all. I’m beginning to like the making of this screenplay, The Eulogy Ghost Writer, Alan Ball. Who do I got to blow that doesn’t have Monkey Pox yet, to pitch my movie to David Geffen on his Yacht in St. Barts this winter while socially distancing myself from more Hannukah time blues powered losing?

“Mr. Geffen, The Eulogy Ghost Writer is Trumbo for emotive thought impaired Twitter Twat Nation, got it. I want Vince Vaughn to play me as the Eulogy Ghost Writer, Joan River’s daughter to play the out of work makeup artist turned Mortician because girls don’t dress up anymore and Andrew Dice Clay to play the Funeral Director Dad who constantly makes fun of his daughter’s fucked face. “That bat shit crazy governor of NY, who looks like Delta Burka’s insane sister, who survived getting electrocuted to death in a Stephen King Novel for forsaking to say grace at the Judd’s House for Christmas, looks less bat shit crazy than your face. Was your plastic surgeon barely finished with his residency with the Nip Tuck Institute in Wuhan or what? And I thought Margaret Cho had a squinting problem with the house lights on at Catch a Squinting Star. I could get into Margaret Cho being my reflexology therapist these days, because I’m against supporting underage sex trafficking and we all know Catching A Squinting Star wasn’t yanked of the boat yesterday. Bob Kraft, I fucked him, oh, I can’t take no more. Eulogy Ghost Writer Lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Nibble Be Good

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

I feel like an asshole for using a borderline disappointed tone with my daughter whenever she resorts to nibbling my mouth drooling meal creations again. Fine, every dish I make isn’t worthy of lock jaw love. But this morning I made a creamy, American Cheese Omelet cut up in decent size bites, which her younger brothers inhaled whole fuss free no problem. So, what’s my daughter’s problem exactly? Eggs aren’t murder. It’s a familiar filling in her mouth. She doesn’t have to scramble her brain to discern whether it’s runny goo or mama’s lentil salad, that’s easy to poo, poo. No, my daughter is nothing more than a good nibbler, who freezes at the sight of swallowing anything bigger than a salmon roe egg. Losing all patience for her nibble be good excuses this morning, I cut off a big chunk of cheesy Omelet for her to bite into before camp and she says, “How do you expect me to fit such a big bite into my mouth?” I say, “How do you think Titiana Tightchoochie wins a Lifetime AVN Award for best Online Oral Presentations? Practice darling, practice.” Daughter says, “What are the AVN awards?” I say, “Charlie Sheen’s ace in the hole, if he needed a date for the BAFTA awards after making a remake of The English Patient starring Rubert Everett as full-blown Aids. Nibble Be Good, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Hunt for Remote Remorse

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, travel, writing

It’s hard to feel bad for Alec Baldwin when his only deeply felt take away from killing a cinematographer on a film he was producing is victimized aggravation for costing him work. Alec Baldwin calls his agent at CAA, “What do you mean Tarantino doesn’t want me to play a young Victor Vega in Reservoir Dogs Without Remorse? Isn’t there a statue of Woody Allen in Spain still standing? Can’t Woody write me a star vehicle where I play Javier Bardem’s chef Dad who butchers the Spanish language after becoming reunited with my pig son in The Mighty Punta Bitch Dad? Isn’t Marty sick of working with Leo yet? Can’t he jam me into a script with Dinero despite that dumb mook on the View these days looking like Betsy Ross falling apart at the seams? Would Seth Rogan be willing to work with me? I can play a recovering alcoholic who becomes a famed pitch person on the QVC for a new brand of gum to wane your addiction off highly boozy IPA’s, called, Hop-O-Rama Chew. But he gets fired from that job because he shoots off at the mouth too much on air about how craft beer enthusiasts in Brooklyn look like special needs hobbits who should be eligible for 3rd term abortions in New York State. I’ll even do voiceover for Kevin Smith in his woke reimagination of She-He Man. I could play the alt right Skeletor with a MAGA hat on top of my purple hoody like the Grand Dragon of disinformation regarding the downside of pubescent genital mutilation despite Billy regretting his decision after mounting a fat assed Latino girl at the China Club on his 18th birthday, after realizing his missing link to banging old school hip-hop beats of yesteryear when Rum Shaker broke big, is gone baby gone.” Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Titanium Balls

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, humor, writing

Son says, “Daddy, I want the Titanic Lego. I say, “I hate to sink your hopes kid. But I’m not blowing 450 bucks on an immovable model of incoming death. But Lego has Titanium balls for thinking such an exciting build up is worth the expense. What exactly were the brick layers at Lego thinking when they greenlit the idea of the Lego Titanic? Leo’s chill regardless. Kate Winslet’s killer cleavage have withstood the erosion of time better than most. While building it, you don’t need a vaccine passport to achieve sudden adult death syndrome before the Titanic crew did. Titanium Balls, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth