In Leo We Trust

Trust is earned from sustained excellence such as Leo’s star powered acting performances in any Tarantino film without fail.   Trust makes the world go around. Trust went out the window after Liver Spots got sworn in as President of the United States without a peep from the Supreme Court the day after Democracy died.  But the Leo Scramble Supreme still reigns supreme and is trustworthy enough to entrust your happiness in him for better days and more hope filled tomorrows, pregnant with superior feel-good possibility. James Brown lives, holla, thank you very much.

Plus, making a LEO, consisting of Lox, Eggs and Onions will always remain an ideal anti-Semitic qualifier gift such as my Great American Jew Novel, knowing this divine blessed delectable breakfast, brunch or dinner worthy delight consists of pricy, cut up, overtly Jewy smoked salmon, caramelized onions and scrambled eggs from local Jewish Farmer legend behemoth, good old Stew Leonard in Connecticut, before the warm, sumptuous, funky fishy ingenious concoction get’s swirled into a bowl with a plop of Cream cheese, which melts easier in a hot bowl of eggs, adding a deeper svelte, thicker tasting dimension of deliciousness, which catapult your burst of feel good joy that much higher, Sly Stone lives, holla, thank you very much.

I hate to get political anymore since thé once boastful construct we the people offered less special value than Prince Harry’s bald spot on the open market or his feel for comedy after dressing up like a Nazi officer for Halloween to get back at mom for looking like an ugly version of E from Entourage, with far less a plus snatch to snag in London town compared to perpetually sunny, twice as smoking hot California girls. Megan Markle doesn’t count, and it’s not because she’s a biracial, royal pain in the ass, holla, thank you very much.

Now, if Prince Harry roasted himself dressed up like a Nazi officer for Halloween, I’d give hardcore Archie some funny man cred, regardless if Ricky Gervais wrote the material for him, who tires of Holocaust films because he’d rather bitch in his latest stand up comedy special about harsh online tweets about his movie career, which never got off the ground, reducing him to be in bed with the Obama’s and Netflix since HBO gave him a nice run while it lasted, now more concerned with unmasking Woody’s go to suck the thumb move, because it, “Calms Dylan down”, despite still showing all of his classic, hilarious films such as Broadway Danny Rose, which technically speaking, came out pre-Soon-Yi. But Louie can’t whip it out in his own dressing room after getting consent from fellow no name lesser female comics in the room without all of his standup comedy specials being taken down in a NY minute from HBO once the full court #meto career work retrospective cancelation began. Have they taken down the Rocky statue in Philly yet because it promotes white supremacy? But back to Ricky Gervais giving Price Harry some primo bashing Nazi material, to at least project the façade of being an ironic detached enjoyer viewer of Jewish humor, such as, “Who would Hitler kill first? A Jewish Albino or a balding ginger with a goatee? And how dumb is the swastika symbol. I don’t care that’s it Hindu, it still looks 2 stick figures doing a sixty-nine on a see saw.”

So back to the Leo Scramble Supreme, my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound Too Woo,.can’t enough of it. He’s 4 by the way. The kid can request for me to play Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi on Vinyl or in the car through Spotify, can ask daddy to reheat the rest of his Leo Scramble Supreme, yet still can’t go to bed without a nappy, without me dropping his saggy, drenched filled nappy down our stairwell the following morning, only to sing, with unmatched, father son bonding glee, “Big plopping”, Warrant Lives, they sang Big Talking, holla, thank you very much.

Again, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo no longer dumps in his pants and goes to the bathroom for a number 2 with big boy precision. At the same time, one night, as I got ready to read the Guinness Book Of World Records, wanting to kill myself soon after from learning how much money Kevin Hart made last, year, which doesn’t make me a hater, just a bemused, short on laughs spectator. I do love his energy, and don’t think he’s a bad actor, whose gotten better over time, whom I believe, should buy the film rights to convert an autobiography of Wilson Picket to snag him 1 Oscar more than Eddie, who doesn’t have the balls to do a stand up comedy special again for some dumb reason such as not wanting to be deemed a divisive comedian who dared to make fun of Michelle Obama’s new parody remake, playing Tina Turner, titled, “What’s Talent Got To Do With It.” And Wilson Picket sang my favorite lyric, “I found a true love, and I can shout about her, yeah, yeah”, a truer call to action that I give a shit about taking, not uttered on LinkedIn, as never been blasted with such soul man reverberating bravado, holla, thank you very much. Anyway, this meandering piece is what you get when I’m off Adderall and my mother is in town blaming the great state of Texas for having to burn fucking furniture while Liver Spots can’t be bothered to visit or have FEMA offer nothing more than air dropped leftover Spam reserves from World War 2 or some impossible to defrost packets of TANG leftover from our moon landing the sixties before we learned JFK told Frank to not invite Sammy Davis Junior to his inauguration, because becoming a Jew, was a double whammy against him, which he should’ve known would put his desirability factor in extreme Jeopardy with Nazi profiteering Joe Kennedy in control of his son’s balls as a whole, regardless of the war hero “Being the brightest star in the universe for a time”, according to his backstabbed friend, old blue eyes, who didn’t sing New York, New York, until his late 60’s during his more pleasantly content plump years.

Yeah, so back to my son Chosen Curls, I’m getting ready for reading time and about to throw some sweats on for the occasion because I don’t give a shit about looking like a Trophy Dad when mama isn’t home at 9 on a Tuesday and my 4-year-old son barks at me, “Spread your cheeks.” I said, “Where the hell did you learn the expression, “Spread your cheeks”? Are you watching old episodes of OZ on the HBO app when I’m banging out more all-star chapter additions to my collection of short stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories or what?”

So, the LEO Scramble Supreme is the bomb and couldn’t be easier to make, even Hunter Biden can handle making it with the hangover from hell, whose hell raising ways, makes my younger brother come off as a serial underachiever. And if a man is judged by the fruit he enables, and if Liver Spots is a real man of unifying integrity, why wouldn’t Mr. Unity tell his son to cut out creaming into his dead brother’s wife after his cremation ensued? The most amount of loving attention to the Leo Scramble Supreme is paid toward the caramelizing of the onions in butter under a low heat, but make sure to add some extra deepening caramelizing agent at the end, which could be simple as a drop of pristine NY tap water or from bottled Smart Water, which adds an extra spring step to your step, making you feel like Jennifer Aniston on the rebound. After you caramelize the onions, mix them into beat up egg batter mix, with chopped up pieces of smoked salmon before dropping them into a semi hot pan, bubbling with butter yumminess itching to be immersed with such delectable, pristine, bright orange, slivers of smoked salmon but don’t be too aggressive with swirling the eggs into mini circulation motions before they get cooked through enough, before reaching the point of rubbery sucky return. The last step is throwing the LEO Scramble Supreme into a bowl with a pre-plopped mound of cream cheese, which makes swirly stick together as one magic possible and like my son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, you’ll be made in the shade, made in the shade.

Michael Kornbluth

Use Your Kids Like Open Mikes

God gave men kids to provide social variety away from mama. So don’t be a lazy brain and half ass your attempt at winning your kid’s hearts with watching more Man City on the Teli around your kids or grandchildren because you’re such an informed, evolved history buff, especially when your kids are hard core American Dad Enthusiasts, if Child Services forced them to take a lie detector test, after Do It All Dad in Divorce Court, insists on fighting for 50 percent custody, after proclaiming in court defending himself like Lenny Bruce without the career, proclaiming, “American Dad is educational. How else will my children know W, married a librarian from Texas, who married into the Illuminati. Who still acts better than other first ladies like Melania or Hillary Hammer Time Cankles? At least Hillary tried to get rich or die trying bitch.

I read an article on Fatherly.com claiming Dads, normally not too involved, during their marriage, become more involved Dads with their kids after they get divorced because the wife is no longer facilitating the conversation at the dinner table. Personally, I’ve never had this problem, because I’m the loudmouth New Yorker, not her, who’s louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. The Yankees win a playoff game last year. The next morning, I tell my daughter, “The Yankees won. ” She replies, “I heard.” You’re the reason New York City and all of Northern Westchester never sleeps. I’ll always cherish my sleepy father in law’s embrace my bombastic, ultra-chatty personality during my 1st sit down dinner with my girlfriend, now wife and a married couple I haven’t seen since. Halfway into me scoring a steady stream of laugh yanks from this married couple, my father in law blurts with annoyed disgust, “He talks more than the other one.” Meaning, the borderline mute finance my wife was planned to marry before we met, which I was never aware of till way after the fact for what’s worth. I don’t want prospective employers to think I’m a Mute Man Marriage Wrecker. “He talks more than the other one.” Translation, I live in Delaware away from Jew York for a reason. Give me an H1-B developer to conduct code review with, who needs subtitles in order to be understood, over having to spend one more sec around the charming New York Jew, whose making my lack of stage presence in comparison, become more pronounced depressing by the second. So much for my one meeting with my mental health specialist, resolving any latent anger resentment issues remaining.

The reality is, if I wasn’t a talker, none of my kids would’ve have recognized my voice out of the womb, and that would’ve been tragic for my children, when even mommy, admits the following about our lucky number three, “Baby Samuel gets bored when he spends too much time with me. ” Always knew the kid was the quick leaner. Can I get a holla for a big time raise the roof, the best is yet come, Challah? First time I came up with that expression to use on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast, my wife, huffs with extreme displeasure at the dinner table, insisting I was being 2 years into open mike stand-up comedy obscure, by trying to dumb dad shame me in front our 3 kids, stating, “What does that even mean? Can I get a holla for some Challah? It means can I get some props for a money, mo bread making line, babe.” My 3 kids didn’t have to understand the symbolic or literal extrapolated definition of my new rock-solid gold A Plus catchphrase in the making, because kids respond more to pumped up silly, than jaded, lifeless, droll troll verbosity.

One time, I gave my son a gentle hip toss on top of our bed, forgetting Art Show possess a bouncy ball spine, which sent Feather Foot flying off the bed inches away from smashing his head into the dresser from the sheer powerful bounce off the bed. Earlier tonight, he came into say hello when I was writing and I asked him he he wanted an elevator lift drop, but before lifting him up high , I give a voice to his own internal thoughts and say, “Daddy, don’t get carried away, with your elevator lift drop, I still have a bouncy ball stuck in my spine remember?” And my pitch perfect son laughs long time again. But if I wasn’t constantly talking around my son inside the womb and out, or using humor to help diffuse potentially traumatic, accidental dramatic situations, my children would suffer from anxiety like Kevin Love, despite him being NBA royalty, banging everything that moved at UCLA I’m assuming, owning an NBA ring, and never shamed for forgetting Lebron’s elaborate, inner sanctum, safe space, frat boy conjuring hand slap dances on the TNT.

Do you need to be a laugh hog in order to be a good parent? No, but you better recognize the importance of bringing the funny old man, or else, your kids will tune into mama, like the dronish, Scarlett Johansson in the movie Divorced, and she never struck me as a lightening rod of electric conversational might, AI, enhanced in her, in Her or if she’s the beneficiary of a Woody Allen punched up personality during his Scarlet Johansson phase or not. What was Woody’s new film supposed to be about again? Let me guess, some old creep who bangs a teenager again, called, Crimes and Misdemeanors, the Early Years. He took Kodak pictures of Sun Yee, only to stuff them in his top sock drawer, for safe keeping. The only thing missing was an old copy of Sun Yee on the cover of Time Life Magazine.

Does Soon Yee even have vocal cords? So, what’s my point? Boring kids is bad parenting. And F empathy, just be funnier old man. Your kids or grandkids fading interest in your company depends on it. Use your kids as open mikes, take creative chances, add levity to the situation instead of freaking out in disproportion to your kid spilling a drink at the dinner table. In Iran, they throw gays off roof tops after castration, so I’d say, we let our kid’s off light because the Media will be freaking out regardless anyway. Because our kids learn to laugh at our mistakes, in addition to American comedy exceptionalism, not on Al Jazeera or detected on Late Night with Stephen Colbert these days, whose command of funny these days, is like the state of our union, shaky.

I don’t want to be best supporting dad. That’s like winning best side bitch. Dads today are expected to do more than just get their wives pregnant every other 2 years, planned or not. So, try bossing through clowning around your kids more. It works, and don’t overuse your yelling voice or your kid won’t be able to distinguish you from CNN. Act like you’re genuinely excited to make your children happy, relying own your personality and imagination, instead of outsourcing their children’s entertainment to Baby Yoda and the mope maligned, Millennial Mouseketeer Darth Vader, the most petulant, annoying, grandson addition to an ex iconic franchise, I could give to BB 8 shits about.

Boring kids is bad parenting. You act like you want nothing to do with your only divorced daughter. You want to act like date night every Friday night is so much important than making sure she’s dealing with her new half baby brother, removing any remaining spotlight in her honor away from her, with your new wife, fine. No wonder I can feel the embedded jealousy, as I lift my son for an ariel double decker knee nosh sandwich for the road.

Social Justice is Dad proving he’s got the tools necessary to outshine scary mommy on the big stage, if he cares about about being more than mama’s side bitch underling forever. I’m very proud of raising kids who respect and recognize funny. There’s actual hope Do It All Dad Nation, for you to reclaim your status as the leading in-house star attraction of your house. It’s our last safe space for politically incorrect humor. Be a family man clown hero for your kids. Do you want your best friend to be the final speaker for your eulogy? I’d rather have my 1st born daughter, close the ceremony and own the room and start with, “Thanks for the laughs Daddy. Good luck trying to tune out my Dad out now God. You thought Joan Rivers sounds like a loudmouth on the rag. I just hope daddy opens with proven material and doesn’t wing it, unless he wants the challenge of coming back to life after dying the moment, he broke on through to the other side, where only the lady laugh lover clowns roam.”