Tag: philosophy

Last Shabbat Shalom Ramble Not

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, writing

I text my wife a pic of stuffed animals leaning on each other, looking depressed since they became separated from our three snuggle-shine children. The wife texts back, “They look sad.” I reply, “I agree, #StuffedSpiritAnimalsfeelingemptyinside.”

Shabbat Shalom Shalom Ramble, live from Hotel Dylan, Woodstock, NY, just got a far less fucking sleepy stale, Half Heeb, Heeb Hick blood lives, mom hails from Kentucky, Dad from the Bronx, it beats being outside of Minnesota, no offense, Bob Dylan, but your neither a southerner, Brian Wilson or a whiny, Long Island windbag like Lou Reed, so it looks like you hit the mother load being born out of Minnesota after all. Star Of The North lives, that being the state motto for Minnesota, but Bob Dylan represents that phrasing quite well. Blood on the Tracks never felt so good. Bob Dylan wows on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Only in Woodstock, NY, would I see a book on a window display about Lou Reed learning Ti-Chee.

It didn’t make him less defensive after Lester Bangs called his trans girlfriend a dog and Warhol show.

Perfect day, with pits like that, my balls.

Shabbat Shalom Ramble, coming to you live from the Dylan Hotel, Woodstock, NY, in the motherfucking house, Challah. Shabbat Shalom Ramble, 12, what, only Led Zepplin can name their recorded masterpieces? More Sheets Of Comedy Gold Ramble On, Golden God lives, Shabbat Shalom Ramble, Challah. Thank you very much.

A new reason to stay sober for a whole year is what?
Dream big again and finish with a winning season with a screenplay and star vehicle for yourself where you become the new king of sober media on the silver screen and in real life in Gum King Of New York, Challah. Thank you very much. And your first interview is with Daryl Strawberry on your Shabbat Shalom Ramble Podcast. So Darryl, do you think Rob Lowe looking better ever since giving up drinking the sauce 30 years ago is a case of annoying white privilege? You don’t look half the man you used to be like Gooden, but you’re not slipping into speedos at the yacht club off the coast of Montecito county as readily as Rob Lowe does o the cover of Middle Aged Yacht beat is all I’m saying.

Outside my hotel at the Hotel Dylan is a putting green. I notice this older black guy admires it. I say, “Do they have putters?” He says, “They’re locked up.” I reply, “I’m sure the putting green isn’t here for the visuals alone.” Acid rock humor rules, Shabbat Shalom Ramble rocks, on Challah. Thank you very much.

What’s excellent about vacations is that you no longer feel chained to predictable misery.

Am I an asshole for calling a father a bullshit artist for claiming he didn’t buy real estate in downtown Manhattan after 9/11 because he didn’t want to be a profiteer of death?
Sure, he’d discourage me pursing an internship with Haliburton if it could’ve guaranteed me a six-figure job out of a division 3, pricy private school for spoiled potheads.

Sure, pops, you would’ve bought a loft next to Ed Burns in Tribeca if the price was right.

And Bernie Madoff suffered from night screams when he got away with it.

Without 9/11, W doesn’t provide the alley-oop dunk for fake news choke, AKA. Obama Be Good who continually tries to ruin our country by endorsing more thug lives matters most bullshit.


Now, in NYC, you’re more likely to get jumped than hook up with a girl at a bar in the Upper East Side without swiping her over to your pre-approved dick pic first. Sanctuary City blues, Shabbat Shalom Ramble, Challah. Thank you very much.

Fit at any age; tell that to Matthew Perry.
He gave up drinking.
And still, his boyish charm went out the window faster than Lenny Dykstra wearing a MAGA hat on the Bill Simmons Podcast.

Wi-Fi password options for Hotel Dylan in Woodstock:

Baez Breaks Wind

Here Jimi’s Lady Coming

A Little Help From Mary Jane’s Less Seedy Friends

Dylan Towers

Levon Helm Winning post-Robbie Robertson, prematurely ending the Band without casting a band vote 1st.

Fascist Favoring Pricks Named Robbie Roberston Who Killed Rick Danko By Forcing Him To Tour And Do More Heroin Than Usual Because He Didn’t Have the Luxury Of Writing Film Scores For Marty after losing out anymore Band touring money after the Last Waltz.

Rick Danko lives; he was a member of the big three from the Big Pink: Levon Helm, Robbie Robertson, and Levon Helm in the Band. He played the mandolin, bass, and a mean game of pool in the Last Waltz and sang like an angel on songs he wrote like Stage Freight; It Makes No Difference and the Twighlight on the Last Waltz, their last show ever at the Winterland in San Fran. While also managing to sound like a complete road warrior-wise badass in The Shape I’m In.
Challah. Thank you very much.


Outside of The Hotel Dylan in Woodstock, NY, I’m at the Fire Pit.
An older, well-to-do-looking hippie dude says, “How are you?”
I say, “Whistling Dixie, they put me in the new Levon Helm room, which is very fitting because tonight, I’m recording my 1st Shabbat Shalom Ramble on location near Levon Helm’s log cabin studio, home of the original Midnight Ramble. Tonight, we deliver another killer set masterpiece. Shabbat Shalom Ramble 12, live in Woodstock, Levon lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Older looking hippie dude laughs long time.

Imagine Ziggy Marley getting interviewed by High Times Magazine today. Ziggy, how did your father, Bob, have seven kids? Doesn’t Ganja make you impotent like Agent Orange?
Ziggy Marley says, “Fake news, man.” I’d like to see that Oliver Stone documentary, though. He’d call it Natural Born Rastas, Challah. Thank you very much.

I’m at a wine shop in Woodstock and say, “Which one has more concentrated intensity the Petite Sirah or the Zinfandel? Think Bill Hicks next to Howie Mandell.
However, Howie Mandell had his moments, and the older-than-dirt hippie wine shop owners laugh for a long time.


The most depressing image is an older-than-dirt hippie checking her mail with three masks on three years after this COVID craziness began.


I know acid causes deadhead to the point of return, but this is getting ridiculous.


Whatever happened, the hippie creed fuck LBJ, and anything the government has to say, especially after bombing Cambodia to save face. What are these older-than-dirt hippies freaking out about it?
You’d think they’d already built a tolerance from their homegrown patch of pot cookies, that offer less aggressive peaks than David Crosby’s pot brownie recipe on Pinterest next to Cuomo’s recipe, for Gender Fluid Pink Ziti.

Just once, I’d like to hear a hippie in Woodstock that runs a vegan meatball food truck say, “Fuck weed pens, do I look like a beta hippie version of Tron. I’m still smoking weed from a metal cigarette bat made in Wuhan since Bob Dylan released Maggi’s Farm on Bringing It All Back; home, and my lungs feel great. What, I got Natural Born Dragon Lungs. Shabbat Shalom Ramble Does Woodstock, Challah. Thank you very much.

I ordered a mock cocktail in Woodstock and regretted it immediately.
I say to the bartender.

“This Mocktail isn’t making me feel better about myself. It’s too Limey for my tastes.
If I want more Limey in my life, I’d be in Delaware right now, with my English in-laws, kids, and wife, only to get my knickers in a bunch on more Zelensky Mandella talk by Bono on the BBC. Zelensky is the modern day Mandella. Sure, and Jimi Hendrix would take scarf advice from Dr. Deborah Birx under house arrest in Electric Lady Studios during COVID mania gone wild.


I’m getting pissed at this Zinfandel. It’s taking forever to open up like Rambo in the process of getting waterboarded by Dick Cheney.

My grandfather died at 48 and was VP of his Temple, medic in the War, and Bronze Star winner; Obama became President at 47.


So I don’t have any choice left; I must become the Gum King of New York at 47. Or at least have a screenplay to give the Golden Jew, Adam Sandler, sustained stiffage with. He’s the last king maker left in Hollywood that I still give a shit about impressing, Kenny McBride, Oliver Stone, David Mamet, and Kevin Smith, 20 years agoincluded, Half Heeb Crazy Lives, Challah. Shabbat Shalom Ramble, Good Shabbos, Kayne excluded.

Last Shabbat Shalom Ramble, not. Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Glorious Assholes

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

U2 is cheesy Irish, right?

Van Morrison isn’t.

House of Pain wasn’t.

Dennis Leary never was.

Glorious assholes live.

Challah, thank you very much.

How was U2 ever considered the biggest band in the world?

They sound like the Rolling Stones after attending a woke retreat on Lobotomy Island?

I still haven’t found what I’m looking more is no Free Bird.

Did Lynard Skynyrd’s swamp music ever remind you of genetically modified cheese or toothless lab grown meat?

And with or without you is about who Bono?

An Irish Lassie with fucked up chompers.

Who swallows but grazes from time to time.

Especially on Sunday Bloody Sunday.

Glorious Assholes rule, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Headhunter Writer Pitch

by doitalldadyear, posted in business, entertainment, writing

Hi Susan,

I’m interested in writing a weekly column for Fast Company called Headhunter Writer, which tells my history of headhunting and use of creative storytelling from Y2K to today. Headhunter Writer is my literary alter ego, who adds a personalized edge and heroic lift to all recruitment efforts. I aim to inspire others to be more aggressively creative in their pursuit of forming new business relationships online and off.

Here is a link for a poem post called Aggression Pays, which establishes the tone I’m shooting for in this column.

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/aggression-pays-joshua-kornbluth/

Here is a link to a piece about servicing fun inspired by an exchange with a UX Designer candidate prior, called Ted Tries. https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/ted-tries-joshua-kornbluth/

Future Headhunter Writer title posts include:

Headhunter Writer Intelligence

Headhunter Writer Bonds

Headhunter Writer Prevents

Headhunter Writer Emotion

Headhunter Writer Remembers

Headhunter Writer Humanizes

Headhunter Writer Knows

Headhunter Writer Grows

Headhunter Writer Admires

Headhunter Writer Softens

Headhunter Writer Unmasks

Headhunter Writer Recommends

Headhunter Writer Pays

Headhunter Writer Chooses

Headhunter Writer Sighs

Headhunter Writer Prophesizes

I’m looking forward to your reply.

Your Favorite Headhunter Writer,

Joshua Kornbluth

Chopping Block Blues

by doitalldadyear, posted in business, culture, technology

Has Obama given any Ramadan shout outs on LinkedIn yet?

Does he have to clear the plug-in front of his in-house Arabian horse whisperer Valerie Jarrett first?

So, Valerie what do you think of the hashtag, “HackingHymensAreUs?

Or is that too extremist for the Muslim Brotherhood’s tastes?

Can I accuse our prophet of culturally appropriating Lent?

But adding the fast during the day thing to root out the Infidel moderate Muslims in our midst?

Do you think Congress would’ve dared to impeach me if they caught Baby Face Omar in Minnesota emailing me for fasting tips on Ramadan in the face of her staffers eating so many wings in front of her during March Madness at YourMamaObama@gmail.com?

For Ramadan do you think Kamala Harris abstains from kicking her kick the can clit around the oval office whenever Hair Plugs Sniffer is around mulling over whether Jill sucks dick for bitcoin on the downlow at Hotel Dupont during the weekends after pooping out at hard 7 again?

What do you think Dave Chappelle does throughout Ramadan Valerie? Abstain from licking R. Kelly’s ass in his latest and greatest comedy special for Netflix? During Ramadan does Dave refrain from calling R. Kelly, the black Elvis with weaker bladder control in his act?

What do you think Trumpy Poo Tits does during Ramadan Valerie? Burn a printed-out version of my fake news social security card from Darian, CT?

Have you heard this impression yet Valerie? This is Corey Booker flirting with Rosario backstage at the Source Awards? Was it you or Chole Sevigny who died of Aids in the movie Kids? Just playing, in the end, that white bitch didn’t feel so privileged after all.

Finally, Valerie interjects.

What does Michelle do during Ramadan Barack? Pal around with Ellen at her compound in Santa Barbara with W over games of Operation, Gender Reassignment Edition? I know Ellen is pro bush, but admitting to being pals with W is a tad weird, don’t you think Barack? I mean I hate Trumpy Poo Tits to for what had our military do to ISIS. After you rebranded them ISIL, so they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times. But seriously Barack, what do Ellen, and Michelle do on a Saturday night together, when you’re busy ignoring Jussie Smollett’s texts again? Do they howl with perverse delight, as W paints another watercolor print of Portia De Rossi having her white privilege laden clit being hacked off for Sharia Law Appreciation Month? Have you told Groping Biden; I mean Mr. Groper to make that an official holiday yet? So, put down the crack pipe already Barack? You look more cracked out skinny than Dana Plato after tanning in Aruba.

Barack replies.

Fuck you Valerie.

I can come up with my own Ramadan plug to post on LinkedIn.

I don’t need to clear it with you first, you she camel ape.

Stick to the BLM thing kiddo. hashtag, Thug Lives Matter Most, that sort of thing.

Accuse Turbo Tax of being culturally biased software, which you’re Obama Be Good lickers left in Silicon Valley will lick up.

Assuming, they’ve recouped their losses since the US dollar has become more depressed than Sharon Stone’s snatch on the chopping block during Sharia Law appreciation month at a charity gala in Brentwood to raise funds for her latest passion doc project with Breitbart, “Will Flash for Bitcoin.”

Chopping Block Blues, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Busty Beauties

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, sex, writing

My wife works during the weekend as a Lactation consultant, which is why I call her the Boob Doctor.

During the week she works as a nurse in the NICU.

Checking blue faced babies for vital signs.

Which makes me feel like a full-time narcissist because all I check for is for retweets.

So, I’m out in public with my 3 kids during the weekend without her constantly.

Normally, grown men approach me and say, “You’ve got your hands full.”

My standard reply is, “If I get to perform Do It All Dad Does China as a headlining comedian at Radio City one day. Resulting in my wife agreeing to open marriage with Katy Perry. Then, my hands will be full.”

Only once did I hear, “Why Katie Perry?” while getting my wife a strap on with heart size balls for Valentines Day at the local art studio called, Pansexual Hearts Are US.

Why, Katie Perry?

Because you wouldn’t get my Susan Sarandon reference, Millennial Mousketeer.

Why Katie Perry?

Because I’d break Taylor’s Swift’s cervix in 2.

Why Katie Perry?

Because an open relationship with Raquel Welch is more up Tarantino’s ally.

Why Katie Perry?

Because Katie Perry is highly mountable in a pink wig. Which I can wear later, while she mounts me with my regifted Valentine’s Day gift from behind.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my wife is turned on by Orlando Bloom.

And I always wanted a 3 way with a pop star and a pansexual elf who ruined Cameron’s Crowe’s career.

Why Katie Perry?

Because Chelsea Handler is a full-time social justice warrior to downplay her tits sagging popularity.

Why Katie Perry?

Because nobody knows the name of the actress who plays Joan in Mad Men, busty beauties are us.

Why Katie Perry?

Because that chick from 2 broke girls would break my cock from assuming the mere plopping position.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my dick would get lost in porn star Gina Michaels and have to fill out a missing link report.

Why Katie Perry?

Because my wife wears earbuds to bed each night, which exudes less sex appeal than Lobot talking dirty to the central computer in Cloud City during the director’s cut version of Empire Strikes Back.

“I want to break your motherboard in 2. Send me a signal, telling me you want me too. We built cloud city on rock and roll. I’ll show you my central processing unit if you don’t tell Lando about it. Lando can’t light up your circuits like this. You want a nuclear leak that puts Chernobyl to shame, you got it.”

What, Cyborg’s get horny too.

Sex life matters, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth 

Sensitive To Stale

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

The technician from Optimum reconnects our Internet.

I declare.

“God is dead. Not today Nietzche, not on Optimum’s watch. God lives, Challah, thank you very much.”

And the Optimum Tech says, God lives. Can you include that plug in your customer service satisfaction survey?” Hashtag, #GoWokeYourselfNietzche.

Fresher is better, Challah.

Thank you very much.

I’m flipping 2 middle fingers to the Internet for being out for 3 days by playing a plethora of records at home on vinyl during our Internet fast such as Fats Domino, Warren Zevon, Miles Davis and Meatloaf. But then I try to inject artistic deepness into my life by buying Hunky Dory by David Bowie to play on a Saturday night which failed to give me sustained stiffage of any kind.

You know a David Bowie record is a chuck worthy offense. When you can’t even get through half of the second side without flicking the clunker at little Hudson’s face.

And say, “Stop bitching kid. Your hipster hack dad could’ve named you Bowie instead. Ziggy Stardust sucks when he reverts to being David Bowie again. Glam metal is no substitute for an enviable personality kid. That’s why your mom Micro-Doses with magic mushrooms to make you more interesting than your father pretends to be.”

Fuck David Bowie.

I want to dress my blond-haired son as Craig Ehlo for Halloween.

To celebrate a time, pre-social media when the NBA wasn’t a safe space for Lebron James ego before he anointed himself, King of The Persecution Complex.

Just so a dad from my Gen X generation says.

“Hey kid, are you dressed as Craig Ehlo from the 86 Cavs? I should call Child Services. I can’t tell if you’re dressed up to go Trick or treating or tea bagging with MJ? Hey kid, did you know that Tom Chambers isn’t in the hall of fame after scoring 20,000 career points? White privilege, my ass. ”

Fresher is better, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Blown Load Blues

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Valentines Day growing up was weird. My dad never celebrated it, because he already blew his love load on my mother the day before on her birthday.

Chances are that my mom made a stink one year and never dared to rock the boat again.

Mom says, “So what are we doing for Valentine’s Day tonight dear?”

Dad says, “We just went out for your birthday. Plus, we normally only go out once a week. So, don’t be a greedy bitch about it. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be eating Squirl kabobs in Kentucky for dinner, versus Veal stuffed with prosciutto, off the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. Look at it this way dear, if we went out to eat tonight, I’d just cut you off from ordering a 3rd glass of Chardonnay like I do on your birthday. So, what difference does it make?”

Hillary Hammer Time Cankles sours the mood again.

Blown load love lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth