Set List: New Work Banter, Nitpicky Lame, Year Without Beer Film Premise, Selectively Suspicious, Qatar Rocks, Big Pharma Blues, Headhunter Writer, Lame Love Lives.
President Poopy Pants cuts off Boomers from Social Security.
Parent Teacher conference was last night. I open with, “You know Frank’s Pizzeria in town? Well, Frank just called Samuel our future President. What do you got?” Kindergarten Teacher, Mrs. Rudolph laughs long time. She adds, “He’s such a happy child.” I say, “Funnier dad, happier baby. You want a photo off old man? My son has more happy muscle memory to flex from than a young Leo on the set Growing Pains with Alan Thicke. Controlling our kids with comedy can make our kids great again, my 3 fuss free kids’ 90 percent of time are living proof of it.”
Mrs. Rudolph’s titillated esophagus secretes more laughter to fill the air, which feels like long lasting Lock Jaw Love in return.
Lock Jaw Love lasting, Challah, Thank you very much.
Vinnie Boom Boom Burrata kissed his Fender Stratocaster more than his ex-wife. In his ex-wife’s defense, she was a self-conscious kisser on pure MDMA. Plus, nothing made Vinne Boom Boom Burrata smile more inside than making his Fender Stratocaster cry. Big tits get played out on the same wife compared to copping endless slides down your electrified shaft, which Vinnie could make come to life like no other. BB King had Lucille and Vinne Boom Boom Burrata had Amanda, named after his favorite power ballad by Boston who also wrote his 2nd favorite song ever, A Man I’ll Never Be, which reminded him of his dear Dad who died in his arms from fucking Gum cancer, despite giving up dip for Big League Chew ages ago.
Vinnie’s Dad, Roberto, hailed from a fine line of guitar makers in San Marzano Italy known for its olive farms and its fertile breeding ground of Ferrari red glimmery tomatoes that were sweet enough to pop in your mouth off the vine as if they were mother earth’s answer to organic nerd dispensers. After getting his strumming finger cut off by a local mob boss Domnick De-Gutter Grasi, for refusing to pay the protection money for his acoustic guitar making store for European royalty with plenty of free time on their hands to strum away the midday nappy booze under the sun. Because of that, Vinnie was forced to leave Italy for America and move in with his older brother in Staten Island who was an Italian Butcher known for his 100 Year Prosciutto curing hall beneath his shop on Arthur Kill Road.
Roberto became known as the 9 fingered butcher of Staten Island, who’d flip off the spoiled mafia offspring 6 degrees separated from the Gotti family whenever they’d drop by the shop expecting non-stop access to his primo aged pork samplings below the store, which sold for thousands per pound on the open market. Still, Roberto never lost his love of guitar creation and swore to God he’d make a Barolo wine red one for his 1st and only son Vitto Boom Boom Burrata to ensure he didn’t let the Italian Mafia kill off his family line’s gift of heart strumming serenades that put our heart’s together with our maker in one seemingly beautiful harmony.
But now Roberto’s only son, Vinnie Boom Boom Burrata, who was his best friend till the end can’t play his cherished Fender Stratocaster without crying his eyes out for his dearly departed Dad. Vinnie quit his band Shredder after they signed a recording contract with a new upstart record label Wailing Wall of Metal Records, based on the operatic, heart tingly instrumental guitar solo song, Roberto’s Son Shreds. Vinnie’s finger tapping work on Roberto’s Son Shreds was described by Guitar World as, “Getting finger blasted by Eddie Van Halen on your wedding night great.”
Little did Vinnie know, his biggest fan was a kid known on YouTube as Hardcore Hunga Rocks, who was considered pound for pound the greatest little drummer pounder prodigy since Buddy Rich headlined his own Bat Mitzvah at 10, like a young Cameron Crowe on the sticks from Almost Famous.
Hardcore Hunga Rocks tracks down his favorite shredder of all time in hopes of joining forces to make the greatest pop rock metal record Boston never made in the home recording studio Vinnie’s Dad had built for him before he was born to become the shredding beast of the six string that he could never be since pops fell in love with Led Zepplin and Jimmy Page’s masterful slide guitar work on In My Time of Dying.
Hardcore Hunga Rocks knocks on Vinnie’s door with such force, he knocks the entire door off its hinges in the process. Vinnie, a silky, long haired black stallion emerges from his Electric Playland Studio with a cigarette in hand and says, “Who invited you the fuck in?” Hardcore Hunga Rocks springs up from the marble floor and says, “How the fuck can you afford all marble floors? Your record advance from could’ve been that big? Besides, didn’t you have to give that record advance back after you quit the band to take care of your dad?” Vinnie takes a quizzical puff from his Camel Extra wide and says, “Your Hardcore Hunga Rocks. I’ve seen your drum solos on YouTube. I’ve never heard anyone smash the drums with harder edge than you kid. You should call your band Aftershock for Christ’s sake. Hardcore Hunga Rock says, “I’m not in a band, but I would want to form a supergroup with you. If Jack White and his fake news sister can do it, we can to. Make out with your guitar all you want. In fact, I was thinking we can make a video spoof of the November Rain video and have you walk down the aisle with your cherished Fender Stratocaster while doing a remake of the serially underrated cult classic, Till Death To Us Part by White Lion.”
Vinnie says, “Shit that’s my favorite song after A Man I’ll Never Be.” So, you want to join forces to become a super White Lion cover group?” Hardcore Hunga Rocks says, “When the Shredder Frets has a beautiful tonal ring to it already. Weird Al, I fucked him, I can’t take no more. My Dad was a huge Dice fan to.” Vinnie laughs for the 1st time in years as an incredible warm crash of sea calm washes over him and says, “Fuck Boston and Pete Davidson, let’s make Staten Island stand for something stand out special more than Russian gangsters sipping on espresso drinks in 25th Hour. I sold plenty of blow in the eighties, which paid for my marble laden home despite never touching the stuff. Hunter Biden was the gift that kept on giving my freshman year at Georgetown University.”
Sounds of Dronish Cuntry
Over Faking Happiness
Vaccinated Buzz Kills
Fame Whore Ho
A Plus Alter Ego
Master Set Sample
Rape Enablement Party
Lesbian Licking Losers
Cock Blocking Party
Do It All Dad kills. #ComedyRecord136MasterSet
Sounds of Dronish Cuntry
Over Faking Happiness
Vaccinated Buzz Kills
Fame Whore Ho
A Plus Alter Ego
Master Set Sample
Rape Enablement Party
Lesbian Licking Losers
Cock Blocking Party
My dad didn’t care for Heavy Metal, but Sal Balsamo did. He loomed large over Mount Metal outside of Seely Place Elementary School, a sprawling rock formation dominated by his jean jacket worshipping brethren, decked out in Metallica, Slayer and Overkill patches on all. It was here where Sal Balsamo delivered his metal front men with 10 Commandments of Metal to burn into their burnout craniums forever.
Commandment 1: Thou shall not steal metal riffs from Twinkle Toe Rhodes.
Commandment 2: Thou shall not disrespect thy father and mother of Heavy Metal, Deep Purple and Lita Ford.
Commandment 3: Thou shall not carry hatred in your heart for Metallica’s brothers in arms after the killer commercial success from the Black album and beyond.
Commandment 4: Thou shall pray to the programing manager of MTV for playing the Cherry Pie video on one endless loop during the winter of 90, which even made Kareem Adul Jabbar crack a smile during Ramadan that was eight miles wide.
Commandment 5: Thou shall request DJs at Bar Mitzvah parties to play Cult of Personality even if they insist on not knowing who the fuck Vern Reed is yet.
Commandment 6: Thou shall kiss your guitar more than your girlfriend’s ass after she puts on the freshman 50 at the University of Buffalo.
Commandment 7: Thou shall find a new groupie to love if they deride Heavy Metal music as awful despite GNR, Motley Crue Cinderella and Poison rocking your world more than they ever did.
Commandment 8: Thou shall consider blowing Desmond Child for penning Hair Metal classic hits like Poison by Alice Cooper, Dude Looks Like a Lady by Aerosmith and Living On a Prayer by the long haired cowboys from New Jersey, Bon Jovi.
Commandment 9: Thou shall laugh when you hear Jim Norton roast Sammy Haggar on Comedy Central with, “I don’t drink, but my hunch tells me Sammy that your Tequilla Cabo Wabo, is Van Halen light.”
Commandment 10: Thou shall pay Ace Frehley’s medical bills if Gene Simmons screws him out any future touring money ever again.
The spirit of Sal Balsamo burned on at his fort in the woods behind Seely Place one unseasonably warm December afternoon before Christmas Break. A fire erupted after a scatter of fiery ash landed on top of some old, discarded rugs used for after school hook ups with Elisa Velle on Valentine’s Day. Sal and his metal head Disciples watched in holy shit man aw as the fire raced up a giant oak tree, rapidly approaching his old Kindergarten classroom at Seely as it roared with Metallica Kill Them All rage up high in the sky. Sal Balsamo’s father was a retired fireman from Yonkers, NY and former roadie for Led Zepplin, so blazing inferno’s, backdrafts and fiery satanic altars his father would walk into as Jimmy Page pleaded with the Devil for more electric slaying chops than Hendrix or Tommy Iommi ever possessed didn’t dampen Sal Balsamo’s metal worshiping spirit one bit.
Then, a voice emerged from the fire that screamed, “Run for the hills, run for your life”, which freaked out Sal and his crew because the voice sounded exactly like the human air raid siren Bruce Dickenson from Iron Maiden because his supernatural voice pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal Heaven. So, Sal and his crew run for the hills as the fire roars on with a Gene Simmon’s type of fireball blowing delight. Now, in the fire Gene Simmon’s face emerges and yells, “Loud, I wanna hear it loud, right between the eyes.” And Sal Balsamo’s crew starts screaming the chorus in the unison while looking up to this Heavy Metal light show for the ages, no longer running for the hills with such divine powered pushed authority anymore.
Do It All Dad, a 46-year-old self-stylized Hair Metal Comedian takes a break from retelling the Spirit of Sal Ballsano and his son Hardcore Hunga Rocks says, “So what happened to the fire Daddy? Did Gene Simmons burn his tongue on it or what?” Do It All Dad says, “Eventually, the fireman extinguished the fire and what you see is the original Seely Place still standing. But Heavy Metal never dies and it sure is fuck ain’t noise pollution. So, it’s on with the show Hardcore Hunga Rocks. I think you’re finally ready for Nightmare on Elm Street, but let’s blast Too Fast For Love in the car first. Their leader guitar player Mick Mars is the Freddy Kruger of shredding.”
Hardcore Hunga says, “Let’s get on with the show already daddy. But when we get home, you get to play Van Halen on vinyl and use me as an air guitar appendage for Eruption, then we watch the movie, or I’ll be your worst nightmare, moron son, got it.”
Do It All Dad says, “Only if you promise to shout at any future devil bitch who tries to tell you Heavy Metal sucks.”
“Deal daddy, deal.”
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.
“Welcome to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast: What Gen X Dads understand; Dad-friendly entertainment for you and me. I’m your host, Michael Kornbluth.
Controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again. My three fuss-free kids (most of the time) are living proof of this.
I’ve been a Stay-At-Home Comedian on and off for a decade, now, although my dad is more old-school and prefers the expression ‘sheltered bum.’ Whenever I’m out with my three kids without their mommy, I hear, “You’ve got your hands full.” I’ll say, “If any of my books ever become bestsellers and my wife agrees to an open marriage with Susan Sarandon, then my hands will be full.”
I stopped smoking weed until I thought my daughter was asleep, already, because I felt like a moron answering her super-deep questions about the sticky icky stuff after I thought she was asleep. She’d ask, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God?”
I said, “God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.”
Daughter says, “Real convincing, Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at age four.”
Michael Kornbluth, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and proud father of the three most hilariously sweet, snuggle-shine bundles of sunshine known to mankind, adds, “Today, on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, we have a guest. Which is a rare occasion since the launch of my podcast four years ago, in my pursuit to become the paid star voice behind remote work revolution, before China could hog up all the credit for forcing corporate America to adjust to a remote work way of life to please our commie-controlled corporate masters till our last dying breath.
“During my pilot episode, I interviewed a UX designer who worked for Apple. I know you’re bored out of your mind already (unless he was Steve Jobs, pumped for the casual grandma-jeans look for all it was worth). My standup performer instinct constantly interjected the moment I sensed my guest lose the audience. This happened automatically, whenever I allowed him to drone out another colorless, brain-reaching, screeching halt reply, so I swore off ever doing another interview on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast ever again.
“Especially knowing that Do It All Dads who want to work from home based on free will alone, in the impassioned pursuit to make their kids the center of the universe instead of the reverse, don’t grow on freaking Bonsai trees, either.
“But I decided to make an exception for our, guest Richard Lankfear from Plano, Texas, who is a retired drug counselor and the author of a new book called Addiction, a mind-expanding warning of drug abuse symptoms guide so parents can see if their kids are a frantic manifestation of their crazy hick degenerate gene, with zero concept of moderation in real time or not.
“Raising drug-free children is important to me because being a druggy dependent is the opposite of feeling free. (Cream lives; holla thank you very much.)
How can our kids get excited about the pursuit of happiness at home or at school if they are getting high off their loved ones, or from a job well done that isn’t enough (at least until their mid-twenties)?
“Richard enacts tremendous good from his lifetime service as a drug counselor by making a drug abuse warning guide for parents today who are unaware of what constitutes drug-forming behavior under their allegedly emotionally-present watch.
“The chilling, sobering stats in the book, such as fentanyl being 100 times more powerful than morphine, speak for themselves, and need to be illuminated with unflinching detail, knowing that either blissful ignorance, dismissive sugarcoating, or mere whitewashing of the opioid epidemic throughout the US as being a mere “white trash ” problem can become the worst fatal mistake a parent today can make.
“This is especially true knowing how Chinese-made fentanyl, snuck in through our Mexican border, has killed more crackers in this country than Lena Dunham kicking it with Taylor Swift on Instagram.
“The recurring theme in Richard’s book The Addicted Child is parents becoming reactive firefighters multiple rehab stints later, versus the ideal of becoming proactive troubleshooters before such residual damage has been done, which some families never truly recover from.
“This book will help more families spot drug habit-forming warning signs by offering actionable insight to prevent their kids from facing such a life-crippling fate. More importantly, the vast breakdown of all types of drug abuse included in the book will give parents the confidence and sense of surging urgency to have the “drugs will kill your brain cells” talk with their kids and their still-developing minds, before those rapidly-deepening drug-forming habits become that much harder to break.”
Richard, on the side of the Skype podcast interview, is red and flustered in the face, flabbergasted over how the Do It All Dad Year Podcast has made zero effort to give his guest a smidgen of breathing room to promote his book seven minutes into the broadcast, already.
If only had Richard known of Do It All Dad’s code work trick which his three kids used whenever he went on one of his impassioned rants in one seamless endless breath, with zero auditory relief in sight as his kids long forgot what cool interesting idea, or question, they were to express! It which was this: “Pause Daddy.” As they pointed an imaginary remote directly at him, they’d say, “Pause Daddy” with warm-hearted smiling-stretchy cheer because it was funny and it actually shut their dad the fuck up for change, whether he was on Adderall or off.
Stay At Home Comedian rolls on, adding, “Let’s focus on our guest, now, Richard, who didn’t spend any quality time emoting about the all-star book review I just read for you on Amazon about his book The Addicted Child (which was more than generous, considering what a snooze the book was, as a whole).
“So, Richard, I just read another book by Lou Gramm, the former leader/signer/howler legend from Foreigner who’s known for co-writing and belting out endless classic rock staple hits such as ‘Juke Box Hero’, ‘Double Vision’, and ‘Long, Long, Long Way From Home’ (being my personal favorites among the pack).
“In his highly readable book, in comparison to yours, he talks about getting sober and the growing frustration of not even being able to partake in lighting a doobie after killing at freaking Solider Field, on the tour party bus soon afterwards, when everybody else from the band is now in their early forties (they still are).
“Like the roadie guy says in the movie Rockstar with Mark Wahlberg, “Don’t be half-ass about it. Live out the rock star dream for those who can’t. Or something close to that.
“Also, there’s a standup comedian who’s no longer with us; the late great Greg Geraldo, who said that drug use should be encouraged when in your forties more so than your twenties; especially when you learn, during a parent teacher conference, “That your son is a half a ‘tard.”
“So, my question for Richard is, “What’s an acceptable form of addiction in your book?” Richard says, “I wish I had a stage light to shine on you a thousand runon sentences ago.” The Do It All Dad Year Podcast host fires back with, “So, all the Irish thugs who used to beat up nice Jewish kids in the Bronx, calling them Christ Killers and blah, blah…are they what you’d call a special kid of drunk prick later in life, or do you think the concept of a so-called happy drunk doesn’t apply to any Irish alcoholics because their rosy noses give the impression they’re really just more superficially cheery on the surface than the rest?
“And if the Irish are the best drunk poets, then whatever happened to the Irish Beastie Boys in the Jump Around video?
“Don’t get me wrong; I don’t thinking being a drunk prick is a strictly an Irish disease. For me, I think a fellow member of my tribe, Michel Rappaport, still sounds like he’s auditioning for the role of Wigger Number Three asshole In the Jump Around video.”
Richard says, “Are you going to ask any of the questions I gave you?”
The Do It All Dad Year Podcast Host Michael replies, “Why are parents so afraid to have honest conversations about drugs through their record collections with their kids, Richard? What makes these parents so apprehensive as to point out the dangers of doing shitty Chinese-made coke with Hunter Biden, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall?
“Do you feel that sketchy degenerate behavior is born, enabled, or all the above?
“In the movie Requiem for a Dream, Jared Leto is missing a freaking arm at the end, which is a powerful cautionary message to nail home, on par with reading your kids Allen Ginsburg’s Howl the next time they claim to not scare easily. It describes all the beautiful angels of the light’s mind ravaged by drugs, reducing them to eating stray cats throughout the streets of San Francisco.
“Why didn’t you share such hardcore scare tactics tips in your book, for parents to use on their kids, so they wouldn’t have to spend a mini-ortune, and take out a new home equity loan on the house to afford your overrated counseling services?”
Now all of Michael’s three kids come bursting in the room to give their dear Dada a hug after coming back from school, anxious to tell him about their day. In unison, they all point an imaginary remote at their Stay-At-Home Comedian Dad and say, “Pause Daddy.”
Richard throws up his hands in defeated disgust on the Skype window screen and yells, “That’s it! ‘Pause Daddy’ are the magic words to shut this loudmouth, obnoxious Jew up, already.” Stay At Home Comedian Dad replies, “When your opinions are deemed worthy enough to interrupt my killer flow, I’ll let you know, jerkoff. “Never forget controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again. My three fuss-free kids, 95 percent of the time, living proof of it.”
It was 1986. Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with a badass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life. Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the fourth grade, spending more time now stargazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid, because she saw how tweaky and sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did.
Her younger brother Arthur would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later-discontinued Jolt Cola, which was the equivalent of six cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep-deprived first-grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store.
But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage, because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss because she had to write a paper about it for class.
Actually, Matilda’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, goody two-shoes square.”
Now Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Ways from Halloween that she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again ’till 2061.
By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous astrophysicist who would eventually go viral (despite the Internet not having been invented yet), where she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt, too.”
Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt, and in a frenzied spurt, she darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite her inner square telling her that she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice-in-a-lifetime event (if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow up bigger than you-know-what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads.
As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur, still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister; yet, unfortunately, she inherited her dear dada’s clunky, heavy feet (which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon, either).
Arthur turns his head, spots Matilda, and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt—on a school night, too.”
Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arthur. I’m not Matilda—you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation. I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind, like Han Solo after Leia unfreezes him from carbonite in Jabba’s place.”
Arthur adds, “Don’t BS, me ‘Tilda. Wait a minute. I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.” Now Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green force field-enclosing, brain-eating alien bug. Arthur freaks out, as expected, yelling, “I got killed, ‘Tilda! I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m gonna get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”
Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching it, Arthur. I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet.”
Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins.
As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each other, landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with the discarded Milk Way wrappers on it.
Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over, baby.”
Matilda, who has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain-drilling noogie, looks up to her Dad and asks, in perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet, Dad?”
Dad says, “But, then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grow on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need.”