Hounding Down Happiness

You ever watch a Truvada commercial on Hulu. And say out loud, “Holy fuck, I’m older than Aids kids. When I grew up, Aids was a death sentence like Kurt Cobain’s shotgun marriage to Courntney Love. And Kurt Cobain didn’t kill Hair Metal, Aids did. Before Magic made HIV disappear.”

New plan to make money from home. Perform thick, meaty jokes on Only Fans topless, while sporting fancy pink Hermes ties like a gender fluid Rodney Dangerfield. Instead of I get no respect being my catchphrase as a stay-at-home shemale comedian. My modernized catchphrase is, “I get no ball tickle Emoji love.” What, it beats waiving my dick around on Only Fans like I’ve got so much free time on my hands 3 unplanned kids later because I never mastered the art of the pump fake. The Trans community could support my new Reisling drinking bills alone for my Shabbat Shalom Friday night specials. What’s gayer? Buying a Kirby Pucket jersey when you’re 12 because Minnesota was Jason Priestely’s fictious hometown before moving to Beverly Hills with Heather to Beverly Hills, in Beverly Hills 90210. Or developing a surging stiffy at the thought of pleasuring myself in front of the mirror after each set? Because my rapidly devolving core exercises on the Pelton app have gotten me horn dog horny after basking in my reflection from my half naked Only Fans performance. After delivering more mouthful streams of hardcore hilarity for my rapidly expanding Only Fans base, long time, all the time, Challah. Thank you very much.

I love the idea of hounding happiness from home. I can afford to buy myself a new Polo hoodie from my new fan base on Only Fans. Because you know the Pedo label doesn’t stick, when you can’t wear your favorite Polo hoodie after your daughter wears it in an unintentionally provocative way. Daughter exposes her shoulder, wearing only a skimpy tube top underneath, with short shorts on no less at 11 years old. Understand, my daughter has legs that go for miles and miles already at 11. Plus, her hips already hit the ceiling. In other words, my fancy Fagala, deep blue Polo hoodie is officially ruined now. If Pricsila Pressly was wearing my long sleeves button down polo like she does in the Naked Gun, it would be different. Come to think, Elvis romanced Priscilla a day after her Baptism. I think the King’s pickup line was, “Mama tried, but Hound Dogs hound baby. My lip only furls for pubescent, dent free trim baby. And making me regular peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, aren’t going to cut it bitch. Are you ready for my banana in your tail pipe because I love you too much baby, to deny you so much houndog love on tap. Hounding down happiness, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Hatching Happenings

Fire sets urgency apart.

From non-essential, pussy footing, gun shy lonely hearts.

Urgency earns.

Ask perpetually bitchy Christopher in the Sopranos after he gets his button and becomes his turn.

Fires fade when urgency doesn’t get laid.

Fire and urgency go hand in hand.

Like our band of brothers on D-Day.

Who refused to bury their heads in the sand.

Urgency gets you up at 5am.

Fired up to get a head start on your competition.

Fuck Zen.

Urgency is value creation.

Or else you’re begging for more disinvitations.

Anything less than urgent, is below blah.

Think, the opposite of Poison, on their album, Open Up and Say Ah.

Urgency creates action.

There’s plenty of time for relaxin.

What’s urgent is hot new.

What’s not is leftover stew.

Lack of urgency is an emergency.

Winner killers like MJ show no mercy.

Urgency is taking matters into your own hands.

The opposite is waiting to die way up high in the stands.

Urgency is rage against dying of the light.

It’s only the remedy against lifelong stage freight.

Urgency provides us with real time highs.

Say goodbye to time release Adderall and bags under your eyes.

Urgency gets emails read.

When others have checked out prematurely and gone to bed.

Urgency alerts us to changes needed.

When everything in your life feels empty and depleted.

Urgency motivates you to change your ways.

So, you don’t end up, so mentally crippled and hazed.

Urgency makes reality very clear.

Drinking is only fun when you’re skinny in front of a mirror.

Urgency throws caution into the sea.

Who else would you rather be besides a sex beam blaster she he?

By she, he, I mean hot and bright.

Who knows only to chill after giving their best fight.

What’s attractive about settling anyway?

When you know you’re medium happy on a good day.

Urgency is passing concealed & carry laws in Texas.

Because our Founding Fathers knew anarchy would reign by disabling the defenseless.

Texas Rep. Kevin Brady says, “Urgency creates action.”

Which is fine and dandy.

If you’re a funny man actor from Canada who refuses his booster shot in the name of John Candy.

Urgency is God listening to chirpy birds hatching happenings.

Michael Kornbluth

Happy Birthday Israel

Yesterday, I got a cake for the last night of Hanukkah. On it I had them write Happy Birthday Israel.

God appreciates the gesture, especially on Jesus Christ’s birthday. It’s not fair that God gets lop-sided love on Jesus’s birthday. Doesn’t the Old Testament guilt us to death into honoring thy father and mother? And all money shot good stems from God’s do it all tree trunk. Happy Birthday Israel, Challah. Thank you very much.

I don’t want God to feel like the sloppy second son on Jesus’s birthday. Nobody takes a week off from work for God’s birthday. And on Hannukah, practicing Jews left, honor Jewish pride in honor of God being on their side. I tell my kids, “The last night of Hanukkah celebrates faith in Hashem the Most-High for inspiring his band of Maccabees to fight for every inch of their great Temple defiled by those Greco Roman Polytheistic whores. King David’s line of cosmic perfectionists have more of a booty call relationship with God, who only call him up for some hook up love whenever they’re in the mood to pray. Assuming they have some bitcoin to short before the next crypto kid gives Bernie Madoff a good run for his money.” Happy Birthday Israel, Challah. Thank you very much.

God. the original old G prevails in my heart and in our Jewish loving home, which makes every day Hannukah Day. Happy Birthday Israel, Challah. Thank you much.

Gloomy in the corner is cheapness on Christmas. “Thanks for the socks, Bell. Now, I can postpone laundry for another week. And you wonder why my son wants to punch Santa hard in the stomach.”

Son confronts Santa at the mall.

“Where are my ice skates Santa? You don’t have my size in the North Pole? But I’m not any bigger than your average Elf. Plus, Biden would never pull this shit with Zelensky. Zelensky gets a blank check from Uncle Sam for Christmas. And all I get is half baked truths about you running out of my size due to supply chain issues. Now, I know why Hanukkah Harry calls Santa the real cheapskate. But thanks for the Fisher Price toy chest with no toys in it. I’ll fill it up with my eight thousand Hannukah gifts.”

Happy Birthday Israel, Challah. Thank you very much.

I don’t like kids in Steph Curry jersey’s, unless they’re mom won Miss Washington Heights.

Or was hot enough 5 years ago to charge the price of Hamilton Tickets for some high-end Chlamydia.

I only want kids from the Bay area sporting Steph Curry Jersey’s, because chances are; they’re not bandwagon fans.

And those mini ballers on the rise, know what’s it’s like to high step over shit throughout the streets for San Francisco.

When will Penn State Alumni realize how sporting their school colors in public is in poor taste?

There’s nothing vague about taking showers with disadvantaged black kids in the shower on Penn State grounds.

Paterno and crew failed to call cock block interference with the school’s integrity on the line.

So, to still wear your Penn State hoodie in public means you’re siding with the rape enablement, open borders party. It’s like whipping around a ladle on Halloween used from a spirt cooking class taught at 92 street Y, signed by Hillary Hammer Time Cankles.

Is wearing a Penn State Windbreaker to Cracker Barrel after Church on a lazy Sunday afternoon equivalent to blitzing Fat Albert from behind? After he’s already weak in the knees from wind sprints for Kit, Kat’s, no.

I hate to be excessively judgmental on Jesus’s birthday. But I’d chuck the Penn State hoodie already. Would you wear a priest collar in public if you didn’t have to?

Fuck the MAGA hat, the Penn State hat is the real symbol of white supremacy. Those poor black kids who got felt up in the shower by Sandusky didn’t get paid like the Neverland kids. The judge awarded 52 million to those victim’s families. And that was after the parents got paid hush money with green cards, houses and diamond encrusted bracelets. Those Neverland white kids got a splashy doc on HBO with big billboards on Times Square throughout Fake News Black History Month. What did Sandusky’s victims get? Stiff arm talk from Al Pacino while playing Joe Paterno on HBO?

“Those kids never had so it good. At least those kids had a strong male role model around who took an interest them for change.”

Then, during one take Pacino slips into his coach character from Any Given Sunday after having one too many spritzers in trailer between takes.

Pacino screams.

“You want to climb out of hell, then fight off that inchworm kid. But Joe Pa don’t preach.”

Happy Birthday Israel, Challah!

Thanks for a glorious Hanukkah year Lord, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Joyous Jiz Jangle

At the supermarket I eye a basket of scrumptious looking tomatoes. So, does the grey-haired Grandma next to me. I say, “They’re feel up worthy. Sophia Loren lives. Wife thinks I’ve got a sexualization problem. I’m a G Rated version of Andrew Dice Clay. Grey haired Grandma continues to laugh long time. Joyous Jiz jangle, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Mitzvah Moves

It’s your fault if you don’t make Hanukkah more festive than Christmas. I get it. Most likely Jesus himself who celebrated Hanukkah with his apostles, even invented Christmas to make the holiday season feel more festive. When the strongest drink offered was Manischewitz before eggnog was invented. Spinning Beastie Boys records while blaring Intergalactic planetary to honor the Aliens in helping his fellow Hebrews build the Great Pyramids wasn’t a thing yet. Can’t all the Jews, Muslims and Christians unite on the 1st night of Hanukkah on the premise behind Home Depot never being erected in the Israelites’ honor? Growing up, I’d push my dad to honor my mom’s Christian side after she converted. I say, “Dad, mom dumped Jesus to marry into your putzy DNA. The least you can do is let mom throw up a tree. Dad says, “The only time a Jew from the Bronx would get a Christmas Tree is if he planned to convert it into a tricked-out Treehouse and flip it for a profit.”

Finally, one year, my year my dad budges and allows my mom this pathetic, sorry excuse for a bonsai tree relegated to the side patio covered in cobwebs that got less touches than a St. James Bible at a bath house colony in Pronvincetown. But seriously, can’t you see Jesus recognizing the festive limitations of Hannukah after receiving one carved dreidel too many? Jesus says, “Thanks for the Dreidel, Judas. I’m glad that my carpentry session on dreidel building 101 at The 92 Street Y paid off so handsomely. But why don’t we make Channukah a more drawn-out celebration that’s ten times festive by celebrating my birthday for the entire month of December after Hannukah.”

Matthew says, “Yeah, but Jesus wouldn’t Hannukah then be considered a forgettable warm up act, that gives you blue balls just thinking about it.  You were born by immaculate conception, right? Yet by the time your 4 brothers James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon were born, the magic was gone baby gone.”

Jesus replies, “Yeah, but I had a vision in the desert last night about a future comedian named Billy Crystal bemoaning in his autobiography, Baby Boomer Arrogance Never Dies, about how Jews bend over backwards to adopt Christmas traditions, so they don’t feel so old world clingy Jewy.  Nobody cares anymore about the rocking band of Maccabees reclaiming the Great Temple of Solomon because they’re not the polytheistic whores like the rest. Taylor Swift is the number recording artists in the future, and she grew up on a Christmas Tree farm for Christ’s sake.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Matthew asks, “What’s a Christmas Tree Jesus? “Jesus says, “A camouflaged cross, but it’s going to be tricked out in lights that run on electricity, which will outshine any burn a mile of minute candles on a Menorah.  Any Jewish record executive would jam a pinecone up their ass if they promised Taylor Swift more inclusiveness gayness spirit to be produced on her next Christmas album.

Now, I used to get very tense about the mention of Jesus, but not anymore, since my invention of a new tradition, Jesus Fridays, which allows me to break my Koshertarian diet of the past 2 years and counting. Understand, I’ve been following the Koshertarian Diet for 2 years now. Finally, I’ve allowed myself the inclusion of shellfish for a special occasion because who cares about eating soulless shellfish? Plus, Jesus, the original super Jew rocked the Pescatarian diet. So, if it’s good enough for Jesus, then it’s good enough for me. I also like the idea of acting less like an all-knowing exalted prick. And celebrating Jesus Fridays inspires me to connect with my fellow Gentile like a retired fireman who runs the best deli in Westchester in North White Plains. Outside my new office, after just resurrecting my IT Headhunter Writer career. Where I’m getting paid to creatively sell job opportunities for Software Engineers, digital designers, and Information Technology workers in general, whose job prospects have more legs than Lieutenant Dan. I like Jesus Fridays because it divorces me from perpetuating any messianic complex of my own, which screams, the original version of the Bible is better than second part that I’ve barely dabbled in for the most part. And I’m tired of being that old timer Gen X guy that just bemoans new age Simpsons episodes as woke filler compared to season 1 through 7 without even dabbling in the newer versions to make any ultra judgy informed decisions of my own. Like when I saw Juno, ages ago and got angry about how everyone was hailing the hardcore hilarity of it, when I saw Juno as nothing more than a poor girls’ Jeanne Garafalo. I wrote a blog about the movie being overhyped, yet I told myself afterwards, don’t be a critic, hack breath like the rest. It’s way better to originate, then merely pontificate. So, I wrote mini porn parody that I turned into my 1st screenplay, Juno Does Williamsburg, later named Brooklyn Blogger. Edgeless titles suck pinecone dick, Challah. Thank you very much.

At the same time, I’ve worn Jewish pride on my sleave for the past 5 years and change as host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, responsible for banging out comedy records such as Big Mouth Moses, Koshertarian Offensive, and the Pig-Headed Jew, Challah. Thank you very much. I’ve also written and published The Great American Jew Novel, which Diane Sullivan from the Midwest Book Review described as a “Hilarious exploration of New York Comedy and Culture.” Which proves that my material wasn’t too overtly Jewy pushy annoying for the Heartland’s tastes. And for the past 2 months, I’ve renamed my Do It All Dad Year Podcast, the Shabat Shalom Ramble, in honor of my dad accusing me of never being on point, despite him proclaiming 5 years ago before I launched my podcast, how nobody cares about my political opinions anyway, 45 thousand page views on my Do It All Dad Year blog later.

 Well, I haven’t read the news since Dominion Machines won. And I don’t see Kari Lake recruiting Linda Hamilton as her VP to take down the new Sky Net For good. Plus, how much more can we stomach talk of Alex Jones being bad Santa versus John Fetterman being a burnt out offering of the Democratic party who looks like the Good Will Grinch who showers in Bong Water. So, more than ever 3 million Jews in the US, according to Alexa, which is most likely an inflated claim, like Antifa still being nothing more than an idea in Patton Oswalt graphic novels, about a gang of wannabe Punisher vigilantes, in hoodies, could use some miraculous ways to modernize Hannukah and make it more festive than Christmas than Google ever would. Because I want other Jewish American Dads to derive extended Nachas from pronounced Jewish pride from their offspring when they proclaim to Daddy how they get butterflies in their stomach every day before each night of Hanukah begins, which was the opposite of my experience growing up. Getting a Pinball Machine one tear one year for Hannukah was unbelievable, despite being woken up every night prior to Hannukah because dad couldn’t resist the urge to play with it himself and break it in personally. Which made my younger brother and I believe that Aliens from Space Invaders were raining Gama Rays on top of our house eight nights prior to Hannukah because my dad was making his best Hannukah gift all about his own self-enrichment over ours. Still, my dad was raised an only child, so you can’t blame him for occupying his inner loneliness in his forties the week before Hanukah, because playing Dreidel by himself, gets played out faster than trying jerk off with your left in honor of shortest-lived New Year’s resolution yet. Which only leads to more played out blue ball’s devastation. So, here’s 8 ways to start making Hannukah more festive than Christmas. There are 14 million Jews worldwide. So, if this post goes viral, my Hannukah wish of 8 million butterflies can come true. And you can’t knock the miracle of mitzvah moves, Challah. Thank you very much.

  1. Understand, I haven’t collected paychecks in 8 whole years till this past December after resuming my IT Headhunter Career, where I can drop lines like, “Michael Kornbluth here, Recruiting Manager for Digital Unicorns USA. With a last name like Kornbluth, I specialize in mind control, in Kayne’s mind. So, when my wife tells me, “Don’t get carried away with getting the kids gifts this year for Hannukah.” I fire back with, “New tradition kids, when you get 3 Big Kahuna gifts on the 1st night of Hannukah. You each declare loud and proud, “Hannukah Hatrick, Challah” I add, “So, in this instance, go woke yourself babe, Gentile Grinch.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  2. 2nd way to make Hanukkah more festive is to start the tradition of Hannukah Halloween. And force your son to dress up like Van Halen with a pack of candy cigarettes in hand. Who cares if your mini air guitar appendage looks like an overdose at the limelight waiting to happen. Party Monster spirits live, Challah. Thank you very much.
  3. 3rd way to make Channukah more festive is to play Dreidel for Bitcoin versus more fake news Gelt. But explain the rules in humorous ways. For example, when the dreidel lands on Hey, you sing, “Hey, hey Paula, I want to marry you. Now give me half and full custody of the kids. I don’t want you coughing your natural immunity all our kids anymore, you anti-vaxer piece of shit.” Challah, thank you very much. Shin, means put it in, think Cardi B on a slow Tuesday. Nun, means nothing, goonish. Remember our routine at the Deli Matilda, when you could only put 2 words together? What did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks Daddy? And you’d say,” Bookpus, Boopku. And Gimmel means, give me everything because we control all the blockchain technology, Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole too. Son says, “Samuel, don’t even think of stealing my bitcoin, or I’ll sell your pure blood on the Dark Web along with your vintage Cobra Commander with the blue mask and eyes holes in it that looks like Gung Ho’s bottom bitch in Robot Chicken remake of Pulp Fiction.” 8 million butterflies Challah, thank you very much.
  4. 4th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to play the Adam Sandler Channukah song on Vinyl backwards only to hear the latest and greatest chorus addition, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. 5th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to Jewish guilt Software Engineers at Amazon into seriously questioning the state of their moral compass by sending them LinkedIn Inn-Mail messages through LinkedIn Recruiter that read, “Tell Bezos to make the Hebrew Hammer available on Amazon prime already despite Florida and antisemitism being so hot right now.” 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  6. 6th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to sign your kids up for art classes that teach your kids how make masked morons made out of clay for fuck the CDC day. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  7. 7th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas, permit your kids the freedom to pile drive mommy’s white Guido, non-denominational tree while dressed as Mr. Wonderful for Channukah Halloween instead. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  8. 8th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to launch your Burning Mask Party already, for eight glorious nights while throwing some of mama’s Gnomes on top because they look like Santa’s burn out Trust Fund Babies on Social Security. What’s another burnout offering after making Goodwill Grinch Fetterman the new face of the Democratic Party. So, what difference does it make? 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Spoiled Dumb Son

Do I believe in Climate Change?

I believe in never warming up to my asshole father.

Especially, after my son asks.

How much do you like Papa?

I say.

He openly questions how were related.

How much would you like him then?

Son says.

Does that mean you want to be an asshole too?

You’re not making any sense again, Moron Jewish Son.

Maybe he questions why your brain is so dumb compared to John Fetterman.

At least John Fetterman had a stroke.

What’s your excuse?

You’re spoiled dumb or just a medium suck son?

Who prepares more mock meat sandwiches that your dad would never eat like your Impossible To Top Cheesesteak.

What’s Impossible Burger meat made from again moron Jewish son?

Pea protein and synthetic enuchry?

Just busting your balls, I mean Nutsy Russells Daddy.

I’m just trying to make you tough because your father never did.

I loved the Sloppy Second Joes you made yesterday with Impossible Burger meat.

That’s named after Hair Plugs Sniffer, who resides in the fake news White House set, right Daddy?

Now write some more jokes for your last comedy record special from home, Spoiled Stupid Son.

At this point, you couldn’t write rotten dumb jokes if you tried.

Spoiled Dumb Son gets spoiled with more blood-on-blood love.

Bon Jovi, New Jersey lives, the beautifully good one, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”

            Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”            The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

            At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.”             Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”  

            Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.

            Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.

            Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.  

            Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.

            So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).

            Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.

            Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.  

            Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.

            “Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”

            ” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever. 

            “Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”

            Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.

            Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.

            Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.

            Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.

            “It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”

            Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

            Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”

            Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.

            American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.

            “Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?

            Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”

            Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).”      Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  

            Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”

            Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.

            “Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

            Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.”          Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”

Michael Kornbluth