Bumper Car Bust

Daughter is tall enough to go on the Bumper Cars now because her hips already hit the ceiling. I only wish she inherited my mother-in-law’s stumpy Ukranian troll side now. I’d put that heart shaped blue and yellow sticker on my car if it got me out of witnessing my daughter’s bumper car bust of biblical proportions. I don’t think my daughter completed one full lap. It’s hard to enjoy the Bumper Cars for the 1st time in 35 years, when you have to re-kink your neck every 2 seconds while yelling, “Matilda keep the steering wheel straight. Step on the gas. Stop acting like you’re a city kid who never had to drive a car till that last great escape from Manhattan.”

Watching my daughter struggle to keep her steering wheel straight was brutal. It was like watching Brian Brick make fun of my knock-kneed ass run the three-legged race in Pre-K at the Y all over again.

“Try to stay straight, far from straight Fagala. Pretend a candy ring goes to the winner, clown lips. Why did I have to get paired with the knock-kneed freak? He’s more comfortable on all four’s or in his go to kneeling position anyway.” Brian Brick lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Worse yet, my father, who rarely sees his granddaughter ever, starts to make fun of her. I didn’t have my daughter repeat the insults because she was so upset afterwards, but he could’ve called my 1st born Susie Wong Eyes for all I know. The same girl, Effortless Magic, my Bashert, Hebrew for soulmate, the big wise, sister I always wanted to overcompensate for being the sloppy second son, who plays my Talent Agent in the Great American Jew Novel to help make my Do It All Dad Year come true, my go to babysitter for her 2 adoring younger brothers while I bang out more sheets of comedy gold getting ten times more flustered upset because my father thinks it’s his domain to bust her balls with his standard tactless, asshole relish is where I draw the fucking line. At the same time, I have the perfect out for not having to buy my daughter a car for another 20 years max, a self-driving scooter maybe.

Afterwards I confront my dad and say, “Matilda isn’t into you anymore, not because she’s getting older. She isn’t into you because you’re being a hypercritical prick dad. Never forget, being an a plus narcissist is the family tradition. But mom has the gall to call my oldest “arrogant”, because she doesn’t require your fucking permission to feel great about herself. Join the fucking club. Every teacher since Pre-K has asked me for permission to clone her. So, A plus arrogance in this case is well earned Dad, similar to me killing it on my final comedy record 121 Last Licks, all done in 13 months flat. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years.”

A plus arrogance lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Shirley Temple Life

Mom texts from her cross-country trip stop in Memphis with my dad.

“How is Samuel enjoying camp?”

I say, “He’s a happy camper. Funnier Dad, happier baby.”

Just like how John’s mother and my 2nd Grade teacher Mrs. Pariso would call me Elvis growing up. Samuel is getting hit on by older Italian woman at DeCicco’s all summer long. Last one said to Samuel. “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.”

And I say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative. I’m not sending him to junior high without a lawyer on his person at all times to hand out pre-poundage consent forms. I call him Chosen Curls was bound to woo for a reason. But instead of declaring bankruptcy, after spending our last rolls of Nickles on gas, I can always sell lockets of his hair for 5 grand a pop on Chinese Ebay. That’s a sustainable business model to keep us rocking in President Poopy Pants world.” Mighty Magic, Challah. Thank you very much.

My wife saw the Elvis movie, which made her walk away from the movie with a heightened appreciation of his sex appeal now. So now, whenever I want to get the wife in the mood for some lockjaw love on my pussy wrecker, rearranger, I’ll whip it out on our Time Life memorial Elvis plate and say, “Memphis Mafia lives. You want to hit that? Fine, pretend, I’m giving you communion Priscilla. Then, pick up your shit and your Fisher Price Farmhouse and have your mommy pick you up in 2 minutes and you got yourself a deal.”

I like to encourage my son’s fearlessness, so he isn’t controlled by fear and only takes up diving off the diving board at 43 years old like his old man. Mom says, “I don’t remember you diving ever.” I say, “That’s because I grew up in the era of Aids mom. So, I’ve never gone headfirst into anything without some initial, gun-shy trepidation. Plus, dad calling me a waste of height before I bloomed under my fruit of looms while being stuck in my head miserable and alone for being the last kid to get into puberty party didn’t help my manly metamorphosis into a high-flying Jimmy Snuka like Little Richard without his rollicking personality swinging in my favor just yet.”

So, my son’s favorite Bruce Lee movie scene is the fight with O’Hara, when he says, “Board, don’t hit back.” That is before Bruce Lee kills O’Hara with a jump kick on to his cranium, which he breaks in 2 like a Meghan Mccain sat on Watermelon, after an act of honor chucking, desperation on O’Hara’s part when he breaks a fairly sizeable beer to cut Bruce with, which causes the master to deliver the final kill shot kick in the head for the ages. As a result, my son, wanted to recreate the scene, and break the glass, only for Daddy to yell, “O’Hara”, which drug lord Han does to O’Hara after he breaks the beer bottle in a no more honor admonishing manner. So, whenever my son whips out his Schmeckel when my Nespresso is being made instead of doing planks with me as I wait, I yell, “Not kosher baby”, or “O’Hara”, pick up your pants Schmeckel Spot.”

I text my mother an O-Hara Lives Part 2 video, so she knows her grandson isn’t breaking his cherry here as he breaks a Shirley Temple Saranac bottle on a rock before yelling, “O’Hara. I laugh uncontrollably on the video and say, “Fast forward funny, O’Hara lives. Shirley Temple Knife, Challah. Thank you very much. But my son is pissed because he broke the entire bottle with only a tiny part of the top handle left in his striking hand. I urge him to say, “Thank you very much. ” Son says, “Thank you very much. This sucks and throws the tip of Shirley Temple bottle on the ground away in disgust.” Mom texts back, “Why are you sending me videos of my grandson breaking bottles on rocks while yelling O’Hara? “I text back, “O’Hara, New World Order, Klaus Schwab, Soros and Friends buying all the farmland and trailer parks on the cheap to turn us into Placenta Smoothie Nation. What difference does it make?” Shirly Temple Life, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Too Much Love

What’s the difference between Monkey Pox and Aids?

Meat from Bull Durham has no reason to get his garter belt in a bunch regardless.

Visited Ayn Rand’s grave with my 3 kids this weekend.

We’re passing by the cemetery in Valhalla, and I say, “Hey kids, want to see if my book the Great American Jew Novel is still on Ayn Rand’s tombstone? I reference her book Atlas Shrugged in Chapter 2, The Jewy Manhattan Book Club. In the book Atlas Shrugged Ayn argues for man to use his power of reason to pursue his own happiness while refusing to sacrifice his shot at fulfillment in the service of others.”

Daughter says, “121 comedy records later, done for mere ego enlargement purposes, I think you’ve accomplished that feat already Daddy.”

The Great American Jew Novel wasn’t on her tombstone anymore, which pissed me off, more than seeing a copy of her book Fountainhead at a bookstore in Ridgefield CT with microscopic font and a gaudy, murky book cover reminiscent of Dawn Steele novels.

I know the Jewish tradition is to place rocks on the tombstone. But Ayn Rand was a godless cunt like Carl Sagen’s mom. So, what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Ego Mania Gone Wild, Challah. Thank you very much.

But seriously, why shouldn’t I pay tribute to Ayn Rand by placing my self-published, well reviewed, Great American Jew Novel on her tombstone? We both detested fake news Jewish intellectuals. Plus, the Midwest Book review loved my book, calling it a “hilarious exploration of New York comedy and culture”, which proves I wasn’t too overtly Jewy annoying for the heartland’s tastes. Last, the premise behind all of Ayn Rand’s novels is how all pride and forms of self-satisfaction is derived from your own accomplishments, that’s a well spring of your own thinking, not done by fake news hippies like your own father. Sorry, but you when you live in Arizona for 10 years and never visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippie. Ego mania gone wild, Challah. Thank you very much.

The most depressing part of visiting Ayn Rand’s tombstone is how her tombstone had 16 rocks on it compared to her pseudo closeted husband I think, who only had 2. Well, if Ayn Rand wasn’t such a needy stink hag, who didn’t take Frank O’Connor for granted. He would’ve had the opportunity to plant more seeds of distress in other men’s colon before he drank himself to death out of shame of being closeted homosexual, I think.

And who are these Ayn Rand cult following cunts who think it’s a good look putting rocks on Ayn Rand’s grave but not his? Granted, Frank O’ Conner wasn’t Jewish, but Ayn Rand also had less use for Kosher dietary restrictions or Matzah Ball soup breaks while cranked up on enough Benzedrine to blow through the Talmud in one weekend if she dared take a day off from working on finishing Atlas Shrugged in exchange for absorbing devalued Rabbi opinions lumped together in one book that made less money for Rabbis than a drunken Moyle with Parkinsons according to Ayn.

Ayn Rand always referred to Frank O-Conner, her lifetime partner in love, despite numerous love affairs as her “rock”, her “prize”, yet her former friends, associates and fans couldn’t even dole out a rock for poor old Frank, the stay-at-home bitch hub of his day, regardless of his work out studio at the Art Student League used more for drinking his blues away towards his rapidly depleting light. At one point, does the Ayn Rand fan think, “Fuck Frank, Ayn was the bread winner, not him. Frank only existed because of Ayn. I wasn’t fucking married to twinkle toes, Ayn was. Like Ayn said, “Evil is dependence on men”, or on me for that matter. Ball and Chain would’ve preferred flowers instead.”

Understand, this tombstone is very modest for Ayn unlike her gargantuan ego who went on record with William F. Buckly, “You’re too smart to believe in God William.” William F. Buckly replies, “Epstein’s shitty ass Potato Pancakes, are a reason lone to start a new Holocaust in your honor.”

At Ayn Rand’s grave I say, “So Ayn, if you weren’t such a self-serving cunt, you’d be open to the idea of experiencing the divine from birthing Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth over here. Did you ever inspire the nickname 10 Homer Daily, Effortless Magic or Billionaire Brain? I didn’t think so. If my next book, Maternal Waves, doesn’t outsell Atlas Shrugged than whatever book my daughter writes in the future will. Just wanted to thank you for inspiring us to do so babe. We can jam idealized characters into our novels with big ideas defending the right to call your mother-in-law an unhuggable cunt or your wife ahead of the curve annoying to Ayn. And what’s my premise again Ayn? Post Feminism blows. Because it birthed birthday only blow jobs. What did you wish for on your birthday hot stuff? A squeaky-clean conscious for only requesting happy enders, who weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday. Look at it this way, you got off easy on my birthday again babe. Biggest prick in the east flexes on. Ego Mania gone wild, Challah. Thank you very much. 

Soon after, we hop in the car and realize that were stuck in the cemetery because every time we follow the exit signs, we head toward a chain link fence preventing us from doing so. So finally, 20 minutes later, I ignore social convention like Ayn would, drive around one of those chain link fences while narrowly avoiding a couple of tombstones in the process not belonging to Ayn Rand and her husband partner Frank O’Conner, which required a little of bit of steep drive downward on grass in a Toyota SUV, which I managed to avoid tearing. I also avoided waking the dead in my sleep as we finally broke free from the trapping cemetery in Valhalla. My eldest daughter says, “Daddy, that’s the coolest thing you’ve ever done. Do you believe in Miracles Ayn Rand? Because I do now. Daddy saw an opening and took it without fumbling or bumping over tombstones in the process. The Putzy Cup of truth never lies. And Daddy can raise a glass of AC cooling wine later tonight for passing with honors. Year without beer lives. Too much love, Challah. Thank you very much. Now, write an all time-best seller Daddy, or write a new draft for Horsing Around Hinduism and write a pilot episode such as Never Have I Ever Believed in Reincarnation till you encounter a broken-down talking racehorse who whips your stand-up comedy road show into shape but only after you record your final comedy record for free this Wednesday for Last Licks, Daddy. Deal? Time to beat your personal best Daddy. Racehorses live to compete. Lapping losers has already begun. Now, let them choke on your stardust with greater rollicking intensity than ever before. Unleash ego mania gone wild. Thank you, Ayn Rand, for the nudge in my daddy’s honor, very, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Hunting For Change

“What’s self-love? I think it’s not giving up on fighting for what you feel is right through the depth of your bones throughout the deep bowels of your anus hole. Whatever gets you off your ass to compete in the arena of life, keep it burning alive, or else you place your dignity within the hands of inferior, gun shy, smug laden pussies and you’ll hate yourself forever for it.

Self-love is not turning your back on your dreams yet, especially when those supposed to love you the most, love your remaining work life ambitions the least. I joke around on my Do It All Dad Time podcast, jokes Gen X Dads understand, how I prefer my comedy like my coffee, dark and bitter. Bitterness erupts in my slighted soul whenever others try to depreciate my capacity for gain like from my wife for instance. Nurse wife who works in Labor and Delivery says, “Won’t self-publishing a book cost money?” I say, “Walt Whitman self-published, yet he never banged out perfect laugh lines like this. This is my daughter playing in-house marriage counselor again. Pause daddy, mama got your point mid-breath.” Wife says, “I’m all out of patience, get a real job already, do headhunting again, tell your precious ego, vanity vagina, whatever you want to call it, to get a fucking life and provide for your family already. Your writing isn’t even that good. On NPR they say companies are struggling to fill roles more than ever before. I say, “You’re running out of patience babe. Whistling like Axl Rose helps, but thanks for making me feel like one in a million babe, my Nurse rising star.” Wife says, “I am a rising star, and have the certificate at work to prove it. How do you justify your star power exactly? Through nameless, faceless, followers on your WordPress blog or no-name downloaders of your Do It All Dad Time podcast who like your latest and greatest comedy record posts when you know deep down, they ignore the totality of your existence if they weren’t offered for free. I get it, you feel trapped to a life of shishy bitch daddy servitude, especially over the past 10 years, with no friends or family members to help out with the kids whatsoever, but I’ve had to make sacrifices to.” I say, “Sacrifices, you act like aspiring comedian in his thirties wanted to have kids ever.”

Famous Psychoanalyst Carl Jung says that “Jealously stems from lack of love.” Yet reality is I don’t have much to be jealous about since God graced this lucky old clown with my 3 unplanned favorites, that being by endlessly beautifying children, Matilda, Arthur and Samuel, the best Koshertarian Comedian home time imaginable. Tossing them into the pool up for another typhoon toss to celebrate another self-published comedy record release last summer at a local club, which we couldn’t afford, was what Do It All Dad Year dreams are made of. Punchout Poverty, splash. Too Funny To Fail, swoosh. Millionaire By 10, booya-tribe, plop. Billionaire Brain, it’s Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, wave pool time. Not Kosher Baby, woosh my troubles away.

As more shrieks of pure powered joy pierced the clouds through heaven on earth, it remained impossible to frown, for my children loving me all the way for bringing out the best from my inner clown.  But what do I want after getting to write for TV as a Hair Metal Comedian historian for America’s Hard 100 on VH1 Classic, hosted by WWE star Chris Jericho? Because he’s only wrestling leftover from the nineties that’s still rock hard, especially if Lars Ulrich from Metallica invites him over him for Norwegian brunch in his fuck paid in Bergan, Norway to catch the Northern Lights from his star powered telescope signed and designed by astrophysicist guitar God Brian May himself.

I want to avoid permanent nerve damage by never working up the nerve to finish my mission and become known as a joke truth killer made for these times. Losing out on a job after an interview is one thing but getting rejected by a unicorn tech start-up company forBudrranker.com sucks more than Meghan McCain’s husband being stuck on Cheeto retrieval detail inside her belly button again. In other words, “We’d rather go on a speed date with Snookie than interview you through Zoom. “So Snookie, is this coke good enough for Hunter to freebase with in the eighties when the shit was purer and not cut with as much Ajax, before he gave up blow for blow painting, allegedly, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall, while his tweaker biker buds from the Sons of Anarchy, yell, “Where’s Hunter, who else is going to pay for this shit?”

Carl Jung also says, “The greatest tragedy is our parents unlived lives.” On some level, I can see why my daughter doesn’t want to have kids when she gets older, because she’s seen 1st hand how I’ve been restricted in doing what I want to do the most in this world which is to produce laugh yanker love on stage and get hundreds of thousands of strangers at time off in person for a living. On stage, separates little boy blue from the Big John Stud. On stage, you get soul shine love. I want to love my big man fighter inside again and I can only achieve this by becoming a professional killer on stage for a living, especially when others constantly bemoan, “If it was going to happen, it would’ve happened already.” Fuck those towel thrower wishers. But it’s a young man’s game, man. Funny is funny asshole, that’s why your kid is a monotone mute compared to my 3, because funnier dad, happier baby, Challah, thank you very much.

I’ve reached the conclusion that the Lionshare of hostility issues in my life stem from being denied stage time to flex my stuff, regardless, if these restrictions are self-imposed or not, like getting my wife pregnant by accident again, because I never mastered the art of the pump fake or was too much a stoner to remember asking if she were on the pill or not.  

But if you’re going to ask me what I long for the most Balancing Rock Therapist, it’s to get a standing ovation again. Because getting one during my 1st IT recruiter agency job after making a 12-minute company-in pitch, where I pitch the hiring IT Manager to interview 3-4 qualified, pre-screened candidates in our office, so we can schedule 2nd round interviews soon after, doesn’t count because everyone in our sales office was already on their feet cold calling their brains out in the 1st place.

I’m running out of time to kill. My daughter has breast buds at 11 years old already, although my wife says, that her and friend Shannon were the last kids in her class to get them. So, I say, “Then, why haven’t your breast buds sprouted yet.” I know that Matilda’s younger brother, is the boy who raised himself, who literally taught himself to ride a bike without my guiding light influence, but future Harry Potter Lego sets don’t grow on trees and my youngest, Chosen Curls Was Bound Too is already requesting a waterbed set for his birthday. So perhaps, I form a man show locally at the local playhouse if I’m going to cause a ripple to spread worldwide in my material’s honor eventually.

Matilda Rose Kornbluth, Do It All Dad’s Bashert daughter now known as Ooh-La-La supreme says, “Daddy, are you done talking to your Balancing Rock Therapist yet?” I know that you’re longing for stage time away from us but this getting ridiculous.”  

Michael Kornbluth

The Reiki Touch

Why is Reiki Therapy the best Balancing Rock Therapist you never had?

  1. You’re not being force fed meds to artificially manufacture positive energy flow used to help relieve both physical and mental pain plaguing you.
  2. Lying face down on a Reiki Healing Table is a less stressful inducing experience compared to sinking into a couch as your Social Worker Counselor/Hate Speech Therapist nods in drab, emotionless detachment again and again.
  3. Reiki Therapy Masters help you heal from physical and psychological damage through the use of purposeful placed touch and incorporation of positive driven thought, laced with good hued intentions bound to unleash endless waves of good, good, vibrations.
  4. Once your energy channels become open, they become open permanently. So ultimately, Reiki Therapy offers a negative energy blockage releaser guarantee.
  5. Reiki Therapy helps you heal psychic wounds such as childhood neglect through freeing your body and soul from the suffocating clasp of damning dark negativity that desperately tries to infiltrate worry and doubt toward every positive attempt at change you make. Or maybe, I’m making Reiki Therapy too much about my mother again.
  6.  Reiki Therapy helps flush out negative downer energy with electric charged, light filled magnetism. Consider Reiki energy, an oil change for the soul, without any unforeseen added costs attached. Sometimes, there’s no substitute for the Reiki stressor reliever touch.
  7. Nobody likes to feel tied down to brooding cycles of negativity laced, buzz kill energy. So, give Reiki healing therapy a chance to unleash your most vibrant, dynamic, forceful self that screams booya-tribe, I’m back. But don’t call it a comeback, I’ve been kick ass awesome for years. I just needed to open my channels of light filled energy again through a little help from my Reiki Master healer friend.

Michael Kornbluth