Next Level Sketchy

Why do I feel scuzzy for watching the Malice in the Palace doc on Netflix?

Outside, of realizing that I started chasing laughs 18 years ago on the open mike floor of the Rainbow Room on the Sunset Strip no less and have nothing to show for it outside of a bomb Faconnable leather jacket after getting my TV writing break with Vh1 Classic 7 years ago on America’s Hard 100.

I feel like I debased myself by chucking my moral stance on insisting I tell all modern NBA to go woke itself by listening to my brother’s recommendation to watch it, when he says. “Yoh, bro, the NBA isn’t political, they don’t take the knee anymore.” I say, “They painted Thugs Lives Matter Most on NBA hardwood courts throughout the nation for 2 years straight asshole, after Lebron yelled at his teammates for standing up for the national anthem since the league exists as a safe space for his rapidly punctured ego. I know, guaranteed money in the NBA despite 20 personal days off becoming the new normal these days despite never having to develop a reliable hook shot with your left is so oppressive.”

The fight only happened because a fan chucked a cup of beer on Ron Artest. He was chilling in the scorer’s table in a reclining position. Ron looked like he could use a frosty beverage after his scuffle with Ben Wallace that was a result of his semi-rough foul with 2 minutes left in a game and a 12-point lead in their favor. Fucking Stephen Jackson, the voice of reason, Mr. Ride or Die, I was defending my brother Ron. From what, a noogie headlock in the stands from an out of work mechanic who worked as extra in Gung Ho? Instead of throwing on his thinking cap while educating himself on Hitler after his boy Farrakhan, sprayed Elie Wiesel’s Twitter feed with Termite Emoji from dawn till night.

So, Reggie Miller didn’t win a championship, boo-hoo. Neither did Patrick Ewing and the only other semi-reliable scoring options on that team was a highly streaky, unproven John Starks who wasn’t a high school phenom drafted to play in the pros like the faultless Jermaine Oneil was. Reggie says, “If Jermanine didn’t slip, he would’ve killed that guy he sucker-slide-punched.” Because Jermanie O’Neil was on the right side of justice. That dude who just came off the floor before being sucker slided punched didn’t throw any 1st punches at Jermaine O’Neil. And stop acting like being sprayed with foamy beer is worse than being pelted by batteries by Bleacher Creatures in the old Yankee Stadium, before the house that Gentrification built was built. Well, if Bob Costas called us thugs, they’re really out to get my money. What did Jermaine Oneil want Bob Costas to say instead? Bob Cousey wouldn’t let his daughter date Stephen Jackson if his 6 rings depended on it. Ron Artest let his anxiety about beer pong spillage turn him into a raving, wronged lunatic like the rap video ho that’s get sprayed down with Old E in the video Gin and Juice. Ron Artest attacking fans in attendance is a punk ass, next level sketchy move like Nas and his boys stomping on Little Nas at the Source Awards after party for failing to give him lip service after exploiting his canonized rap name for all it was worth.

So, David Stern, suspended Ron Artest for the season. It forced Ron to dig deep, change his name and win a championship with the Lakers, good. Queensbridge represent. And how dare the original gangster David Stern, who made the NBA what it is today, suspend Stephen Jackson and Jermaine Oneil for 25 games without pay. But Hockey players fight all the time Jermaine. Yeah, amongst themselves. Plus, they don’t manage to slip while punching and they’re on the fucking ice player. And a sucker punch is a low class, next level sketchy behavior, which you’re guilty of Jermaine. You can spin it all you want, but next level sketchy behavior becomes thuggish, when you throw the 1st punch at a fan who comes up to your knee when he’s not looking, when you could’ve killed him if you didn’t slip on Ben Wallace’s headband sweat in the process. If that it isn’t excessively violent, uncalled for, behavior, then I’m just a sheltered suburban white boy who only supports Janice kicking the shit of any soccer mom who encourages her Stepford Wive seed to trip up Bobby’s daughter in the presence of Janice Soprano.

And what documentary is only an hour? It’s my fault for giving the doc a serious, contemplative look as if the unseen camera angle footage was going to reveal who the 3rd gunman was who killed Kennedy. I only wish David Stern was the District Attorney of any Democrat run hellhole these days such as Philly, New York, LA, Seattle, Portland, San Fran, Chicago, that’s closing freaking Starbucks and 7/11’s left and right because they can’t protect their employees from more thuggish attacks because looting Slurpee money is poetic justice. Hurry up and buy that line of bullshit, honky ass motherfuckers. Forget the violent crime committed against Asians on Subways on Fulton Street in Manhattan because Jeremy Lin hogged the bike lane all to himself, which pissed off JR Smith royally back in the day to. I don’t care about the tattoos, or shitty rap music in proliferation today. I just care about normalizing and accepting thuggish behavior, which is uncalled for, encouraged, enabled violence by so called activists that the media today gives a pass to, especially after the past summer of love 2 billion dollars’ worth of damage later, countless lives lost, over bullshit narratives such as Hands Up Don’t Shoot, and Thugs Lives matter most. Without consequence, laws, and rules, thuggish behavior is not only encouraged and accepted but proliferated to the point of complete anarchy, which is why gun violence especially among inner city youth and innocence bystanders is more out of control than Jill Biden’s hair on any given day. Shit, I’d look 24/7 disheveled, frazzled if was on 24/7 pill wet nurse detail for President Poppy Pants.

But Lebron, King of the Persecution complex says, “Boston is the most racist city.” Doesn’t Boston have the most affirmative action programs in place of higher education? Doesn’t Boston have a host successful charter schools in place? Hasn’t Boston completely decriminalized weed? Doesn’t Boston have Pronvincetown nearby, which has been a money in the bank, gay haven for all colors, sizes and shapes of dick since the dawn of time? Who never dared charge James Baldwin for the crime of boring everybody to sleep despite all the poppers in the universe jammed up your rectum to keep you up for more punch free, pontificating prose otherwise? Isn’t Big Papi, being a Dominican Republic legend, revered in Boston? Which makes him black enough to brush up against Joe Biden’s leg hair back in the day in Mr. Groper’s yes. Manny Rameriz, Pedro Martinez all loved playing in such a racist city Lebron. Shit, even Johnny Damon looks borderline Asian. Robert Parish was blacker than Dee Brown’s 45-inch vertical jump. If a black dude played for the Boston Bruins and broke Cam Neely’s single season, Hat Trick record, I’m sure the locals wouldn’t be running him out of town with pitchforks in hand. Nick Dipaolo, standup up great, is always referencing his black comedian friends, total racist I know, for making fun of Seinfeld for being clueless about Cosby being a druggy planting rapist for 4 decades straight. Where were your powers of observation then Jerry? Next level sketchy, 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

Greatest Story Never Told

“I’m dying of some new virus called Aids kid and I don’t have a bucket of shit to leave you since I blew all my money on the track and on my cousin’s whiskey distillery, which was stupid to invest in because the master distiller turned out to be allergic to corn for Christ’s sake. I know in the eighties it seems like boom times for everybody but not for your old man.”

Son says, “Don’t talk that way Dad. I never loved you for being a wannabe bootlegger turned porn magazine mogul like Lary Flynt in the making. You taught me how to fish, play the slide guitar like Duane Alman did, make my own wine, grow my own green, play good enough ball to get a basketball scholarship at Western Kentucky and to smoke brisket like a true pit master maestro in the making, because a country boy can survive.”

“That’s nice of you to say son, but I’ll be lucky to live past the Kentucky, Duke game this Sunday and I got nothing of value to leave my only son, my gorgeous, gargantuan, 6-foot 9 boy, but the greatest story never told. Hopefully, you’ll have more success getting laid with this story than your great, great, great, grandfather ever did. I wanted to wait until your graduation from college to tell you this gem of a yarn, because you’re the only one in the Grease family to ever attend college, but the story is too good to take with me toward the great beyond under.”

“Picture Knob Creek in 1836, a young Abe Lincoln is playing cowboys and Indians with his best pal, your great, great, great grandfather Austin Gallher. Abe normally played the Indian, Trips on Logs, and today was no different. Although this time, they lost track of time, so Abe was acting more flustered frenetic than normal, insisting on dashing across a log along Knob Creek or else he’d miss out on mama’s specialty that she made on his birthday only, a batch of racoon ragoon soup, a Daniel Boone secret recipe allegedly from back in the day. Well Abe slipped off the log as expected, being in character as Trips on Logs or not. Mr. Cat In the Hat went splat and screamed for help like he just got bit in the ass by a frisky, fangy bat. Well, Abe didn’t know how to swim, so your great, great, great Grandfather had to save his favorite bed sharing partner from drowning. Austin rips off a gigantic size branch and helps pull Abe out on the grassy knoll off Knob Creek, feeling pretty good about the saving his dear friend from drowning to death. But Austin couldn’t enjoy the post saver high from saving his bedsharing pal Abe, after Trips on Logs started sharing a vision he had during his near-death experience. Abe says, “Austin, I had a vision in Knob Creek about me helping emancipate the negros from slavery one day, but throughout your lifetime, you have to promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, that you saved me from drowning, because the negro will never look up to me as a new age Moses liberator of slaves if they ever knew I was a worst swimmer than they.”

Son laughs for five minutes straight and says, “At the same time pops, there’s plenty of southern folk who don’t think Abe was the perfect saint he’s portrayed to be. He had newspaper publishers arrested, suspended Habeus Corpus, talked about deporting all the negros in our country to fucking Brazil in South America. Plus, 650,000 died during the Civil War, he also held the equivalent of concentration camps for southern prisoners when 95 percent of us southerners didn’t’ even own slaves. Those Yankee motherfuckers wanted to tax us to death and tell us how the fuck to run our own land and had less respect for state rights,than Thomas Jefferson had for Hank Williams Junior homemade wine.”

Dad says, “I hear you son. Most Civil Wars of this magnitude weren’t necessary to free slaves. Plus, the Emancipation Proclamation at first only freed slaves in certain territories so Lincoln could recruit fighters tougher than east coast banker kids like Denzel Washington in Glory. But most would agree that Austin Galler saving Abe Lincoln will go down as the greatest presidential save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby.”

Son laughs for 10 minutes straight this time, shaking all the empty Jefferson Reserve whisky bottles on the mantle piece and says, “You’re a funny man pa. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough for Ma to stick around with us till the end.”

Pops says, “She could take me back in Heaven. But I don’t know if my kind are welcome past the pearly gates for the priveledge of your late mother calling me a crazy, faggot loser in the afterlife for all eternity either.”

Pop’s only son hugs his dear pa with all his might and says, “Fuck that bitch. I always loved you more anyway.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth