Twice as Soft

I only feel tough around black dudes in masks, which is the craziest phenomenon of my lifetime. I don’t think every black dude had to duke it out in Watts growing up. But if NPR were to take a survey of the least likely demographic to still be sporting masks at Dicks Sporting Goods while fondling size 13 Nikes. Plus, since when are black guys as a whole proactive about playing defense of any kind? A black dude in a mask isn’t looking good or winning over any fly ho’s while having to pull a nappy down between sips of Old E, Snoop Dog’s old school ho sprayer of choice. Ludacris please, you’re just bequeathing more power to Dr. Gnocchi, which is dumb. That’s like taking barebacking advice from Dr. J who passed it down to Magic Johnson. I’m still twice as soft as any black dude, not named Erkel but I also didn’t get triple vaxed out of fear of catching an itchy esophagus. Last, like most black dudes, I don’t discriminate against pussy, although in Meghan Mccain, no matter how much intricate ass play preceded, I’d still be twice as soft compared to Leroy Brown from the block. Challah. Twice as soft, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Gunning For Greatness

I can’t bring myself to see the new Top Gun. I can’t even bring myself to watch the new Val Kilmer doc on Amazon Prime for free for Christ’s sake. I don’t care that Val Kilmer has a small cameo in the new Top Gun. That’s a reason enough to stay home. I want to remember Val Kilmer as the Lizard King who could do anything in the Doors. Or as the laconic cool Doc Holliday in Tombstone or as the highly believable wise ass science wiz in Real Genius, not as Ice on too much Nitrous to the point where his face looks stuck in a paralysis partied out position. I don’t even want to Google the disease Val Kilmer has. I want to remember him as the ice-cold killer in Heat who looked hotter than Ashley Judd in her prime, decades before she painted herself as a real victim of rape. Ooh, Ashley Judd refused to watch Harvey Weinstein shower himself down at his 5-star suite at the 4 Seasons. Granted, Ashley Judd is from Kentucky and has plenty of experience judging fat pigs at the County Fair.

I named my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. Getting that social security card in the mail is a heavy metal high I’ll cherish forever. So, I can’t take my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth to see Ice Man in Top Gun 2. It would be like looking at my son turn into Syd Barrett from Pink Floyd after doing too much Acid on the back cover of Saucerful of Secrets, once was enough. So, cool your engines, on how much I got to take my son to see Top Gun Dad. But Tom Cruise flies his own plane. Great, doesn’t he own 20 million? He should’ve gotten plenty of practice since Mission Impossible 5000. But the billion-dollar success of Top Gun proves how America longs for the honorable grandeur of our armed services. Yeah, so do I, but I don’t need a movie that mandated its entire production crew to be given the clot shot as a pledge of allegiance to our fake news commander in chief since the day Democracy died. Let me see Tom Cruise jump around on the View about forced vaccinations, gutting any patriotic verve left in our military and I’ll give to 2 shits about his proposed love of country that made his shit eating grin a gazillionaire in the grand old USA of yesteryear. Yeah, I don’t see it happening either. That’s like expecting Booger Face Behar to become the new Chief Happiness Officer of Breitbart. Gunning for greatness, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Pissy Life Hack Tips

Do It All Dad, a self-described Stay at Home She-Male Comedian performs another killerset in his bedroom office on his Do It All Dad Time Podcast, titled, Pissy Life Hack Tips.

“My quest is to make my son a shallow sleeper, so he won’t piss his bed anymore from being such a deep-thinking sleeper. I’ll stop talking to him like he’s a Talmudic scholar for hire. “Rabbi Samuel, is it better to be loved by your kids or by strangers on stage every night at the Comedy Cellar, getting your funny man freak on for a living?” Son says, “Get a life ancient moron and figure it out yourself already. I’m still only 5 years old, remember?”

“But seriously, is deprogramming deepness considered a legitimate pissy life hack tip that’s a shortcut to improved parental happiness if forcing your kid to wear a nappy to bed is no longer a drawn-out tug of free will anymore?  Reality is, my son only pisses his bed at night. So, my pissy life problems have to be a result of my son being too much of a deep sleeper.  You might think I’m being a tad melodramatic for yuck, yucks sake, but having to duck under your kids bunk bed to make his bed again after washing his soaked Star Wars sheets and bedcovers is enough to push any man to the dark side. So if I want to avoid stripping my son’s wet sheets off his bed again like he’s a young Corey Feldman who’s been the hitting bottle too hard with Sam Kinson backstage at the Comedy Store again, why don’t I shame bribe him, by insisting we can’t watch Spaceballs ever again unless he comes out as Farm Boy from Princess Bride for Halloween, except whenever a homeowner giving candy asks, “Who are you dressed as for Halloween?” Samuel must say, “Piss Bucket Boy from History of The World”, before flashing his plastic pumpkin candy holder that’s packed with PJ Mask nappies to the rim.

At first, I thought banning my wife from giving our son Melatonin gummies would prevent him from falling into deeper states of extended sleep while contemplating who would win in a street fight, Rudy or Rocky, if Bruce Lee trained Rudy first. My son’s still wetting himself like I did after waterboarding myself as a 12-year-old kid from trying to jerkoff but only succeeding in hosing myself down with a golden shower after Emanuel After Dark on Showtime because I hadn’t gotten into the puberty pool party yet.  So, to avoid becoming my son’s permanent wet nurse like Jill Biden on demand, I’m going to groom a shallow beauty, so he won’t get lost in deep enough focused thought on ways to bitch slap the future 5th grader who dares to spoil his sister with Starbucks gift cards on Valentine’s Day without taking the time for a midnight bathroom break who identifies with Fatal Attraction Astronauts from NASA.

Instead of watching documentaries on Andre the Giant, which focus on Andre’s excessive drinking problem to drown out the pain of being treated like a regrettable freak of nature in airports like the man who dresses like Meghan McCain in drag for Teacher Appreciation Month to read, “Divine Gives Bi-Curious Geroge a Banana in His Tail Pipe.” Will binge on Keeping Up with The Sloppy Third Kardashian Sister, since Kim backed out to focus full time on studying for her bar exam because Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now.  

I’ll insist my son doesn’t flip on his hoodie to hide his chosen curls at the grocery store anymore to avoid more grown Italian MILFS hitting on him with lines like, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” Only for me to say, “No offense lady, but if James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

I can buy my son a Waterbed for his birthday to avoid more weighty deep thoughts. So instead of meditating on the rapidly encroachment of irreversible death like Hemingway does in Old Man and The Sea, my son can dream about the glory days of Boogie Nights Porn pre-VHS tape, before tatted up white girls cranked up on Crystal meth ruined the golden age of muff diving forever. Back when the mountain muff on the MILF from Scandal in the Mansion on the big screen looked like stacks of Brillo pads resting on top of a busted Slinky.

I could also deprogram deepness my forcing my son to sleep every night in a Tanning Bed. And instead of reading him poetry at night from Charles Bukowski about the serial bitterness and predictably dronish, small soul producing dullness swallowing up our empty, consumerist controlled lives, while sloppy drunk hookers come knocking down on his door in broken high heels at 2 o clock in the morning, will start rehearsing his Trump impersonation for Halloween. But not just any old impression of Trump, but an impression of Trumpy Poo after he tests HIV positive, after the Deep State pricked him with the same dirty needle used to take out Easy E to prevent him from running again. “Who are you for Halloween?” Son says, “Little Man Trump who just tested HIV positive because Melania slept with Magic to get me back for the Stormy Daniels fiasco. Do I have HIV?  Yes, but my t-cell count numbers, have never been stronger.”

But I like talking to my 5-year-old son like he’s my Talmudic joke whisperer manager. Son says, “Daddy, stop being an ancient moron. When are you going to record comedy record 96 already? After that, you’ll only have 4 more to reach 100. Rodney Dangerfield never did that. Even Papa would have to respect that. Johnny Cash told his daughter Roseanne Cash she had to learn to play 100 selected songs before she could set out to become a master working solo artist, remember moron son? I still like the title Genius on Tap for your next comedy record. Think good and will be good like Rebbe Schneerson said. You’re always a genius just Jack Kerouac told himself remember mega dumb son? Besides. I own you and you ain’t poop without me. So, finish strong like Stallone does in Over-the-Top Daddy, none of this meet halfway crap, go for it all the way. Fight the good fight, achieve perfect laughter with the Gods, loneliness is a gift, to test your will to prove how much you really want it. What, you’ve been reading me quotes from Bukowski on Goodreads since I was 2. So, get a lit agent to read your entire manuscript for Waste of Height, Really Short Stories already.  Then, we can afford that Comedy Gold Mobile and go on a book signing tour together, but never forget, more jokes for me, are more jokes for your comedy records, got it.  I can wear my Muscle Beach shirt when you do a book signing in Venice, despite you naming Arthur, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. I’m still really pissed at you for that by the way. But I get all the Black Sabbath records and get to watch Fist of the North Star with you, do Mad Libs with you, play blackjack with my Freddy Kruger cards and watch Japanese death matches on YouTube with Terry Funk with at you home whenever we hang out, before I start Kindergarten next year, which evens out the suck. Hey Daddy, ever think I may pee in my bed because playing with Freddy Kruger cards would scare the piss out of any little dreamer at night whenever those images of a burnt serial killer come to life?” And I say, “Thank God somebody in this relationship is playing with a full deck.”

Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Righteous Maniac Lives

New favorite nickname for Mr. Groper in the White House, Icky Shuffle, Challah, thank you very much.

New favorite nickname for Michelle Obama, Michelle, What’s Talent Got To Do With It Obama.

Who cares who gets elected to the Supreme Court anymore? Election integrity in our country is deader than claims of Voter ID being racist among anybody with a functioning moral compas capable of introspective correction left. But Voter ID used in white supremacist ruled countries like El Salvador is racist. Does Pedro Martinez Junior have to pass a height requirement to vote in either country to vote? I don’t get it.

I get a DM on LinkedIn from a cute Asian girl in a business suit who implores me to expose myself to some crypto currency. The gal who claimed to come from Hong Kong calls herself Montez Downey on LinkedIn, her alter crypto ego I’m assuming. I reply, “Your real name is Montez Downey from Hong Kong. Yeah, and Montel Willam’s comes from the Virgin Mary’s penis.”

Without or without you, is about who again Bono? A cute Irish Lasie who swallows but grazes time after time. 

A true friend buys your book before asking, “How many copies have you sold so far?” “What’s your next step?” “I only do audio because I’m super busy making money and living a fun filled life over you.”  

I’d almost prefer, “Just because you mailed me a free copy, doesn’t mean I’m going to use my brain on your behalf and give your stupid fucking book a review, praise it at all or give it constructive feedback of any kind jerkoff.

Kayne West trolling Taylor Swift on Twitter for old timer sake.

I know we’ve had our differences pretzel sticks.

But you’re still hot enough to get Pete Davidson to stray from Kim’s Milky Way snatch.

Dress up like a Christmas Tree fairy on his birthday, looking like an overdose at the Limelight waiting to happen.

And urge Pete to fuck your brains out in the VIP room at the 40/40 club.

So, you won’t fuck Beyonce out of any more VMA awards, you dig.

Taylor Swift saying, “She sings country music.”

Is like Kayne West saying, “He never raps in the 3rd person.”

I’m purchasing a book by Jeff Tweedy called How To Write One Song and the cashier says, 25 bucks.

I said, “25 bucks for How To Write One Song.” Jeff Tweedy is really testing the limitations of my father daughter love.”

My daughter better write an album that outsells Stevie Nick’s Bella Donna before Taylor Swift got her 1st period on her Christmas Farm village, which inspired Lollipop Legs to pen her first cross over Church hit, “Planned Parenthood Bound Train.”

I add, “Fucking Jeff Tweedy, I didn’t even know he was the singer songwriter of Wilco until now. All I know about Wilco is Jim Rome making fun of Tiger Woods for attending a Wilco concert once, which made Tiger feel whiter than White Man’s disease on Saint Patrick’s Day,while attending a Chicago cover band tribute act in Minnesota because he lost a bet to Donald Trump, after Donald bet Lindsey Vonn would choke during the winter Olympics, if Tiger told Maximum she was “overrated”, in the sack, especially compared to Rachel Uchitel, known for her infamous, blow job ready lips, who can suck a golf ball through Taylor Swift’s Fallopian Tubes.

Is giving Paul McCartney’s book of lyrics a one star review on Amazon considered hate speech, anymore than allowing the sale of Mein Kampf on Kindle, which is 720 pages of hate speech in a row?

How would Michael Jackson defend himself against his Never Land accusers today? All the Beatles Royalty Points in the world, can’t buy me love?

At my son’s parent teacher conference, she proudly admitted how my son did a bio on Leef Erickson, which was displayed on the wall outside his 2nd grade classroom, so I was able to compare his bio report to other famous people chosen by his classmates. And I said, “I’m happy to know my son didn’t do his bio on Russell Westbrook.” Teacher laughs long time. I add, “At this point Russel Westbrook should be the next spokesperson for Tampax Tampons. Name another player in the NBA besides Carmelo Anthony that’s been responsible for stopping so much flowage.” Righteous Maniac lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Spirit of Sal Balsamo

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, Motely Cru, 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 Valentines 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 super natural voice pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal Heaven. So, Sal and his crew run for the hills as the fire roars on with Gene Simmons 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 started 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 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, 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 End

Michael Kornbluth

Owner Of a Heavy Height

Welcome to Rough Talk Rules, I’m your radio host Solomon Kornbluth, helping you work toward better tomorrows without your deadweight conversationalist ex friends and romantic partners of years past. And today is Dumping Tips Tuesdays, but first let’s take a call from Robert Gauler in Stamford, CT. Hi, Robert, what’s weighing down your heart today?

“Hi, Solomon, what’s weighing down my heart today is being unemployed during the Passover season again.  I’m losing heart from receiving more rejection emails from employer’s that read, “What kind of a moron are you today? For thinking, you could mosey your zero leveraged, broke down ass into our loving arms after a 5-year vacation life as a Stay at Home Dad, I mean sheltered bum, jerkoff. You’re obviously optionless and friendless in this world right now for a reason. Blog stats we can’t verify don’t count as give a shit credentials for our copywriter position that requires at least 5 year of agency copywriting experience. Sharing mock print ads for Woodford Reserve Whiskey with headlines such as, “Class in A Glass”, aren’t going to secure any invitations to interview for any creative professional role within our constellation of star powered creative technologists, designers and witty wordsmith scribes at large, OK! “

Radio Host Solomon says, “I feel your pain, Robert. When was the last time you pulverized a vagina of any kind?”

“I’m living in my grandma’s old apartment, which reeks of middle-aged mildew malaise. Plus, I’m so broke I can’t afford my past cell phone due bill past tomorrow. So, swiping over some random cum dumpster chick I met on Slut in A Straight Jacke .com isn’t happening anytime soon either. I can’t afford my oil pill or my electric bill, so I don’t even have the option of electrocuting myself to death in my tub with a working toaster from GE for that matter. Even if I could convince an ex-booty call to drop by, she’d get cold feet upon entry because I haven’t been able to afford the heating bill in months either. You know the price of gas is high when 10 bucks at the tank burns faster than a 2-hit pinner”, Robert Gauler from Stamford, CT says.

Solomon Kornbluth laughs and says, “You’re a funny guy Robert. Laughter is the best cure all, used to lighten the stressed-out load of fixed ineffectual, stuck in a ditch depression, that’s squeezing the life out of your loving heart, making it borderline impossible to take semi-easy deep breaths for more than 2 seconds a time, I totally get it. My advice moving forward, is to attend, an open mike, which doesn’t charge the one drink minimum, prepare some jokes about your non-existent love life on stage or just rant and rave about how much your life love life sucks compared to Martha Dump Truck in Heathers and you’ll feel less alone in your rapidly building misery. Chances are, if you’re emotionally honest about why you hate your past friends and former loves who left you for dead and kicked dirt on your premature grave, regardless of it being deserved or not, it will become impossible for the crowd to not empathize with what a decrepit, sad sack, shit sandwich, you’re forced to eat every day without sporting’s it’s an all good, all love, big pimping Puff Dadd vibe along the way. It feels liberating and empowering to get out of your head, especially on stage in front of strangers, because any form of comedy allows you to rewrite the narrative to your own liking while giving the golden opportunity to get in last word or final laugh along the way. Who knows, you might even get luck out tonight with a Lesbian poet whose heart isn’t into munching on far from scrumptious stank fumed vagina anymore.”

“Ok, I’ll take one more caller before we start our fan favorite segment, “Dumping Tips Tuesdays.” Next up is a call from Lindsey Lam from Louisville, Kentucky. My mom grew up down south in Kentucky, although my ex-wife insists Kentucky is more Midwest south. Regardless, finger food down there is considered anything that tastes your cousin’s panties, hey now. Lindsay Lam you’re on the air with Rough Talk Rules. How can I lighten your heavy heart today?”

Lindsay Lam says, “Today, I showed my daughter this pathway in the woods where I used to sneak though during lunch in the 10 grade to grab some Burger King for lunch. After pointing out to my daughter, how I used to go there alone for lunch, she made feel a level of defensive embarrassment, which I never experienced until now when she said, “Mommy, that’s a really sad story. But I don’t recall being completely miserable housing a double whopper with a cheese and a chicken sandwich all by myself in the process. Daughter says, “Didn’t you have anyone to share all that food with?” And I said, “Can you stop rubbing in me being an owner of a tubby heavy heart already?”

Solomon Kornbluth says “Look Linsday, I spent plenty of time eating lunch alone growing up. At the time, I never felt that so and so’s presence would’ve made me more at peace with world or provide any greater amount of endorphin releases than what the Double Whopper with Cheese was giving me already, I waited at least 2 minutes for the cheese to melt on it just right. God forbid. You shouldn’t allow your daughter to make your feel shame 20 years after the fact, I’m assuming, for being a friendless loner teenager at the time like Lisa Simpson with a piss poor GPA. Roger Daltry from the Who called high school a Teenage Wasteland for a reason. Maybe, reframe your solo lunches in the 10th grade with me myself and I to your daughter as self-care dates, solo shrink time, or in the spirit of the late great Warren Zevon, “Splendid Isolation,”. Warren didn’t need no one, Challah, thank you very much.”

“But now it’s time for Dumping Tips Tuesdays.  If you give a friend a thoughtful gift like a John Candy biography with an inscription you wrote inside it without receiving a thank you note or word of acknowledgement in return, it just proves you weren’t as close as you imagined. But don’t dwell on infusing more specialness into your so-called friendship. Instead, slap yourself on the shoulder for possessing a more active imagination than he ever did. But so-called friendship works both ways. So, let’s a say you claim to be friends with someone from high school 25 years after the fact but have zero desire in seeing their newborn kid, with zero plans to remember the kid’s name, then it’s safe to say, you’re a shit friend who should’ve been dumped before the relationship went to shit in the first place. So always remember, don’t act like your shit doesn’t stink when it does or else you come across as an insanely judgy, bigger headed prick than the rest. So be less shitty to yourself today and do what you want to do like eating alone for lunch without shitting on yourself for not having any deadweight conversationalist friends to invite for the privilege of being in your splendid company after all.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Putzy Cup Of Truth

It’s hard to not feel putzy clutzy when your dad’s nickname on the streets of the Bronx was Trips on Curbs. The man never owned a spotless white IZOD sweater past Kosher meatball night for Christ’s sake. Plus, it’s hard to feel empathy for putzy stains of shame when you can’t blame the guaranteed splat attack on perpetual double IPA poundage, because you don’t want to circumcise your happiness, when your wife does that enough already by claiming how she’s the one who’s made sacrifices to. Like an aspiring comedian living in Queens during his late twenties wanted kids ever. And stop calling Queens hot, it’s not. Queens is the sloppy third Kardashian sister similar to the biggest backed one of the big 3, who’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a Lamb Gyro in Astoria. Also, there’s no way Bruce Jenner was asexual when he was married to Kris Jenner. But I’m positive Bruce stayed harder and longer after he talked Kris Jenner into cutting her hair shorter, so she’d look more like a dolled-up Ralph Macchio.

My 8-year-old son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA, The Boy Who Raised Himself said, “The Putzy Cup Of Truth never lies”, which is beyond wise or else why would he throw a tighter spiral than you when you’ve had a 4 decade head start, regardless of hiding behind lame excuses such as being a late bloomer spill prone putz at heart. The same guy who got fired from his bartender job in West Hollywood for breaking too many Boudreaux wine glasses as if I was trying to nail my audition tape for Super Putz Get’s Married to a gentile from Australia who could help uproot my putz plagued family tree for good.  We wanted to get married in Australia, but my mom had other ideas.  She calls and says, “Son, Australia is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.” So, I calm my Aussie born wife down and say, “Hey babe, assuming we have a boy one day, which uproots my family’s putzy stains of shame for good, will pass on getting a Rabbi for the circumcision and instead hire Crocodile Dundee, who should be available last time I checked on IMBD. Just so we can hear a room full of Jews say in a collective state of stupefied awe, “Now, that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Woody Allen claiming, he could “throw a football a mile in his youth”, in his memoir Apropos of Nothing when you can’t, serves as another humiliating reminder why the Putzy Cup Of Truth never lies. Granted, I was never caught stashing pictures of a half-naked Soon-Yi in my top sock drawer to tap for future film project titles such as Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years. Shit, the only thing missing from Woody’s sticky icky collection of Polaroids was Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life magazine, but I digress.  Yeshiva students shaming your chicken scratch scrawl next to you on the Subway proves how the Putzy Cup Of Truth is never too far behind, as you try to scribble away one ha inducing joke after the next only to hear Yentel’s younger brother say out of the blue to you, “What language is that Hebrew?” I say, “Yeah, it’s Hebrew Schmendel. I write deli reviews for the Kosher Planet.”

But today, I’m hosting a Burning Mask Party on July 4th and forced my daughter to invite all her friends, especially Andrea, whose father is a volunteer fireman. I want to kick his ass in The Putzy Cup of Truth to prove uppity fireman aren’t immune to sweating under pressure either, especially after he yelled at his daughter to “hurry up”, because he was running late to a “meeting” on a Sunday afternoon while my daughter’s 11-year-old birthday party was still in progress. Why was the Volunteer Fireman Dad acting so distressed exactly? Was he doing a power point presentation on Zoom for his local firehouse to prove how ANTIFA vigilante wannabes who never outgrew their pyromania phase are bigger fire hazards than posting election fraud charges on Twitter since the day Democracy died?

Fireman bust balls, go grocery shopping and try not to fuck up their Grandma’s Sunday sauce recipe for the firehouse. So this much I can do as a Stay At Home Shemale Comedian and host of the Do It All Dad Time podcast, which spits non-stop fire and non-stop truth bomb joke blasts Gen X Dads understand. I’ve also had to endure heckles on stage and plow through a karaoke set while the crowd threw napkins at me during my valiant attempt to finish singing Only God Knows Why at a Cheesecake Factory in Woodland Hills, so I can the handle pressure of increasingly damning animosity hurled in my being’s direction from every angle possible better than most. I also bombed with a Ron Artest joke at the Rainbow Room, where the stage is 3 feet below the actual audience, only to win the fire ready audience back with an inspired ad-lib for the ages when I said, “I love black guys because they don’t discriminate against pussy.” So, there’s no fucking way, I’m going to let this asshole wannabe alpha dog red headed volunteer fireman who’s not a Fire Chief try to exert a more manly stable, putz free aura on my home turf ever again. 5 million space bucks, he got triple vaxed despite real deal first responders who actually ran into the second tower never fearing the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus post COVID either. It’s not my fault his yoga teacher wife bends over backwards to shoot suck me off eyes in my presence knowing my lack of blinding red pubes with the lights on or not in the sack would be a welcome change pace as I pulverized her box into middle earth China.

All the kids are done plopping the masks in a huge pile on our front yard, itching for my long-awaited Burning Mask Party to begin. I light a bunch of Washington Posts, NY Times and issues of Atlantic Magazine on top of the masks and spray it down with Kerosine to take this Burning Mask Party so much higher.  Sly Stone lives, Challah. Thank you very much. Fireman Dad comes to crash the party early again and says, “Do you need help putting out that fire? This half ass bonfire looks like a fire hazard in the making to me. You’re surrounded by woods and your playground set is made out of wood, which is only 2 feet away from it, max.”  I say, “I got fire insurance despite ANTIFA attack premiums for homes that used to sport 2020 Trump flags going through the roof.” Fireman Dad says, “Hazel, were leaving, get in the car now. I’m running late for a meeting.” I say, “Stick around for a drink 1st. We just tapped the keg, it’s Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale that never get’s stale.” Fireman Dad says, “What kind of party are you throwing?  You’re surrounded by a bunch of 11-year-old girls? I said, “I work as an in-house copywriter for Disney now, so I’m fucking fireproof for wining and dining minors as long as I’m educating them on my sex life, which is non-existent anyway, unless you’re interested in giving your wife a pseudo celebrity lay on her birthday for a part in my new movie the Yoga Scout. Disney is producing my movie about a stay-at-home shemale comedian turned Yoga Scout who recruits divorcees looking to make their sex live above average again by meeting other willing bang, bang partners in love at his all nude, hot Yoga studio, Spread Eagles. Does your wife want to spread the love in my Hebrew Hammer’s honor or what? Fireman cocks his fist and winds up to take a swing before his daughter points out how his leg has caught fire from the Burning Mask Party gone wild.  Daughter screams, “Duck and roll daddy, duck and roll.” But Fireman Daddy trips over my kids bike and falls flat on his face in front of all the kids who start laughing uncontrollably. The Fireman father yells, “Somebody help me put out this fire already, these are favorite pair of broken in jeans from Banana Republic, which are made out of Japanese cotton no less.” So, I showered him with mercy and poured a bucket of water on his jeans and put the fire out before saying, “Japanese cotton is more breathable.” Do It All Dad’s daughter hugs her dear daddy’s leg and says, “Daddy, you saved Andrea’s dad’s favorite pair of jeans from disintegrating on the spot while he shrieked like a teenage groupie when Cheap Trick played live at Budokan. You won the Putzy Cup Of Truth challenge after all Daddy. You’re like a gender fluid version of Pat Benatar in the form of a hardcore hilarious comedian, “Come on hit me with your best shot and fire my putzy plagued past, away. Challah, thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth