Do It All Dad Year Season 6 debut, Jewish Jesus Lives.
Headstart on Cancer
Do I immerse myself in comedy to avoid real emotional honesty Lord?
Am I fixated on getting the most mileage about of my funny side because getting laughs makes me feel most alive?
Can I ever overcome the thrill of scoring more crying emojis from friends old new after sharing my latest and greatest bits, fresh off the press, which make feel the most blessed?
Do I care about earning recognition points in the world of fiction or just care about getting paid to be professional joke killer on stage around the world?
If I hate the art of stand-up comedy so much or being around other people so much, according to my wife, then why would I dedicate the totality of my focus, brain power and time toward the art of laugh yanking entertainment, 142 comedy records later?
Do I love the art of standup comedy because it fulfills my needs to shred and feel like a rock star without having to master the art of playing my Fender Stratocaster ever?
Lord, when I prayed in Synagogue last Saturday, asking for the opportunity for my father to see me as a success before he dies? Was I talking about being a working standup comedian away my kids 300 days a year, a well-paid podcast host comedian or as a working TV writer who writes books on the side with no time to see his kids whatsoever?
Don’t you think the main conflict in my book of short fiction, Waste Of Height Really Short Stories is the urge to finance my return to the stand up comedy yet but can’t just yet?
I have all these jokes and want to capitalize on them so badly Lord.
Am I being a lazy brain for not wanting to write these short new stories that I have great log lines for?
Why do I just want to write jokes and killer job descriptions for startup clients to put Stand Up Staffer in business?
How can I survive the charges of softness by dad Lord?
Is digging ditches going to provide the dream life for my kids?
I’ve got specs of grey at 47, which are signs of wisdom right?
I don’t want to be married to any script anymore Lord.
I don’t want to hide behind a computer anymore Lord.
I want to kill on the Coliseum floor.
I want to get paid to kill.
I’m tired of hearing nobody reads anymore.
I’m tired of hearing get focused by dad.
But deep down, Lord, I know I must pick a race to finish 1st in at 47 already.
The kids want me to perform standup comedy again.
Once I start collecting unemployment, I could start doing that again.
I need think big, show conviction and reach out to big shot performers like Toby Keith who I admire and share my comedy records with.
My big ask is asking for a booker referral of any kind.
I need to be booked for shows.
I have 6 months left on a car lease that I’m not even paying for.
I need to cash in on my white privilege already.
This guy on LinkedIn who I admire says write stories that matter.
Well, my jokes matter too. They’re truth bombs specials, made especially for these times.
The hardcore hilarious of them is beyond debunkable.
I need to become a sales machine.
Either I’m selling jokes on stage or during the day selling my headhunter writing services as Stand Up Staffer, Creative Tech Recruiter Extraordinaire.
I’m tired of spending money on writing contests only to lose again.
I should’ve won the at Press 53 contest for short fiction, I was only competing against 250 writers for Christ’s sake.
I want to get a talent manger or lit agent to get me a book deal after seeing my talent for being the quickest punchline blaster in the US.
Donald Trump’s father said, “No man ever became rich from sitting behind a desk.”
I’m tired of repeating myself Lord.
I hate to abandon goals for writing contests, like the Big Break One for Gum King Of New York.
But I’d rather write that script at my own speed this year or enact that business idea for Hop-O-Rama Chew with somebody more than just an imaginary friend courtesy of Final Draft.
I need to get on other people’s podcasts.
I don’t want to be a crying mess on birthday again like I was this year, Lord.
I heard from an old friend on my birthday, who said, “May you always kill on stage.” He tells me to sent audition tapes to Fox.
I know that my true friends still want me to succeed on stage.
They know I was made for it.
I want to please them.
I love them.
I want to please my kids.
My daughter says, “Daddy, do whatever you do be happy, just get me the mansion in North Salem that I desire.”
But I got to get of the house to make contacts and make that happen.
I’m talking circles.
This was supposed to be a story for a short fiction contest about getting head start on cancer, but it is.
Cancer can be waiting around the corner.
My dad might have lung cancer.
He has a biopsy next week.
This had supposed me to a chance to tell him, I’m gay about laugh yankage and I’m finally going for it all the way and that writing books, blogs and doing more comedy records and podcasts isn’t enough to keep my fighting spirit alive with the Gods of comedy anymore.
If I was making money off it, I don’t think so, not anymore.
I crave applause, I crave respect.
I have to finance my dreams my way, Stand Up Staffer is here to say.
It’s the only way I can finance a trip to France for my daughter’s 13th birthday, the big bash in her honor, and I’ll feel like a big macher for once in my life.
And I’ll have you to thank for giving me the strength and courage to take on the world despite feeling like a designated slow poke in elementary school.,
I’m going for it but got to be Standup Staffer Hero first, and doubts remaining of my willingness to what it takes to make this reality happen is beyond debunkable.
Thanks for the fighter’s chance to prove my worthiness and for the head start on cancer, being a late bloomer and all Lord, very, very much.
Head-Start on Cancer, Challah.
Thank you very much.
Last Shabbat Shalom Ramble Not
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
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.
Shabbat Shalom Ramble 8
Set List: Rocking Maron and Got Rubbed?
Shabbat Shalom Ramble 7
Set List: New Work Banter, Nitpicky Lame, Year Without Beer Film Premise, Selectively Suspicious, Qatar Rocks, Big Pharma Blues, Headhunter Writer, Lame Love Lives.
The Comedian Medium
Can too much goodness be a career impediment? My 5-Year-Old Son, Chosen Curl’s Was Bound to Woo thinks so. He says, “Daddy, your comedy records are too good like Punchout Poverty and Flipper Bird Baby. I say, “So you think Indy records labels I’ve shared links with like the one Kevin Hart owns are intimidated by my over-the-top towering genius 90 records later compared to their miniscule, pathetically weak punchline offerings in return?” Chosen Curls replies, “Your comedy records are too good moron. Maybe, you should make them half good, half suck, so you don’t come across as completely full of yourself if it half sucks. Rocky didn’t win every round against Apollo, remember?”
For the 1st night of Hanukkah, I got my son some old school WWF wrestling action figures including Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Fuji and Superfly Jimmy Snuka yet what provided him the most joy was the Rocky soundtrack on vinyl. The moment the needle hit wax; Chosen Curls otherwise as known as Hardcore Hunga Rocks began to perform a series of one-armed pushups on the floor because it will, “make him tougher.” The way I allow him to hit me in the face when I box him on my knees on our Rocky rug downstairs with his Everlast gloves as a form of flinch freeing treatment.
Growing up, I didn’t run away from any fist fights, but I did refrain from hurling insults whenever they were thrown my way like accusations of me eating my own jiz at the Nurse’s office, after I admitted to touching myself in there prior like a mongoloid moron, which later inspired an opening scene in my TV Pilot pitched to VH1 Classic Heavy Metal High, when my imaginary guiding star Andrew Dice Clay appears in the Nurse’s Office after I become the last member of my class to get into the puberty party. A puff of smoke clears, Dice flashes the bedazzled Dice Rules Leather jacket and starts clapping, before saying, “Congratulations, you finally achieved blastoff jerkoff.” Dice adds, “Jerking off doesn’t make you a man. It’s how you use your balls that matters most in this world kid.”
It’s hard to feel that you’re being super ballsy recording non-stop comedy records at home for 6 months in a row. Still, my wife threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn’t get a real job already and dared to write any more books before I quadrupled down on my imagination on her dime and wrote 3 more, The Koshertarian Comedians, Waste of Height Really Short Stories and United We Laugh. I prove it every day, Challah. Thank you very much. So, I can’t claim I’m guilty of playing it too safe either, especially after releasing comedy record titles such as Funny Enough Fagala and Pretty Dirty Mind, far from straight, I’m not.
But what’s nagging my psyche today on the Comedian Medium podcast, dead writer ghost talks for you and me, is whether my excessive goodness is being used against me. I want to summon the ghost of William Blake to discuss concepts such as self-sacrifice in contrast to Ayn Rand’s ardent belief in only being able to achieve personal happiness and career fulfillment by not living out the expectations for the sake of others. Charles Bukowski says, “Writers are awful, selfish people, who save the best versions of themselves on the page.” Perhaps, I always viewed my writing as my idealized self, who’s funny, smart, brave, secure, energized, big hearted and borderline poetic as opposed to feeling like a floundering, touchy feely bitch in real life. I think most of my rage issues stem from allowing my brother, parents and old friends to ruin everything for me again and again. Why do they aggravate me so much? Because they’re not good enough, which explains why I seek love from strangers for a living through my books, blogs, comedy records and podcasts episodes involving dead writers who provide more varied company that I crave, who don’t pretend to be my biggest fan or loyalist supporter when they can’t acknowledge a new comedy record posting on LinkedIn to shake up the stagnant, gun-shy boredom in the straight world. How can I honestly claim any enviable connection to old friends, brother or parents, when not once have they asked how’s the comedy career going over the past 5 years since my lucky number 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound to Woo was born?
Fuck their half ass insincerity, fuck their glaring indifference to the greatest funny man hot streak known to mankind. Fuck their belief in thinking I should be grateful for their sloppy second treatment at all. Fuck their claims of good things happening to good people. Tell that to every family forced into bankruptcy after losing their jobs over forced mandates to prevent the common good from catching an itchy esophagus with a 99 percent survival rate. Fuck my brother for blaming his opioid pill addition on his wife and for my parents buying that bullshit narrative like Big Tech being nothing more than the freedom of speech killing scuzz that they are. Fuck any friend who started ignoring my being because I went into the funny man business on my own and used to support Trumpy Poo on my old Do It All Dad Year Podcast for free. I also don’t buy into this horseshit premise how were supposed to be content with old friends from our past reflecting our less sure, outmoded selves, when we outgrow their measured praise when we get older, especially, when they’ve shown no interest in your new and improved offspring whatsoever after writing the debut comedy hit book, Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story.
At least, he writes really funny jokes. Go fuck yourself, I create a video with my daughter about your younger sister beating cancer and that’s the best you can do to pretend about actually giving a shit about me succeeding in this world with a family of 5 to provide for. It makes me sick to think I wasted any time caring about these friend’s opinions, when none of them haven taken any ballsy chances with their life whatsoever. And you’re going try to demean me and reduce me to some flailing desperate clown in need of your loving laughing approval after God came into my heart, blessing me with 3 Koshertarian comedian loving kids later as I proceed to plow forward with the greatest comedy record streak of all time, with comedy record 74, Too Much Goodness, coming out later tonight. Yeah, you can go fuck yourself to. We weren’t that close to begin with. As usual, I romanticize all relationships way out of proportion and gave you blah brained fucks way too much benefit of the doubt. I’m the good life giver, not you asshole. Edgy energy star, you’re not. Over the top artist, not in your wildest dreams bud.
So, let’s conjure William Blake already before I come across as too jaded bitter for Marc Maron’s taste before his podcast broke big. Yoh, William is anyone out there? What’s your favorite Door’s album? Did your pen pal Thomas Paine have enough common sense to wrap his tool before banging those busty broads in London town after Ben Franklin got 1st dibs on the house for inventing soothing bath salts for herpes? Woh, your ghost spirit looks mighty pissed off Blake. You’re redder in the face than other writer ghosts from podcast episodes past. I love your line, “Exuberance is beauty.” Because it makes my father look like an asshole whenever he tells me to calm down. Plus, my wife freaks out if we’re out in public at a bar due to my tendency to perform in front of crowds like any self-respecting slut in a strait jacket would.”
Ghost of Willaim Blake screams, “Shut up already. You’re an unholy father, who doesn’t accept Jesus Christ as his lord and savior. Who wrote a blasphemous chapter called Jesus Killer Set in The Great American Jew Novel? Isn’t that correct?”
“I love being quoted by dead writer ghosts I admire almost as much as my son Chosen Curls quoting my comedy records like Pause Daddy, Challah, thank you very much. “
Ghost of William Blake says, “How does The Great American Jew Novel sell more copies than my self-published book of poetry, Songs of Innocence & of Experience? Granted, my book only sold 33 copies but still. I made the Doors. Jim Morrison doesn’t exist without me. You named your son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, whoopty freaking do.”
“So, William come up with a better book title that’s less schizophrenic than Songs of Innocence & Experience and I’ll give a shit about your anemic books sales again. You’re not going to give Walt Whitman sustained stiffage with a horseshit title like is all I’m saying. But thanks for inspiring Jim Morrison William, because I never would’ve created a flow to Kornbluth without naming my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. Although coming up with my son’s nickname before he was born was twice as thrilling. I say to my wife, “Babe, I got the perfect nickname for Arthur, will call him, Art Show. And his big sister already sweating his latent mojo rising says with rapidly rising trepidation, “No, it’s my show.”
Art show spirit lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
Shabbat Shalom Ramble 5
Set List: Royal C Word, Chipmunk Hucksters, Nitpicky Lame Backfire and Debunking Dunking.
Wishing Well Architect
Art Show USA was no ordinary Wishing Well Architect. He designed a Wishing Well for Bill Gates’s daughter after buying her a horse farm in North Salem, NY, only to clog it on purpose with Planned Parenthood brochures in honor of dad who used to sit on the board of Planned Parenthood for making such a splash as a baby part reseller on the open market (otherwise known, by pro-life activist groups, as the Million Dollar Fetus Flicker Man).
Art Show USA was a perfectionist artist. His Do It All Dad Michael Kornbluth, now a famous comedian author with a standup residency at MGM Grand in Las Vegas, would always encourage his son’s inborn artistic flair; yet all his gorgeous, pitch-perfect son would hear afterwards, in semi-kidding fashion, was: “So you think I suck because…”
Every student teacher evaluation for Art Show USA was a pure joy to receive, for his Do It All Dad, because he got an extreme kick out of some teachers, like his first grade one, Mrs. Rudolph, who would bemoan, in a begrudgingly huffy manner, “We all know Arthur is a great artist,” only to rub in the harsh fact that teachers teach and birth less talented offspring for a reason.
Do It All Dad always pounded into his eldest son’s cranium, “Art sells, baby,” which always stayed with Art Show because he was haunted by early memories of his mom threatening to divorce his Dad if he wrote one more book and didn’t get a job at Trader Joe’s in Danbury, CT.
So, his Dad doubled down on himself and wrote not one but two more books, without advertising the fact to his wife until he scored a lit agent in Israel with his book The Koshertarian Comedian. And the rest is star-studded history.
Art Show made his first million from a lucrative birdhouse-making business called “Bird Baller Cribs,” from only taking one woodworking class. He sold them at various farmer’s markets throughout Brooklyn, Manhattan, Woodstock, and in Kingston, NY, while his mother sold flowers with Art Show’s big sister from their new estate farm in North Salem, calling her flower truck “Green Thumb Girl.”
Do It All Dad’s favorite birdhouse creation was his Kiss-themed one, that rocked a giant-shaped bed similar to the one lead singer and main songwriter Paul Stanley lies on amidst an endless sprawl of busty, blond beauties in his Kiss lair in Beverly Hills (I’m assuming).
The best part of this birdhouse creation was the giant Gene Simmons tongue extension bird feeding line, containing a sprinkling of some homemade CBD oil-marinated granola as more high-flying blue jays and cardinals licked it up; oh, oh, oh.
Art Show USA cares plenty about wishing wells, because ever since he could remember, he’d wish for his Do It All Dad’s books to succeed (because “Art sells, baby.”).
The new and improved wish, after his Daddy finally scored a lit agent started his standup residency in Vegas and got into SAG for a film to co-star in with Russell Brand and Vince Vaughn called Too Tall Comedians, was for his dad to finally part with his precious time-release Adderall, despite his claims of writing like a Jewish angel on the stuff. Reality is, Do It All Dad was an incredibly fast-talking New Yorker to begin with, even on high-grade weed. So, he didn’t require any speedy thought enhancement; ever.
On Do It All Dad’s 45th birthday in Woodstock, NY, he took a mini-hike in the woods with his son, Art Show USA, only to bump into a wishing well along the way. Do It All Dad gave his son a customary quarter to make a wish with, although this time Art wished his Dad would become convinced he’d become a big-time author comedian success on or off the stuff, period. Plus, he knew his Daddy off Adderall would focus less on how annoying Mom can be with her phone during Adam Sandler Appreciation Night at home, again and again.
Daddy was better off writing all day, performing at night, and taking some weed edibles or a celebratory puff from his cherished green, in addition to an IPA or two, after another highly rewarding day at the office, for making the most of his God-given gift of comedic song.
Art Show USA’s latest and greatest wishing well creation was made in Central Park near the Great Lawn in the big city, the place of his birth like Do It Dad before him (which they both derived tremendous localtarian pride from, knowing the Island of Manhattan is what dreams of doer/topper success are made of).
The wishing well was named Do It All Dad Dumper, a tad longwinded name, even for Do It All Dad’s tastes. Still, the symbolic heft of this name wasn’t lost on the New York adoring public, especially after the Today Show did an unveiling of Do It All Dad Dumper, where a line of Do It All Dads followed Do It All Dad’s lead and dumped whatever pill, powder, drink, or strain of dumb, dumb weed they felt was preventing them from flying high off their kid’s glorious presence alone.
Do It All Dad beamed with endless nachas (pride, in Yiddish, derived from the reflective successful glow emanating from offspring who stem from your Do It All Dad tree’s trunk).
Do It All Dad picks up his son with excitable boy glee and gives him a 360-degree airplane spin for old time’s sake, despite Art Show being 6 foot 5, now, and twenty years old. Art Show USA shrieks for untapped joy like he was seven again. Do It All Dad continues to spin and says, “Teenager in love is all grownz up, and he’s all grownz up. Are you too special to be real? Are you too special to be real?”
Art Show USA shrieks with more love-blasting joy and says, with pitch perfect comedic timing, “Are you saying I suck, because?” Do It All Dad laughs a long time, wishing that even his worst enemies got to experience Do It All Dad bliss like this.
“Welcome to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast: What Gen X Dads understand; Dad-friendly entertainment for you and me. I’m your host, Michael Kornbluth.
Controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again. My three fuss-free kids (most of the time) are living proof of this.
I’ve been a Stay-At-Home Comedian on and off for a decade, now, although my dad is more old-school and prefers the expression ‘sheltered bum.’ Whenever I’m out with my three kids without their mommy, I hear, “You’ve got your hands full.” I’ll say, “If any of my books ever become bestsellers and my wife agrees to an open marriage with Susan Sarandon, then my hands will be full.”
I stopped smoking weed until I thought my daughter was asleep, already, because I felt like a moron answering her super-deep questions about the sticky icky stuff after I thought she was asleep. She’d ask, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God?”
I said, “God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.”
Daughter says, “Real convincing, Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at age four.”
Michael Kornbluth, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and proud father of the three most hilariously sweet, snuggle-shine bundles of sunshine known to mankind, adds, “Today, on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, we have a guest. Which is a rare occasion since the launch of my podcast four years ago, in my pursuit to become the paid star voice behind remote work revolution, before China could hog up all the credit for forcing corporate America to adjust to a remote work way of life to please our commie-controlled corporate masters till our last dying breath.
“During my pilot episode, I interviewed a UX designer who worked for Apple. I know you’re bored out of your mind already (unless he was Steve Jobs, pumped for the casual grandma-jeans look for all it was worth). My standup performer instinct constantly interjected the moment I sensed my guest lose the audience. This happened automatically, whenever I allowed him to drone out another colorless, brain-reaching, screeching halt reply, so I swore off ever doing another interview on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast ever again.
“Especially knowing that Do It All Dads who want to work from home based on free will alone, in the impassioned pursuit to make their kids the center of the universe instead of the reverse, don’t grow on freaking Bonsai trees, either.
“But I decided to make an exception for our, guest Richard Lankfear from Plano, Texas, who is a retired drug counselor and the author of a new book called Addiction, a mind-expanding warning of drug abuse symptoms guide so parents can see if their kids are a frantic manifestation of their crazy hick degenerate gene, with zero concept of moderation in real time or not.
“Raising drug-free children is important to me because being a druggy dependent is the opposite of feeling free. (Cream lives; holla thank you very much.)
How can our kids get excited about the pursuit of happiness at home or at school if they are getting high off their loved ones, or from a job well done that isn’t enough (at least until their mid-twenties)?
“Richard enacts tremendous good from his lifetime service as a drug counselor by making a drug abuse warning guide for parents today who are unaware of what constitutes drug-forming behavior under their allegedly emotionally-present watch.
“The chilling, sobering stats in the book, such as fentanyl being 100 times more powerful than morphine, speak for themselves, and need to be illuminated with unflinching detail, knowing that either blissful ignorance, dismissive sugarcoating, or mere whitewashing of the opioid epidemic throughout the US as being a mere “white trash ” problem can become the worst fatal mistake a parent today can make.
“This is especially true knowing how Chinese-made fentanyl, snuck in through our Mexican border, has killed more crackers in this country than Lena Dunham kicking it with Taylor Swift on Instagram.
“The recurring theme in Richard’s book The Addicted Child is parents becoming reactive firefighters multiple rehab stints later, versus the ideal of becoming proactive troubleshooters before such residual damage has been done, which some families never truly recover from.
“This book will help more families spot drug habit-forming warning signs by offering actionable insight to prevent their kids from facing such a life-crippling fate. More importantly, the vast breakdown of all types of drug abuse included in the book will give parents the confidence and sense of surging urgency to have the “drugs will kill your brain cells” talk with their kids and their still-developing minds, before those rapidly-deepening drug-forming habits become that much harder to break.”
Richard, on the side of the Skype podcast interview, is red and flustered in the face, flabbergasted over how the Do It All Dad Year Podcast has made zero effort to give his guest a smidgen of breathing room to promote his book seven minutes into the broadcast, already.
If only had Richard known of Do It All Dad’s code work trick which his three kids used whenever he went on one of his impassioned rants in one seamless endless breath, with zero auditory relief in sight as his kids long forgot what cool interesting idea, or question, they were to express! It which was this: “Pause Daddy.” As they pointed an imaginary remote directly at him, they’d say, “Pause Daddy” with warm-hearted smiling-stretchy cheer because it was funny and it actually shut their dad the fuck up for change, whether he was on Adderall or off.
Stay At Home Comedian rolls on, adding, “Let’s focus on our guest, now, Richard, who didn’t spend any quality time emoting about the all-star book review I just read for you on Amazon about his book The Addicted Child (which was more than generous, considering what a snooze the book was, as a whole).
“So, Richard, I just read another book by Lou Gramm, the former leader/signer/howler legend from Foreigner who’s known for co-writing and belting out endless classic rock staple hits such as ‘Juke Box Hero’, ‘Double Vision’, and ‘Long, Long, Long Way From Home’ (being my personal favorites among the pack).
“In his highly readable book, in comparison to yours, he talks about getting sober and the growing frustration of not even being able to partake in lighting a doobie after killing at freaking Solider Field, on the tour party bus soon afterwards, when everybody else from the band is now in their early forties (they still are).
“Like the roadie guy says in the movie Rockstar with Mark Wahlberg, “Don’t be half-ass about it. Live out the rock star dream for those who can’t. Or something close to that.
“Also, there’s a standup comedian who’s no longer with us; the late great Greg Geraldo, who said that drug use should be encouraged when in your forties more so than your twenties; especially when you learn, during a parent teacher conference, “That your son is a half a ‘tard.”
“So, my question for Richard is, “What’s an acceptable form of addiction in your book?” Richard says, “I wish I had a stage light to shine on you a thousand runon sentences ago.” The Do It All Dad Year Podcast host fires back with, “So, all the Irish thugs who used to beat up nice Jewish kids in the Bronx, calling them Christ Killers and blah, blah…are they what you’d call a special kid of drunk prick later in life, or do you think the concept of a so-called happy drunk doesn’t apply to any Irish alcoholics because their rosy noses give the impression they’re really just more superficially cheery on the surface than the rest?
“And if the Irish are the best drunk poets, then whatever happened to the Irish Beastie Boys in the Jump Around video?
“Don’t get me wrong; I don’t thinking being a drunk prick is a strictly an Irish disease. For me, I think a fellow member of my tribe, Michel Rappaport, still sounds like he’s auditioning for the role of Wigger Number Three asshole In the Jump Around video.”
Richard says, “Are you going to ask any of the questions I gave you?”
The Do It All Dad Year Podcast Host Michael replies, “Why are parents so afraid to have honest conversations about drugs through their record collections with their kids, Richard? What makes these parents so apprehensive as to point out the dangers of doing shitty Chinese-made coke with Hunter Biden, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall?
“Do you feel that sketchy degenerate behavior is born, enabled, or all the above?
“In the movie Requiem for a Dream, Jared Leto is missing a freaking arm at the end, which is a powerful cautionary message to nail home, on par with reading your kids Allen Ginsburg’s Howl the next time they claim to not scare easily. It describes all the beautiful angels of the light’s mind ravaged by drugs, reducing them to eating stray cats throughout the streets of San Francisco.
“Why didn’t you share such hardcore scare tactics tips in your book, for parents to use on their kids, so they wouldn’t have to spend a mini-ortune, and take out a new home equity loan on the house to afford your overrated counseling services?”
Now all of Michael’s three kids come bursting in the room to give their dear Dada a hug after coming back from school, anxious to tell him about their day. In unison, they all point an imaginary remote at their Stay-At-Home Comedian Dad and say, “Pause Daddy.”
Richard throws up his hands in defeated disgust on the Skype window screen and yells, “That’s it! ‘Pause Daddy’ are the magic words to shut this loudmouth, obnoxious Jew up, already.” Stay At Home Comedian Dad replies, “When your opinions are deemed worthy enough to interrupt my killer flow, I’ll let you know, jerkoff. “Never forget controlling our kids with comedy can make them great again. My three fuss-free kids, 95 percent of the time, living proof of it.”
The Sun Butter King
North Dakota was only the state in the country which enjoyed full employment, and Do It All Dad wanted in. North Dakota was also the least visited state in the nation, yet Do It All Dad was used to seeing his parents only twice a year, and also was accustomed to not seeing any of his former friends since his three fuss-free children were born, failing the friendship litmus test every time.
So, the isolating nature of North Dakota didn’t bother him one bit; especially knowing how much Do It All Dad hated to navigate around lost-in-time tourist hicks in Times Square pre-Covid, on his way to work, when he used take the subway there for his IT Recruiter job in Midtown East for a living.
But the majority of the jobs in North Dakota were within the farming and energy industry, which Do It All Dad had no experience with, whatsoever. Granted, his mom grew up in Kentucky and had an Uncle Jim, who owned a farm and who even wore overalls to his Grandpa’s funeral, because that’s how he rolled.
And Do It All Dad would have a bit in his old act about how Kentucky gal Ashley Judd wasn’t an actual victim of rape. He’d say, “Ooh, she refused to watch Harvey Weinstein shower himself down at his five-star suite in the Four Seasons. At the same time, Ashley Judd had plenty of experience judging fat pigs at the county fair.”
Still, Do It All Dad wasn’t expecting to be a working headliner comedian at the non-existent comedy clubs in downtown Fargo, North Dakota. Microsoft had 100,000 employees based in North Dakota, yet Do It All Dad was no fan of Bill Gates’s dad being the head of Planned Parenthood, either. Its founder was intent on carrying out Hitler’s eugenics solution one fetus flicker (mostly of color) at a time.
North Dakota was also voted the least female-friendly environment because it had less abortion clinics than oxygen bars for the Persian Iranians to act urban sheik smug in. They were like tanner, humorless Whitney Cumming clones in those Hollywood Hills, and were too uptight for Do It All Dad’s tastes, whose blah-brained personality offered him nil.
Do It All Dad had an old headhunter boss who hailed from a prestigious farming family in North Dakota, who drilled into his cranium the do-or-die mantra “innovate or die.”
Innovate, he must, because Do It All Dad had to invent a new job title besides Stay At Home Comedian. Do It All Dad just wanted to write more books from home and cook more yummy dance meals for his family, but needed a paying job of some sort to finance finishing his next book in progress, The Koshertarian Diet, so his wife wouldn’t bust his balls about it.
Plus, Do It All Dad had no desire to uproot his family and move closer to his in-laws in Delaware, whose state motto should be changed to, “Your Nazi Gold Is Safe With Us.”
Do It All Dad was also working on a new short story collection, Waste Of Height, which forced him to be tad less political and overtly sexual in his writing, for a change. Still, as famous English novelist Virginia Woolf once said, “A woman must have a room of her own, and money to write fiction.”
Now, Do It All Dad, being a stay-at-home shemale rocker mom, of sorts, could identify with this stone cold sober truism, even more than being a shishy bitch who would get dressed up on Shabbat Friday nights to stay in with his three kids while his wife went back to work at the hospital in the NICU to check on the vital signs of blue-faced babies.
This made Do It All Dad feel like an insufferable narcissist, at times, because all he checked for was for retweets, before he got banned from Twitter from calling Governor Cuomo a Blanch-killing, cold-blooded, Italian Reptilian inside.
Now Do It All Dad couldn’t even justify his IPA intake after a Peloton ride anymore, because his family was barely affording the monthly payments on their mortgage, and nothing had changed too much since he’d started chasing down open mikes throughout Southern California fifteen years ago after getting the laugh chaser bug, which no amount of widespread bombing or marital bliss disintegration or threat of complete financial ruin could cure.
Also, Do It All Dad’s office was in his bedroom, which a recent jilted audiobook reviewer derided as “tiny and cramped” (based on the lack of reverberating echo in his chapter reading for “The Last Temptation of Adderall,” I assume). Do It All Dad had given up hope on securing a lit agent to take a chance on an eccentric Jewish comedian satirist/reinvented literary novelist who used his books for extra-long stand-up comedy monologues. He couldn’t afford to do open mikes throughout Manhattan, because he couldn’t justify the 40-dollar Metronorth train fare to wail with his arms on stage for the pleasure of trying to entertain the two millennial musketeers in the audience with such a jade-free, joyous, giving heart anymore.
Now Do It All Dad didn’t desperately seek strangers’ funny/many approval as much on stage, since he launched his successful podcast and blog three years ago (which, for him ,was the greatest open mike on earth). But it pained Do It All Dad to still not be in a position to buy his son, Art Show USA, the GI Joe SS Flagg Aircraft Carrier for his son’s seventh birthday, snowboard lessons, a vintage pair of Freezie Freakies on eBay with the Thundercats on it, or anything but more copies of his impossible-to-find books on Amazon.
Reality is, Art Show USA provided book cover color consultation on all four of Do It All Dad’s books. Art Show USA adored his Do It All Dad books so much, he took a screensaver picture for his remote learning school-issued computer, holding all four of his dear dada’s books closely to his heart, exuding a beamish prideful spark which shined inside and out.
Seven years on this earth after Art Show USA was born, Do It All Dad needed to fight harder than ever to keep his elusive dreams of comedic literary superstardom alive. Do It All Dad’s son loved his Dad’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast, too, and he didn’t want his dear dad to perform more sheets of comedy gold on it without having to worry about Mom threatening to kick him out the house again because of his lack of money-generating power (for the past five years and counting).
So, Do It All Dad got an idea while making lunch for his son one day—The Sun Butter Challenge. What if Do It All Dad went into business with his gorgeous son, who could smile on cue without breaking into hives in the process, and Daddy became his agent, booking him as the new face for Sun Butter Gold Foods, located in Sunflower Country, Bismarck, North Dakota? This could lead to Do It All Dad snagging enough loot to buy his family the Porsche Comedy Gold Mobile; a new lake house summer home in Lake George, NY for his son’s GJ Joe SS Flagg; and enough money to finance writing more books without ever having to bite his tongue while being offered a career consultation email from LinkedIn, considering the gaps of wrath on his resume, ever again.
Do It All Dad’s son, Art Show USA, possessed the sunbeam smile. Few other kids could match with such a star-powered gleaming light. So, if Do It All Dad couldn’t get a job interview for a junior copywriter position at, let’s say, Sun Gold Foods in Bismarck, North Dakota, then Do It All Dad could create a job for himself as his son’s personal manager, calling himself on LinkedIn the Sun Gold Hunter. He can finally capitalize in a big way, cashing in all of his new business development, cold calling-centric, IT headhunter background in both in LA and Manhattan (where he slaved weekends away when he wasn’t trying to write new scripts or jokes, researching new IT Directors or Chief Marketing Officers to cold call the following week, again and again).
Do It All Dad was old school and had no problem coldcalling men and woman in places of authority who controlled staffing budgets, in a NY minute. Plus, Do It All Dad took perverse pleasure working around HR, who tended to ruin the love connection potential between a hurting hiring manager and a staffing solution specialist Headhunter to the rescue, like Do IT All Dad always fashioned himself to be.
Do It All Dad also learned, from his headhunting days, how passion is always picked up over the phone. So, Do It All Dad would have no problem conveying to the head of Sun Butter Gold Products in Bismarck, North Dakota, what a gross disservice to mankind they’d be doing by refraining from making his American-made beautiful boy, Art Show USA, the permanent franchise face of Sun Gold Food Products moving forward, which would double their annual sales from 4 million to 8 million in the first week alone, guaranteed.
Now Do It All Dad is pitching his son as the new face for Sun Butter with the Chief Marketing Officer through Zoom. Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, looks confused.
Do It All Dad says, “You look confused, Cheryl. I want my son to star in The Sun Butter Challenge Campaign across America, similar to what they did with the Pepsi Challenge, back in the day, when kids had stronger immunities to bullying (Kurt Cobain excluded. Kurt Cobain longed to retreat into his pre-fame bubble without having to rummage through his grandma’s closet for another ugly lime sweater to wear at the MTV Music Awards—I get it).”
Cheryl, the CMO for Sun Butter Gold Products, says, “So, where’s Art Show USA? How do you expect me to hire you two as a package deal to do the creative performing in these Sun Butter Challenge campaigns, without me seeing, the sun butter smile to light up a thousand suns? The same smile which will double our sales in a year, according to your fuzzy math estimates. I know you still have to count with your fingers for simple arithmetic (which I read in one of your blog posts, in case you think we just ignored the totality of your digital fingerprint on the Internet all together because your son is the star smile attraction we’re really after, if you really need to know.”
Do It All Dad says, “Art Show, come into Dada’s office for a minute.”
Art Show says, “You mean, your bedroom, Dada?”
Do It All Dad says, “Thanks for reminding me, and for destroying what little sales leverage I have left, without you flashing your smile through Zoom for the Sun King Maker to see.”
Art Show hops onto his dear dada’s lap, and smiles. Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, says, “Wow, your Dada isn’t another full-of-shit New Yorker, after all. Are you ready to be a star, kiddo?”
Art Show USA says, “Just give my Dada ten percent of everything I make, for a finder’s fee, and give him final cut approval on all commercials and print campaigns starring my Sun Butter Smile, and you got yourself a deal. Can I go back to building my Harry Potter Astronomy Tower, now?” Dear Dada starts singing with an extra rollicking, jubilant heart, “Sun Butter King’s stock is rising, rising.” Next, Do It All Dad adds, “King Arthur—my kid eclipses his star power, which is limited to Disney fable books that nobody reads anymore—oh, I can’t take no more.”
Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, says, “Would you mind if we put sunflowers in your son’s hair? The LBGT community will lick it up, lick it up, oh, oh, oh! Do you think you’re the only Kiss fan who resents how Nirvana’s ‘Nevermind’ was the death blow shot heard around the world’ that killed off carefree hair metal pop rock forever?”