Vacation From Kosher

What did I learn during my vacation from Kosher? Relishing soulless shellfish on my wedding anniversary or for any future vacations to Mexico at Sammy Haggar’s Cabo Wabo Cantina in Cabo San Lucas could be resounding exceptions. Because that chilled Shrimp cocktail at our fine dining restaurant in Greenville, DE on our anniversary night, where they show off the fancy, out of reach wine bottles in sight while all the Nazi gold is buried out back, rocked my world and was holy shit, good living good to me. My crab soup wasn’t chopped liver either. The crabs were so fresh you’d think I just barebacked with Cardi B on the rebound. And my wife’s oysters were flush with more sweet svelte bites than boring briny ones, without tasing like forced maritime mop slop either.

Although along the way, I’ve realized how my relationship with non-Kosher food is no longer the same old situation. For example, when we went to Rehoboth Beach and ate at famed Pizzeria chain Grotto’s, my Stromboli, proved how pork hasn’t lost its allure on my tubby bitch’s soul one bit. I still recall fond, heartwarming memories of being introduced to Westchester’s finest Stromboli by my old childhood friend Ari in nearby Chappaqua, before Hillary Hammer Time Cankles stank fumed taint, tainted the area in general. Still, I recall the infusion of American cheese in that Stromboli while combined with Mozzarella in addition to well-spaced, garlic encrusted seasoning, taking this Stromboli into pleasure town USA so much higher. Till this day, I can’t eye a stromboli, without thinking of my dear old friend Ari Geller in addition our Holy Grail pursuit of the perfect cheesesteak and chicken cult sandwich to. One of the last times I saw Ari, was at his house in CT with his wife and 2 kids, to my only 1 at the time. Now, we both have 3. So, I shouldn’t have been surprised how when I visited, Ari grilled some chicken for us and made some homemade Tzatziki sauce in addition to warm pitas, which provided a nice hearth home infused touch. Ari gave me a great compliment that day, this was when I was writing Yelp reviews to keep my storytelling and comedy writing chops up, when he said, “I know I’m funny, but I don’t have your imagination, Killer. Plus, I’m not reading your stuff because I feel guilted into reading it. I genuinely enjoy reading it all. Do I think you can be a great standup like Jim Norton, no? But do I think you could be a great writer? Yes, without a doubt, just chill out on the wordplay already.”

I just paraphrased 2 lumped in conversations, but those talks stayed with me because when friends from your youth who came out to your stand-up comedy bringer shows and read your scripts and blogs over the years, don’t have to encourage and emote in your honor but when they’re smarter and were never treated like regretful dumb fucks by their parents, you’re going to take notice and add some extra validity to what they have to say. What does this historical rehash in my writing development’s honor from a combination of old friends from High School, who’ve been clearing 6 figures for more than 2 decades now, versus my zero, have to do with my vacation from Kosher exactly? First, it proves how I’ve never lost my respect for delivering the funny, and Ari was my original writing partner who’s the first and only man I ever wore a wig for in our sketch for the Pig Men book review we did in Junior High.  Second, my suburban Jewish roots run deep, and unlike another old friend Chaim, a successful lawyer for some major firm and Ari, a big time Kidney doctor who owns a part of his practice in CT, never embarked on this Mensch and A Half journey that I started 2 years ago when I became intent on becoming a full time practicing, Koshertarian Comedian, not knowing if it would lead to any riches along the way, outside of some good filler for a new book, The Koshertarian Comedians. I never anticipated my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo to proclaim, “Always Kosher daddy”, but I still want to eat more Peeking Duck at P.F Chang’s in Scottsdale again.” Never in a million years, would I anticipate my meat averse daughter to embrace my Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce nor picture her other brother Arthur to insist on ordering a veggie cheesesteak at Wawa that he designs, versus a standard, ho hum cheesesteak that isn’t made with Kosher meat after exposing and getting him into Kosher meat at all. At the same time, Kosher law forbids you from mixing dairy and meat, but you get the gist.

I say my relationship has changed with food since my Koshertarian Comedian journey began because having to serve my immediate, carnal rooted desires is now glaringly secondary to pleasing Hashem, with a little of Kosher commanded love and respect, which is a redemptive, less all over the place Jewy place to be. Granted, I’m only half Heeb Crazy, so technically speaking, I shouldn’t be completely bat shit crazy 365 days out of the year while denying myself some lobster tacos at Cabo Wabo to hear Sammy Haggar’s band perform live at his bar on the sand to some more Heavy Metal Music noise, especially knowing how at 75 years old, the former front man of Van Halen and Montrose makes Ryan Reynolds look like a metrosexual lesbian nerd in comparison these days.  Vacation from Kosher is what it was, a temporary respite, away from our Koshertarian comedian blessed home, when eating Kosher isn’t so easy like when you’re visiting an old college bud Mike Paone to take in George Thorogood and the Destroyers and Sammy Haggar’s band the Circle play circles around other mere meh mortals half their age easy. When your bud orders you a deep-fried ravioli, with meat inside, you oblige. When you have the option to order a duck ham benedict during your vacation from Kosher when you haven’t done Brunch in 12 years, since becoming an unplanned father of 3 because you never mastered the art of the pump fake, you oblige. When your old college bud buys you tickets to see the Cardinals in town, who’ve won the 2nd most amount of world championships after the Yankees, and insists you try the Pork on the bone Sirloin sandwich at a local barbeque haunt before gametime, you oblige, just like you don’t shy away from ordering the mac and cheese side with the smoked, succulent bacon bits inside. Still, I come back from my vacation, hop on the scale and yell up above, “209 Lord, you’ve got to be kidding me. Are that many calories in Triple Sec and Simple Syrup while housing one Cabo Wabo swirled tequila after another? I ate pork for a grand total of 4 times during my vacation from Kosher while having no beer to touch thy lips for the past 6 months, and the best you can do for me is 209, my chest. Looks like we’re back to ungodly reason to resume our Koshertarian diet again, my chest times infinity, no offense.”

Other reasons my relationship with food has changed is because my relationships or lack thereof outside of house have. At this point, I’m averaging a summer getaway to see an old friend from college or from LA every other 2 years. Only planning these trips around rock shows like seeing Aerosmith in Vegas 3 summers ago, restricts your mobility a bit. For the past 2 plus years, I’ve been our in-house Koshertarian comedian cook star, and I’d like to keep that way as I continue to get, more curtain call generating yummy dances while my 3 Koshertarian Comedian friends get perpetually more giddy about giving the Koshertarian diet at home an extended chance.  Above all else though, my main relationship that’s changed the most is with Hashem, the miracle maker, my redeemer, who makes all my sheets of comedy possible. Who allows me to grow closer to my children and his spirt through the more laughs and yummy dances I make.  

My favorite part of Rosh Hashanah services this year, was when the Rabbi went to hold my hand at the end of services, while some yenta breath interrupted my 1st line attempt at conversation, before I put things at ease and said, “It’s ok, the Rabbi is used to be going long.” And we had met only once prior, when I went to pick up a spare Shofar for my son to practice with and freak out my in-laws with this past anniversary weekend, mission accomplished. My wife booked us for a service held outside by a zoo outside of Wilmington, which was lovely, to usher in a good new year. I even indulged in some Fried chicken and waffles to finish this vacation from Kosher in style. Afterwards, the waitress, wrote me a note on our check that said, “Your family has great positive energy, don’t ever change.” If that isn’t divine intervention or infinitude now, I don’t know what is. My takeaway from this moment was Hashem saying, “Don’t give on me delivering for you kid. And keep on pitching how controlling our kids with comedy can make our kids great again. Your 3 fuss free kids are living proof of it.” Later, infinitude now occurred again, when I blew the shofar on a mountain top in North Salem, overlooking a picturesque valley that looked too pretty placed to be true.” I blew that Shofar; 1st time ever and it sang soul piecing song. The Rabbi told me that the Lord, otherwise known as Hashem, reveals himself whenever the Shofar wails, and my blasts weren’t coming out of a wimpy softy soul either and I’ve got the Instagram video as my witness, despite it not being good enough for my mother, who immediately, asked for the video link of my son heavily doctored video link immediately later. My mom’s attitude was one of complete befuddlement that screamed, you sucked at the sax, so I didn’t see this semblance of beautiful musicality in you, really. And that’s why I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. But that doesn’t matter in the eyes of Lord. What matters is that I always allow myself the power to dwell on his awesome infinitude now, especially in the form of the beautiful hearts, laughs and worry line free faces of my kids, God’s children. “Here O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.”

God bless infinitude now and my Koshertarian diet journey. Vacations from Kosher have put me closer to my soul man and a half side. Arise Mensch and a half, meaning the standup person in us all, your chosen path to at one connection with the divine has been chosen. So, for God’s sake, give the big man upstairs some extra doses of Love on a more regular basis and give the Koshertarian diet a chance.

Michael Kornbluth

In Mosey’s Dream

Remember when your mom walked in on us singing, No Mosey No Cry for my final goodbye? You were in the Bubble again, sparkling like the Lion cub of Judah under the hot Ethiopian sun with your chosen curls dancing in the name of the Lord. And your mom asked in semi-hurt disgust, “What does Mosey no cry mean Mosey?” I say, “Were just humming some Bob Marley love songs for Michael’s bubble, nothing new here, Ms. Kornbluth.” Your mom being a banker for Chemical Bank had no idea who Bob Marley was, so she couldn’t feel too burned yet over our Lazt Waltz together before your parents moved to the suburbs so you could cry it out in your crib upstairs, which always makes the more muffled moans of despair easier to bear. Then, there was the time, when your mom walked in on you calling me mommy in the Bubble, which hurt her much more inside. She says, “Did my son just call you mommy?” And I say, “It sounds like Mosey doesn’t it.” That’s probably why your mom calls herself Me-Me around your children now. Your mother added, “Son, your being raised in Forrest Hills, Queens, not Jamaica, Queens.”

The sun wasn’t shining in my heart that day. I mean, Jamaica, Queens is fine if you don’t mind dirt weed blowing through the air as you push your son on the swing to chants of, “I’m going to take you higher.” Your dad never cared for that joke reference despite him always telling me the story about waking up in a post Acid haze to hear Sly Stone serenade 400,000 hippies with, “I’m going to take your higher”, at Woodstock only 9 years earlier because I was Jamaican, and he assumed I smoked weed at some point in my life before I decided to clean my act up and become a nanny for the prettiest boy in Forrest Hills. You were such a gay baby, Michael. You’d even choke on the rattler for fun. But I’ve been sobor for 40 years and I have you to thank.

You see I grew up in the prosperous part of Jamaica when my father was a big-time record producer for Island Records. Peter Tosh was my Godfather and taught me how Marco Polo introduced the Europeans to Lassie Soup after traveling to China, who also believed in evil Spirits like Rastas do. Bob was a was Duppy Conqueror, meaning an evil spirit conqueror, which means one who conquerors worried plagued fear. My dad never conquered his Duppy spirit and got addicted to the hell water, thinking it was his only way to conquer his doubts of having golden ears, after he passed on signing Bob Marley and The Wailers. So, once the fire water rum took over his life, he was forced to become a Janitor at Ska parties in Trenchtown on dirt roads with no electricity as he scrounged for roaches at the end of Punky Reggae parties to lift his sagging spirits, which is where the term dirt weed arose from actually. At first, I dated a Rasta bum who sold coconut water on the street in Times Square during the summer before it became available at your local 7/11 but that was it. I fell in love with his falsetto voice, he reminded me of a young Bunny Wailer really. But he smoked so much ganja, his handwriting wasn’t even legible anymore whenever he tried to write me love songs, but this was before Apple had released their desktop computer in 76, because he wasn’t the best speller on the typewriter before either. Plus, he insisted on calling Wite-Out colonial imperialism against commas to break up his killer flow, or something like that. He was higher than Richard Pyror at Freddie Prince Junior’s funeral, far from looking good. But I cut him out of my life and fell in love with a black Israelite Marcus, who became a public defender for the DA’s office, who taught Shofar lessons to rich kids in Riverdale, to pay for our wedding in Israel by a resort beach town in Eilat. Marcus wanted to visit King Solmon’s grave, who was known to have a steamy affair with the Queen of Sheeba. Bob Marley mysteriously inherited the ring King Solomon possessed, that traces back to the time when he was tapping the Queen Sheeba’s ass on the regular, did you know that? Anyway, your father always called you the cleanest boy in Forrest Hills, of course this was before you’d live in West Hollywood for 3 years and end up recording Pretty Dirty Mind for comedy record 76, I think. So, my obsession with cleaning up my life spilled into me giving you 3 bubbles a day, Michael. You were so happy in that Bubble, as I hummed you more Bob Marley love songs, which was permanent rainbow country for me. And I passed the dreaded typing test before getting a job at Apple in 76 before becoming the VP Of Sales for their floppy disk game division. I made the game Oregon Trail, the best-selling floppy disk game in America before Carmen San Diego came out as a flasher perv, stalking Bill Walton at Padres games, whenever the Grateful Dead were in town. I know that you’ve been suffering from night screams, feeling evil spirits strangle the life out of you in your dreams lately. But recently, those dreams have abated, and that’s because you haven’t lost faith in the sweet Lord, all mighty Hashem, being your protector, redeemer and ultimate celebrator, or else you wouldn’t have produced all these amazing books and comedy records to move, touch and make the universe laugh with, coming together as one. United we laugh, you prove it every day. I’m your biggest fan, always have been. Although I like this idea of you selling furniture for Bob’s Furniture in Norwalk, CT. I think this 1st interview will materialize into more good fortune for you. You’ll be inspired to get back on stage once you get out of the house again. Your soul is too pure and big for the cramped office life. Plus, I want you to write that story about triggering a Canadian furniture designer, living in Northern Westchester County who designs bookshelves for Chelsea Handler, only to tell him face to face, “Bob’s Furniture has way better stuff than this shit. And you’ll have a leg to stand on, which will be an empowering, duppy spirit conquering place to be Michael. Don’t give up on your dreams of making a living off comedic song for a living eventually. Bob worked at the Chrystler factory in Delaware before he became Bob Marely. No money, no cry for now, but earning some for a change will help remove those talking blues. Deep down you have to believe your funny enough to fill out those clown shoes.

Michael Kornbluth

Deplorable USA

What do Tour Guides of Delaware say about Biden now? Hair Sniffer Plugs, used to take showers with his daughter here, wherever Corn Pop’s fluffing services weren’t available. What’s inflation? Jill Biden barely scraping by, without any combs or brushes in use since 76. What do you call her hair style exactly? Freeloading ho bag with a townie thrashy twist. But nice fishnet stockings Jill. I bet Jill sucks dick for Bitcoin behind Joe’s back at Hotel Dupont. Jill says, “I’ll suck your untraceable dick. But you look a tad fruity, so put a rubber on. You’ll last longer than Joe at a Brownie sale in Brentwood.” Deplorable USA, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Mind Of A Yummy Dance

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can get by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth

















Watching Hacks Cry

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth

















Spiritually Superstitious

Call me elitist. But I like eating Kosher because it makes feel less common and ordinary blah. Deli guy says, “No Bacon, with that?” “Is my egg and cheese order not manly enough for you, Dominick, I ain’t no Fag Scholanti?” Plus, I can watch the Showrunner of Everyone Loves Raymond, Phil Rosenthal on Somebody Feed Phil, squirm with discomfort around the actor from Treme went he told him to put more “swing” into whatever French creole named sausage he tried to annunciate with divine powered glee knowing my commitment to upholding a Koshertarian diet comedian lifestyle would allow me to make fun of it with detached bemusement soon after. Although in terms of comedy, nothing could beat the Treme actor explaining his learning process about cured meats, “Oh, so Pate is like hog’s head cheese.” Hilarious, prior he explained his use of a blood bucket growing up in Louisiana used in the making of Blood Sausage. And I’m thinking, Phil Rosenthal has less in common with this actor’s roots than white man’s disease. At one point in the episode, Phil attends a non-Kosher seder, with a giant Gefilte Fish stuffed with Shrimp. And Gefilte Fish slop plop is so old world Jewy disgusting in Microsoft Word’s eyes, autocorrect doesn’t even acknowledge its existence. Actually, I was being a self-loathing, paranoid half Jew, who was spelling it wrong. Reality is, my mother was raised Catholic I think in Kentucky, she never talks about it really, before she converted to Judaism after my dad nailed her with his Hebrew hammer, I guess. Seconds later, mom says, “Jesus who, never heard of the guy. But anything beats eating Squirl soup, so fuck off Christian nation, I’m moving to Jew York into some shitty tenement in the Bronx, that’s not Riverdale, I’m out of here.”

I love the south. My favorite summer wind was Katie King, who was from Winston Salem, North Carolina. We met in Kennedy country in Chatham, Cape Cod, the 1st time I asked God for anything by the beach. I say, “God, I don’t need Marilyn Monroe, but just a summer romance of some kind, so I can have someone to think about while playing I Remember You by Skid Row although Sebastian Bach sporting a shirt that read Aids kill fag Dad is an extraneous exclamation point at that point in the sentence.” God delivered with resounding authority and gave me the scent of the south in Katie King. Outside of my great, great, great, Grandfather Austin Gollaher saving his boyfriend friend from drowning while running home late for some racoon soup, this will go down as the greatest save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby. But what was God saving me from exactly outside of more ordinary blah? Easy, he saved me from non-stop hurt, because good loving is what I got, Sublime lives, Challah, thank you very much. More importantly, until then, I never knew or had any clue about my capacity for being a joy spreader for others. During one of our last night’s together after another legendary kiss, that went on for years in a good way, my dear Katie King said, “I never knew somebody could make me so happy.” Being a New York Yankee who sported a circumcised schlong versus the ant eater look tipped the laws of attraction in my favor to. So maybe, my mom converted to Judaism because settling for the ant eater look between some southern gent’s legs would’ve circumcised her happiness also.

I fell in love with crawfish and all its succulent manifestations while working as a waiter at a Creole style restaurant in Park Slope ages ago, back when Lena Dunham has much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself. Before birthrates in Brooklyn had reached an all-time low due to overweight hobbit hipsters pulling out early from excessive meat sweats. At the same time Lena Dunham’s encouraged arm flapper look wasn’t encouraging more porking over pounding more pork buns either. Crawfish, you know shrimp with personality. Think Madeline Kahn over Samantha Bee. I had crazy sex with a girl from St. Louis during Marti Gras on my friend’s couch in and out of a black out powered haze although I remember sucking face with her after drinking a Hand Grenade prior and she tasted fantastic. So, I have plenty of love for southern accentuated fun. You can’t beat southern loving hospitality like this. So why forsake more drunken revelry down on the big easy, where banging random, giving girls you just met is easy? Because my dick would fall off from overexertion and pop out of its joy socket. Either that, or I’d wake up in 2 months without a livable liver because of my own self-inflicted wounds.

But what are my ungodly reasons for sticking with the Koshertarian Diet for the home stretch of my life? For starters, abstaining from pork shields me from future charges of Islamophobia. Especially, after a smartphone catches one of my future performances a Carolines on Broadway, when I say, “A 2 state solution is never ending as long as Hamas keeps fucking.” I’m also drawn to bragging rights for one upping Dad. Did we eat Kosher in the house for 22 years? Yes, but we ate Chinese and bomb veal parm in the Bronx outside the house, which isn’t the same thing. I’m not against swinging both ways, but for once, I’m committed to a monogamous relationship with Kosher law, and I don’t mind feeling like a slut in a strait jacket in this instance, which is a welcome change of pace. I also like forward, upward motion, which is why I’m doing my year without beer, so I can drop whatever deadweight that’s preventing me from achieving Do It All Dad dunking out glory. So, working towards being a Koshertarian Comedian lifer that’s constantly striving to reach a higher spiritual place of fulfillment is a soul cleansing place to be, after pleasuring yourself to 3rd, legged beauties.com prior. Being a hit blasting Koshertarian Comedian for the bast 13 months, 121 comedy records later, beats Jolting Joe’s 56 game hitting streak by a mile. So that’s an ungoldy reason to stick with my funny man Koshertarian Comedian path that gives me a leg up on my competition, knowing how God’s hooking me up with more sheets of comedy gold in return. And like Ron Shelton wrote in Bull Durham, “You don’t fuck with a winning streak.” Plus, at this late in the game, I don’t want to cheat myself out of the holiness I feel from upholding my Koshertarian diet. I think my kids would be less disappointed if I carried on a new love affair with a fan on my WordPress blog than breaking my Koshertarian vows really. Have I made a vow to honor my Koshertarian Diet till my last dying breath? No, but self-imposed restrictions make me feel like a more in control beast similar to my year without beer so far. And it’s no longer just about my own self-serving needs but inspiring my kids to rise above being slaves to your give me now desires. The Metallica album Master of Puppets is about being a slave to drug dependence. Fine, eating a Shrimp Po Boy isn’t in the same league. Still, I miss the idea of having that option more than the action of inhaling a shrimp boy itself. But ultimately, sticking with the Koshertarian Diet has provided good restrictions that have forced me to be more creative that’s resulted in my primo, heavily workshopped, 2nds demanding Farfalle pesto with no cheese using a mixture of pecans and pistachios, always being the best, while throwing in some diced up Kosher chicken breasts from the air fryer in addition to some well salted, thinly sliced, cherry tomatoes top.

Other ungodly reasons to stick the Koshertarian Diet is ensure my book the Koshertarian Comedian gets published one day, in spite of the masked bitch at the bookstore in Rhinebeck, who acted grossed out, perplexed, when I asked, if they had a Kosher cookbook section. She gives me an immediate, “no.” And I say, “What if I asked for you for a Hallal cookbook section that gave shout outs to Allah in honor of all the porking you get do in Allah’s gangsta paradise as a reward for killing more infidel bitches like yourself, hashtag, hacking hymens to shawarma shreds.” Ungodly Reasons, Challah. Thank you very much.

It’s tempting to break my Koshertarian diet when I visit a semi-close bud from college in St. Louis later this summer to see George Thorogood and the Destroyers, Sammy Haggar is the opening act. I hear his Tequilla goes down Van Halen light. Will I be able to turn down smoked Brisket and burnt ends in St. Louis away from my beamish 3 kids for 2 nights with no restrictions outside of abstaining from bourbon and banging some random chick without passing out in my condom 1st? Will see, but I’m looking forward to some man-on-man bonding company more so than suckling down some Pit master made Brisket while pitching my bud new ideas for my screenplay Gum King Of New York, about a stay-at-home dad who reinvents himself as a pitchman star on the QVC during his year without beer while hocking his new brand of hop flavored Gum Hop-O-Rama Chew. I plan on selling the action-comedy adventure as a cross between Pineapple Express, Joy and The Founder except its origin story takes place in St. Louis in 2022 with some Midwest Jewish mobsters in Kansas City ala Casino thrown in between.

Ultimately, though I just don’t want to fuck up my winning streak on the keyboard. Call me spiritually superstitious then. At the same time, I also enjoy my slimmed down physique that’s a direct result of a veggie loaded Koshertarian Diet and I refuse to let Phil Rosenthal look more wide eyed happy slim for having less of a need for fostering a divine connection than the need for edgier, funny man commentary on his tour of Copenhagen for Somebody Feed Phil. “Copenhagen is known for its inclusive diversity embedded in its architecture such as these Moroccan titled fountains and fake news no go zone areas over here.”

Every morning, I thank God for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And sticking to the Koshertarian diet has allowed me to do that although Bill Maher would prefer to call him my imaginary friend, so be it. Rocky’s been Stallone’s imaginary friend for 4 decades straight and it’s paid off handsomely for Sly. Although learning that 420, the national pot smoking holiday is on Hitler’s birthday, was a total bummer man equal to when learning how Sly snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. I also close out every morning prayer session with thanking Hashem, the most high, for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And I feel that sticking with the Koshertarain diet is a nice tender touch that helps keep our love connection alive, versus my wife rolling over to the other side of the equator whenever I try to snuggle her for old times’ sake at night.

Is the Koshtertarian Diet my life preserver needed to achieve publishing glory or just a cute, gimmick fad to create a niche in on LinkedIn? Time will tell, but for now I’m all in on God, no more in and out of God shit, call me Superstitiously Faithful, I don’t give a shit. All I know, is that my son, the other day, says in a semi-joking manner, “I don’t like life”, to make me laugh before camp. But wish you were here vibes are easy to sense. And I say, “What you mean Samuel is that you don’t like your life when Daddy isn’t in it as much since you started camp. And you’re pissing in your bed again, because camp is ending soon and you’re scared about missing on more hangout time with Daddy once Kindergarten starts, correct? Son tears up a tad and says, “You’re not such a moron son, after all Daddy. But once camp is over, I get to sell your books and comedy CDs with you like Flipper Bird Baby, Daddy, deal?”

So, why would I want to give God sloppy second consideration for the sake of crawfish pie, when he continues to bless me with such an endlessly growing love life like this? Especially knowing how anger is normally a realer emotion than love, but not in this instance. For example, how often do you hear your wife or girlfriend say I love you without it sounding manufactured hoarse as if she’s forcing the issue to avoid a divorce? On the other hand, when you say, “I hate what New York City has become, because no bail policies have turned the Big Apple into OZ without any Proud Boys to bail your ass out of trouble in sight. When my son says, “I hate hanging out with mommy.” What he’s really saying is that he prefers hanging out time with Daddy because he get’s bored too easily around Mama for extended periods of time. I always knew he was a quick learner. But what makes one parent more loveable than the other? Selective tenderness maybe, but I think it comes down to involving your kids in your life, which is easier to do when you’re Stay At Home Shemale Comedian for 5 years in row since my lucky 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born. Kids tend to love back with boatloads of tenderness because you make them feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Having your father’s shoulder’s collapse when you go in for a hug gives you the distinct opposite impression. Plus, funnier dad, happier baby. Victor Borge says, “Laughter is the shortest distance between 2 people.” So, if you can find a way to make your loved ones, especially your kids laugh more, you’ll grow closer to them for it. When your children laugh, especially from your own efforts, you grow closer to the divine, which for me is the cherry on top. And who doesn’t want a piece of that pie? And there’s nothing common or ordinary blah about that. Spiritually Superstitious, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Greatest Recession Nation

Broke man on campus interview.

Are you in college?

Yeah, how did you know?

The U Penn mask was a dead giveaway.

Plus, I’m conducting interviews outside the Wharton School of Business.

So, you’re a business major, I assume?

No, I major in gender fluid studies at Oberlin college and minor in films done to demonize whitey by Jordan Peele. I loved his last film Get Out Of My Dreams, Katy Perry. You’re not the added color I’m casting for.

So how does an Economics professor at the Wharton Business School define a Recession today?

Hunter giving up blow for blow painting because he can’t afford good blow anymore.

After President Poopy Pants told the Ukranian energy company to cut out giving Sir Snort a Lot 50 grand a week to push borscht as the new Kombucha.

Drug jokes aside, how would you explain a Recession to your nephew today?

Tocca Boca money won’t get you jack shit in Boca.

Fuck the Vanguard Index. The only thing the Vanguard Index mimics these days is Prince Harry’s depression. I shouldn’t make fun of mental health. Harry tried to kill himself. Harry hasn’t shaved in years.

So, fuck the Vanguard Index. In only DeSantis We Trust, Florida gotta to love it.

Invest in bitcoin, which is Tocca money to use in real life.

You can trade bitcoin for cash or gold teeth fillings from R. Kelly on the cheap.

Dark money rules everything around me, dollar, dollar bills, yah.

What, my nephew just had Wu Tang play his Bar Mitzvah party at Griffith Park in Silverlake?

Is Dave Chappelle still defending R. Kelly in his act these days?

Get off your R. Kelly’s dick already Breitbart.

He’s the black Elvis with weaker bladder control.

Or just the ask the Tooth Fairy for a Money Tree, assuming it’s not made in Wuhan, which is sprayed with Spike Proteins used designed to depress your immune system more than entry in the Dalla’s Buyers’ Club.

What, my nephew identifies with Harry Style’s pansexual leanings in the remake of Peter Pan called, Cock Blocking Puberty Blockers. So little boys never develop enough raging testosterone to fight off advances from Michael Jackson impersonators during Drag Queen Reading Hour once Fabiola calls in sick for the Monkey Pox. How would the King of Popping Cherries defend himself today? All the Beatles royalty points in the world, can’t buy me love?

So, buy a Money Tree, not made in Wuhan, which will definitely yield you more luck than the stock market these days. The 3-year return on the S&P is dropping faster than Meghan Mccain’s belly rolls while despanxing.

A recession is like breast reduction surgery.

It only causes more financial strain.

Because you have to buy your own drinks now.

Plus, your personal worth plummets because banking on your personality to net more angel seed money interest in your dog walking business was a losing bet that caused your next great depression.

Oh, yeah that’s it. You want to explain what a Recession is today on Seaseme Street?

Count Dracula can get count 13 reasons why were the Greatest Recession Nation.

Trump didn’t come up with the term Great Recession Nation we did. One.

Were the great recession nation because Jimmy Carter got his Mojo back which makes him feel smoother than sanding alphabet blocks for his grandchildren carved in Farsi.

Two.

Were the greatest recession nation because Al Gore is trying to be relevant again. Still, why don’t I sweat global warming? Because Al Gore’s speaking career since 2006 has cooled considerably. Three.

Were the greatest recession nation because it’s the great reset, you dumb, sheepish bitches. Klaus Schwab and his Nazi spawn overlords will ensure America becomes Placenta Smoothie Nation in no time, come hell or high water. Four.

Were the greatest recession nation because big tech doesn’t need multiple Talent Acquistion Managers to order in for Taco Tuesdays anymore. Five.

Were the greatest recession nation because deplorable oil riggers are forced to sell solar panels on commission only, which gives Death of A Salesman new life at the local playhouse in Odessa, Texas, once the Friday night lights experience another rolling blackout from relying on wind farms built on quicksand to power increased electricity demands. Opening the border for the next Santana garage band to emerge isn’t helping resolve their electric power demands either. Six.

Were the greatest recession nation because the Big Guy is getting his cut from the Ukraine while Zelensky poses for Glamour magazine with his wife in his finest olive-green shirt from the Gap in Boca Roton. Seven.

Were the greatest recession nation because Biden made shorting Banana Republic stock great again. You can’t even get a decent pair of docker shorts there anymore because of incessant supply chain issues, yada, yada, yada, Jap Breath. Eight.

Were a great recession nation because it takes 6 months to get a custom-made couch from Mexico delivered to your house to burn when you run out of oil money this winter, so the timing will be perfect really. Nine.

Were a great recession nation because Capitalism regains their leverage over your free time and doesn’t have to tolerate your pansy ass requests for remote work anymore. As if your children possess more magnetic potential than the land of free I-Phones if you manage to cross over our border without forgetting to say, “No, Papers, Senior. Democrats bueno, Republicans, Punta Holes. Joe Rogan meh.” 10.

Trumpy Poo didn’t coin Greatest Recession Nation. 11.

Trumpy Poo didn’t coin Greatest Recession Nation 12.

Trumpy Poo didn’t coin Greatest Recession Nation 13.

Only Republicans have bad creditability problems, comprende?

Greatest Recession Nation, Challah. Thanks for tanking the economy over an itchy esophagus to get Trumpy Poo out office because he would’ve schooled Greta Thunberg on Climate Change in Davos. Fracking actually reduces are carbon footprint Greta. Greta says, “So Neil Young is full of shit now.” Trump replies, “Neil Young doesn’t take showers to reduce his carbon footprint. So that much, you share in common babe.”

Above all else, I miss Trump’s relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship.

If he got Monkey Pox and HIV after the Deep State pricked him in his sleep to ensure he doesn’t run for reelection again. Trump would tweet on Truth Social the next morning, “Do I have HIV, yes? But my t-cell count numbers have never been stronger.”

Michael Kornbluth