All Metal Baby

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to Sloppy Seconds Hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Tabitha Soren, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his banger pretty wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H. So, I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism Man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows above all else, when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

All Metal Baby

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to Sloppy Seconds Hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Tabitha Soren, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his banger pretty wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H. So, I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism Man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows above all else, when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Righteous Maniac Lives

New favorite nickname for Mr. Groper in the White House, Icky Shuffle, Challah, thank you very much.

New favorite nickname for Michelle Obama, Michelle, What’s Talent Got To Do With It Obama.

Who cares who gets elected to the Supreme Court anymore? Election integrity in our country is deader than claims of Voter ID being racist among anybody with a functioning moral compas capable of introspective correction left. But Voter ID used in white supremacist ruled countries like El Salvador is racist. Does Pedro Martinez Junior have to pass a height requirement to vote in either country to vote? I don’t get it.

I get a DM on LinkedIn from a cute Asian girl in a business suit who implores me to expose myself to some crypto currency. The gal who claimed to come from Hong Kong calls herself Montez Downey on LinkedIn, her alter crypto ego I’m assuming. I reply, “Your real name is Montez Downey from Hong Kong. Yeah, and Montel Willam’s comes from the Virgin Mary’s penis.”

Without or without you, is about who again Bono? A cute Irish Lasie who swallows but grazes time after time. 

A true friend buys your book before asking, “How many copies have you sold so far?” “What’s your next step?” “I only do audio because I’m super busy making money and living a fun filled life over you.”  

I’d almost prefer, “Just because you mailed me a free copy, doesn’t mean I’m going to use my brain on your behalf and give your stupid fucking book a review, praise it at all or give it constructive feedback of any kind jerkoff.

Kayne West trolling Taylor Swift on Twitter for old timer sake.

I know we’ve had our differences pretzel sticks.

But you’re still hot enough to get Pete Davidson to stray from Kim’s Milky Way snatch.

Dress up like a Christmas Tree fairy on his birthday, looking like an overdose at the Limelight waiting to happen.

And urge Pete to fuck your brains out in the VIP room at the 40/40 club.

So, you won’t fuck Beyonce out of any more VMA awards, you dig.

Taylor Swift saying, “She sings country music.”

Is like Kayne West saying, “He never raps in the 3rd person.”

I’m purchasing a book by Jeff Tweedy called How To Write One Song and the cashier says, 25 bucks.

I said, “25 bucks for How To Write One Song.” Jeff Tweedy is really testing the limitations of my father daughter love.”

My daughter better write an album that outsells Stevie Nick’s Bella Donna before Taylor Swift got her 1st period on her Christmas Farm village, which inspired Lollipop Legs to pen her first cross over Church hit, “Planned Parenthood Bound Train.”

I add, “Fucking Jeff Tweedy, I didn’t even know he was the singer songwriter of Wilco until now. All I know about Wilco is Jim Rome making fun of Tiger Woods for attending a Wilco concert once, which made Tiger feel whiter than White Man’s disease on Saint Patrick’s Day,while attending a Chicago cover band tribute act in Minnesota because he lost a bet to Donald Trump, after Donald bet Lindsey Vonn would choke during the winter Olympics, if Tiger told Maximum she was “overrated”, in the sack, especially compared to Rachel Uchitel, known for her infamous, blow job ready lips, who can suck a golf ball through Taylor Swift’s Fallopian Tubes.

Is giving Paul McCartney’s book of lyrics a one star review on Amazon considered hate speech, anymore than allowing the sale of Mein Kampf on Kindle, which is 720 pages of hate speech in a row?

How would Michael Jackson defend himself against his Never Land accusers today? All the Beatles Royalty Points in the world, can’t buy me love?

At my son’s parent teacher conference, she proudly admitted how my son did a bio on Leef Erickson, which was displayed on the wall outside his 2nd grade classroom, so I was able to compare his bio report to other famous people chosen by his classmates. And I said, “I’m happy to know my son didn’t do his bio on Russell Westbrook.” Teacher laughs long time. I add, “At this point Russel Westbrook should be the next spokesperson for Tampax Tampons. Name another player in the NBA besides Carmelo Anthony that’s been responsible for stopping so much flowage.” Righteous Maniac lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Spirit of Sal Balsamo

My dad didn’t care for Heavy Metal, but Sal Balsamo did. He loomed large over Mount Metal outside of Seely Place Elementary School, a sprawling rock formation dominated by his jean jacket worshipping brethren, decked out in Metallica, Slayer and Overkill patches on all. It was here where Sal Balsamo delivered his metal front men with 10 Commandments of Metal to burn into their burnout craniums forever.

Commandment 1:  Thou shall not steal metal riffs from Twinkle Toe Rhodes.

Commandment 2: Thou shall Not Disrespect thy Father and Mother of Heavy Metal, Deep Purple and Lita Ford.

Commandment 3: Thou shall not carry hatred in your heart for Metallica’s brothers in arms after the killer commercial success from the Black album and beyond.

Commandment 4: Thou shall pray to the programing manager of MTV for playing the Cherry Pie video on one endless loop during the winter of 90, which even made Kareem Adul Jabbar crack a smile during Ramadan that was eight miles wide.

Commandment 5: Thou shall request DJs at Bar Mitzvah parties to play Cult of Personality even if they insist on not knowing who the fuck Vern Reed is yet.

Commandment 6: Thou shall kiss your guitar more than your girlfriend’s ass after she puts on the freshman 50 at the University of Buffalo.

Commandment 7: Thou shall find a new groupie to love if they deride Heavy Metal music as awful despite GNR, Motely Cru, Cinderella and Poison rocking your world more than they ever did.

Commandment 8: Thou shall consider blowing Desmond Child for penning Hair Metal classic hits like Poison by Alice Cooper, Dude Looks Like A Lady by Aerosmith and Living On a Prayer by the long haired cowboys from New Jersey, Bon Jovi.

Commandment 9: Thou shall laugh when you hear Jim Norton roast Sammy Haggar on Comedy Central with, “I don’t drink, but my hunch tells me Sammy that your Tequilla Cabo Wabo, is Van Halen light.”

Commandment 10: Thou shall pay Ace Frehley’s medical bills, if Gene Simmons screws him out any future touring money ever again.

The Spirit of Sal Balsamo burned on at his fort in the woods behind Seely Place one unseasonably warm December afternoon before Christmas Break. A fire erupted after a scatter of fiery ash landed on top of some old, discarded rugs used for after school hook ups with Elisa Velle on Valentines Day. Sal and his metal head Disciples watched in holy shit man aw as the fire raced up a giant oak tree, rapidly approaching his old Kindergarten classroom at Seely as it roared with Metallica Kill Them All rage up high in the sky. Sal Balsamo’s father was a retired fireman from Yonkers, NY and former roadie for Led Zepplin, so blazing inferno’s, backdrafts and fiery satanic altars his father would walk into as Jimmy Page pleaded with the Devil for more electric slaying chops than Hendrix or Tommy Iommi ever possessed didn’t dampen Sal Balsamo’s metal worshiping spirit one bit.

Then, a voice emerged from the fire that screamed, Run For The Hills, Run For Your Life, which freaked out Sal and his crew because the voice sounded exactly like the human air raid siren Bruce Dickenson from Iron Maiden because his super natural voice pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal Heaven. So, Sal and his crew run for the hills as the fire roars on with Gene Simmons fireball blowing delight. Now, in the fire Gene Simmon’s face emerges and yells, “Loud, I wanna hear it loud, right between the eyes.” And Sal Balsamo’s crew started screaming the chorus in the unison while looking up to this Heavy Metal light show for the ages, no longer running for the hills with such divine powered pushed authority anymore.

Do It All Dad, a 46-year-old self-stylized Hair Metal Comedian takes a break from retelling the Spirit of Sal Ballsano and his son Hardcore Hunga Rocks says, “So what happened to the fire Daddy? Did Gene Simmons burn his tongue on it or what?” Do It All Dad says, “Eventually, the fireman extinguished the fire and what you see is the original Seely Place still standing.  But Heavy Metal never dies and it sure is fuck ain’t noise pollution. So, it’s on with show Hardcore Hunga Rocks. I think you’re finally ready for Nightmare on Elm Street, but let’s blast Too Fast For Love in the car first. Their leader guitar player Mick Mars is the Freddy Kruger of shredding. Hardcore Hunga says, “Let’s get on with the show already daddy. But when we get home, you get to play Van Halen on vinyl and use me as an air guitar appendage for Eruption, then we watch the movie, or I’ll be your worst nightmare, moron, got it.” Do It All Dad says, “Only if you promise to shout at any future devil bitch who tries to tell you Heavy Metal sucks.”

“Deal daddy, deal.”

Michael Kornbluth

Owner Of A Heavy Heart

Welcome to Rough Talk Rules, I’m your radio host Solomon Kornbluth, helping you work toward better tomorrows without your deadweight conversationalist ex friends and romantic partners of years past. And today is Dumping Tips Tuesdays, but first let’s take a call from Robert Gauler in Stamford, CT. Hi, Robert, what’s weighing down your heart today?

“Hi, Solomon, what’s weighing down my heart today is being unemployed during the Passover season again.  I’m losing heart from receiving more rejection emails from employer’s that read, “What kind of a moron are you today? For thinking, you could mosey your zero leveraged, broke down ass into our loving arms after a 5-year vacation life as a Stay at Home Dad, I mean sheltered bum, jerkoff. You’re obviously optionless and friendless in this world right now for a reason. Blog stats we can’t verify don’t count as give a shit credentials for our copywriter position that requires at least 5 year of agency copywriting experience. Sharing mock print ads for Woodford Reserve Whiskey with headlines such as, “Class in A Glass”, aren’t going to secure any invitations to interview for any creative professional role within our constellation of star powered creative technologists, designers and witty wordsmith scribes at large, OK! “

Radio Host Solomon says, “I feel your pain, Robert. When was the last time you pulverized a vagina of any kind?”

“I’m living in my grandma’s old apartment, which reeks of middle-aged mildew malaise. Plus, I’m so broke I can’t afford my past cell phone due bill past tomorrow. So, swiping over some random cum dumpster chick I met on Slut in A Straight Jacke .com isn’t happening anytime soon either. I can’t afford my oil pill or my electric bill, so I don’t even have the option of electrocuting myself to death in my tub with a working toaster from GE for that matter. Even if I could convince an ex-booty call to drop by, she’d get cold feet upon entry because I haven’t been able to afford the heating bill in months either. You know the price of gas is high when 10 bucks at the tank burns faster than a 2-hit pinner”, Robert Gauler from Stamford, CT says.

Solomon Kornbluth laughs and says, “You’re a funny guy Robert. Laughter is the best cure all, used to lighten the stressed-out load of fixed ineffectual, stuck in a ditch depression, that’s squeezing the life out of your loving heart, making it borderline impossible to take semi-easy deep breaths for more than 2 seconds a time, I totally get it. My advice moving forward, is to attend, an open mike, which doesn’t charge the one drink minimum, prepare some jokes about your non-existent love life on stage or just rant and rave about how much your life love life sucks compared to Martha Dump Truck in Heathers and you’ll feel less alone in your rapidly building misery. Chances are, if you’re emotionally honest about why you hate your past friends and former loves who left you for dead and kicked dirt on your premature grave, regardless of it being deserved or not, it will become impossible for the crowd to not empathize with what a decrepit, sad sack, shit sandwich, you’re forced to eat every day without sporting’s it’s an all good, all love, big pimping Puff Dadd vibe along the way. It feels liberating and empowering to get out of your head, especially on stage in front of strangers, because any form of comedy allows you to rewrite the narrative to your own liking while giving the golden opportunity to get in last word or final laugh along the way. Who knows, you might even get luck out tonight with a Lesbian poet whose heart isn’t into munching on far from scrumptious stank fumed vagina anymore.”

“Ok, I’ll take one more caller before we start our fan favorite segment, “Dumping Tips Tuesdays.” Next up is a call from Lindsey Lam from Louisville, Kentucky. My mom grew up down south in Kentucky, although my ex-wife insists Kentucky is more Midwest south. Regardless, finger food down there is considered anything that tastes your cousin’s panties, hey now. Lindsay Lam you’re on the air with Rough Talk Rules. How can I lighten your heavy heart today?”

Lindsay Lam says, “Today, I showed my daughter this pathway in the woods where I used to sneak though during lunch in the 10 grade to grab some Burger King for lunch. After pointing out to my daughter, how I used to go there alone for lunch, she made feel a level of defensive embarrassment, which I never experienced until now when she said, “Mommy, that’s a really sad story. But I don’t recall being completely miserable housing a double whopper with a cheese and a chicken sandwich all by myself in the process. Daughter says, “Didn’t you have anyone to share all that food with?” And I said, “Can you stop rubbing in me being an owner of a tubby heavy heart already?”

Solomon Kornbluth says “Look Linsday, I spent plenty of time eating lunch alone growing up. At the time, I never felt that so and so’s presence would’ve made me more at peace with world or provide any greater amount of endorphin releases than what the Double Whopper with Cheese was giving me already, I waited at least 2 minutes for the cheese to melt on it just right. God forbid. You shouldn’t allow your daughter to make your feel shame 20 years after the fact, I’m assuming, for being a friendless loner teenager at the time like Lisa Simpson with a piss poor GPA. Roger Daltry from the Who called high school a Teenage Wasteland for a reason. Maybe, reframe your solo lunches in the 10th grade with me myself and I to your daughter as self-care dates, solo shrink time, or in the spirit of the late great Warren Zevon, “Splendid Isolation,”. Warren didn’t need no one, Challah, thank you very much.”

“But now it’s time for Dumping Tips Tuesdays.  If you give a friend a thoughtful gift like a John Candy biography with an inscription you wrote inside it without receiving a thank you note or word of acknowledgement in return, it just proves you weren’t as close as you imagined. But don’t dwell on infusing more specialness into your so-called friendship. Instead, slap yourself on the shoulder for possessing a more active imagination than he ever did. But so-called friendship works both ways. So, let’s a say you claim to be friends with someone from high school 25 years after the fact but have zero desire in seeing their newborn kid, with zero plans to remember the kid’s name, then it’s safe to say, you’re a shit friend who should’ve been dumped before the relationship went to shit in the first place. So always remember, don’t act like your shit doesn’t stink when it does or else you come across as an insanely judgy, bigger headed prick than the rest. So be less shitty to yourself today and do what you want to do like eating alone for lunch without shitting on yourself for not having any deadweight conversationalist friends to invite for the privilege of being in your splendid company after all.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Putzy Cup Of Truth

It’s hard to not feel putzy clutzy when your dad’s nickname on the streets of the Bronx was Trips on Curbs. The man never owned a spotless white IZOD sweater past Kosher meatball night for Christ’s sake. Plus, it’s hard to feel empathy for putzy stains of shame when you can’t blame the guaranteed splat attack on perpetual double IPA poundage, because you don’t want to circumcise your happiness, when your wife does that enough already by claiming how she’s the one who’s made sacrifices to. Like an aspiring comedian living in Queens during his late twenties wanted kids ever. And stop calling Queens hot, it’s not. Queens is the sloppy third Kardashian sister similar to the biggest backed one of the big 3, who’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a Lamb Gyro in Astoria. Also, there’s no way Bruce Jenner was asexual when he was married to Kris Jenner. But I’m positive Bruce stayed harder and longer after he talked Kris Jenner into cutting her hair shorter, so she’d look more like a dolled-up Ralph Macchio.

My 8-year-old son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA, The Boy Who Raised Himself said, “The Putzy Cup Of Truth never lies”, which is beyond wise or else why would he throw a tighter spiral than you when you’ve had a 4 decade head start, regardless of hiding behind lame excuses such as being a late bloomer spill prone putz at heart. The same guy who got fired from his bartender job in West Hollywood for breaking too many Boudreaux wine glasses as if I was trying to nail my audition tape for Super Putz Get’s Married to a gentile from Australia who could help uproot my putz plagued family tree for good.  We wanted to get married in Australia, but my mom had other ideas.  She calls and says, “Son, Australia is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.” So, I calm my Aussie born wife down and say, “Hey babe, assuming we have a boy one day, which uproots my family’s putzy stains of shame for good, will pass on getting a Rabbi for the circumcision and instead hire Crocodile Dundee, who should be available last time I checked on IMBD. Just so we can hear a room full of Jews say in a collective state of stupefied awe, “Now, that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Woody Allen claiming, he could “throw a football a mile in his youth”, in his memoir Apropos of Nothing when you can’t, serves as another humiliating reminder why the Putzy Cup Of Truth never lies. Granted, I was never caught stashing pictures of a half-naked Soon-Yi in my top sock drawer to tap for future film project titles such as Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years. Shit, the only thing missing from Woody’s sticky icky collection of Polaroids was Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life magazine, but I digress.  Yeshiva students shaming your chicken scratch scrawl next to you on the Subway proves how the Putzy Cup Of Truth is never too far behind, as you try to scribble away one ha inducing joke after the next only to hear Yentel’s younger brother say out of the blue to you, “What language is that Hebrew?” I say, “Yeah, it’s Hebrew Schmendel. I write deli reviews for the Kosher Planet.”

But today, I’m hosting a Burning Mask Party on July 4th and forced my daughter to invite all her friends, especially Andrea, whose father is a volunteer fireman. I want to kick his ass in The Putzy Cup of Truth to prove uppity fireman aren’t immune to sweating under pressure either, especially after he yelled at his daughter to “hurry up”, because he was running late to a “meeting” on a Sunday afternoon while my daughter’s 11-year-old birthday party was still in progress. Why was the Volunteer Fireman Dad acting so distressed exactly? Was he doing a power point presentation on Zoom for his local firehouse to prove how ANTIFA vigilante wannabes who never outgrew their pyromania phase are bigger fire hazards than posting election fraud charges on Twitter since the day Democracy died?

Fireman bust balls, go grocery shopping and try not to fuck up their Grandma’s Sunday sauce recipe for the firehouse. So this much I can do as a Stay At Home Shemale Comedian and host of the Do It All Dad Time podcast, which spits non-stop fire and non-stop truth bomb joke blasts Gen X Dads understand. I’ve also had to endure heckles on stage and plow through a karaoke set while the crowd threw napkins at me during my valiant attempt to finish singing Only God Knows Why at a Cheesecake Factory in Woodland Hills, so I can the handle pressure of increasingly damning animosity hurled in my being’s direction from every angle possible better than most. I also bombed with a Ron Artest joke at the Rainbow Room, where the stage is 3 feet below the actual audience, only to win the fire ready audience back with an inspired ad-lib for the ages when I said, “I love black guys because they don’t discriminate against pussy.” So, there’s no fucking way, I’m going to let this asshole wannabe alpha dog red headed volunteer fireman who’s not a Fire Chief try to exert a more manly stable, putz free aura on my home turf ever again. 5 million space bucks, he got triple vaxed despite real deal first responders who actually ran into the second tower never fearing the prospect of catching an itchy esophagus post COVID either. It’s not my fault his yoga teacher wife bends over backwards to shoot suck me off eyes in my presence knowing my lack of blinding red pubes with the lights on or not in the sack would be a welcome change pace as I pulverized her box into middle earth China.

All the kids are done plopping the masks in a huge pile on our front yard, itching for my long-awaited Burning Mask Party to begin. I light a bunch of Washington Posts, NY Times and issues of Atlantic Magazine on top of the masks and spray it down with Kerosine to take this Burning Mask Party so much higher.  Sly Stone lives, Challah. Thank you very much. Fireman Dad comes to crash the party early again and says, “Do you need help putting out that fire? This half ass bonfire looks like a fire hazard in the making to me. You’re surrounded by woods and your playground set is made out of wood, which is only 2 feet away from it, max.”  I say, “I got fire insurance despite ANTIFA attack premiums for homes that used to sport 2020 Trump flags going through the roof.” Fireman Dad says, “Hazel, were leaving, get in the car now. I’m running late for a meeting.” I say, “Stick around for a drink 1st. We just tapped the keg, it’s Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, the pale that never get’s stale.” Fireman Dad says, “What kind of party are you throwing?  You’re surrounded by a bunch of 11-year-old girls? I said, “I work as an in-house copywriter for Disney now, so I’m fucking fireproof for wining and dining minors as long as I’m educating them on my sex life, which is non-existent anyway, unless you’re interested in giving your wife a pseudo celebrity lay on her birthday for a part in my new movie the Yoga Scout. Disney is producing my movie about a stay-at-home shemale comedian turned Yoga Scout who recruits divorcees looking to make their sex live above average again by meeting other willing bang, bang partners in love at his all nude, hot Yoga studio, Spread Eagles. Does your wife want to spread the love in my Hebrew Hammer’s honor or what? Fireman cocks his fist and winds up to take a swing before his daughter points out how his leg has caught fire from the Burning Mask Party gone wild.  Daughter screams, “Duck and roll daddy, duck and roll.” But Fireman Daddy trips over my kids bike and falls flat on his face in front of all the kids who start laughing uncontrollably. The Fireman father yells, “Somebody help me put out this fire already, these are favorite pair of broken in jeans from Banana Republic, which are made out of Japanese cotton no less.” So, I showered him with mercy and poured a bucket of water on his jeans and put the fire out before saying, “Japanese cotton is more breathable.” Do It All Dad’s daughter hugs her dear daddy’s leg and says, “Daddy, you saved Andrea’s dad’s favorite pair of jeans from disintegrating on the spot while he shrieked like a teenage groupie when Cheap Trick played live at Budokan. You won the Putzy Cup Of Truth challenge after all Daddy. You’re like a gender fluid version of Pat Benatar in the form of a hardcore hilarious comedian, “Come on hit me with your best shot and fire my putzy plagued past, away. Challah, thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth