Big Stinger Day

When mommy says, “I miss you guys”, you can tell if its half-hearted bullshit or not. Did you really miss Samuel asking you to finish wiping his bum while you’re cleaning up for your date with Sarah? Did you really miss badgering the kids about whether Daddy reapplied sunscreen on them or not after their picnic after I picked them up from camp? Did you really miss rushing out of the house in 98-degree weather to get some snacks for a picnic that turned out to be one for just Matilda and her friends? One of them being the kid who lives next door to Bill Gate’s daughter. Who for a wedding gift was bequeathed a 22-acre farm under the condition that she turn it into a placenta smoothie retreat for Hollywood Actresses to practice equestrian therapy with. You haven’t lived until you threw back a placenta Smoothie with January Jones on the set of Mad Men. It provides nutrients for an anorexic baby in the making. So, let’s kick this spirit cooking party into full gear and invite Hillary Hammer Time Cankles to feast off magnums of Baby Jane from 62. But no “unusual” placentas Planned Parenthood or else they can’t demand top dollar by Bill Gates and friends. I know Marina what’s her name isn’t satanic, she’s a “performance artist”, because her interview with James Franco got published in the Wall Street Journal under the money and investing section for Spirit Cooking Schools for the rich and famous not advertised on LinkedIn. Recipes for liquid dinners are painted on the wall in blood. The first one is a mix fresh breast milk and fresh semen, none of this frozen shit from Walt Diseny and friends. Added directions include to only drink on earthquake nights although attending a live podcast by Megan Mccain, otherwise known as the Plop of Nothing gets the job done. You don’t think the DNC is controlled by demonic beasts in relation to Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, Snopes Salon? Have you seen Tony Podesta’s kiddie porn art collection draped on his fundraising walls? There’s enough pedo bondage pics on those walls to make Marilyn Manson blush. You don’t think the Wiki Leaks emails from the Podesta’s about pool time entertainment, with ages specified along with talk of kids being sent Ubers on top of various mentions of various pizza topping such as yum, yum sauce are enough reasons to give you hypertension for giving babysitting with the Podesta brothers a chance?

So were about to leave the “Picnic”, and the girl who lives next door to Bill Gate’s kid’s Placenta Smoothie Farm Retreat says, “Richard Gere is my neighbor to.” And in front of 2 parents there I say, “Those beads didn’t come in red Gere.”

Big Stinger Day, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

American Made Prayer

Aaron Rodgers, Kyrie Irving and the gluten tennis guy enter the hotel bar at the Pierre just to make Michelle Obama uncomfortable while in town for the U.S Open.

Bartender says, “We don’t serve your kind.”

Gluten Tennis guy says, “I piss Beetroot brighter than you.”

Kyrie Irving says, “Still educating yourself on Hydroxychloroquine for Dummies, merchant of liquid death?”

Aaron Rodgers says, “Even my bud Joe Rogan thinks you smirk too much.”

Bartender says, “Deplorable douchebags, what will you do when Michelle Obama becomes our next President?”

After they’re all done laughing and coughing out lungs without any blood clots in them.

Kyrie Irving says, “Just what America needs, Obama’s, Five O’ Clock Shadow Part 2.”

Never forget the new terrorists that pushed Operation Death Speed on us, that’s ripped the heart out of our American Dream that’s barely hanging on to life support in front of our children’s undimmed eyes, if you’re lucky.

Bury these demonic shitbags and force Hunter to snort up their dusty remains and have LA famed street artist Babo spray paint the pic all over the Smithsonian in D.C. to hang for all eternity. God’s speed, Lord, God’s speed.

Michael Kornbluth

American Made Prayer

Aaron Rodgers, Kyrie Irving and the gluten tennis guy enter the hotel bar at the Pierre just to make Michelle Obama uncomfortable while in town for the U.S Open.

Bartender says, “We don’t serve your kind.”

Gluten Tennis guy says, “I piss Beetroot brighter than you.”

Kyrie Irving says, “Still educating yourself on Hydroxychloroquine for Dummies, merchant of liquid death?”

Aaron Rodgers says, “Even my bud Joe Rogan thinks you smirk too much.”

Bartender says, “Deplorable douchebags, what will you do when Michelle Obama becomes our next President?”

After they’re all done laughing and coughing out lungs without any blood clots in them.

Kyrie Irving says, “Just what America needs, Obama’s, Five O’ Clock Shadow Part 2.”

Never forget the new terrorists that pushed Operation Death Speed on us, that’s ripped the heart out of our American Dream that’s barely hanging on to life support in front of our children’s undimmed eyes, if you’re lucky.

Bury these demonic shitbags and force Hunter to snort up their dusty remains and have LA famed street artist Babo spray paint the pic all over the Smithsonian in D.C. to hang for all eternity. God’s speed, Lord, God’s speed.

Michael Kornbluth

Keep On Yearning

10 Reasons Why I Feel Bad About Yearning for The Messiah

  1. I feel bad about yearning for the Messiah because he’ll judge me for ascribing too much faith in Trump being above sheer ego preservation.
  2. I feel bad about yearning for the Messiah because 24 carrot crosses worn by rappers will depreciate in value and they’ll feel robbed.
  3. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because it’s against self-help, and I’d like to feed my family on my own again.
  4. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because of the nagging Jewish guilt that would ensue. My cousins get thrown in ovens, but I get off easy by noshing on God blessed Sponge Cake with ringside seats for the rebuilding of the Great Temple.
  5. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because I’ll feel like I’m cheating death when the Dead come back to life, to tell Christian nation, I told you so.
  6. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because it forces me to lie about wanting all Jews united under one roof, when I can’t stand any of my Jewish friends from High School anymore.
  7. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because no more wars, means Terrorists will be forced to drive more Uber cars in Tel Aviv, than I feel comfortable driving in, when I’m in town to watch my son, compete for Israel’s Next Top Temple Builder.
  8. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah because wishing for no more famine, means I can regress into being a pampered, trust fund baby again.
  9. I feel bad about yearning for the Jewish Messiah, because I don’t think Israel should be redeemed for forcing its citizens of God to take the clot shoot to feed their families. Maybe, the 2nd booster made the COVID case less severe. And Booger Face Behar in the new Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.
  10. I feel bad about your yearning for the Jewish Messiah because my father will become more spiritual and visit the Grand Canyon after moving to Arizona 10 years later. So, I’ll lose my funny man moral high ground and can’t call him a fake news hippie anymore. Challah, thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why I Have Mixed Feelings About The Messiah Arriving In My Lifetime

  1. I’m not ready to give up hatred yet.  Without hatred, comedy ceases to exist, which translates to me making 95 comedy records for nothing.
  2. Tinges of jealousy are alright, if you use that surging sense of envy to fix your sour puss situation, so you feel less shitty about yourself than before.
  3. And the existence of greed is good, if it motivates you to work harder for brighter tomorrows, pregnant with more do good possibility man.
  4. I don’t need the Messiah to arrive in my lifetime to convince me of God’s divine presence in my 3 glorious, blemish free children for the time being. Cosmic perfection through my kids lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. I don’t want Trump to get involved in the next hit reality show, “Israel’s Next Great Temple Builder”, only for him to tweet on his new social media platform, “Not enough orange marble for my taste, personally.”
  6. Regardless of Twitter being bought by Elon Musk or not, the Twitter Twat home will be flush with real life hate speech from atheist cunts about the arrival of a real deal Jewish leader who can prove King David descent on Acenstry.com. Linda Sarsour will accuse the Messiah, of “Cultural apartheid”, moments after construction of the Great Temple begins because it’s not a super mosque for God’s fake news chosen people. Islam gave us math, I heard. Then, why aren’t Muslim ever getting charged for tax evasion due to creative accounting?
  7. Israel means, “To argue with God”, but once the Messiah arrives, you can’t pull off a convincing remake of Fidder in The Roof, starring Jack Black. The milk man Dad will come off as a short-sighted true believer.
  8. I won’t be able to jerk off to third legged beauties.com again, without dreading the prospect of the great 3rd Temple, tumbling down due to my inability to let go off my death grip on sexual immorality.
  9. I’ll have to send my kids to Hebrew School then, despite the Rabbi using COVID in the same sentence as the Holocaust. Death camp victims don’t boast a 99 percent survival rate Rabbi, sorry.
  10. I’ll just get mad about my parents for refusing to use my future inheritance money to buy the Kosher meat store in Yonkers, NY on Central Avenue on the cheap. Because after the return of Jewish commanded law, Kosher butchers will make a killing, Challah. Thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why It’s Hard to Believe The Messiah Will Arrive In My Lifetime.  

  1. Because who wants to see Trump rolled up in a ball behind closed doors after another interview expose with Piers Morgan on Fox Called, “The Day My Ego Died.”
  2. Because Florida and Anti-Semitism are so hot right now. If the real messiah did emerge, that being the new age promised Jewish leader self-picked to rebuild the Temple of David and teach Hebrew to a bunch of dreamers in South Bronx. I don’t see him descending from Mount Sinai, because he’ll be called a poor man’s Moses impersonator by the NY Times, who posts Hot Sauce Parm recipes on Pinterest to downplay his Jewish noble ties to King David out of fear being called Butt Bump Buddies with Trumpy Poo, God forbid.
  3. Because Lebron James has depreciated the Messiah brand name after inscribing the tat Chosen One on his holy temple bod. Forget the promised land, King of The Persecution Complex can’t even get the Lakers into the 1st round of the playoffs with all eyez on him in the Staples Center for year 2 of COVID this time around.
  4. Jews in charge of our precious news media need to repeat Hebrew School because they still refer to January 7 as an armed insurrection uprising.  Taking selfies in the atrium of the Capital Building is equal to the Maccabees jamming white roman priveledge up their ass in the form of spears shaped like Thunderbolts after reclaiming the Great Second Temple to prove God was on their side, I agree.
  5. Doesn’t China need to approve the Messiah’s social credit score before agreeing to sell Israel more masks made in China?
  6. Kareem Adul Jabbar will stay pray five times a day to play the horn better than Miles Davis regardless.
  7. Obama will go on hating the hick from French Lick regardless, because despite being half black Obama Be Meh’s vertical jump is still whiter than White Man’s Disease.  
  8. All Lives Matter is the new word and BLM don’t play that.
  9. George Soros will have pay ANTIFA in shekels instead bitcoin, which will set fire to the Great 3rd Temple in a nanosecond.
  10.  Executives at Disney care more about grooming pool time entertainment at the Podesta’s summer house in Martha’s Vinyard.  It’s not as if they those executives have any intention of going back to Hebrew school to teach Jewish pride and groom future menschs on the rise. Challah, thank you very much.

10 Reasons Why It Would Be Weird For The Messiah To Arrive In My Lifetime.

  1. It’s weird because liberals will rally against all the reasons to hate drawn out Synagogue services after the 3rd great temple is built, compared to highly shortened Libs on Tik Tok summations of the services instead. Arcade Fire plays. Images of clouds appear and God’s voice pierces them, proclaiming, “Follow my commandments already motherfuckers. How much more proof do you need that I exist already? I’ve eradicated war, famine and all your college debut to study genital mutilation studies at Oberlin College, when Sharia Law for Mongoloid Morons, for only 72 shekels at the farmer’s market in Damascus, would’ve been sufficient.
  2. It’s weird because I don’t see street meet vendors in New York City scrapping their cash cow by insisting their Muslim brotherhood butchers forsake giving shout outs to Allah’s gangster paradise before slicing the throats of lambs served for the killer price of 8.99 per plate with rice and white sauce either.
  3. It’s weird because my mother-in-law will still say God bless on every birthday card for her grandchildren without saying, “I’m still eating ham on Easter to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ, you obstinate, all knowing bastards.”
  4. It’s weird because the Catholic Church will be harder up for donations than the Clinton Foundation during the new Spirit Cooking Awareness Month.
  5. It’s weird because I still don’t see my Christian in-laws embracing the remake of Happy Days with Henry Winkler, who gives the Messiah a high five at Johhny Rockets for fixing the Jukebox by paying a mini homage to fellow Hebrew Andrew Dice Clay when he says, Rub A Dub, Dub, Douche, before thrusting his Chuck Berry loving playing pelvis toward the Juke Box that’s gets the soul music machine playing again.
  6. It’s weird because I don’t see Joe Biden giving the Messiah a post Pandemic first bump without social distancing himself from Hunter’s Laptop from hell 1st. Icky Shuffle says, “Jill, we better tell God, the “Big Guy”, wasn’t me, but Jesus Christ, another fake news messiah like Obama Be Good. Do you think God will warm up to me again with that one liner? I better scrap my Easter Day speech at the White House when I claimed to speak to God through Jen Psaki’s burning bush after Hunter gave her the clap from the hooker in Cabo on his birthday. Remember Jill?  When you said, “Blow”, Hunter snorted the cake
  7. It’s weird because when The Jewish Messiah isn’t fake news, starts to trend on Twitter. Farrakhan will spray the Messiah’s twitter feed with termite emojis from dusk through night regardless.   
  8. It’s weird because Scientist Atheists will become the new lepers.
  9. It’s weird because Woody Allen will have to explain why he kept naked pics of a 9 nine-year-old Soon-Yi in his top sock drawer when married to Mia. The Messiah, says, “Woody, how do you explain your nude polaroid pics of a 9-year-old Soon Yi? The only pic missing from your collection was Soon Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine.”
  10. It would be weird if the Messiah was a hard laugh, who refused to acknowledge my free jokes posted on my WordPress blog as a charitable donation of any kind devoid of all striving up goodness whatsoever. Messiah says, “Yeah, Michael, man can’t live on punchlines alone, especially yours. But lucky for you, I’ll treat you as a desperately flailing charity case. So, what’s new? So just get a real job already outside of raging against the world on your Do It All Dad Year blog through more meh jokes because you’re the sloppy second son for a reason. It’s time to move on already. Maybe, you can help me sell Christian nation on why I’m not the sloppy second son compared to Jesus Christ, for Christ Sake, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Monopoly on Introspection

I post a bit on my WordPress blog about taking Adderall to Temple because organized religion in person makes me feel very disorganized. Some random, commentator’s commentary was, “I find it interesting that non-practicing and non-religious Jews are the most introspective about their annoying Jewy identify than any other sub-group, really, Catholics indulge a bit to, if you can make it through Dogma without longing for Brody to replace Damon as the arch angel of death if you can’t get past Matt playing the Jew hating WASP a tad too well in School Ties, without Kevin Smith moonlighting as a script doctor on the script this time around. I reply, “Jews have a monopoly on introspection now? Who knew? You’d think moderate Muslims were the ones who made a killing in the Psychotherapy business after all these years.”

The most comically annoying part of her pretend ironically detached assertion was that non-religious or non-practicing Jews today actually advertise any affiliation with their Jewish ancestry because they worship false idols like Dr. Gnocchi, pretend ANTIFA are Klan firefighters, accuse Israel of genocide on Twitter for refusing to be pushover putzy, support NFL kneelers kicking Nazi destroyers in the nuts and reduce Trump voters to Nazi’s despite Jimmy Fallon failing to rub of his hair on the Tonight Show, which turned his writers into haters because a real life skinhead never emerged. The same fake news good Jews who insist on sucking off Obama Be Good till their last dying breath despite him posting all of Israel’s nuclear hiding sites on Al Jazeera earth to give Sharia Law a greater chance because Muslim Extremist lives matter most, especially knowing what useful partners they were to Hitler in World 2, right Barry? So, cut the bullshit Obama, you love Hitler so much more than Trump. Financing the bioweapon of death made in Wuhan wasn’t your idea either Obama. That belongs to Gates and Fauci, this is the year of the 4 eyed snake remember? You only wish you were that organized. Although you did get close after giving 150 billion to Iran after they promised to take a time out from building nukes to destroy Israel, so the number one sponsor of terror worldwide could use the money to create overseas manufacturing jobs for Build a Bear to make their economy less reliant on the sale of chest removal cream for the Kardashians.

Son asks, “Daddy, who published the Bible first?” I say, “Moses self-published the Old Testament first but don’t call it a vanity press because that’s not kosher in God’s book. Later Moses handed out the Bible to the 12 tribes of Israel on a pro-bono basis while insisting they transcribe it by hand and have each leader write a Torah scroll themselves because Xerox sales reps from CT were too white, pasty and humorless to come across as believable chosen members of the tribe, who were capable of infiltrating that sales territory with any divine powered sales authority whatsoever.

Youngest son asks, “How big is God?” I say, “Bigger than Obama’s ego. Despite Kenya not printing any money in his likeness yet.” Obama’s so not money, and Kenyans know it, Challah. Jewish introspection lives, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Holiness Rocks

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth

















Spiritually Superstitious

Call me elitist. But I like eating Kosher because it makes feel less common and ordinary blah. Deli guy says, “No Bacon, with that?” “Is my egg and cheese order not manly enough for you, Dominick, I ain’t no Fag Scholanti?” Plus, I can watch the Showrunner of Everyone Loves Raymond, Phil Rosenthal on Somebody Feed Phil, squirm with discomfort around the actor from Treme went he told him to put more “swing” into whatever French creole named sausage he tried to annunciate with divine powered glee knowing my commitment to upholding a Koshertarian diet comedian lifestyle would allow me to make fun of it with detached bemusement soon after. Although in terms of comedy, nothing could beat the Treme actor explaining his learning process about cured meats, “Oh, so Pate is like hog’s head cheese.” Hilarious, prior he explained his use of a blood bucket growing up in Louisiana used in the making of Blood Sausage. And I’m thinking, Phil Rosenthal has less in common with this actor’s roots than white man’s disease. At one point in the episode, Phil attends a non-Kosher seder, with a giant Gefilte Fish stuffed with Shrimp. And Gefilte Fish slop plop is so old world Jewy disgusting in Microsoft Word’s eyes, autocorrect doesn’t even acknowledge its existence. Actually, I was being a self-loathing, paranoid half Jew, who was spelling it wrong. Reality is, my mother was raised Catholic I think in Kentucky, she never talks about it really, before she converted to Judaism after my dad nailed her with his Hebrew hammer, I guess. Seconds later, mom says, “Jesus who, never heard of the guy. But anything beats eating Squirl soup, so fuck off Christian nation, I’m moving to Jew York into some shitty tenement in the Bronx, that’s not Riverdale, I’m out of here.”

I love the south. My favorite summer wind was Katie King, who was from Winston Salem, North Carolina. We met in Kennedy country in Chatham, Cape Cod, the 1st time I asked God for anything by the beach. I say, “God, I don’t need Marilyn Monroe, but just a summer romance of some kind, so I can have someone to think about while playing I Remember You by Skid Row although Sebastian Bach sporting a shirt that read Aids kill fag Dad is an extraneous exclamation point at that point in the sentence.” God delivered with resounding authority and gave me the scent of the south in Katie King. Outside of my great, great, great, Grandfather Austin Gollaher saving his boyfriend friend from drowning while running home late for some racoon soup, this will go down as the greatest save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby. But what was God saving me from exactly outside of more ordinary blah? Easy, he saved me from non-stop hurt, because good loving is what I got, Sublime lives, Challah, thank you very much. More importantly, until then, I never knew or had any clue about my capacity for being a joy spreader for others. During one of our last night’s together after another legendary kiss, that went on for years in a good way, my dear Katie King said, “I never knew somebody could make me so happy.” Being a New York Yankee who sported a circumcised schlong versus the ant eater look tipped the laws of attraction in my favor to. So maybe, my mom converted to Judaism because settling for the ant eater look between some southern gent’s legs would’ve circumcised her happiness also.

I fell in love with crawfish and all its succulent manifestations while working as a waiter at a Creole style restaurant in Park Slope ages ago, back when Lena Dunham has much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself. Before birthrates in Brooklyn had reached an all-time low due to overweight hobbit hipsters pulling out early from excessive meat sweats. At the same time Lena Dunham’s encouraged arm flapper look wasn’t encouraging more porking over pounding more pork buns either. Crawfish, you know shrimp with personality. Think Madeline Kahn over Samantha Bee. I had crazy sex with a girl from St. Louis during Marti Gras on my friend’s couch in and out of a black out powered haze although I remember sucking face with her after drinking a Hand Grenade prior and she tasted fantastic. So, I have plenty of love for southern accentuated fun. You can’t beat southern loving hospitality like this. So why forsake more drunken revelry down on the big easy, where banging random, giving girls you just met is easy? Because my dick would fall off from overexertion and pop out of its joy socket. Either that, or I’d wake up in 2 months without a livable liver because of my own self-inflicted wounds.

But what are my ungodly reasons for sticking with the Koshertarian Diet for the home stretch of my life? For starters, abstaining from pork shields me from future charges of Islamophobia. Especially, after a smartphone catches one of my future performances a Carolines on Broadway, when I say, “A 2 state solution is never ending as long as Hamas keeps fucking.” I’m also drawn to bragging rights for one upping Dad. Did we eat Kosher in the house for 22 years? Yes, but we ate Chinese and bomb veal parm in the Bronx outside the house, which isn’t the same thing. I’m not against swinging both ways, but for once, I’m committed to a monogamous relationship with Kosher law, and I don’t mind feeling like a slut in a strait jacket in this instance, which is a welcome change of pace. I also like forward, upward motion, which is why I’m doing my year without beer, so I can drop whatever deadweight that’s preventing me from achieving Do It All Dad dunking out glory. So, working towards being a Koshertarian Comedian lifer that’s constantly striving to reach a higher spiritual place of fulfillment is a soul cleansing place to be, after pleasuring yourself to 3rd, legged beauties.com prior. Being a hit blasting Koshertarian Comedian for the bast 13 months, 121 comedy records later, beats Jolting Joe’s 56 game hitting streak by a mile. So that’s an ungoldy reason to stick with my funny man Koshertarian Comedian path that gives me a leg up on my competition, knowing how God’s hooking me up with more sheets of comedy gold in return. And like Ron Shelton wrote in Bull Durham, “You don’t fuck with a winning streak.” Plus, at this late in the game, I don’t want to cheat myself out of the holiness I feel from upholding my Koshertarian diet. I think my kids would be less disappointed if I carried on a new love affair with a fan on my WordPress blog than breaking my Koshertarian vows really. Have I made a vow to honor my Koshertarian Diet till my last dying breath? No, but self-imposed restrictions make me feel like a more in control beast similar to my year without beer so far. And it’s no longer just about my own self-serving needs but inspiring my kids to rise above being slaves to your give me now desires. The Metallica album Master of Puppets is about being a slave to drug dependence. Fine, eating a Shrimp Po Boy isn’t in the same league. Still, I miss the idea of having that option more than the action of inhaling a shrimp boy itself. But ultimately, sticking with the Koshertarian Diet has provided good restrictions that have forced me to be more creative that’s resulted in my primo, heavily workshopped, 2nds demanding Farfalle pesto with no cheese using a mixture of pecans and pistachios, always being the best, while throwing in some diced up Kosher chicken breasts from the air fryer in addition to some well salted, thinly sliced, cherry tomatoes top.

Other ungodly reasons to stick the Koshertarian Diet is ensure my book the Koshertarian Comedian gets published one day, in spite of the masked bitch at the bookstore in Rhinebeck, who acted grossed out, perplexed, when I asked, if they had a Kosher cookbook section. She gives me an immediate, “no.” And I say, “What if I asked for you for a Hallal cookbook section that gave shout outs to Allah in honor of all the porking you get do in Allah’s gangsta paradise as a reward for killing more infidel bitches like yourself, hashtag, hacking hymens to shawarma shreds.” Ungodly Reasons, Challah. Thank you very much.

It’s tempting to break my Koshertarian diet when I visit a semi-close bud from college in St. Louis later this summer to see George Thorogood and the Destroyers, Sammy Haggar is the opening act. I hear his Tequilla goes down Van Halen light. Will I be able to turn down smoked Brisket and burnt ends in St. Louis away from my beamish 3 kids for 2 nights with no restrictions outside of abstaining from bourbon and banging some random chick without passing out in my condom 1st? Will see, but I’m looking forward to some man-on-man bonding company more so than suckling down some Pit master made Brisket while pitching my bud new ideas for my screenplay Gum King Of New York, about a stay-at-home dad who reinvents himself as a pitchman star on the QVC during his year without beer while hocking his new brand of hop flavored Gum Hop-O-Rama Chew. I plan on selling the action-comedy adventure as a cross between Pineapple Express, Joy and The Founder except its origin story takes place in St. Louis in 2022 with some Midwest Jewish mobsters in Kansas City ala Casino thrown in between.

Ultimately, though I just don’t want to fuck up my winning streak on the keyboard. Call me spiritually superstitious then. At the same time, I also enjoy my slimmed down physique that’s a direct result of a veggie loaded Koshertarian Diet and I refuse to let Phil Rosenthal look more wide eyed happy slim for having less of a need for fostering a divine connection than the need for edgier, funny man commentary on his tour of Copenhagen for Somebody Feed Phil. “Copenhagen is known for its inclusive diversity embedded in its architecture such as these Moroccan titled fountains and fake news no go zone areas over here.”

Every morning, I thank God for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And sticking to the Koshertarian diet has allowed me to do that although Bill Maher would prefer to call him my imaginary friend, so be it. Rocky’s been Stallone’s imaginary friend for 4 decades straight and it’s paid off handsomely for Sly. Although learning that 420, the national pot smoking holiday is on Hitler’s birthday, was a total bummer man equal to when learning how Sly snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. I also close out every morning prayer session with thanking Hashem, the most high, for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And I feel that sticking with the Koshertarain diet is a nice tender touch that helps keep our love connection alive, versus my wife rolling over to the other side of the equator whenever I try to snuggle her for old times’ sake at night.

Is the Koshtertarian Diet my life preserver needed to achieve publishing glory or just a cute, gimmick fad to create a niche in on LinkedIn? Time will tell, but for now I’m all in on God, no more in and out of God shit, call me Superstitiously Faithful, I don’t give a shit. All I know, is that my son, the other day, says in a semi-joking manner, “I don’t like life”, to make me laugh before camp. But wish you were here vibes are easy to sense. And I say, “What you mean Samuel is that you don’t like your life when Daddy isn’t in it as much since you started camp. And you’re pissing in your bed again, because camp is ending soon and you’re scared about missing on more hangout time with Daddy once Kindergarten starts, correct? Son tears up a tad and says, “You’re not such a moron son, after all Daddy. But once camp is over, I get to sell your books and comedy CDs with you like Flipper Bird Baby, Daddy, deal?”

So, why would I want to give God sloppy second consideration for the sake of crawfish pie, when he continues to bless me with such an endlessly growing love life like this? Especially knowing how anger is normally a realer emotion than love, but not in this instance. For example, how often do you hear your wife or girlfriend say I love you without it sounding manufactured hoarse as if she’s forcing the issue to avoid a divorce? On the other hand, when you say, “I hate what New York City has become, because no bail policies have turned the Big Apple into OZ without any Proud Boys to bail your ass out of trouble in sight. When my son says, “I hate hanging out with mommy.” What he’s really saying is that he prefers hanging out time with Daddy because he get’s bored too easily around Mama for extended periods of time. I always knew he was a quick learner. But what makes one parent more loveable than the other? Selective tenderness maybe, but I think it comes down to involving your kids in your life, which is easier to do when you’re Stay At Home Shemale Comedian for 5 years in row since my lucky 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born. Kids tend to love back with boatloads of tenderness because you make them feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Having your father’s shoulder’s collapse when you go in for a hug gives you the distinct opposite impression. Plus, funnier dad, happier baby. Victor Borge says, “Laughter is the shortest distance between 2 people.” So, if you can find a way to make your loved ones, especially your kids laugh more, you’ll grow closer to them for it. When your children laugh, especially from your own efforts, you grow closer to the divine, which for me is the cherry on top. And who doesn’t want a piece of that pie? And there’s nothing common or ordinary blah about that. Spiritually Superstitious, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth