Tag: NYC

Skunk City More Than Ever

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, media, writing

I love New York, more than ever. Since when, all lives matter became the new N word, in honor of Thug Lives Matter most.

What’s my crime prevention solution? Take away medicinal weed cards like recess passes next time Latrell Sprewell’s brother from another mother tries to choke out a pasty cop’s white privilege on the Lex line.

All of a sudden, Thugs Lives Matters most has a full-blown panic attack on the Subway.

I can’t be cut off from my Mango gummies homey.

Yolanda don’t like my skunk ass weed breath.

Edibles are ash free, plus, stink free which equals zero regrets.

And I’m not sharing a blunt with you after just coming out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.

The city always smelled like stale beer, especially around the lower east side, but not now it reeks of skunk weed, not the most flattering scents in the world.

I’d rather go down on Cardi Bi’s yeast infection.

Skunk City More Than Ever, Challah!

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Obama Leaks

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, politics, writing

Imagine any member of the black community getting a gag order today?


Jill Biden would still invite them to the White House.


And say.


Unload in my mouth.


Obama ordered you to leak it.


Obama Leaks, Challah.


Thank you very much.


Imagine Obama being arrested for anything.


What’s the charge, your honor?


You’re a Trump appointee, aren’t you, Judge?


Trump appointee judges are still considered controlled opposition, according to mongoloid commentators on the Gateway Pundit.


You don’t scare me is my point, Judge. Amy Barrett is Mia Farrow with better husband selection.
Judge says.


So, you listen to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast too?


That Michael Kornbluth is one half Heeb crazy Moffo.


Deplorable is anyone who’s glad Jussie Smollett took a shot is economical genius right there.


I can’t get enough of the kid, personally.


So back to you, Obama, Be Good.


You’re being arrested for writing off hot dogs and pizza for pool time entertainment at John Podesta’s house as a fundraising expense since you become the face behind the open borders, openly grooming, rape enablement party?


Get the fuck out of my face.


You look like Andy Dick in blackface after Aids.


I still can’t get the picture of former NSA head John Brennan sniffing your Birkenstocks after your bike ride together in Martha’s Vineyard caught on Anthony Weiner’s laptop when you weren’t looking.


I’m sending you to Gitmo; you’re our last domestic terrorist left; you traded them all to Iran for a carton of Camel Extra Wides, right?


You might get lucky if Hair Plugs Sniffer jails a terrorist again for Arafat appreciation month.
And go woke yourself; Thugs Lives Matters Most.


You ruined the country with your race-baiting bullshit in less than ten years flat like your she-he’s wife tits.
Brittney Griener feels busty in her presence, my chest.


Hey, Hussein, has anyone ever told you, you’re a Mallato drone version of W, but worse?


At least Ellen admits to being friends with W because she’s pro-Bush.


I only remember your thicker half, flapping it around on Ellen like she-he doesn’t care.


I’m good friends with Marv Albert; I understand the attractions to Trans gals in the sack.


But allowing kids to chop off their dick before it blooms under their fruit of looms seems a tad premature.


So, the charge you’re going to Gitmo for is enabling Genital Mutilation gone wild only to downplay your surging interest in taking it up the colo from Michelle on the regular since you were at Walter Payton’s club in Chicago on Sprinkler Blitz Back Night.


What’s my problem with genital mutilation gone wild, Obama Be Meh? Lou Reed Junior’s dick will still be missing at the China Club when he’s 17 pre-hackathon off, despite him feeling lust loinless arousement behind some fat ass Latina swallowing up his fake news cock whole, because the link to his boner directive youth is going baby gone.


Genital Mutilation gone wild.


Sharia Law lives, Challah.


Thank you very much.


Michael Kornbluth

Selectively Suspicious

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Harboring more screenplay fantasies is off the list.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selectively Suspicious, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Qatar Rocks

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, poetry, writing

Can I move to Qatar? You don’t have to worry about getting your Android phone rammed up your anus hole outside of Grand Central at 2 in the morning. Then again, it’s my year without beer, so I wouldn’t be in a desperate dash to catch the last train heading back to Westchester.

Thug Lives Matter Most knocks out the lushy, disgruntled ad executive for Ogilvy and Mather with just one viscous right hook to the ground. Ad Executive crunched up on the sidewalk in noggin swelling agony says, “I can hook you up with a SAG card you know. Our biggest account is Optimum. All you need is proof of vaccination, and I’ll hook you up with commercial work for them. J.B. Smoove makes Tracy Morgan sound like Sidney Poitier.”

Thug Lives Matter kicks his teeth into the pavement and says, “Fuck Optimum, they won’t let me watch individual Knicks games on NBA TV in Yorktown Heights unless I subscribe to Optimum or get MSG through Direct TV. And I only do the Cloud motherfucker. Kayne for President, you media hording heeb. And fuck your Truvada commercials on Hulu. I don’t want to see that whack ass gay shit while babysitting my sister’s son during commercial breaks after Lego Masters. With no bail laws you can’t be in jail long enough to get HIV induced hemorrhaging now. It doesn’t matter if I sell dimes or bricks of H. “

So, you can’t tongue some random bloke’s balls during a match between Mexico and Poland during the World Cup. Aren’t those games standing room only anyway? Plus, what self-respecting gay guy would book a trip to Qatar after watching the Sex In The City movie, blotchy old hags on the rag with nothing else better to do since the United Arab Emirates and China bought up all the primo posh real estate left in Manhattan that’s skunk weed smell proof. Outside of those apartheid imperialists in charge of Israel, isn’t being gay the number one cause of death in the Middle East after suicide bombing and heart attacks from rock throwing paralysis after getting booster shots in exchange for more nudie pics of Jennifer Love Hewitt in the dressing room lot for Disney Kids coupled with Brittney Spears sandy clean snatch. Singing summer loving, having a blast till his good rock throwing arm goes limp from the clot shot and has to switch jerking with his left, assuming he’s got any juice left or decides to become a kite surf instructor for John Kerry and his new world order friends to pump that family fortune for all its worth.

Michael Kornbluth

Gum King Of New York

by doitalldadyear, posted in beauty, entertainment, faith

What’s an anti-social impression? Recording 103 comedy records from home after producing 500 plus solo Do It All Dad Year podcasts over the past 5 years without much adult interaction outside of getting almost black out drunk to see Aerosmith in Vegas 2 summers ago with an old bud from California while resenting him inviting other friends to participate in the fun despite them all becoming fans of you almost overnight, certainly qualifies. 

But what does it take to get shocked into sobriety exactly? Is it from pissing your pants while passing out in your daughter’s bed for the 1st night of Hanukkah? Or is it from not touching the stuff again till May on a Saturday getaway at a Casino in the Poconos with your wife’s friend and husband, only to learn from your daughter the following day how you blacked out while taking forever to say goodnight to her after being kicked out of the bar prior for drinking 5 double bourbons in less than an hour knowing how you polished off a bottle of wine and multiple Arnold and Palmer’s with vodka earlier that day to overcompensate for the fact that it’s your year without beer while throwing in multiple weed edibles in between? 

Does it even matter that your wife’s friend husband was buying your drinks, despite you having no intention of drinking any booze or becoming black out drunk whatsoever? No, it doesn’t. At the same time, it’s safe to say most blackouts are accidental blackouts. Nobody sets out to have a good time only to blank on what they did prior. Then again, nobody ever starts drinking in high school with the intention of failing at adulthood into their mid-forties either. Nobody wants to feel like they got 10,000 morons stuck in their head for taking so long in life to realize what a bat shit crazy friend alcohol is because alcoholism and multi-tasking don’t mix, neither do hangovers and parenting for that matter. 

I don’t care if you’re a weekend alcoholic or not. If you’re getting bombed after God blesses you with 3 beautiful, pitch perfect children, you’re running away from something. In my case, it’s been money troubles, new friendship formation woes and major angry laced resentment issues stemming from wanting to receive more credit and praise for the good writing and comedy I’ve dedicated the entirety of my life toward producing with relentless fury for the past 5 years and counting.   I’m trying to get jobs with companies to do copywriting for them because I’m good at creating compelling content. I’m good at crafting click bait headlines. I’m good at sticking to main points while going on inspired comedic laced rants to. I’m good at building up my kids. I’m good at cooking yummy dance worthy meals for my family. I’m good at complimenting friends and praising artists who inspire me to strive for originality like Miles Davis, Bill Hicks and Bob Marley. I’m good at creating a funny man impression on my Do It All Dad Year Blog. Although, one could argue that despite all the likes my comedy records, stories or blogs receive, I’ve haven’t excelled at creating plenty of meaningful interactions on my blog based on the scattering of actual comments in between because those people might be discouraged from interacting with an anti-social pariah comedian who displays psychopath tendencies such as laughing hysterically whenever one of Dexter’s victims squirms in discomfort before meeting their maker, tapped to his kill table, never ready to die, just yet. 

But in the spirit of anti-social awareness month, I wanted to discuss my anti-social impressions in person here at the Father Expo, not by launching my own social media platform like Truth Social, but by stating my commitment to make friends with sobriety. Sobriety is my new friend resolution because if I can’t get high off the presence of loved ones, especially my kids who still believe Daddy can make it as a successful comedian and businessman writer entrepreneur of some kind, then I’m a lost cause who will never be capable of paying back his debut to his parents, wife and friends who have done nothing but encourage me to pursue my funny man path with all of my God given might along the way. So, I’ve decided to make a year without beer, not just about a self-serving desire to achieve dunking out Do It All Dad Glory by giving up what’s preventing me from flying, which is hop juice. What I’m also giving up that’s preventing me from flying is anti-social impressions by declaring my independence from alcohol forever. I want to become the most engaging, hardcore hilarious sober living personality on planet earth, even more so than Russell Brand, who can make sober living a sexy lifestyle to pursue. Plus, I’ve got way fewer grey specs of wisdom on my beard than Russell Brand does. Plus, he’s English and the Declaration of Independence was signed in Philly, not in Buckingham fucking Palace. Bill Hicks gave up all drinking and produced his best work on Arizona Bay as a result, so did Amy Winehouse on the Rehab record and I will to.  So later this week on Shark Tank, I’ll be presenting a new brand of Hop flavored gum called Hop Licious Chew. It’s a killer trade off worth taking. They say rehab is about recovering your former, authentic self before you sought pleasure and escape through alcohol and drugs, and what better way to reconnect with our glorious of age innocence before social media ruined everything than through embracing gum that comes with an adult flavored twist. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t cum in my pants after my 1st sip of Budweiser, because beer is an acquired taste, just like espresso or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale ale that never gets stale, until that lifestyle gets played out in your heart. I don’t want to be bitter anymore. But I wouldn’t mind the taste of hops in gum to remind me why being a lushy alcoholic degenerate dependent blows more than being stuck on Meghan’s McCain’s lost Cheeto stuck in her belly button detail on the View either. 

Because let’s be honest folks, sobriety monogamy is sexy. Sobriety monogamy gets me harder than a new porn installment of Trans Sitters on Third Legged Beauties.com.  Sobriety monogamy never leaves you feeling like a dirty scumbag for sucking down whatever anybody is willing to buy you. Sobriety monogamy comes with a happy ending guarantee, where you don’t have to question whether you’re an awful for person for making jokes about requesting only older happy enders knowing they weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday. Sobriety Monogamy makes you feel better than Mormons who voted for Mitt Romney twice. Sobriety Monogamy should be a no-brainer commitment when you can’t manage being a good role model for your kids by blacking out on tucking them in. Sobriety Monogamy will allow me to make sober friends. And let’s be honest, were all a tad jealous of those who have AA friends, who’ve been to hell and back but still emerged victorious while you’re still stuck in the doldrums of your do dick profitless existence. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking because you’ll show some steady backbone and prove you’re worthy of funny man redemption. Sobriety Monogamy is a commitment worth taking, so you can have a positive impact on others while never coming across like a goody fucking two shoes who only dealt with a crippling mental addition to weed, alcohol, Adderall or painkillers for one year max, compared to 10 or more.  Sobriety Monogamy is the best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions by passing out prematurely at the party again, because you’re in no rush to bond or learn from others. The best way to confront your history of anti-social impressions is through sobriety monogamy because how much empathy do you really have for other’s people’s problems when you’re the loudest one at the bar, yelling, “Nobody gives a fuck here, we’re in New Jersey”, but you’re actually in Pennsylvania? Sobriety Monogamy ensures you don’t become another no-show bum on the grand stage of life like Lenny Bruce would say. 

Do Sobriety Monogamy for Lenny, knowing how he was denied a living at the end. Do Sobriety Monogamy because despite your fucked up degeneracy, you’d never blame a disparaging tweet you made about Valerie Jarrett on dropping a fucking Ambien no less. Shit Roseanne at least bang out a funnier tweet on Ambien allegedly by calling Valerie Jarett, Obama’s live-in Arabian horse whisperer. Do Sobriety Monogamy, so you’ll exude a sincere, palpable good-natured vibe, that doesn’t’ feel forced like Ellen DeGeneres after she comes out on her show as friends with W because she’s pro Bush all the way. Do Sobriety Monogamy because by becoming a gum mogul in New York you can actually act your size among all the other towering personalities in the Big Apple post weird, weak woke Howard these days.  Do Sobriety Monogamy because New York is deader than Yiddish anyway, so who gives a shit about partying in NY anymore anyway? Do Sobriety Monogamy because it will represent an actualization of your best self, the most giving, emotionally present, less jaded, always criticizing self, you know, the standard New York state of mind. Do Sobriety Monogamy so you can feel superior to bartenders in wool hats in July. Do Sobriety Monogamy to claim victory over conquering your crazy Hick DNA from Kentucky after all. Do Sobriety Monogamy to give other dads something weighty to chew on while struggling to balance the demands of being a star provider and involved father teacher life coach sage all at the same time through the advent of Swami Says sayings that come with each pack of Hopo-Licious Chew, designed to add a brighter glint to your eye and greater bounce to your step. Daily Nugget of Wisdom today is, “Beer bellies give self-love a bad name.” Because Hop-O-Rama Swami Knows Best.  You want more nuggets of daily wisdom from Hop-Rama-Swami, my new sober best friend? You got it. 

Hop O Rama Swami on Success:

Swami says, “Be better than best or be nobody worth giving a shit about.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Life: 

Swami says, “Live life in fear and you’ve got less to live for than a monologue joke writer for Stephen Colbert.  It’s too bad Bill O’ Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least Bill O’ Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Love: 

Swami says, “Loving the one you’re with is an overrated experience, especially when they resent being expected to suck off even an inch-ling of your existence every other 6 months ever again.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Creativity: 

Swami says, “If you’re mom doesn’t laugh at your jokes nobody will.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Attachment:

Swami says, “Don’t get too attached to flashes of alleged genius that came out of your creatively jacked dome if they’re not embraced online or off the way you envisioned as usual.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Status:

Swami says, “Status updates on LinkedIn scream respectability straining.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Money: 

Swami says, “Money grants greater middle finger power, just ask Stone Cold or Adam Carolla on his podcast.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Fame: 

Swami says, “Doing anything for fame alone is gayer than Roger Ebert’s aghast fueled review on The Foot Fist Way, Danny McBride’s 3rd hardcore hilarious movie by the way.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Choice: 

Swami says, “You’ll be fucked over by life with your face rubbed in your feces if you allow others to push you in whatever preferred direction they choose.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Want: 

Swami says, “Stroke yourself if nobody else will do it for you.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Self-Love. 

Swami says, “Overpriced IPA’s only leave you bloated with self-importance inside.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Your Problems. 

Swami says, “Find a new lover of you and they’ll go away.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Darkness. 

Swami says, “The extent of your impact on this earth can be writing disposable ad copy for a big pharma pimping marketing firm in San Diego. So, stop acting more depressed than your Euro-Pass being rendered useless once Europe transforms into one seemingly endless no-go zone without any access to WI-FI in your Youth Hostel after the next man-made plague made in Wuhan is released to finish off our collective pursuit of happiness again.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Unnecessary Suffering: 

Swami says, “I didn’t tell you to vote for Mr. Groper. And you call the other side mongoloid morons, douche bags are us. 

Hop O Rama Swami on Facing Fears: 

Swami says, “I’d triple wrap by super soaker before playing around with Madonna’s kick the can clit to.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Pain Management. 

Swami says, “Take up blow painting and leave me out of it.” 

Hop O Rama Swami on Bullshit. 

Swami says, “If it sounds like bullshit, it means the person is underselling distressment again. ” 

So, stop bullshitting yourself dads. Trade in the dad bod in exchange for dunking out in do it all dad year glory. We can form our own 3 on 3 Do It All Dad League together. 

And never forget, funnier dad, happier baby. So, reconnect with your original, starring self, before you allowed alcohol to drive the asshole component of your personality into hyperdrive. 

Dependence sucks so don’t give into it anymore. And Michael Jordan admitting on the Last Dance doc about getting into drinking later in life after winning 6 championship rings was freaking weird. That’s like Charles Barkley taking up Adderall to study for law school like Kim Kardashian because social justice lawyers are so hot right now. And Sir Charles using manufactured speedy time pills to hit the books instead of more crab legs with Shaq and Ernie at Maestro’s after work for another raise dinner on TNT doesn’t mix. 

Do It All Dad didn’t get funding for Hop-Licious Chew on Shark Tank, but he finally got a talent agent after doing a joke about KP on the broadcast in front of Marc Cuban when he said, “There’s no way KP raped the neighbor in his apartment building, the same day he tore his ACL, right Marc? Because going strong to the hole was never KP’s forte. Plus, Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein would never try to rape Gal Gadot in her trailer on the set of Wonder Woman 3 on only one good leg. Plus, Do It All Dad did sell a screenplay to Hollywood called Gum King of New York where he comes out as the King of All Sober Living Media and develops a new best friend in AA, who becomes his talent manager, agent confidant, who made him a higher paid podcaster than Joe Rogan on Spotify while never coming across as a smarmy, CBD Oil evangelist, social media deferring apologist in the process either. Ok, so maybe becoming friends with sobriety doesn’t remove your complete frontal asshole lobe all together. 

Michael Kornbluth

Bad Boy Soy Boy

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, writing

Once upon a time, there was a biracial Korean, Jewish kid from the Riverdale section of the Bronx, Steven Park (otherwise known as Bad Boy Soy Boy, since he unleashed his Nunchucks of fury at a block party on a bunch of shit-talking, instigating, black gangbangers who wore the same wifebeater, corn rows, and cut-off jean shorts, looking like they were dressing up for Coolio Appreciation Day.     He never dared to call Bad Boy Soy Boy a ‘COVID chink’ in his midst ever again, as he cracked one corn row-braided skull in two after another without breaking a sweat in a New York minute.

            Son of Sam in the seventies was scary, no doubt, but the surge in hate crimes against Jews and Asians in the boogie-down Bronx, Jersey City, and throughout the Island of Manhattan were at an all-time high, with no relief or added protection in sight.

            Cops today are younger, softer, and far less hardcore than their 9/11 predecessors. Nobody in the force today possesses the balls to make money on the side through good old-fashioned extortion like 99 percent of the force in the movie Serpico.

            Bail was banned in NY, garbage filled the streets, and rats grew the size of Lena Dunham during Restaurant Week after challenging Leslie Jones to a Junior Cheesecake bake-off.

            But even these woke large and in-charge funny woman who couldn’t believe what a scary shithole their cherished concrete jungle of yesterday had become in just four years flat.

            Crazy talk slogans punctured the air, such as “Ban ICE,” because homeland security was so ‘weapons of mass destruction’. That’s no excuse to mug a Chinese grandma in Chinatown, yet the Wuhan-made virus made New Yorkers largely crazier than ever. They misplaced faith in a news media hell bent on feeding more unregulated hate and fear into the nation about black men in America being America’s most hunted; despite not one enlightened BLM member encouraging their fellow brothers to just stop resisting arrest (or the temptation to run out on a 2,000-dollar dinner check in South Beach for spring break, God forbid.

            Every day, Bad Boy Soy Boy worked at his parents’ deli in the South Bronx despite living in the leafier, more snuggle-soft confines of Riverdale in the Bronx, where abandoned, torched, burnt-down buildings (to salvage a semblance of ROI from the insurance company) were less common than a B-plus Korean student at Bronx Science.

            Bad Boy Soy Boy had to bite his lip at the deli every time some brother would come in there talking endless shit, yelling, “COVID Chink this, COVID Chink that,” despite him being fucking half Korean and half Jewish.

            That didn’t make a difference, because cum bucket dumpsters such as Cardi B were today deemed heady, culture-enriching poets from the street whose gaping, sloppy-thirds snatch couldn’t be beat, allegedly. Jim Rome lives, holla; thank you very much.

            But one day Bad Boy Soy Boy decided that enough was enough, so he opened a medicinal speakeasy weed milk bar in Bergen, New Jersey as a front to offer Nunchuck self-defense classes for Asian Americans, based in any of the five boroughs willing to make the schlep to fight for their lives to live out the protracted, rapidly fading American dream with a semblance of peace of mind as they raged and raged against the dying of the light. (Dylan Thomas lives, holla, thank you very much.)

            Now, Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class became the number one tourist destination in Bergen history (not that there was much stiff competition in this department).

            But Bad Boy Soy Boy had a college roommate from UPENN, who he’d talk to on the phone every day, who worked as a rock star chef for a Korean food truck in old city Philly. They were known for their Korean eggroll cheesesteak hot pocket breakfast treats.

            They now had to invest in a bulletproof vest covered food truck in Old City, which was once the only really safe area in Philly, outside of Center City on Chestnut street. But, safe spaces for Asian Americans were now deader than Jeremey Lin’s chances of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated seven times in a row, again (especially since JR Smith bitched to the Knicks management about the golden child Harvard grad who plopped into their lap out of the freaking blue, because he was hogging the Garden spotlight and bike lane all for himself).

            Asian Americans (including Koreans, Japanese,  and Chinese) who never bothered to study martial arts (thinking it wasn’t necessary to learn, from 1994 to 2020), were flocking to Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class.

            Bad Boy Soy Boy’s grandfather, Michael Kornbluth, was a Holocaust survivor because when all the brown shirt ANTIFA members of their day banned the guns, he used his own Nunchucks of fury (gifted to him from his Korean father-in-law) and cracked NAZI skulls hyped on crystal meth all the way to freedom from Nazi persecution. He pawned enough Nazi gold teeth from the skulls he cracked in two with his Nunchucks of fury to buy a boat pass to NY, establish a family of his own with his reflexology wife therapist, and become a proud first-generation deli owner, getting Jewish New Yorkers hooked on kimchi for more reasonable outs from ever having to slip their wives some tongue again.

            Both young and old Asian Americans no longer had to live in helpless, paralyzed fear; all thanks to Bad Boy Boy Soy Boy teaching them the infinite beat-down possibilities unleashed from the all-mighty Nunchuck strikes of fury, to ensure they were never fucked with again in the name of the COVID Chink virus or not. Bad Boy Soy Boy was on a mission from God to prove that Bruce Lee’s weapon of choice ain’t nothing to fuck with.

Michael Kornbluth

The Mustard House

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, work, writing

Once upon a time, in 1903, there was a Stay-At-Home dad, Bukowski Kornbluth, who lived in the derided Mustard House within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, forty miles north of the original Yankee stadium known as Hilltop Park in Washington Heights. This was before it became a cocaine pickup haven for suburban kids in the eighties throughout Westchester Country, who required more stimulation that what the leafy suburbs and colonial house-populated streets offered, knowing that the only thing getting blown on a regular basis, there, were leaves.  

            Every day, Bukowski Kornbluth would stare at his newborn son Arthur and bemoan, “I can’t believe Hasbro rejected my game Condiment Land and chose Candy Land, those anti-Semite bastards.”  

            Before, Bukowski Kornbluth had worked as a shoeshine boy outside of Grand Central, making enough to live off Hebrew National dogs. But that was it. Now he was developing a stomach ulcer at ripe old age of 25, and was married to an Irish nurse, Chloe Duffy, whom he got pregnant by mistake (because pulling out on time was physically impossible, knowing that Bukowski Kornbluth blew his load in 1.1 seconds flat).

            After Chole Duffy’s prominent fireman lieutenant dad died, she inherited some money and made a down payment on the Mustard House, while using her collection of rare Irish whiskies that her father collected (tracing all the way back to Rob Roy times) for collateral because Bukowski Kornbluth was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under judicial review.

            Even during his shoe-shining days, Bukowski had dreams of becoming a professional songwriter, because growing up in a cramped tenement on the Lower East Side with nine other siblings, it was the radio which filled him with dreamy, big city success wonder. This made going to sleep still hungry again a tad more tolerable, knowing that his dad’s career as a pickle sales rep for Kosher Dill Delights wasn’t getting them a townhouse on Park Avenue anytime soon, either.

            Now, more than anything, Bukowski Kornbluth wanted to write a better song than ‘The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous’, to take him out of his Mustard House jail so he could finally enjoy some bright lights and big city success for himself.

            But one day, things changed when Bukowski had the radio on at home to hear the Yankees play, after he started throwing Cracker Jacks at his newborn son Arthur because he was hungover from drinking too many Rob Roys alone; because his nurse wife worked nights and he was stuck at home with his son again on Shabbat, with nowhere else to go but down self-pity lane (which was getting tiresome and beyond boring at this point in his life).

            Growing up in the Lower East Side, Bukowski Kornbluth was a solid stick ball hitter, which earned him the nickname Yard Blaster (which certainly beat the nickname his putz prone, younger brother earned on those same streets, Trips on Curbs).

            What if, instead of writing songs about ex-loves and depleted dreams, Bukowski Kornbluth could refocus his attention on baseball and dreams of being a big shot at the ball game for a much cheerier, less depressingly dreary change of pace? 

            Bukowski Kornbluth continues to pelt his son with more Cracker Jacks, yelling, “Duck! Cracker Jack attack!” Then an idea ẻmerges, and Bukowski Kornbluth says, “I finally got it this time, kid. I’ll write a song about going to the ballgame for anything except more fucking hotdogs, to remind me of this damn Mustard House.

            “But what if the object of universal interest I focus my song on is Cracker Jacks?

            “Old Bet, the famous circus elephant, was buried ín nearby Sommers outside the famed Elephant Hotel, so I’ll write about grabbing some peanuts at the ball game in his honor, too. There’s no reason why I can’t write a hit song about America’s favorite pastime and pigging out at the ball game. It’s a home run, kid.

            “Where can I find a pencil? Arthur, give me those crayons, if you haven’t eaten them up already.

            “Despite me being miserable about being an unemployed Stay At Home Dad out in the sticks, it doesn’t mean I love you any less, Arthur. But Stay At Home Dads can’t survive unless they have something grander to aim for in life besides being a loving, proud dad; and this is my last shot to hit one out of the park, kid.

            “Never stop swinging hard for the fences, Arthur. You’re an all-American slugger like Daddy. I can feel it in you just by the way you made me partially deaf from smacking me in the ear with your rattle, once.”  

            Bukowski Kornbluth wrote ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game’ as his son Arthur finally got to sleep in a pool of his own Cracker Jack vomit.            One year later, Bukowski Kornbluth got introduced at Yankee Stadium (then known as Hilltop Stadium) and waved his Yankee hat to all the adoring fans in attendance, raining down hollering praise for the man who wrote the official father/son bonding anthem for baseball games in America.

            Now his son Arthur pulls on his dad’s leg as the cheers grow even more vociferous for the Do It All Dad done good, and says, “I got a Honus Wagner rookie card, Dad.”  

            Bukowski Kornbluth says, “Stop ruining the moment, kid. They just sell you the cards for free gum.”

            Arthur says, “I think it will be worth something someday, Dad. Also, can you remind why can’t I stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack, again?”

Michael Kornbluth

Hamas Hates Nuance

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, beauty, blogging

I text my mom photographed images from my 9 year old daughter’s report on the Holocaust called The Terror Of The Holocaust, which included a plethora of killer subtitle headers to, such as A Terrible Form Of Hate, Monster In Charge and Don’t Blame Us! And I add the killer one liner for the ages, “Don’t post the report on Facebook or else Hamas will accuse you of hate speech.” Holla, thank you very much.”

Biden is sending new aid to aid Palestinians since AOC served Andrew Yang’s balls to him in a Mai Tai on the rocks.

Fuck nuance. Palestinians elected terrorists in charge. The only difference between Palestine and America is that we didn’t elect a terrorist enabling scumbag to cut Palestine a blank check to finance non-stop terrorism against Israel as long as members of Hamas, the PLO and Hezbollah keep fucking. Holla, thank you very much.

Kids can’t be terrorists. What do you call ANTIFA? Elderly wannabe Punisher vigilantes in hoodies. Holla, thank you very much.


Also stop acting like you give a shit about Ramadan. Arab terrorists started something called the Yom Kippur war against Israel in 1973, on the most holy day on the Jewish calendar with the intent of wiping Israel off the map forever. The only difference now is you have social media to make worldwide antisemitism go transparently viral in real time you Hamas lover you.

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does China

by doitalldadyear, posted in cooking, fiction, music

Stop spreading disinformation about COVID, it was made in the offices of the Capital Building with China through Zoom.

What major adjustment did the Chinese make post COVID? Didn’t they all wear masks to begin with because the air quality there is more polluted than Michelle Pfeiffer’s womb in Scarface.

Seriously, what major adjustment did the Chinese make post COVID? Hire the Tiger King to manage their new social distance bat petting zoo through Zoom?

The Last Emperor of China was made emperor at 2? Is that in dog years?

When the kid become the last emperor of China at the advanced age of 2, rice farmers muttered in their pre commie censored heads, “I don’t care about the 1 kid policy anymore, if I’m still allowed my monthly ration of Mongolian Barbeque, that includes all the frozen meat packed Lassie I can eat.”

The Dali Lama was already distancing himself from Richard Gere after Sharon Stone’s birthday bash at his crib, when he said, “Those prayer beads didn’t come in red Gere.”

Why is the Delta virus so contagious again? Does it contain the distilled essence of real life patriots from past Trump rally’s of yesteryear? I don’t get it.

But seriously, why is the Delta Virus so contagious again? Is it easily catchable like jungle fever from Pamela Grier retrospectives on IFC for Queen Latifah’s lesbian awakening month?

The Washington Examiner insists all it’s employees wear a mask in the newsroom if they’re not vaccinated . Failing to call out blatant election fraud as the audits roll on, hasn’t made their bullshit detection ability any sharper with their swamp thing siding masks off.

New York City will now require proof of vaccination to dine inside. But your never ending, beyond played out, politized lockdown already destroyed the greatest city on earth and put the Oyster Bar out of business in Grand Central. So at this point, what difference does it make? Like a Jon Hamm donation to pearl necklace Harris for her failed presidential campaign, because Dominion had Mr. Groper’s back regardless, despite his failure to instruct to Hunter to cut out crack, knocking up strippers and creaming into his dead brother’s wife seconds after the cremation ensued.

But the unvaccinated will be allowed to dine outside, harassed by BLM and ANTIFA knowing the unvaccinated resisters are more easily identified to terrorize for the grave offense of sticking up for election integrity laws and for still remaining on Trumpy Poo’s side to, despite him doing less to stop election fraud in advance than ensure Ivanka inherited a shot of his colorful personality through sheer osmosis already.

New York City will now require proof of vaccination to work out at Equinox fitness in Chelsea. I don’t think the fabulous high gay furniture designer is sweating the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus before he goes down on Charlie from accounting in the men’s steam room there either.

Mayor De-Blasio says, “It’s time for vaccine ID mandates. We’ve offered everyone incentive to get the shot in the world, Shake Shack for life, VIP passes to breath on Bruce Springsteen backstage on Broadway through one of Steven Van Zandt’s silk scarves made in France, riding the train on Cardi Bi while waiting for the Lex line to resume it’s normal working business hours again, anyone out there, Mueller, Mueller.

The band Offspring fired their drummer of 14 years because he followed his doctor’s advice and refused to get the vaccine because the potential side effects put him at greater risk considering his pre-existing conditions like being a closeted Trump supporter before the day he allowed Democracy to die under his Tweet topping watch.

Kicking a drummer out of a band who refuses to get the vaccine shot is anti-establishment rock at it’s finest. What does the lead singer of Offspring do for an encore now? Bite off the head of a fake news Chinese Bat to prove non FDA approved vaccines are nothin to fuck with.

In related news Pearl Jam is reported to be playing at Obama’s 60th birthday party at his Martha’s Vineyard’s estate. Will Eddie Vedder blather on about rising sea levels overlooking such pristine oceanfront property. Will he make a plug about global warming despite Al Gore’s speaking career cooling considerably since Pearl Jam socially distanced themselves from Ticketmaster till they couldn’t find a better ticket seller around? Will Eddie Vedder dedicate the song Last Kiss to every Italian Grandma who to give the ghost of her dead husband one last last while dying alone under COVID lockdown arrest because Cuomo couldn’t let all those extra body bags ordered go to waste? Despite all those spacious hospital beds shipped in by Trump that got less touches than a bible at a bath house colony in Provincetown. Will Eddie shy away from singing the song Black, because Obama can’t identify with being a black baller knowing herode the bench an all Asian private school in Hawaii? Eddie Vedder performing the Jeremy song would be done in poor taste, knowing more kids died from suicide than from COVID this past year. Plus, the song loses it’s dramatic oomph knowing Jeremy under remote learning circumstances would’ve gone out with a less of a bang by blowing out his brains on top of his school issued laptop with 13 Reasons on Why on Vinyl playing in the back of his head.

Speilberg dropping by to celebrate Obama’s 60th birthday isn’t the best look for our Jewish people. Obama Be Good only nuke gifted Iran 150 billion on his way out the door to make their economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal creams for the Kardashians.

Interesting fact: If you’ve already gotten the COVID virus, it increases your immunity to fight off charges of fear mongering bullshit like catching an itchy esophagus from a Trump rally retrospective on Newsmax for old times sake.

Can’t you picture George Soros reluctantly watching another huge Trump rally in his one world headquarter palace in Beijing and blurt out loud, “That’s it, get me the Wuhan Lab institute. Time to unleash the Franken Bat on MAGA country once and for all. Is Andy Dick done experimenting with our bat hicky, blood draining treatment yet? With all the blow flushed out his system, I’m positive Apple TV will insure his next film The Adventures Of Tranny Sitting now.”

The Chinese show more blatant disregard for COVID birther stories than free samples of AquaFresh.

Did you know the Great Wall of China is more than 4000 miles long? That’s what Pamela Anderson said.

I’m dropping my kids off at camp and the crossing guard said, “Slow down.” I said, “That’s why Hunter’s dealer said.”

I read the 1st paragraph of 1984 to my 3 kids last night. Daughter asks, “What’s Big Brother daddy?” I say, “A bunch of fake news good will hoodies, Zit Face Zuck included.”

More lockdowns and mask mandates are living, breathing trophies to mark China’s never ending winning streak since the day Democracy died. And the never ending shit show rolls on without a peep from Bruce, who wrote Death To My Hometown. Ain’t that a shame, Fats Domino lives. Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth





Triple Crown Winners

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Nothing Rotten

Giving up Adderall is a return to energy independence.

Calling Zelensky a Jew is like calling Annie Leibowitz a mensch.

Also, why is Annie Leibowitz taking pictures of Zelensky and his wife for Vouge magazine?

Was the Vanity Fair Hollywood issue too vain for Zelensky’s tastes?

Posing in the same magazine with Wes Anderson’s pocket watch collection from Louis Vuitton is where I draw the line Annie, no offense. Tell your sister Judy Gold, she’s a no talent hack for me, thanks.

Zelensky takes orders from Azov Nazi’s. He’s like George Soros with a better barber.

Trump’s the Anti-Christ, not your dad, Liz Cheney?

But you unlike your deathly dickish American Dad, you aim to please?

Also, doesn’t Jesus’ return from heaven to defeat the Anti-Christ in the Bible part 2?

So have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you, people.

Imagine Jesus returning and his only request is that we give up social media for a whole year.

Trump tweets on Truth Social.

Don’t worship false idols.

Sorry, I didn’t realize that former Trump supporters were tweeting that about Trump on Truth Social before giving up social media for Lent. In other words, fuck off already Trump, you left us for dead and push operation death speed with the same verve as Trump Vodka laced with killer doses of Fentanyl. Condemn the kill shot and post our bail already motherfucker or you’re rotten to the core like the rest. What’s the point in passing prison reform if you can’t even bail out your supporters who didn’t kill anything but the veneer of Q being your alter ego in the form of JFK Junior who you were destined to team up with to take out the Deep state which took his father out, who wanted to share our alien DNA stool staples of Gore Vidal with the Russians. Let Blow Hard One Mark Levin let you off nice and easy. And if Ronan Farrow is really Frank Sinatra’s kid, then why hasn’t Woody Allen woken up next to the head of Secretariat yet? The Great American Songbook lives, now eat my butt carrots Amy Barrett. You’re Mia Farrow with better husband selection, Challah. Thank you very much.

Supply Chain Solved

You want to solve our supply chain crisis? Require every dreamer crossing our border to work as a delivery driver for UPS for one year. It’s good paying union job, you get to wear shorts all day and in New York state they’re already given a license to vote anyway. Plus, UPS drivers similar to illegals are exempt from getting the clot shot, so they’ll be healthy enough to do more ballot stuffing for UPS during the mid-term election season. Plus, did you know that in New York State, you can be fined 250,000 dollars for using hate speech on illegal aliens? Such as, No Speak English? Whose translating these insults for Juan exactly? Now illegal immigrants flown into the New York on Jet Blue courtesy of the Democratic party, get a License to vote and a hate speech translator to bankrupt Apu at a bodega in Flushing. What a country, Yakov Smirnov lives, Challah. Thank you very much.  

Recess Passes Matter

Instead of giving criminals an endless supply of get out of jail free cards, which is what no bail laws are. We should institute a recess pass system that our teachers used to punish our bad behavior in elementary school growing up. Speak out in class, Recess Pass gets taken away. Place dog food on Beth’s desk. Take a Recess Pass away. Choke a cop on the subway because you feel like it. Take away a Recess Pass away. You get 5 per week from the state, which can be scanned from your phone. So, every time you can get a Recess Pass taken away it means, you get a point on your license. 5 points results in your medicinal weed card being permanently revoked in New York state. You want to talk buzz kill fellas. New Yorkers have been waiting for weed dispensaries since the dawn of time. But now you can’t access it because Latrel Sprewell’s kid choked out a cop’s white privilege despite him deserving it according to Thugs Lives Matter Most. Thugs start having panic attacks on the Subway, I can’t breathe motherfucker. I can’t go back to smoking that shit skunk weed on the street. Gummy Edibles don’t stink up my breath. I don’t want to share no blunt with your ass just out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.” Recess Passes Matter, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth