But Walt Whitman Self-Published

 

What’s Latin Daddy? And don’t tell me Bob Dylan was in the Latin Club again.

He’s the only songwriter to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

 

I want to punch you in the face so bad right now. And for the record, Warren Zevon sounds like The Last Unicorn.
But seriously daddy, why do I have to take Latin again? My Colombian friend Shannon told me Latin is old school white privilege English. I say. You try seducing Cleopatra with limericks in Yiddish. And see how that materializes for you.

New Intro for Do It All Dad Year Podcast EP54 “My Cubicle Resistance”
I’m a Spiritual Medium Comedian for voiceless, dead man dads. Today, I’m visited by Lenny Bruce, doing my act, because I passed his hack free seal of approval.

INT. HOME
Wife
Won’t self-publishing a book cost money?
Stay At Home Comedian
Hush, let me finish.
Wife
I’ve been patient for 10 years.
Stay At Home Comedian
Whistling like Axl Rose helps.

Rocky 3 proves flailing blocked hay-makers, compared to improved, balletic, ducking and weaving in ring ain’t nothing.

Me
I was ready for our sex date after tucking in the kids. But you went to sleep on me on the couch before they did.
Wife
You seemed angry with me.
Me
Your soggy sage pesto didn’t help. And I’m so horny. I’d French Kiss Julia Child.

Crazy Good Dada
School Lunches Deconstructed
Cafeteria ban is in full effect. Thank God. Don’t these moms have anything else better to do than hang out with their boring kids for lunch? I guess mommy blogger meetups have limited appeal after all.

INT. HOME
Wife
Won’t self-publishing a book cost money?
Stay At Home Comedian
Walt Whitman self-published Leaves of Grass.
Your faith left in your husband making a star studded dent in this universe is less than blue ball season on Neptune.

Crazy Good Dada Lunch Continued
Today, I learned Brooke’s name is actually Brooklyn. She’s like a mini Lena Dunham. Brooke’s parents just signed her up for horse riding lessons. Now Brooke breath, identifies herself as a self-involved, know it all twat.

I’d rather hear the Muslim call to prayer in my own home than hear my stuck up English mother in law say Christmas on our Alexa speakers at full blast. Because at least the Muslim call to prayer never sounds gratingly generic.

Daddy, what does Zen mean? It’s a school of Buddhism that teaches you to use meditation for enlightenment. What’s enlightenment? The opposite of being an all over the place Jew. You’re not very good at meditation yet, are you Dada?

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

The Productive Stoner

I always wanted to be a functional pothead. But I had to stop trying 3 kids later.  I gave it my best shot. Don’t think I’m quitter.

7 years ago, my wife barges into our 1 bedroom apartment bathroom on a Friday night in a whirlwind of presumptive disgust because I was enjoying myself a tad too much as our 3 year old splashed in the bubble. And sang with me as we crooned with soul stirring,  shimmering glee to Bob Marley’s evil spirit conquering Duppy Conqueror. Understand, I puffed a one hitter in the bathroom with the window open before I got my daughter situated in there which got me feeling extra loose. Now, my wife barges through the bathroom door unannounced. Shoots off a final judgement hate stare in my direction and says with frothy, damnation dispiritedness. “You’re such a stoner.” Before slamming the bathroom door coming off the hinges.  Next my 4 year old daughter, Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth says. “Daddy, you’re not a stoner. You’re a rock star.” I say. “You’re right, Matilda. Because stoners aren’t doers and daddy is a doer. Granted, I haven’t done mommy since her birthday last year but that’s besides the point.”

So do I still smoke some weed? Squeeze in a puff of Florida Crippy’s for old times sake to celebrate writing the 1st draft of a new TV pilot like I did for my past creations including Don’t Laugh I Live Newark, Mr. Right and Mike Mates? I’m strong at banging out headline hookers I know. But no, I haven’t smoked the scrumptious, crystal specked green supreme goodness in 4 months now I think. Could be longer. So much for my short-term memory bouncing back with palpable, reverberating vengeance since my past podcast goodbye to my pothead plagued past in Episode 43 My Weed Exit Interview, on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast. I had my daughter do the intro for it. “Funnier, dad, happier baby, and I’m living proof of it. Can I get a Challah for some Challah?”

Ok, so back to the million dollar question, what drove me to take a permanent vacation from what I perceived as my best bud till my daughter Matilda was born? For starters, 3 kids later, I could no longer afford to feel like a bigger moron than I already feel around my comedic genius daughter. She’s a math nerd also which is a tad annoying. It got to the point, where I was disgusted at my belabored, ad lib replies to her super deep, out of nowhere questions about God.  My daughter asks. “So 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. “Real convincing Dada. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.” The joke doesn’t work as good if she says 6.

When you stop smoking weed after you’ve been a Stoner for 2 decades in a row, you start remembering your dreams because they’re so vivid crazy homes. You think you’ve been blackout drunk your entire waking life prior. What I’ve noticed in these dreams is old buds resurface. Who I’d either get stoned with or drunk with. But any semblance of a sturdier, brotherly bond past getting fucked up together, disintegrates under the unflinching, murky, glare of my dream undertow. Where old buds appear emotionless within the shadowy corners of my subconscious, REM catching up mind man.

I also compared my joke retweet stats on Twitter when I took an extended break on weed prior to my podcast Weed Exit Interview episode and was disgusted at the sobering statistical illumination revelation. I banged out almost ten times as many jokes off the weed than on it. Plus, my jokes on weed in comparison sounded like the dull minded, dim witted, dead brained drippings of a mentally strained douche-bag.

 

Trump has produced around 38,000 tweets compared to my 40,000 plus from my past. Proving native New Yorker’s hailing from Queens don’t have a hard time expressing themselves or ever run out of colorful things to say. At the same time, this doesn’t mean I’ve had burnout induced moments in my 20’s and 30’s when I was an awful communicative stoner, which haunt me till this day.

Once, I was cold calling a VP of Engineering as an IT Recruiter, doing new business development in Manhattan for a staffing company in One Penn Plaza right above MSG. And I could barely state my own full name clearly and at this point I only had 36 years of practice. “Hi, my name is Michael Kornbababluth, from Adam Jacobs & Associates. “Struggling with your own name I see” the VP of Engineering said with relished glee.

My own father stopped smoking weed after he met my mom in college. It was a deal breaker for her. Once, I recall watching the Knicks my Senior Year in High School when I started smoking plenty of weed after school from the Bronx, the cheap, sprayed kind that tastes like Windex. So I’m watching the game with my dad and out of nowhere my dad says with all knowing, dour disdain, “You’re not speaking well.” Translation, you’re smoking too much weed and you’re a learning disabled kid who didn’t crack a 1000 on his SAT’s. You’re not Bob Dylan, moron.

I always wanted to be a functional pothead. Getting my TV writing gig at VH1 Classic for Americas Hard 100, which was 12 years in the making felt great. Especially after I rose to the occasion and proved to myself I could get a high stakes writing job done well with all eyez on me pressure. I got stoned solo to celebrate in Manhattan off my prized one hitter and took a soulful, money, money, cocksure stroll from Times Square to my favorite craft brew bar in Manhattan on 10th Avenue to extend my feel good party in my honor. But then, I’m at the bar, being non-predatory flirty, feeling like a married slut in a straight jacket. Acting nervous around woman at the bar because I feel guilty about being free of my 3 year old girl for once and that was before my other 2 kids were born.

I continued to get high off the extra good green after becoming a dad because it still brought me pleasure and it helped my brain chill at night when I’d squeeze in a hit away from kids after dinner around 7. I’d love listening to the Grateful Dead, Europe 72 on it or Hair Metal ballads by Warrant, especially while reading new jokes of mine which come alive off the page a bit more on it. Plus, my evening reading performances for my kids in bed were more spontaneous fun for both the kids and me. Reality is though, weed is a poor man’s substitute for the American Hustler search and destroy, kill um all mentality  I needed to embody to become a major comedy success in this universe and continued weed use burns out my full throttle flame of creativity before I can take it even higher. I justified my weed use for long because I’d use the weed as a reward for getting a new script or blog done, but that’s a limited way of thinking, especially knowing, how I’m scheduling myself to be less productive the day after I get blazed.

My wife’s worse nightmare was me being stoned at night once she was in labor with our 3 child Samuel Teddy.  The birth of Samuel pushed me past my obsession with fulfilling all my self-serving needs. 14 months later I became determined to love myself better and be the healthier, wiser, friskier, funnier Dad provider my family of 5 needed me to be. Now, I’m pushing myself to maximize my time on this earth to make it as a writer on the rise after all. One my 3 kids can be proud of past their adoration of dad because they’re not teenagers in love with anyone else but me yet.

My book Stay At Home Comedian is a love letter about how my 3 kids finally got my act together. It’s a self-improvement story about how my 3 kids inspired me to replace bad habits with good habits. It’s a humor book about parenting, modern fatherhood and controlling my kids through comedy as a stay at home comedian podcast host blogger who works from home  It’s a memoir about my unusual artist family and how my kids have made me a better friend, husband, patriot, writer, leader and comedian.  Last night, my daughter asks. “Are you getting close to finishing your humor book on fatherhood, Stay At Home Comedian yet daddy? When you start selling copies of it through Amazon Kindle and at Barnes and Noble, I can call you a real artist because real art sells, right Dada?” I say. “I liked it better when you called me a rock star instead. Richard Belzer called all comedians frustrated rock stars at heart.”

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

My New American Dream

INT. HOME
4 Year Old Son
Is God happy?
Mom
God can be a she.
Dad
Mama’s feminist teen spirit post Meto eclipses any shot of Nirvana for God kid.

Eddie Vedder’s voice fluctuates between hushed, garbling, constipated tones and cathartic, overacted overtones like a darker, more masculine sounding Dave Mathews on better weed.

Lena Dunham is profiled by the Cut? But she got her own pad in the West Village without having to depend on her daddy for a handout. Lena cuts off her dad, not the other way around. Oh, I thought Cut was an indie glamour mag about suicide, my bad.

Did you know Lena Dunham was Hillary’s Social Media Community Manager? Only Lena Dunham could make Hillary Hammer Time Cankles less likable and relatable in 1 blubbery swoop.

When Trump won 2 years ago. I prayed for the Wall to be built around the strip clubs in Montreal. So Lena Dunham, wouldn’t scare away all the clientele. Amy Schumer is having a baby. Lena Dunham and Sarah Silverman are losing.

I hate stories about seeing Bruce live more than stories about seeing the Grateful Dead pre-Aids before Magic made HIV disappear. When you could bang any chesty Italian gal from Jersey in the parking lot at Giants for drum solo filler in between.

Wife
You haven’t given me any smiles today.
Husband
Stroke my ego and you know what else more. Then, talk dirty to me.
Because I want action tonight, satisfaction alright. And your PJ look with no make up on isn’t enough to make Thor go higher. I call my mighty pounder mallet Thor.

Foot Doctor Assistant
You didn’t show for your last appointment.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I have 3 kids and been blessed with useless, bare minimum, Facebook grandparents on both sides of the virtual fence babe. So don’t bust my balls babe.

INT. ZERO GRAVITY OFFICE
Elon Musk talks to his AI powered life coach computer.
Standing desks were so 2017 Tron Robbins.
If I move to Mars, I’ll be single longer because maintaining long distance relationships from mars are always a stretch.

INT. KITCHEN
Wife
I’m going to ask for work off Monday.
Husband
It’s your life.
Wife
That’s the meanest thing you can say.
Husband
You really think I’m a slacker, don’t you?

Shameless recycle of my gift letter opener for my part Turkish friend from college for Kwazna. He doesn’t celebrate Kwanza but some Turks must. Dear Dave,
Happy to hear about your path to sober, healthier, less destructive living.

Everything in Greenwich, CT is greener, brighter and prettier. My new dream is to buy a home there for my family as a well off writer performer entertainer. Westchester Country is like brownish, regular commercial weed in comparison. I can pass a drug test. I swear. My Weed Exit Interview Podcast was 3 months ago at least.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

Hair Metal Humor Overkill

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
It means Joe Elliot hasn’t aged as well as Jon Bon Jovi. And is no longer considered a photograph of perfection.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
You’ll what? Insist Hair Nation send all their advertisers British Flag draped Resist The Hall coffee cups for Christmas.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
It means Steve Perry with the long hair is more like the Androgynous type the Hall is into for all time great, pop rock selling bands.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
You’ll what? Accuse Jann Wenner of tickling Joe Elliot’s British moles through his torn Bugle Boy Jeans for a Rolling Stone photo shoot in 88.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
Dave Mustaine tweets. Bubble Gum Rock sells except the Hall isn’t buying.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
Joe Elliot will think here we go again. If White Snake gets in before us, I’ll jump off London Bridge in the still of the night.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
David Lee Roth will show up to Joe Elliot’s house in his EMS best after he rocks till he drops of a broken heart.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
Eddie Vedder will co-write an op-ed with Neil Young for the NY Times called Glam Metal is Noise Pollution.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
You’ll blame it on Russian Death Metal journalists at Metal Hammer magazine for bashing the 25 year reissue of Hysteria to pieces.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall.
Me
It means the Hall cares more about Joan Baez’s banshee drone than rock, rock, till you drop records like Pyromania which sold 10 million units bitches.

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
NWA’s entry won’t feel legit?

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
Then, you’ll feel like a deplorable for voting for a British glam metal Brexit from the Hall if Iron Maiden gets voted in before they do?

INT. CAR
Hair Metal Nation Host
If Def Leppard doesn’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Me
Gene Simmons will act superior smug regardless.

 

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

Wish You Were Here Less

“There are never enough I Love You’s.”  Lenny Bruce

New family tradition. Forsake Black Friday at the mall. Not that any respectable Jew partakes. And instead play the dark humor maestro indictments of lawless cops, arrogant judges, “chicken shit” theatre critics and petulant DA’s on Vinyl from the great Lenny Bruce on Vinyl, including Live at Berkley and Midnight Concert at Carnegie Hall. Tried Sam Kinson Louder than Hell earlier but his opening bit on wearing sunglasses because he was high and blind from banging too heart breaking puss, responsible for his off-kilter, hoarse blown hack scream failed to inspire more meaningful listening with my 3 kids home from school in attendance.

Yesterday, for Thanksgiving, I receive a text from my mom saying. Thinking of you. I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving. It used to be my favorite holiday. And this is me, countering my mom’s passive aggressiveness in my mind. I text back. Wish you were here less and texted me less also because your presence online and off never makes me happy at all. Direct enough yet ma? But I read this line once by famed Roman Emperor Philosopher Marcus Aurelius stating “The best revenge is to not be like your enemy.” So I resisted the temptation to send a passive aggressive text back in return. Which wasn’t easy knowing my mother is a real feel good Thanksgiving killer.

3 years ago my wife Natalia applies for a middle class affordable housing grant offered in Westchester Country, NY. We scored a $30,000 grant from the government for a down deposit on a reduced price home in Northern Westchester County. I call it my comedy grant And we just made the cut. If I literally sold 1 joke to Roseanne Bar the previous year from the jokes of mine I sent her on Twitter she liked, such as thr one about how one of the co-founders of Yelp had doubts about Yelp succeeding as an online review site until a bunch of Asian millennial girls got hold of it and went wild.

In case you’re wondering, I was sending jokes to Rosanne 2 years before her show was revitalized after reading in some book about how she wrote 30 jokes a day till this day. I also remember reading some time ago, how she preferred to hire stand-up comedians on her old Roseanne show compared to other Harvard grad TV writers because Roesanne believes stand-up comedians are far braver. Which always carried real cool weight in my book. I’m quoting Lenny Bruce at the top of this chapter for Christ sake and no comic before or after was more fearless than Lenny. Besides the late great Joan Rivers calling Obama gay and Michelle a she-hulk and we all know how that turned out for her. Google it if you don’t believe me.  She also banned both Obama’s from attending her funeral. Plus, her daughter sued the hospital where she was getting a routine throat procedure that as a whole is complication free, leading to her premature death right after she made that comment to TMZ about Obama being gay and how everyone in Hollywood knows it. Melissa Rivers, Joan River’s only child, won the malpractice lawsuit against the hospital for the record. Personally, I could care less about Obama being gay or Michelle being his Trans wife.  I’m a big believer in the Alfred Kinsey scale of bisexuality and of Lenny Bruce’s premise of there needing to be a new term to describe gay men because they’re are no such things as homosexuals but “homosexual acts.”

For example, Lenny Bruce mentions in his Midnight Concert at Carnegie Hall, men in prison without sexual contact for too long, are animals and will do anything, “mud”, even. Plus, I agree with Joan Rivers. I think some Trans can be quite striking because of the longer, leaner figures working in their favor, although the voices can be a boner killer on the spot also. Black Friday is alive and well, I better start quoting Jim Norton jokes about She-Males and Adam’s Apples and totally strip my book of any artistic merit value according to other enlightened, moralist upstanding parenting bloggers altogether. If I’m brutally honest with myself, I really was made for blogging about modern times because I would’ve been arrested for indecent exposure and obscene projection of subdued perversions 2 paragraphs in already. If I was a pampleteer instead of a blogger back in the day like a less flamboyant, chest hair sniffing Walt Whitman.

In Live at Berkeley, Lenny Bruce throws a shout out to Henry Miller, one of my favorite writers. Whose books were banned in the US because of their graphic sexual content. It was Henry Miller’s writing about art, his menial job past, Chinese poets, time in the woods in Big Sur, sanctification of Paris prostitutes and relationship with Anis Nin which offer the main sources of appeal for me. Charles Bukowski admired Henry Miller as an interesting writer in bits but found him long at the tooth as a whole. I share that in common with Henry Miller obviously.

I don’t know if it’s growing up during the early nineties and watching Gorilla Girls, Scandal in the Mansion or Taste of Amber on Porn VHS 1 too many times but I never understood the tenseness or prevision involving watching porn, talking about porn or even paying for some nice, nice, knowing it’s a safety rail preventing real affairs of the heart. I never found Bukowski’s tales of banging his writing groupies in his late forties that big of a deal, nor too graphic to the point of it reading those passages, thinking the writing was mere dirty notes from a 1 track minded man. Who waxed poetic about the torrential onslaught of spitfire gusto that sprang out of Gustav Mahler’s symphonies on his home transistor radio, radio.

But back to my mother for just one second longer than I want to. Talk about totally going off track after talking about us scoring the affordable housing grant from Westchester County. It was divine intervention. We hit the lotto and had to cash in our ticket with 2 kids already.

So 3 Thanksgivings ago, my mom starts to cry in front of me and says. I can’t believe I raised you in a nice suburb of New York, sent you to camps and college. Only for you to need a handout from the government for a home. At same time, I’m thinking, we couldn’t afford a down payment on any home without some financial assistance. So it’s either from you or the government. What difference does it make? Besides, you feeling like failure of a mother and everything

But seriously, I didn’t seek out this affordable home housing grant, my wife did. I certainly wasn’t going to hold it against her after my mom shat on our good fortune. Which didn’t require her opinion and outside meddling. Despite her, dropping by the house to check it out, only to tell us. We’d have a black neighbor. Well, his name is James mom, and he’s a Vet, served time in Vietnam, lost friends that your generation shat on when they returned home from hell on earth. And he lives in permanent pain. He’s asked me. Who are you sending your jokes to? And one time during 4th of July, I’m blasting Bruce outside with the garage door open and James says to me. They lied to us. They lied to us. My heart breaks writing this sentence.  So how do you like that ma? James the war vet, my black neighbor, has shown more belief and interest in my comedy writing career than you have, my own mother, my own flesh and blood, the woman that’s supposed to be in my own corner. Propping me up, not tearing me down, not urging me to throw in the fucking towel to become a garbage man. I also don’t see James going radio silent if I texted him a pic of your grandchildren hugging flags either. And I call my mother in law the unhuggable cunt.

I so didn’t want to write about my mother ever again because I know I come across as a thankless son. Well fuck you Shakespeare. You’d be singing a different tune, if you impressed your comedic role models and received direct written compliments from Margaret Cho and Nick Di Paolo after they read your stories in the forms of TV pilots and spec scripts. Only to have your own mother suggest you become a garbage man because Trump supporters like myself should be treated like garbage and work with it for a living. Because we’re no better than the leftover scraps thrown our way to live on. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not above manuel labor. I’ve worked as a bus boy, bartender and waiter before. Plus, I’ve changed diapers on not 1 but 3 babies so far. Also  my 3rd kid isn’t potty trained yet. So, let’s not act like I’ve acted above getting my hands dirty in my life so far either.

I love how people take offense at Trump saying he never changed his kids diapers. I wish I could make that claim. It would mean I had my shit together for a change. And not be an unemployed comedian/father of 3 whose been fired more than a Palestinian Slingshot. Due to entitlement issues, which I’m obviously, not over completely. But the major difference is I know where I’m most needed now and it’s at home with my kids to keep our house in order and our kids striving and thriving under my comedic educating tutelage, not on a fucking garbage truck yet. At least not until, I finish writing my book Stay At Home Comedian  Because I’ve developed a hefty nose tolerance for yuck, yuck, stink bomb droppings and working as a garbage man would give me some good material to sample on parent student occupation day. So my name is Michael Kornbluth and I sling garbage for a living until I can make more money slinging jokes less shittier than Jim Gaffigan’s latest offerings. Because talking about Pops Tarts, is so edgy, edgy, edgy.

George Washington said “It’s better to be alone than in bad company.” Preach on President Washington. George totally would’ve gotten stoned with Lenny Bruce in his corn field while Martha went to the well to get fresh water for Bill and Ted’s Dancing Bear Grateful Dead Bong from the future.  There are never enough I love you’s. I agree Lenny. Love you man. With all my heart. And thanks for keeping Joan going for all those years. You know what you said after she bombed for 2 straight weeks. “You’re right and they’re wrong.” Acting as a Medium for dead comedians can be my thing on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast after all.

 

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Declaration of Drug Dependence

Wine makes you sleepy.
Beer makes you fat.
Whiskey makes you old.
Weed makes you stupid.
Adderall makes you tenser edgy.
Finish blogging your book, lose 10 pounds this winter & guilt your wife into doing the same. Celebrate dunking out.
The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my readers. Creed 2 is a must see film if celebrating Fake News Fro ruined football isn’t your thing today either.  I love you all.

 

Number 1 Capricorn

Number 1 Capricorn squeezed out of mama on New Years Day in the big city, Manhattan to be exact. Chances are, Number 1 Capricorn won’t have a hard time hooking up on his birthday at a club in Manhattan when he gets older or struggle to rally his friends to celebrate his birthday on New Years Eve. By urging them to put down the VR Googles for a night when real life beer googles await.

I was also born on the Island of Manhattan. I share that in common with my son, number 1 Capricorn. Which gives you some insight into my son’s 1st nickname in my honor, Always Loud. If I was a Native American Indian, my son would call me Trips on Curbs.

My other 2 kids were born in suburbia, Number 1 Capricorn’s big sister Matilda Singing Rose, and his younger brother Samuel, Headbanger’s Ball. Does my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA, Number 1 Capricorn, posses my flair for the comedic? Obviously, or else he’s not telling me in the car on the way back from Pre-K to be funnier than Weird Al before Christmas. Or he’s going to kill me with our sharpest knife for real. Obviously, he’s inherited my leanings toward dark humor also.

Is Number 1 Capricorn a sweet, observant, thoughtful child who never causes his dad any crazed distress? Similar to myself growing up, not that my own parents take this into consideration when they’ve always blatantly built up my younger brother versus constantly tearing me down. Despite my younger brother’s multiple arrest record, 2 decades long of nose candy abuse, derailed wedding engagement 1 week before his wedding. And the fact my parents had to take out a home equity line of credit to pay for their prefered son’s Boarding School in the process. But I digress.

My parents outsourced the education of my younger brother to an all Christian, jock heavy boarding school in Connecticut from the 9th grade onward. He says it made him tougher. And made him deal with actual Anti-Semitism like when his classmates threw pennies at his shoes for Mass. But a putzy, semi-built Jew from Westchester County like my younger brother. Who only competed in basketball and football against other similar putzy, semi-built Jews and Asians in a Division 3, suburban athletics prior. Was totally primed and ready to distinguish himself among the other monster, athletic bigs similar to former boarding school alum legends like NY Ranger great Bryan Leech, who broke the Cup curse from 1940, no problem.

My younger brother fell into the druggy crowd. I wasn’t any better. It did neither of us any favors. For me, it helped me come out of my shell a tad. And for my younger brother his test scores improved from snorting Ritalin. But it was a crutch. And only deepened his dependence and addiction for chemical induced highs. To help boost a strangled self-esteem void in the core of his being. For not feeling distinguished in any 1 particular field of interest like acting, writing, lacrosse or photography. This much I share in common with my younger brother from my experience in High School also minus the snorting Ritalin part. I had get into the Roy H. Park School of Communications at Ithaca College. Before I became friends with kids to snort Ritalin with and become the beneficiary of such speed paper writing privilege. Ithaca is otherwise known as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But I graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications. So after graduation, I could take a bong hit of the extra strong outdoor and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.

At the same time, my younger brother showcased glimmers of leadership potential during summers with Wilderness Ventures. Leading his group mount, the glorious Gran Teton National Park in Wyoming. Whereas I wasted away summers, counting down the days for Summer Camp to end during Color War. Because I wasn’t leading our basketball team to victory despite winning “The Most Improved Basketball Player Award.” Still knowing I was the 2nd worst athlete at camp after the Sheik’s son from Great Neck. Had no intention of writing about younger brother here but it makes sense because the story I’m telling is about my desire to raise my son into a winner because preparing is caring. And settling for outsourcing your kids education to strangers prematurely isn’t.

Preparing is caring. Don’t get me wrong, my dad coached me in basketball when I was a kid. But in retrospect, I got the impression he did it more for his own ego enlargement than for my own competitive evolution. It’s a damning statement I know. But even my younger brother who denies our dad is a narcissist. Despite our Dad having zero problem playing tennis 350- days in Scottsdale, Arizona, summer included. Versus playin and getting to know his 3 grandchildren better than he did for his 1st born. Now, I’d say my dad’s favorite activities in retirement in Arizona are playing tennis and jerking off to the Weather Channel. With news of more winter storms, slamming against the Eastern seaboard, again and again. But at least my dad’s feeling good about his developing ground game. According to my dad’s new instructor, his forehand has never been stronger.

But I’m being serious. Preparing is caring. I’m in Arizona with my younger brother and my family. And my younger brother says. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Again, let me stress the fact this advice was coming from my younger brother. Who rejects any fake news notion of our father being a Narcissist. And this is coming from a kid who posts driving selfies of himself on Facebook. Proving how the road to objectivity is way behind him. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Is coming from a kid who sees nothing wrong with leaving a condom on a couch where my kids used to play. We ditched the couch once we moved. “Push Arthur more than Dad did with us.” Is coming from a younger brother who saw no problem, asking me to get him high, when I granted him the opportunity to come through for me and look after my kids Arthur and Matilda before my lucky 3 Samuel, my flipper, breech baby was born. Which I just made the birth to in time because I had to call an audible at the last second and invite my in-laws to drive 3 hours from Delaware to look after my 2 kids at our place because my younger brother’s heart wasn’t into being a class, non-selfish act for once his life, my chest. That’s not my expression. A friend of mine in high school coined it but it’s beyond pertinent to incorporate in this butter fingers, baby brother, dropping the ball case of biblical proportions. Similar to when God said to Adam. “Under no circumstances, turn the apple of knowledge into your personal bong. The magic herb already possess plenty of mind stimulant properties of it’s own. Who do you think created Maui Wowie in the 1st place?”

So when my younger brother of 3 years who posted a picture of himself holding my 3rd born in our home as his new Facebook photo without my consent. You can understand why I got enraged, thinking, great. Now, he’s stolen both my weed, Adderall and my life. How many times has he babysat my other 2 yet? So I can squeeze in an open mike God forbid. But feel free to use my newborn as a means to hide your sketchy surging side from mom to attract more maternal minded muff Sir Snort A Lot, my chest.

Look, even my own mother who worships the ground my younger brother walks on has admitted to me. “Son, you deserve a better younger brother.” So don’t think I’m being a melodramatic, caustic drama queen about it. I’m only mentioning my younger brothers’ serially self-centered behavior to highlight the contrasted sober sound advice he gave me in relation to my 1st son Arthur for a change. “Push Samuel more than dad did with us.” Because my younger brother is big enough to recognize the limitations of outsourcing your sons not only physical but spiritual and cultural education to strangers who aren’t family. I think we can all agree. It’s family members above else, especially dads, who should have the most personally vested interest in ensuring his children establish good, healthy habits, versus spoiled, lazy, degenerate, mentally retarding ones. Who should make it priority to educate his children on the danger of weed abuse, when their brais are still developing in High School. Instead of merely relegating you’re own use of weed in college because you worshiped Bob Dylan, sold weed in college and glamorized telling the tale of waking up to Sly Stone at Woodstock, in a post Acid haze to I’m going to take you higher.

I want my 1 Capicorn to get into the habit of winning sooner than later before losing becomes a complacent habit. Which as time drags on becomes a much harder habit to break. My dad still smokes cigarettes. And has zero problem stinking up my kids or leaving his disgusting bits of gum on our table whenever we’re graced with his presence, all after his heart attack no less. He blames his heart attack and being addicted to sleeping pills on my younger brother after his drug cop sting arrest. At the time all I thought in response was. That’s pretty fucked up thing to say dad in trying conceal your blatant favoritism you showcase in my younger brother’s direction, time and time again, obviously. Throwing your youngest son under the bus like this. Who you shipped off to Boarding School at 15. Knowing he had zero clue on how to be self-reliant or even defend himself in any effective capacity because you never signed us for Martial Arts either. Plus, insisting Jonathan gave you a heart attack over me, makes complete sense. Knowing your heart was always more invested into what upside and return my younger brother gave you in terms of pride and joy after you downplayed my rec basketball stock in front other dads in order to recruit higher caliber players. And relegated your 1st born to mere penny stock status post Bar Mitzvah. Because till this day, the only accomplishment of mine, my father beams about it was me rocking my Haftorah portion at my Bar Mitzvah. Despite my cold brought on by his perpetual, belittling, dismissive, you’re soft putz tone, which left my nervous system in shatters. It also doesn’t do wonders for your self-esteem, when your mother and father openly admit to fretting about nobody showing up to your Bar Mitzvah Party after the party happens. Only to learn they invited as many people as possible to cover their bases. Despite me having more friends back then than I do now by far.

I was close with plenty of my buds like Ari, John and Coop but all those past relationships during my age of innocence. When we used to dance like comedy buffoons to Man in the Mirror and get high off Shirley Temple’s alone at Bar Mitzvah parties galore fail to match the pure joy I derive from making a dish which gets my 1 Capricorn to launch into repeats laps around the room. Otherwise known as the Yummy Dance as my son declares with endless topping glee, best daddy ever.

All of those relationships, even mine with Coop. Who I’d buy candy with before Hebrew School. So our group of friends could throw the Nerds candy and Gobbstoppers at the Scarsdale kids moments later. Because we attended nearby Edgemont High School and went to movies like New Jack City in Yonkers, NY during the height of Albanian Guido revolution. Albanian and Italian Guido’s of late eighties, early nineties fame, were the original metrosexuals really. So, by spending all of our free time in Yonkers at the movies around such spiked haired, fist flailing Albanian bad assess of yesteryear, we became a tad tougher than our Snuggles soft Scarsdale counterparts by mere osmosis. And didn’t sweat retaliation from raining cherry Nerds in Danny Farbers face during readings of Exodus 1 bit.

Despite writing every Heavy Metal band we could think of or read about in Circus magazine with my friend Ari on our Jean Jacket Denium 3 ring binders instead of letting Rabbi Klein bore us to death. Jackie Mason, an ex Rabbi he wasn’t.

Despite all the time I spent in John’s driveway with him teaching me how to throw a tight spiral already. Despite all of those special, warm hearted memories amassed between these old school friends of mine. Who’ll I always love in my heart for loving my sweeter, sober, still way in his shy shell self. My relationship with my son Arthur, my number 1 Capricorn is far more magical and heart tingly than all of those past relationships combined. And we all saw Dice’s coming out party on HBO and Poison slay at the Westchester Country Center with Fallen Angel and Nothing But A Good Time together.

All of these friends mentioned above, came to open mikes and bringer shows I did in Manhattan after living in LA for six years after college. Our roots run deep. But having a son is different type of relationship because he’s a more beautiful, funnier, far sweeter manifestation of you. Plus, he emanates from your Tree Trunk. So he has a sense of humor and can laugh at my new naked nickname for him Pecker Wood.

My beautiful son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, my number 1 Capricorn, my all American dream. Can’t believe he’s real. God really came through for me when I prayed for none of my kids to be afflicted with my knock kneed putz gene and boy did he overdeliver. But as I’m always emphasizing to my 1 number Capricorn, talent alone is no guarantee of greatness or of transformation from nobody to somebody success. Is Kobe Bryant genetically gifted? Of course, but he’s gym rat and it’s his killer work ethic, his dogged desire to be the best like Larry the Legend and MJ before him which separates him from the Alpha Dog pack. I don’t want my son to get addicted to munchies and the giggles in High School. I want him to get addicted to winning and becoming a leader. Who helps turn other self-doubters into winning addicted believers.

Before Arthur was born, I said, babe, I got the perfect nickname for Arthur, we’re going to call him The Art Show. 1 second later, his big sister interjects Arthur Morrison Kornbluth’s swelling embryonic mojo. And says. “No, it’s my show.” Since then, I’ve also called my son Arthur, my All American Dream because he’s got blue eyes, blond hair and looks like a prettier Micky Mantle. If Leo played him in a movie before all the booze and coke drained him of his God given good looks like a non-fruiter sounding Peter O-Toole.

I think giving your kids confidence building nicknames are important because it gives them a high standard to live up to like Art Show USA or All American Dream or Number 1 Capricorn. I’d say those nicknames are a glaring contrast to self-esteem restricting nicknames like Waste of Height in comparison.

The 1st founding father to sign the Constitution, George Washington said 99% of people fail because of their insistence on making excuses. And I refuse to raise my Number 1 Capricorn to be this way. Preparing is caring. So when I see my son on the playground at Pre-K to pick up early. And see him running around with such athletic grace and confidence supreme because I pushed the monkey bars on him early like his sister and got him mirroring my kettle bell exercises at 3. This glorious sight of my son’s confidence on the rise puts me at ease. Knowing he’s so much more comfortable in his own skin than I ever was at his age. And he’s getting stronger at conquering his inner shyness, more everyday, yeah, yeah. “Life is on the other side of fear”, like Eleanor Roosevelt said. When you’re an unemployed stay at home comedian dad, you have plenty of time to look up life coaching quotes to use on your children I know.

Preparing is caring. In a sense, a fair share of the losing in my life has prepared me to become a more informed, empowering caretaker for my children to ensure their semblance of egos don’t get tripped up at the starting gate. Becoming a parent is a life improver do over by granting you the opportunity to do good through your children. By doing your best to make sure they’re aware of your mistakes and don’t repeat them to ensure they become addicted to winning sooner than later. And don’t end up an unemployed father of 3 with a very funny yet unbillable podcast and blog under their belt for the past year and change. Preparing is caring. And more than ever, I’m determined to be the best winning role model I can be for my 1 Capricorn. And the only way I can do this, which is under my control. Is to keep banging out more retweet worthy jokes, unearth more heart warming blog chapters and finish writing my book, Stay-At-Home Comedian already. And settle for nothing less than family inspired comedy gold so I become funnier than Weird Al and don’t die a nobody before Christmas. I told you 1 Capricorn got his dark sense of humor from me.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

Media is Good, Trump is Bad

Father-In-Law
People normally gravitate to me.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
You work in IT for a living. Anyone with a pulse is the Howard Stern of cooler talk, no offense.

Ungrown flowers must be way cheaper than grown ones because they’re the only ones my mother-in-law buys for us. They look like flowers who’ve never been circumcised. And are just as gross & anti-climatic to take in.

My In-Law’s Nazi dog barks at me again. I say. What’s wrong Heidi Himmler? Do I smell like too much Matzo Ball Soup for your taste?

When your Mother-In-Law doesn’t match your goodbye. It means her fat ass resents you rubbing in how successful her sister’s daughter’s husband is as an architect in Manchester England compared to your non-billable podcast blogger career.

Calling Hudson Dermatology. I was calling to confirm my
appointment to learn whether my finger has skin cancer or warts from being too loose with girls in LA in my 20’s. Last name
Kornbluth yet I’m sure my big Jew mouth was a dead giveaway already.

Mother-In-Law
Lots of people were stuck in the snow.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
But those people aren’t your 3 grandchildren and me.
So I could give 3 shits about your bullshit sense of empathy like the way you describe all Arabs as Middle Eastern.

Younger Brother
My job is bleeding into my social life.
Mom thought I was going to quit my job over it.
Older Brother
I’m sure mom stressed how important it is for you to feel like a big shot in all spheres of your life.

Wife
You’re really edgy around my parents.
Husband
Your mom is an unhugable cunt. Her insistence on acting like she’s too good to compete on Top Baker doesn’t do her any favors either. But I thought the dog got her more active.

Wife
You’re really edgy around my parents.
Husband
Only around your mom actually  All she’s good for is bagels and a cake once a year for the kids birthdays. Plus, she hates how happy the kids are around with me without her assistance.

Husband
Your mom didn’t match my goodbye.
Wife
She was just mesmerized by baby Samuel.
Husband
Her fat ass was plopped on the couch.
Holding hands with your dad.
To show a CNN tie of solidarity.

When your mother-in-law doesn’t match your goodbye. It means her feelings are bruised for you demonizing her precious, all truth unearthing, zero divisive agenda driving media.

Wife
You can’t talk politics the day before my birthday.
Husband
Your friends and dad bring up how everyone needs to be nice and stop being so divisive. Like your mom knew what the fucking midterms were 8 years ago. Neither did I but still.

Younger Brother
Got engaged. I’m marrying Jane more for her than me.
Plus, she’s the only girl I’ve been with who I don’t want to cheat on.
Older Brother
You sound like a bitter free, lust conquering, slut in a straight jacket already.

 

Converted Wife
I abandoned my relationship with my lord and savior for a putzy Jew from the Bronx like you, smutz slacks. At least, Jesus is handy with a hammer. He could convert our Christmas Tree into a Tree House and have his cousin Saul flip for a profit.

Int. Pharmacy
Pharmacist
80 bucks now, 250 moving forward.
Stay at Home Comedian Dad
So much for this Caravan driving down the price of pharmaceuticals.
No wonder anyone lobbying for lower drugs prices gets iced. Bullworth was on to something.

So sick of anyone who takes offense to demonizing the precious media. Who sat on the Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein story forever. The same media who compares Trump to Hitler. Who would never dare call Obama a measured Farrakhan with a Teleprompter.

Trump should just hire Jeff Ross to roast Jim Acosta. What are you exactly? Because you’re not suave enough to be a Cuban spy. Does CNN just shove a mike in the hands of anyone with good hair? Who doesn’t look too Tommy Lee Alt-Rightish.

Ivanka locked up is a sexy image. I get it. But it’s not happening resistors. Plus, I don’t think she’s getting fired.  Also, let’s not act like she got caught sending personal emails to YourMamaObama@gmail.com either.

Father-In-Law
The US was never this divisive.
Stay at Home Comedian
If you don’t see how CNN, Facebook or Obama isn’t the instigator of such hysterical, blatantly divisive rhetoric, then you’re the tone deaf, blind old man at sea gone sailing.

Mother-In-Law
Samuel’s had a snotty nose before.
Stay At Home Dad
Don’t act like you’ve had a front row view from day 1, for 2 years straight now Facebook Grandma. But your sister got him nice PJ’s in England. Good for you.

INT. HOME-MORNING
Mother In Law
We don’t have a car seat.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
Why would you? Since you granted your rescue dog squatter residence. Only after the birth of your 3 grandchildren no less.

Am I the only 1 pissed off about the Obama’s being a billion dollar brand now? Knowing Obama is an ex-civil servant. And done nothing but smirk and talk consistent shit about his replacement ever since. After sanctioning spying on Trump Tower no less.

But seriously, am I the only 1 pissed off about the Obama’s being glorified for being a billion dollar brand now? Knowing Obama is an ex-civil servant not belonging to the Skulls and Bones last time I checked. On top of being radio silent on Trump lead prison reform affecting inner city kids the most in his sweet home Chicago?

I questioned why we gave billions to Pakistan in my pilot, Don’t Laugh, I Live In Newark. About a fat Ethiopian TSA Worker who saves the day. Also, the Hillary oh gosh reaction shot lacked her trademark Terminator stiffness. Or maybe it’s just me.

Trump should hire Van Jones to replace Betsy Devos as the Head of Education. A handsome black man would be a more invested champion of “due process” for brothers charged of rape and aggressive eyeballing and lip licking at the club.

But if Karl Rove can be bi-partisan. He pushed W to run for President. He was America’s fuck up enabler. Shut up already. You’re just embarrassing yourself. Latching any veneer of goodness to that evil turd is like saying John Podesta is good with kids.

My dads defense for never getting a tree in our home for my mom who converted. When Jews look at a Christmas Tree, they see a Camouflaged Cross. Like a topless, Collared Priest in Khaki shorts at Action Park. It gives me the creeps alright.

I’m so sick of hearing how divisive our country has become. Prefaced with the implied assertion it’s all Trump’s fault. When half the US normalizes ANTIFA, voter fraud, Nazi smears, witch hunts & sanctuary cities because Rape Wood’s enabler pick lost.

Story titles for Stay At Home Comedian chapter about my baby boy, Samuel the breech baby.

Your Flipping Over Jonathan Not Looking After the Kids?
Birth of Bam, Bam, Giggalow
My Weed Intake Saved My Baby From Brain Damage
Flip Out Free Space Here

 

Mother In Law
Matilda, make sure you eat all your breakfast because it’s good for your brain and body.
Daughter
I took 2 more bites like daddy told me to.

Translation: F off Facebook Grandma. You’re older than Ariel’s clam trap in the sea.

Story titles for Stay At Home Comedian chapter about my relationship with my 1st baby boy, Art Show USA.

My All American Dream
Number 1 Capricorn
No, He’s My Daddy
Wishing My Son’s Birthday Never Blows
Can’t Believe He’s Real

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Move From Hermosa Hell

7:30 PM WST and my parents haven’t called yet to wish me a happy 28th birthday. I play a voicemail. My mom sings me happy birthday. And I cry out every ounce of beaten down in life sadness, my always ate alone in Junior High at Burger King clogged heart could bear. Apparently, my new diet of double cheese Turkey Burgers from Astro Burger didn’t do much to unclog the heavy heartedness of ineffectual loser-dom in my heart. Knowing at 28, I was an unemployed wannabe standup comedian in the Valley, porn capital of the world next to Warner Brother Studios, otherwise known as the land of dirty, money shot powered dreams.

My wife now and mother of my 3 kids hates me bringing up my lost year in Sherman Oaks. Where the crystal meth was still working its way out of my system. The unemployment checks were coming to an end. And at 28, I still didn’t have a best friend to call to emote to, ask for advice or pick me up when times were blue. Which depressed me more than having little to no money then. I was so broke, my Hebrew name was under Judicial Review at 28 years old. Back then, I couldn’t even stare at an extra Actress with a SAG card on Melrose without being fined for insufficient funds. Ok, so I had some decent material my 1st year of stand-up during my “lost year” in Sherman Oaks. But I almost never made it to Sherman Oaks alive at all.

I lived in Hermosa Beach, for 9 months prior. It was my favorite beach in Southern California by far. The sand is pebble free and the waves for body surfing were consistently the best. My apartment was on Monteray Ave, overlooking the Pier and Brian Wilson’s favorite, money making muse, the misty, always majestic, mighty Pacific. Screw you Mark Twain it’s my story time now. Female hardbody volleyball players abounded. Specs of sand scattered within my shower always put me at Summer loving having a blast ease.

I stared to run by the water after working as an IT recruiter in Manhattan Beach nearby. I was no longer in a suffocating, sexless relationship with my ex. The only rich Irish girl of private Catholic school upbringing in Westwood, John Wooden country. Who couldn’t hold her liquor. But her father had a keg of Sierra Nevada Pale on tap always. So I wasn’t complaining. It’s the pale ale that never gets stale. Recycling lines from my advertising portfolio and 1st year of stand up has to materialize for me eventually. I even had buds to hang out with down for happy hour at the Poop Deck before I hit on everything that moved. Had my recruiter bud Jay take some inspired trips to Tijuana with me. Growing up during Regan, before Magic had made HIV disappear. I had enough good sense so I thought not to bang any hookers there. Was called a faggot for it which was nice. Walked out of a brothel when they were all lined up also. I couldn’t have been a more indecisive Jew unless I had the munchies at the Bellagio buffet in Vegas for my last meal on earth but was only allotted 1 plate to fill.

I was paying rent on my own. Had to ask mom and dad for deposit, 1st month rent. It was my only way out my relationship with my ex. In retrospect, I should’ve kicked her out of our apartment in West Hollywood. Which I was living in prior. It was ten times cheaper and walking distance to the Improv on Melrose and the Comedy Store on Sunset. So much for thinking that move through.

Across the street from where I lived in Hermosa was a wine shop that sold beer. The owner there was young like me who used to live in NYC, so he was pretty cool in my book, so I thought. We start hanging out late night at this wine shop. He lures me with free wine samples and bottles of beer when I don’t have a bottle to piss in literally. Pretty soon, this leads to us doing bumps of what I thought were cocaine which were actually bumps of Crystal Meth. It looked the same, dripped at the back of my throat the same and snorted up my nostril the same. The only discernable difference after my 1st tiny snort, lasting what seemed like all summer. Was me kissing this delicious blond gal at a dark, scarlet red hued lounge bar by the Strand moments later. Feeling like a coked out Tony the Tiger. Thinking, telling myself, this is shit is great. It wasn’t.

The crash was in fact the opposite of great. Especially 24 hours later, when I found myself peeing on myself. Walking outside my apartment. Feeling my eyes roll toward the back of head. Never feeling more empty or devoid of hope in such a depressed, bleaked out state in my life. Staring at the Pacific Ocean from my 2nd story walk up apartment in Hermosa Beach, not seeing pure beauty or universal connectivity or boundless potential inside me. Not seeing me prancing on the sand with my ex girlfriend Summer Lam to summer loving having a blast after drinking Pyramid Peach Apricot beers on the beach or making Veal Marsala from Bristol Farms after watching a Sopranos together based on a recipe from the Sopranos cook book no less.

No, all I felt was imminent death coming to claim me if God didn’t throw me a lifeline of any kind. As I walked out of my apartment in a Crystal Meth mind, spirit meltdown stupor, no longer doing wine sales on commission only after I got fired from my IT recruiter job for not billing enough and looking for other jobs on the job. Forward thinking has never been my forte.

Already, using what money I had left on my new apartment deposit in Sherman Oaks in the Valley. From my stocks and 401K, nice to meet you Capital Gains. I had no security blanket left. But thank God my old recruiter bud Jay called me out of the blue to see if I wanted to be roommates. I consider it divine intervention. Because if Jay didn’t call me I would’ve stayed in southern California long enough to try writing another Curb spec again but on my own this time without my ex, Erica’s assistance. I wrote it in 3 days flat. I was clean now. Was attending bartending school in North Hollywood. Spent a fortune on a psychic in West Hollywood to clear my Chakras. Apparently, my Chakras were more clogged than my freshman college one hitter.

In Sherman Oaks, I was trying to write standalone jokes and get laughs from doing stand-up. Till this day, I don’t know what demon drove me to do it. Outside of my roommate Jay, Cedric, another old recruiter bud and Shakes, an IT security analyst who I placed with Raytheon in El Segundo, California, I had no Mikey pep talks from T in Swingers to rely on.

So I’m staring down the cold, unforgiving, gaze of the Pacific Ocean from the balcony of my apartment with pee drenched pants. Having no accomplishment of distinction under my belt yet. Which I can truly claim as my own. Billing almost 100K as an IT Recruiter in Westwood prior doesn’t really count because my Recruiting Manger would spoon feed me lines to negotiate fee and close candidates on salary with. I can’t get over the vacant chill inside me starring out daybreak over Hermosa Beach with scattered, greyish overcast for a change. Thinking, my younger brother who went to boarding school for his cocaine troubles. He’s the one with hard drug issues, not me.

I worked my ass off from 22-28 years old cold calling my brains out as an IT recruiter in Westwood, Century City and now Manhattan Beach. From 7-7 I was at work. And I’d work on TV spec scripts with my ex at night when we lived in West Hollywood together for Curb, Malcolm, even did a Six Feet Under, got really strong encouragement from lit agents and professional readers to.

But since getting fired from my IT Recruiter job and making no money from wine sales and no longer having my ex-girlfriend help anchor me to bang out spec scripts after cold calling off all index cards pre-LinkedIn, I was truly lost at sea. Now, I was no longer a mere Shmuck in a headset. Or even an aspiring TV scribe on the rise, just a spoiled, degenerate, mush brained, borderline friendless, borderline disowned 1st born with a useless Communication degree about to drop dead at 28 years old, 1 year after Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. But my magic 27 didn’t consist of banging out Bobby McGee on Pearl or shredding the Filmore East’s amps to pieces with Machine Gun on Band of Gypsies either. Shit, I wasn’t even a bloated Jim Morrison, who still squeezed out the majestic Indian Summer before my impending, not important enough to be tragic, dying of my light.

I make it across the street to Ming Dynasty’s wine shop. Which he needs to open so I can get some Alka Seltzer and water. Then, when I thought my dark thoughts couldn’t get any trying to sleep off Acid to Beethoven freshman year in college scarier worse. Ming Dynasty cryptically states in the most chillingly, been around a lot of overdoes man, says. Don’t OD in front of my store. I end up shaking it off at his parents place. And all I have to keep me going is forced sunny images of my summer in love with Katie in the Cape, holding hands, walking to town, no images of my pothead friends from high school, no images of dad bonding with me, nothing.

The worst part is me having to move out of my apartment in Hermosa to Sherman Oaks the day after I saw my non-glorious life fade out in front me. My move from Hermosa Hell to the valley is the move that almost killed me, literally. I was so winded, the next day, I had to take 20 minute naps on the coach from merely, carrying boxed books down a single flight of stairs. I had no medical insurance. How I made it to Sherman Oaks without dying from Dark angel’s crystal meth attack on what spark of divinity remained in my sad shrouded soul and borderline brain dead head is purely a direct result of God’s grace, nothing more, nothing less. God must have known ahead of time, what great kids I’d bang out once I got my act together.

Again, I didn’t even know I was doing Crystal Meth. I only learned it was Crystal Meth months later, when Ming Dynasty rang. I said dude, I don’t know what was in that coke but I thought I was going die in my own arms that night. Ming Dynasty replies. It wasn’t coke, it was Crystal Meth. I thought you knew the difference. But powdered coke looks like powdered Meth. So much for passing the Pepsi fucking challenge.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

Wife’s Birthday Party Gone South

Nationalist is a loaded word. The N bomb is a load word. ANTIFA lives matter is an oxymoron.

If I have to hear 1 more time. But the Israelis retaliate against the Palestinians with extreme force. What’s an acceptable response then? Poetry slams in a East Jerusalem coffee shop and dropping truth bombs about Hamas killing any shot of a 2 state solution instead?

You have Hypersexual Disorder. If a lower back massage leads to you ramming your pelvis into mama over the couch. I ask my daughter. You want to know how babies are made? Daughter says. Daddy, enough with “hump-backing” mama. Spare me the play, by play already.

 

My impersonation of Mike Birbiglia on Broadway
I felt so useless & sidelined after my wife gave birth to our daughter. So, I scribbled some jokes in my diary about how I get why Stallone left his wife in Over the Top. I’m feeling so vanilla vulnerable right now.

 

Michelle Obama says she stopped trying to smile at Trump’s Inauguration. Is like ANTIFA’s head of recruitment saying he stopped cashing checks from George Soros in his hidden Swiss bank account under Heidi Franz Krautpurgent.

Trump’s a white nationalist? But he moved our embassy to Jerusalem. So technically speaking, he’s a Hebrew Nationalist. Hebrew Hammer strikes his point home through his all mighty shtick again.

INT.  Home

Hub Guest

Louie CK is right. Most kids can be annoying assholes.

Stay At Home Comedian Dad

Mine are fuss free. But hipster husband talk of white nationalists turning America into an Aryan nation despite no Edward Norton, American History X knockoffs gracing the Oval Office feels like mainlining MDMA?

Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I enjoy mom’s friends over.
But do you know what I missed most yesterday kids?

Daughter
What daddy?
Dad
Focused attention away from you 3 kids. My greatest gifts of all.
Daughter
So everyday with us feels like Hanukkah, 8 days a week?

Stay At Home Comedian Dad
There’s funny & hilarious. Besides you being hyper-articulate Matilda.
You deliver naturalistic punchline words with extra personable pop and hilarious minded, expressive relish.

Daughter
I never want this compliment to end.

Who could resist this?

 

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth