Resurrecting Resentment

Mom and dad spent their time on Yom Kippur debating whether I’d help you move into your new apartment later this week bro? Did they also place bets on whether I’d break my fast at a hard 2? Why wouldn’t mom and dad give me the benefit of doubt on Yom Kippur? Granted, I crossed my fingers when I promised to get the clot shot after mom insisted. Thinking, so that’s why I have mild panic attacks like Tony Soprano on too many edibles and Adderall. My own mother wants me to take out myself because it’s a little late to put a contract hit out to Planned Parenthood. This way, there’s no way of tying my mother to 2nd degree murder, unless my wife cited coercion in my defense by adding, “Or else they wouldn’t have used their points on Southwest to pay for his trip this winter, so he could avoid my dad playing Mel Gibson’s agent while hot pitching Father Stu on Netflix on Jesus’s birthday your honor.” Resurrecting Resentment, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Show Me The Funny

Daughter asks, “Daddy, what’s anti-semitism? I say, “Hostility toward Jews regardless of it being earned or not. For example, Jews are gifted but belong in their country to annoy themselves to death.”

I need a new email address, so employers take me more seriously. Doitalldadyear@outlook.com is beginning to sound too pornographic punctuated for my tastes. What, unholyfather@nothingtoseehereatmoveon.org was already taken. Damn you Cock blocking priests for hoarding up all the dark web accentuated email addresses for yourselves.

Which reminds me, not that it’s a fair comparison. But I can’t get into my new Rabbi as much anymore knowing how he just quotes the same news stories that my wife hears about on NPR 1st. He uses an analogy during Yom Kippur services about some Nasa laser used to knock off the trajectory of a simulated Asteroid by stating how making a small change in our life can cause a big impact later. Only for my wife to say, “I think he follows the same stories that I do on Instagram.” And I say, “Great, so the Rabbi is an Instagram horror and a slave to NPR summation stories like the rest. No wonder why he was giving me hate states during services after listening to any of my comedy records after Rosh Hashanah services prior like, Stab the Clown, American Screwed or The Day Democracy Died, take your freaking pick. Understand, this Rabbi runs a Chabad house, which is a Hasidic strain of Judaism, which is considered more hardcore secular religious than most. So, you’d think he might throw a bone to the Gateway Pundit for citing stories about the pandemic of the vaccinated and how the lion’s share of new COVID cases in Israel, the most vaxed country on the planet, are from the mandated vaxed despite the FDA being less trustworthy these days than Hamas terrorists hiding behind hospitals in the name of imperialistic imposed cowardice. Governments worldwide sanctioning worldwide death and permanent crippling through forcing God’s children to take clot shots till their last dying breath in order to maintain employment is no big deal. But please, suck off the altar of science some more Rabbi that’s done less to stop the spread of life saving information regarding the accelerated death shot than give Sam Harris a dose of personality to make his voice clock in a notch past catatonic, Ben Shapiro included thanks.

God forbid the Rabbi talk about our country bankrolling Azov Nazi’s who have a gun to Zelensky’s head when he’s not posing in Vouge in his finest ensemble of army fatigues from Gap Kids. Now, I know why they call them army fatigues for a reason.

Why not condemn the evil proliferation that’s stemming from the fake news White House and beyond, that’s deliberately tanking our economy to make we the people pay for electing Trumpy Poo twice before he let Democracy die under his past tweet depletive watch?

Instead, I have to hear a story about NASA using a space gun to alter the path of a random Asteroid that poses no threat of taking out life on our planet anymore than the pushing of replacing fossil fuels with mandated Telsa charging stations does. I understand how little impacts can cause changes of trajectory in your life, but not always Rabbi. It’s been 6 months since I gave up drinking beer and my ascent toward achieving orbit while dunking a basketball is barely a hair above earthbound. At this point, I stand a better shot of dunking a basketball in a gravity chamber at Nasa’s higher hopper’s institute for White Man’s Disease on Planet of Putzy Apes.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no atheist overnight. But it was hard to not get super depressed when the Rabbi retold another story about a Canadian family who have 4 kids, while 3 of them will see nothing but dark in their near future while becoming officially blind in the process. But the sweet takeaway from this tale, is the parent’s taking the kids on a never-ending world tour of the planet to fill their kids with rich filled images of Giraffes sticking their necks out for each other by stomping on any encroaching Tribesman scientists in the need for Giraffe DNA used to create a mutant superfreak to break the WNBA star out of a Russian prison for the crime of being strapped with too many weed oil pens and loaded cartridges. Who needs the Jungle Book, when you can just charge the trip on Michal J. Fox’s credit card, I’m assuming. Look, my heart aches at the mere retelling of this story. But it was hard for me to fight the urge of Googling on Duck Duck Go, Blindness side effects from the clot shot soon after. Can you even leave Canada without being quadruple vaxed? Would Trudeau even allow a Trucker family to receive such prominent placement in the NPR news feed while receiving such a plethora of goodness enshrouded well-wishes from the international community at large? Unless, Trudeau is footing the bill, I don’t want to hear this story on Yom Kippur, because it’s still beyond depressing for me to hear any positive spin in relation to oh Canada, after the country froze bank accounts, slashed tires, rented out motels, seized fuel and removed whole freaking oil tankers in a coordinated effort to freeze the protestors in their tracks, so they wouldn’t dare honk their horns in the name of being free of vaccinate mandates that have a proven track record of killing, crippling and paralyzing it’s defenseless victims at large. Put persecute the cranked up Muslim Truckers in Canada who are prohibited from even dropping No- Doze to feed their families for Christ’s sake.

Show me the funny. Fine, my parents hate me so much, they questioned my inherent goodness on the most holy day of the Jewish Calander by only focusing on whether or not I’d follow through with my promise of helping my younger brother finish moving into his new apartment this Friday to start his new lease on life after just getting divorced this past year prior. After only sharing a video of me blowing the Shofar on a mountain top at the start of Rosh Hashanah after writing The Koshertarian Comedians, whose instilled more Jewish pride in their three grandchildren than any NPR damning insurrectionist ever would, virtual grandparents included, who couldn’t even be bothered to wish their grandchildren a sweet new year individually because Putin is responsible for tanking the stock market lower than Groping Biden’s balls.

Michael Kornbluth

Danish Dicks

Did you know that Scandinavia has the lowest percentage of Aids infections on the planet? So that’s why they’re gay about open borders. They don’t have to hide their Truvada stash in Swiss bank accounts with daddy’s Nazi gold teeth fillings. Viking Raiders did so much fucking and pillaging, they developed an immunity to all forms of STDS since the Ice Age. Smallpox, Polio, and the Plague is what they put in a Long Island Iced Tea to round out the flavor. This year, I’m going to dye my hair blond and crash Halloween parties dressed as a Danish backpacker.

“What do you do?”

“I operate a bug on a stick truck in Denmark. But today I’m a Danish pack packer, so are you ready to mount my dick yet or what?”

Rachel Weinstein from yenta breath country in Long Island, dressed as the Long Island Lolita says, “Why are Scandinavians so happy?”

Danish pack backer says, “Our dicks are proportional to our height, and we can’t fall off bikes. Plus, the top 1 percent of Danes can’t get Aids. So, do you want a piece of my superior ancestry DNA or what? You won’t even have to use free healthcare because I’m STD free.”

Danish dicks live, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

America’s Team Cracking

Why does Obama get one more presidential portrait than every other cracker ass President?

Does he get all the calls like MJ now?

But if Obama is such a baller, then why did he ride the bench at an
all-Asian private school in Hawaii?

Or did Mr. Groper give his 1st portrait a presidential pardon after Michelle
bitched to Dr. Jill 1st?

I’ll string you up by your fishnet stockings, you small town, townie ho.

Barack gets one more presidential portrait than hair plugs sniffer, got it
chicken feet?

I’ll spear your rack into the White House Garden like the black Goldberg if
poopy pants calls Barack his boy again, got it?

Barack gets one more of everything, including these nuts, you dig?

Prince Harry is lucky to get one when we play Twister Tea Bag Party during July 4th weekend in Martha’s Vineyard.

But I’m sure the Queen of England lauded your style past Scarecrow
Appreciation Month, Jill.

Jill Biden says, “Fuck off What’s Talent Got To Do With It. Order a
bigger propane tank to power your next Tea Bagging Party barbeque bash. It’s a bad enough look when Joe gives Zelensky more duffle bags of billions to take naps on in St. Barts, without sporting for a new shirt. Now, I know why they call them army fatigues. But I thought you loved the gender fluid artist who painted your pegging pal’s last pic, when he wasn’t inspiring W to paint a pic of Portia De Rossi’s white privileged laden clit being hacked to Shawarma shreds during Ramadan before George Floyd Appreciation Century became a thing. What does your gal Ellen even do with W after being caught palling around with the feel-good Messiah at Cowboys home games? Does W text you, “Shoulder Pads, Ellen is here, come on over for a game of Operation, Gender Reassignment Edition.” Clearly, Ellen is
pro Bush all the way. But seriously Michelle, what was the problem with the 1st presidential portrait of Barack? Was the portrait of Obama Be Meh, sitting down for a number one outside the Ivy restaurant on Robertston Blvd across the street from New Line Cinema in LA not manly enough for your tastes BABY? Plus, wipe that bitch face scowl off your face already Michelle. You’re rich bitch. And your daughter at Harvard is only a pot head slut who gets high with dad to humor his idea of being a fake news deep bi-racial Bob Marley for Halloween. When I told Hunter to make a wish and blow on his birthday, he snorted the cake. At the same time, Barack is looking ghastly skinny these days Michelle. At least, Hunter gave up blow for blow painting. The only thing it looks like Barack has given up is AZT drugs during a crack cocaine bender with Jussie Smollet after Empire replaced him with Stephen Baldwin in Blackface. He can’t stand a worst shot at causing a race riot than big brother Alex attempting to teach financial literacy to the head of BLM because Turbo Tax is some culturally biased software shit. Obama rules, my balls. It’s Mr. Groper’s world
now, you better recognize Too Tall Jones.”

America’s Team cracking, 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

















Too Much Love

What’s the difference between Monkey Pox and Aids?

Meat from Bull Durham has no reason to get his garter belt in a bunch regardless.

Visited Ayn Rand’s grave with my 3 kids this weekend.

We’re passing by the cemetery in Valhalla, and I say, “Hey kids, want to see if my book the Great American Jew Novel is still on Ayn Rand’s tombstone? I reference her book Atlas Shrugged in Chapter 2, The Jewy Manhattan Book Club. In the book Atlas Shrugged Ayn argues for man to use his power of reason to pursue his own happiness while refusing to sacrifice his shot at fulfillment in the service of others.”

Daughter says, “121 comedy records later, done for mere ego enlargement purposes, I think you’ve accomplished that feat already Daddy.”

The Great American Jew Novel wasn’t on her tombstone anymore, which pissed me off, more than seeing a copy of her book Fountainhead at a bookstore in Ridgefield CT with microscopic font and a gaudy, murky book cover reminiscent of Dawn Steele novels.

I know the Jewish tradition is to place rocks on the tombstone. But Ayn Rand was a godless cunt like Carl Sagen’s mom. So, what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Ego Mania Gone Wild, Challah. Thank you very much.

But seriously, why shouldn’t I pay tribute to Ayn Rand by placing my self-published, well reviewed, Great American Jew Novel on her tombstone? We both detested fake news Jewish intellectuals. Plus, the Midwest Book review loved my book, calling it a “hilarious exploration of New York comedy and culture”, which proves I wasn’t too overtly Jewy annoying for the heartland’s tastes. Last, the premise behind all of Ayn Rand’s novels is how all pride and forms of self-satisfaction is derived from your own accomplishments, that’s a well spring of your own thinking, not done by fake news hippies like your own father. Sorry, but you when you live in Arizona for 10 years and never visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippie. Ego mania gone wild, Challah. Thank you very much.

The most depressing part of visiting Ayn Rand’s tombstone is how her tombstone had 16 rocks on it compared to her pseudo closeted husband I think, who only had 2. Well, if Ayn Rand wasn’t such a needy stink hag, who didn’t take Frank O’Connor for granted. He would’ve had the opportunity to plant more seeds of distress in other men’s colon before he drank himself to death out of shame of being closeted homosexual, I think.

And who are these Ayn Rand cult following cunts who think it’s a good look putting rocks on Ayn Rand’s grave but not his? Granted, Frank O’ Conner wasn’t Jewish, but Ayn Rand also had less use for Kosher dietary restrictions or Matzah Ball soup breaks while cranked up on enough Benzedrine to blow through the Talmud in one weekend if she dared take a day off from working on finishing Atlas Shrugged in exchange for absorbing devalued Rabbi opinions lumped together in one book that made less money for Rabbis than a drunken Moyle with Parkinsons according to Ayn.

Ayn Rand always referred to Frank O-Conner, her lifetime partner in love, despite numerous love affairs as her “rock”, her “prize”, yet her former friends, associates and fans couldn’t even dole out a rock for poor old Frank, the stay-at-home bitch hub of his day, regardless of his work out studio at the Art Student League used more for drinking his blues away towards his rapidly depleting light. At one point, does the Ayn Rand fan think, “Fuck Frank, Ayn was the bread winner, not him. Frank only existed because of Ayn. I wasn’t fucking married to twinkle toes, Ayn was. Like Ayn said, “Evil is dependence on men”, or on me for that matter. Ball and Chain would’ve preferred flowers instead.”

Understand, this tombstone is very modest for Ayn unlike her gargantuan ego who went on record with William F. Buckly, “You’re too smart to believe in God William.” William F. Buckly replies, “Epstein’s shitty ass Potato Pancakes, are a reason lone to start a new Holocaust in your honor.”

At Ayn Rand’s grave I say, “So Ayn, if you weren’t such a self-serving cunt, you’d be open to the idea of experiencing the divine from birthing Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth over here. Did you ever inspire the nickname 10 Homer Daily, Effortless Magic or Billionaire Brain? I didn’t think so. If my next book, Maternal Waves, doesn’t outsell Atlas Shrugged than whatever book my daughter writes in the future will. Just wanted to thank you for inspiring us to do so babe. We can jam idealized characters into our novels with big ideas defending the right to call your mother-in-law an unhuggable cunt or your wife ahead of the curve annoying to Ayn. And what’s my premise again Ayn? Post Feminism blows. Because it birthed birthday only blow jobs. What did you wish for on your birthday hot stuff? A squeaky-clean conscious for only requesting happy enders, who weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday. Look at it this way, you got off easy on my birthday again babe. Biggest prick in the east flexes on. Ego Mania gone wild, Challah. Thank you very much. 

Soon after, we hop in the car and realize that were stuck in the cemetery because every time we follow the exit signs, we head toward a chain link fence preventing us from doing so. So finally, 20 minutes later, I ignore social convention like Ayn would, drive around one of those chain link fences while narrowly avoiding a couple of tombstones in the process not belonging to Ayn Rand and her husband partner Frank O’Conner, which required a little of bit of steep drive downward on grass in a Toyota SUV, which I managed to avoid tearing. I also avoided waking the dead in my sleep as we finally broke free from the trapping cemetery in Valhalla. My eldest daughter says, “Daddy, that’s the coolest thing you’ve ever done. Do you believe in Miracles Ayn Rand? Because I do now. Daddy saw an opening and took it without fumbling or bumping over tombstones in the process. The Putzy Cup of truth never lies. And Daddy can raise a glass of AC cooling wine later tonight for passing with honors. Year without beer lives. Too much love, Challah. Thank you very much. Now, write an all time-best seller Daddy, or write a new draft for Horsing Around Hinduism and write a pilot episode such as Never Have I Ever Believed in Reincarnation till you encounter a broken-down talking racehorse who whips your stand-up comedy road show into shape but only after you record your final comedy record for free this Wednesday for Last Licks, Daddy. Deal? Time to beat your personal best Daddy. Racehorses live to compete. Lapping losers has already begun. Now, let them choke on your stardust with greater rollicking intensity than ever before. Unleash ego mania gone wild. Thank you, Ayn Rand, for the nudge in my daddy’s honor, very, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth