Tag: pyschology

Last Shabbat Shalom Ramble Not

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, writing

I text my wife a pic of stuffed animals leaning on each other, looking depressed since they became separated from our three snuggle-shine children. The wife texts back, “They look sad.” I reply, “I agree, #StuffedSpiritAnimalsfeelingemptyinside.”

Shabbat Shalom Shalom Ramble, live from Hotel Dylan, Woodstock, NY, just got a far less fucking sleepy stale, Half Heeb, Heeb Hick blood lives, mom hails from Kentucky, Dad from the Bronx, it beats being outside of Minnesota, no offense, Bob Dylan, but your neither a southerner, Brian Wilson or a whiny, Long Island windbag like Lou Reed, so it looks like you hit the mother load being born out of Minnesota after all. Star Of The North lives, that being the state motto for Minnesota, but Bob Dylan represents that phrasing quite well. Blood on the Tracks never felt so good. Bob Dylan wows on, Challah. Thank you very much.

Only in Woodstock, NY, would I see a book on a window display about Lou Reed learning Ti-Chee.

It didn’t make him less defensive after Lester Bangs called his trans girlfriend a dog and Warhol show.

Perfect day, with pits like that, my balls.

Shabbat Shalom Ramble, coming to you live from the Dylan Hotel, Woodstock, NY, in the motherfucking house, Challah. Shabbat Shalom Ramble, 12, what, only Led Zepplin can name their recorded masterpieces? More Sheets Of Comedy Gold Ramble On, Golden God lives, Shabbat Shalom Ramble, Challah. Thank you very much.

A new reason to stay sober for a whole year is what?
Dream big again and finish with a winning season with a screenplay and star vehicle for yourself where you become the new king of sober media on the silver screen and in real life in Gum King Of New York, Challah. Thank you very much. And your first interview is with Daryl Strawberry on your Shabbat Shalom Ramble Podcast. So Darryl, do you think Rob Lowe looking better ever since giving up drinking the sauce 30 years ago is a case of annoying white privilege? You don’t look half the man you used to be like Gooden, but you’re not slipping into speedos at the yacht club off the coast of Montecito county as readily as Rob Lowe does o the cover of Middle Aged Yacht beat is all I’m saying.

Outside my hotel at the Hotel Dylan is a putting green. I notice this older black guy admires it. I say, “Do they have putters?” He says, “They’re locked up.” I reply, “I’m sure the putting green isn’t here for the visuals alone.” Acid rock humor rules, Shabbat Shalom Ramble rocks, on Challah. Thank you very much.

What’s excellent about vacations is that you no longer feel chained to predictable misery.

Am I an asshole for calling a father a bullshit artist for claiming he didn’t buy real estate in downtown Manhattan after 9/11 because he didn’t want to be a profiteer of death?
Sure, he’d discourage me pursing an internship with Haliburton if it could’ve guaranteed me a six-figure job out of a division 3, pricy private school for spoiled potheads.

Sure, pops, you would’ve bought a loft next to Ed Burns in Tribeca if the price was right.

And Bernie Madoff suffered from night screams when he got away with it.

Without 9/11, W doesn’t provide the alley-oop dunk for fake news choke, AKA. Obama Be Good who continually tries to ruin our country by endorsing more thug lives matters most bullshit.


Now, in NYC, you’re more likely to get jumped than hook up with a girl at a bar in the Upper East Side without swiping her over to your pre-approved dick pic first. Sanctuary City blues, Shabbat Shalom Ramble, Challah. Thank you very much.

Fit at any age; tell that to Matthew Perry.
He gave up drinking.
And still, his boyish charm went out the window faster than Lenny Dykstra wearing a MAGA hat on the Bill Simmons Podcast.

Wi-Fi password options for Hotel Dylan in Woodstock:

Baez Breaks Wind

Here Jimi’s Lady Coming

A Little Help From Mary Jane’s Less Seedy Friends

Dylan Towers

Levon Helm Winning post-Robbie Robertson, prematurely ending the Band without casting a band vote 1st.

Fascist Favoring Pricks Named Robbie Roberston Who Killed Rick Danko By Forcing Him To Tour And Do More Heroin Than Usual Because He Didn’t Have the Luxury Of Writing Film Scores For Marty after losing out anymore Band touring money after the Last Waltz.

Rick Danko lives; he was a member of the big three from the Big Pink: Levon Helm, Robbie Robertson, and Levon Helm in the Band. He played the mandolin, bass, and a mean game of pool in the Last Waltz and sang like an angel on songs he wrote like Stage Freight; It Makes No Difference and the Twighlight on the Last Waltz, their last show ever at the Winterland in San Fran. While also managing to sound like a complete road warrior-wise badass in The Shape I’m In.
Challah. Thank you very much.


Outside of The Hotel Dylan in Woodstock, NY, I’m at the Fire Pit.
An older, well-to-do-looking hippie dude says, “How are you?”
I say, “Whistling Dixie, they put me in the new Levon Helm room, which is very fitting because tonight, I’m recording my 1st Shabbat Shalom Ramble on location near Levon Helm’s log cabin studio, home of the original Midnight Ramble. Tonight, we deliver another killer set masterpiece. Shabbat Shalom Ramble 12, live in Woodstock, Levon lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Older looking hippie dude laughs long time.

Imagine Ziggy Marley getting interviewed by High Times Magazine today. Ziggy, how did your father, Bob, have seven kids? Doesn’t Ganja make you impotent like Agent Orange?
Ziggy Marley says, “Fake news, man.” I’d like to see that Oliver Stone documentary, though. He’d call it Natural Born Rastas, Challah. Thank you very much.

I’m at a wine shop in Woodstock and say, “Which one has more concentrated intensity the Petite Sirah or the Zinfandel? Think Bill Hicks next to Howie Mandell.
However, Howie Mandell had his moments, and the older-than-dirt hippie wine shop owners laugh for a long time.


The most depressing image is an older-than-dirt hippie checking her mail with three masks on three years after this COVID craziness began.


I know acid causes deadhead to the point of return, but this is getting ridiculous.


Whatever happened, the hippie creed fuck LBJ, and anything the government has to say, especially after bombing Cambodia to save face. What are these older-than-dirt hippies freaking out about it?
You’d think they’d already built a tolerance from their homegrown patch of pot cookies, that offer less aggressive peaks than David Crosby’s pot brownie recipe on Pinterest next to Cuomo’s recipe, for Gender Fluid Pink Ziti.

Just once, I’d like to hear a hippie in Woodstock that runs a vegan meatball food truck say, “Fuck weed pens, do I look like a beta hippie version of Tron. I’m still smoking weed from a metal cigarette bat made in Wuhan since Bob Dylan released Maggi’s Farm on Bringing It All Back; home, and my lungs feel great. What, I got Natural Born Dragon Lungs. Shabbat Shalom Ramble Does Woodstock, Challah. Thank you very much.

I ordered a mock cocktail in Woodstock and regretted it immediately.
I say to the bartender.

“This Mocktail isn’t making me feel better about myself. It’s too Limey for my tastes.
If I want more Limey in my life, I’d be in Delaware right now, with my English in-laws, kids, and wife, only to get my knickers in a bunch on more Zelensky Mandella talk by Bono on the BBC. Zelensky is the modern day Mandella. Sure, and Jimi Hendrix would take scarf advice from Dr. Deborah Birx under house arrest in Electric Lady Studios during COVID mania gone wild.


I’m getting pissed at this Zinfandel. It’s taking forever to open up like Rambo in the process of getting waterboarded by Dick Cheney.

My grandfather died at 48 and was VP of his Temple, medic in the War, and Bronze Star winner; Obama became President at 47.


So I don’t have any choice left; I must become the Gum King of New York at 47. Or at least have a screenplay to give the Golden Jew, Adam Sandler, sustained stiffage with. He’s the last king maker left in Hollywood that I still give a shit about impressing, Kenny McBride, Oliver Stone, David Mamet, and Kevin Smith, 20 years agoincluded, Half Heeb Crazy Lives, Challah. Shabbat Shalom Ramble, Good Shabbos, Kayne excluded.

Last Shabbat Shalom Ramble, not. Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Glorious Assholes

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

U2 is cheesy Irish, right?

Van Morrison isn’t.

House of Pain wasn’t.

Dennis Leary never was.

Glorious assholes live.

Challah, thank you very much.

How was U2 ever considered the biggest band in the world?

They sound like the Rolling Stones after attending a woke retreat on Lobotomy Island?

I still haven’t found what I’m looking more is no Free Bird.

Did Lynard Skynyrd’s swamp music ever remind you of genetically modified cheese or toothless lab grown meat?

And with or without you is about who Bono?

An Irish Lassie with fucked up chompers.

Who swallows but grazes from time to time.

Especially on Sunday Bloody Sunday.

Glorious Assholes rule, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Headhunter Writer Pitch

by doitalldadyear, posted in business, entertainment, writing

Hi Susan,

I’m interested in writing a weekly column for Fast Company called Headhunter Writer, which tells my history of headhunting and use of creative storytelling from Y2K to today. Headhunter Writer is my literary alter ego, who adds a personalized edge and heroic lift to all recruitment efforts. I aim to inspire others to be more aggressively creative in their pursuit of forming new business relationships online and off.

Here is a link for a poem post called Aggression Pays, which establishes the tone I’m shooting for in this column.

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/aggression-pays-joshua-kornbluth/

Here is a link to a piece about servicing fun inspired by an exchange with a UX Designer candidate prior, called Ted Tries. https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/ted-tries-joshua-kornbluth/

Future Headhunter Writer title posts include:

Headhunter Writer Intelligence

Headhunter Writer Bonds

Headhunter Writer Prevents

Headhunter Writer Emotion

Headhunter Writer Remembers

Headhunter Writer Humanizes

Headhunter Writer Knows

Headhunter Writer Grows

Headhunter Writer Admires

Headhunter Writer Softens

Headhunter Writer Unmasks

Headhunter Writer Recommends

Headhunter Writer Pays

Headhunter Writer Chooses

Headhunter Writer Sighs

Headhunter Writer Prophesizes

I’m looking forward to your reply.

Your Favorite Headhunter Writer,

Joshua Kornbluth

Hanukkah Cockblockers

by doitalldadyear, posted in faith, religion, travel

It’s your fault if you don’t make Hanukkah more festive than Christmas. I get it. Most likely Jesus himself who celebrated Hanukkah with his apostles, even invented Christmas to make the holiday season feel more festive. When the strongest drink offered was Manischewitz before eggnog was invented. Spinning Beastie Boys records while blaring Intergalactic planetary to honor the Aliens in helping his fellow Hebrews build the Great Pyramids wasn’t a thing yet. Can’t all the Jews, Muslims and Christians unite on the 1st night of Hanukkah on the premise behind Home Depot never being erected in the Israelites’ honor? Growing up, I’d push my dad to honor my mom’s Christian side after she converted. I say, “Dad, mom dumped Jesus to marry into your putzy DNA. The least you can do is let mom throw up a tree. Dad says, “The only time a Jew from the Bronx would get a Christmas Tree is if he planned to convert it into a tricked-out Treehouse and flip it for a profit.”

Finally, one year, my year my dad budges and allows my mom this pathetic, sorry excuse for a bonsai tree relegated to the side patio covered in cobwebs that got less touches than a St. James Bible at a bath house colony in Pronvincetown. But seriously, can’t you see Jesus recognizing the festive limitations of Hannukah after receiving one carved dreidel too many? Jesus says, “Thanks for the Dreidel, Judas. I’m glad that my carpentry session on dreidel building 101 at The 92 Street Y paid off so handsomely. But why don’t we make Channukah a more drawn-out celebration that’s ten times festive by celebrating my birthday for the entire month of December after Hannukah.”

Matthew says, “Yeah, but Jesus wouldn’t Hannukah then be considered a forgettable warm act, that gives you ball balls just thinking about it.  You were born my immaculate conception, right? Yet by the time your 4 brothers James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon were born, the magic was gone baby, baby gone.”

Jesus replies, “Yeah, but I had a vision in desert last night about a future comedian named Billy Crystal bemoaning in his autobiography, Baby Boomer Arrogance Never Dies, about how Jews bend over backwards to adopt Christmas traditions, so they don’t feel so old world clingy Jewy. Nobody cares anymore about the rocking band of Maccabees reclaiming the Great Temple of Solomon because they’re not the polytheistic whores like the rest. Taylor Swift is the number recording artists in the future, and she grew up on a Christmas Tree farm for Christ’s sake.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Matthew asks, “What’s a Christmas Tree Jesus? “Jesus says, “A camouflaged cross, but it’s going to be tricked out in lights that run on electricity, which will outshine any burn a mile of minute candles on a Menorah.  Any Jewish record executive would jam a pinecone up their ass if they promised Taylor Swift more inclusiveness gayness spirit to be produced on her next Christmas album.

Now, I used to get very tense about the mention of Jesus, but not anymore, since my invention of a new tradition, Jesus Fridays, which allows me to break my Koshertarian diet of the past 2 years and counting. Understand, I’ve been following the Koshertarian Diet for 2 years now. Finally, I’ve allowed myself the inclusion of shellfish for a special occasion because who cares about eating soulless shellfish? Plus, Jesus, the original super Jew rocked the Pescatarian diet. So, if it’s good enough for Jesus, then it’s good enough for me. I also like the idea of acting less like an all-knowing exalted prick. And celebrating Jesus Fridays inspires me to connect with my fellow Gentile like a retired fireman who runs the best deli in Westchester in North White Plains. Outside my new office, after just resurrecting my IT Headhunter Writer career. Where I’m getting paid to creatively sell job opportunities for Software Engineers, digital designers, and Information Technology workers in general, whose job prospects have more legs than Lieutenant Dan. I like Jesus Fridays because it divorces me from perpetuating any messianic complex of my own, which screams, the original version of the Bible is better than second part that I’ve barely dabbled in for the most part. And I’m tired of being that old timer Gen X guy that just bemoans new age Simpsons episodes as woke filler compared to season 1 through 7 without even dabbling in the newer versions to make any ultra judgy informed decisions of my own. Like when I saw Juno, ages ago and got angry about how everyone was hailing the hardcore hilarity of it, when I saw Juno as nothing more than a poor girls’ Jeanne Garafalo. I wrote a blog about the movie being overhyped, yet I told myself afterwards, don’t be a critic, hack breath like the rest. It’s way better to originate, then merely pontificate. So, I wrote mini porn parody that I turned into my 1st screenplay, Juno Does Williamsburg, later named Brooklyn Blogger. Edgeless titles suck pinecone dick, Challah. Thank you very much.

At the same time, I’ve worn Jewish pride on my sleave for the past 5 years and change as host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, responsible for banging out comedy records such as Big Mouth Moses, Koshertarian Offensive, and the Pig-Headed Jew, Challah. Thank you very much. I’ve also written and published The Great American Jew Novel, which Diane Sullivan from the Midwest Book Review described as a “Hilarious exploration of New York Comedy and Culture.” Which proves that my material wasn’t too overtly Jewy pushy annoying for the Heartland’s tastes. And for the past 2 months, I’ve renamed my Do It All Dad Year Podcast, the Shabat Shalom Ramble, in honor of my dad accusing me of never being on point, despite him proclaiming 5 years ago before I launched my podcast, how nobody cares about my political opinions anyway, 45 thousand page views on my Do It All Dad Year blog later.

 Well, I haven’t read the news since Dominion Machines won. And I don’t see Kari Lake recruiting Linda Hamilton as her VP to take down the new Sky Net For good. Plus, how much more can we stomach talk of Alex Jones being bad Santa versus John Fetterman being a burnt out offering of the Democratic party who looks like the Good Will Grinch who showers in Bong Water. So, more than ever 3 million Jews in the US, according to Alexa, which is most likely an inflated claim, like Antifa still being nothing more than an idea in Patton Oswalt graphic novels, about a gang of wannabe Punisher vigilantes, in hoodies, could use some miraculous ways to modernize Hannukah and make it more festive than Christmas than Google ever would. Because I want other Jewish American Dads to derive extended Nachas from pronounced Jewish pride from their offspring when they proclaim to Daddy how they get butterflies in their stomach every day before each night of Hanukah begins, which was the opposite of my experience growing up. Getting a Pinball Machine one tear one year for Hannukah was unbelievable, despite being woken up every night prior to Hannukah because dad couldn’t resist the urge to play with it himself and break it in personally. Which made my younger brother and I believe that Aliens from Space Invaders were raining Gama Rays on top of our house eight nights prior to Hannukah because my dad was making his best Hannukah gift all about his own self-enrichment over ours. Still, my dad was raised an only child, so you can’t blame him for occupying his inner loneliness in his forties the week before Hanukah, because playing Dreidel by himself, gets played out faster than trying jerk off with your left in honor of shortest-lived New Year’s resolution yet. Which only leads to more played out blue ball’s devastation. So, here’s 8 ways to start making Hannukah more festive than Christmas. There are 14 million Jews worldwide. So, if this post goes viral, my Hannukah wish of 8 million butterflies can come true. And you can’t knock the miracle of mitzvah moves, Challah. Thank you very much.

  1. Understand, I haven’t collected paychecks in 8 whole years till this past December after resuming my IT Headhunter Career, where I can drop lines like, “Michael Kornbluth here, Recruiting Manager for Digital Unicorns USA. With a last name like Kornbluth, I specialize in mind control, in Kayne’s mind. So, when my wife tells me, “Don’t get carried away with getting the kids gifts this year for Hannukah.” I fire back with, “New tradition kids, when you get 3 Big Kahuna gifts on the 1st night of Hannukah. You each declare loud and proud, “Hannukah Hatrick, Challah” I add, “So, in this instance, go woke yourself babe, Gentile Grinch.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  2. 2nd way to make Hanukkah more festive is to start the tradition of Hannukah Halloween. And force your son to dress up like Van Halen with a pack of candy cigarettes in hand. Who cares if your mini air guitar appendage looks like an overdose at the limelight waiting to happen. Party Monster spirits live, Challah. Thank you very much.
  3. 3rd way to make Channukah more festive is to play Dreidel for Bitcoin versus more fake news Gelt. But explain the rules in humorous ways. For example, when the dreidel lands on Hey, you sing, “Hey, hey Paula, I want to marry you. Now give me half and full custody of the kids. I don’t want you coughing your natural immunity all our kids anymore, you anti-vaxer piece of shit.” Challah, thank you very much. Shin, means put it in, think Cardi B on a slow Tuesday. Nun, means nothing, goonish. Remember our routine at the Deli Matilda, when you could only put 2 words together? What did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks Daddy? And you’d say,” Bookpus, Boopku. And Gimmel means, give me everything because we control all the blockchain technology, Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole too. Son says, “Samuel, don’t even think of stealing my bitcoin, or I’ll sell your pure blood on the Dark Web along with your vintage Cobra Commander with the blue mask and eyes holes in it that looks like Gung Ho’s bottom bitch in Robot Chicken remake of Pulp Fiction.” 8 million butterflies Challah, thank you very much.
  4. 4th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to play the Adam Sandler Channukah song on Vinyl backwards only to hear the latest and greatest chorus addition, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. 5th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to Jewish guilt Software Engineers at Amazon into seriously questioning the state of their moral compass by sending them LinkedIn Inn-Mail messages through LinkedIn Recruiter that read, “Tell Bezos to make the Hebrew Hammer available on Amazon prime already despite Florida and antisemitism being so hot right now.” 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  6. 6th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to sign your kids up for art classes that teach your kids how make masked morons made out of clay for fuck the CDC day. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  7. 7th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas, permit your kids the freedom to pile drive mommy’s white Guido, non-denominational tree while dressed as Mr. Wonderful for Channukah Halloween instead. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  8. 8th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to launch your Burning Mask Party already, for eight glorious nights while throwing some of mama’s Gnomes on top because they look like Santa’s burn out Trust Fund Babies on Social Security. What’s another burnout offering after making Goodwill Grinch Fetterman the new face of the Democratic Party. So, what difference does it make? 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Spoiled Dumb Son

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, poetry, writing

Do I believe in Climate Change?

I believe in never warming up to my asshole father.

Especially, after my son asks.

How much do you like Papa?

I say.

He openly questions how were related.

How much would you like him then?

Son says.

Does that mean you want to be an asshole too?

You’re not making any sense again, Moron Jewish Son.

Maybe he questions why your brain is so dumb compared to John Fetterman.

At least John Fetterman had a stroke.

What’s your excuse?

You’re spoiled dumb or just a medium suck son?

Who prepares more mock meat sandwiches that your dad would never eat like your Impossible To Top Cheesesteak.

What’s Impossible Burger meat made from again moron Jewish son?

Pea protein and synthetic enuchry?

Just busting your balls, I mean Nutsy Russells Daddy.

I’m just trying to make you tough because your father never did.

I loved the Sloppy Second Joes you made yesterday with Impossible Burger meat.

That’s named after Hair Plugs Sniffer, who resides in the fake news White House set, right Daddy?

Now write some more jokes for your last comedy record special from home, Spoiled Stupid Son.

At this point, you couldn’t write rotten dumb jokes if you tried.

Spoiled Dumb Son gets spoiled with more blood-on-blood love.

Bon Jovi, New Jersey lives, the beautifully good one, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Sounds Of Dronish Cuntry

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Kevin Durant is frustrated with Ben Simmons is the gayest sentence of all time.

Second, is Ben Simmons wants Kevin Durant to give a Ted Talk on how to block out the sound of cyberbullying.

Sounds of dronish cuntry live, Challah. Especially now that were officially under control of The Dominion Machines.

The Dominion Machines always win.

Unless Kari Lake recruits Linda Hamilton to run as her Vice President to take down the new Skynet for good.

After endless more stolen elections, I’m supposed to believe Dominion Machines aren’t wired for cheating.

Yeah, and John Fetterman doesn’t know what bong water tastes like.

Tell that to his hoodie from 86.

He’s like a mutant roach on life support.

Sounds of dronish cuntry, drone on, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

A Plus Alter Ego

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Free Kathy Griffin.

Pass the barf bag, Trans Chucky Nation.

I wouldn’t fuck Trans Chucky with Chaz Bono’s Mr. Potato Head appendage.

Twitter is Brooke Shields.

Kathy Griffin wants to be her fawned over bestie so bad.

But Brooke Shields never gave Trans Chucky the time of day anyway.

Not even Bravo wants to be followed by Kathy Griffin on Twitter.

Andy Cohen bemoans.

Go back to the Luna Lounge and reenact the time Joan Rivers called you a no talent never was bitch to your face. At least Chelsea Handler knows how to tell a joke. Since she became a social justice warrior to downplay her tits sagging popularity. All you do Kathy is use your hands on stage like Archie in drag at a Trump rally on Fox News.

Andy Cohen adds.

Is Jill Biden our 1st scarecrow lady? Oh yeah, I went there, I’m a gay Jew, I got diplomatic immunity bitches. Suck on it and weep Chappelle and friends. But Elon Musk banning impersonations is gayer than Aaron Carter dying with Monkey Pox from Dr. Gnocchi’s man-made Aids monkey.

Elon Musk wants nothing to do with Zit Face Zuck.

So, he’s outlawing impersonations or anything creepily resembling his meta verse bust.

It’s also not hard to impersonate Elon Musk.

Just look deep in thought about defending Joe Rogan’s defense of joke integrity, skip tanning and leave bronzing to Trumpy Tits.

I love Elon Musk exerting technical power over d list hack celebrities.

For him, desktop support is kicking his feet up on a bust of Walt Disney’s head on top of his new ice tomb desk for Christmas.

Howard Stern fears a second Civil War if Hershall Walker wins.

You’d think core exercises on the Pelton App with Ashton Kutcher would make you less of a pussy Howard.

Placate to your Pedo Joe fan base left, so you’re not disinvited from any more 2 bite chicken parm dinners at Jimmy Kimmel’s house.

Attended an Owl demonstration at a local farm. Guide described pigeons as slow. I said, “So stool pigeons are the John Fetterman’s of the animal kingdom in hoodies.”

Later, we dissected an owl pellet for bones and found nothing. I say, “It’s like high school all over again babe, I’m bone free.”

My daughter just got a water bottle from Lulu Lemon and is ecstatic. She acts as if she was water bottle shamed at school prior. “

Mean Girl says, “Target water bottles are so deplorably depressing don’t you think? You’re better off just reusing the same bottle of Coconut water and refilling it with regular tap water instead”.

Attended a Bar Mitzvah in New Jersey. The female Rabbi was such a hack. Female Rabbi spent every 2 seconds talking about climate change and there not being an earth left. And how her side preserves while other one destroys. Canter interjects to point out how the climate activist Rabbi is from California. And I’m thinking, it shows. Surprised, she didn’t plug Nancy Pelosi’s jugs as taps of divinity, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles would love to go motorboating with.

Will be relaunching my IT staffing career soon under my alter ego, Joshua Kornbluth, which I have no problem with. I have enough egos to go around. A Plus Alter Egos Rule, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Masturbator Equalizer

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, fiction, humor

“Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.”

Salvador Dali

“Money equals middle finger power”, is what my dad always told me growing up in our quaint yet artistically loaded Comedy Grant House 50 minutes North of Manhattan within the bucolic, historically tiny village of Croton Falls. Now famous for being the birthplace of my dear dada’s famous catchphrase, “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, on his Do It All Dad Year podcast that ultimately got him a recording label deal to produce comedy record 100 Too Tall Jew, on Blessed Records and the rest is comedy gold machine making history. Personally, I preferred the comedy record title, Birds Eye View Bitches, but Daddy thought that it was tad long winded even for Bob Dylan’s tastes. At the Montreal Comedy Festival Daddy got big laughs when he said, ‘”Sorry pops, but when you live in Arizona for a decade and counting and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora suggest otherwise.”

Still, growing up Papa, my grandfather, nicknamed my daddy Waste of Height because my father is a 6’4 Jewish New Yorker, who’s only highlight when playing Varsity basketball senior year was scoring 10 points against an all-Japanese team, which isn’t hard when the opposing players thought the pick and roll, mean their choice of fish. Now, my dad was being billed by Rolling Stone as Killer Set Kornbluth, while Variety magazine hailed him as the new giant of late night after replacing Bill Maher with a new talk show called Seriously Clowning. So, at this point in his life, my dad had every right to look down on any soul sucker dream detractor who tried to make him feel like a delusional, crazy man narcissist for pursing A plus comedic glory with a middle finger power mansion located at the highest point in Bel Air next to Jerry’s Lewi’s old school crib. So, the shelf life behind papa’s degrading nickname, Waste of Height, in relation to his 1st born blossoming son, no thanks to his encouraged direction had gone sailing, Dean Martin, lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

But daddy is what you would call a late bloomer, who didn’t start tasting big deal success till his late forties, combining that with a sexless marriage, with a man who is far from straight, on top of his mom wanting him to sling other’s people’s garbage instead of his own A plus gemry jokes for a living one day, combined with in-laws who force fed Eucharist on his Jew blood tainted kids behind his back, combined with zero creative collaborators outside of his own children during his 5 year journey into the wilderness while kicking is decade long addiction to Adderall for good, resulted in creating a tsunami of resentment fueled rage that almost burnt out what love spreader light that existed left in my dear dada’s endlessly beautifying, beyond spiritualized projecting soul, before it was too late.  Because of that, Daddy did everything in his power to ensure I established moonbeam blast shot goals early as possible compared to his mother urging her “artist son”, to settle and shoot for shit by chucking the joke writing career all together and become a full-time garbage man like Magic Johnson’s father in Lansing, Michigan. Obviously, Magic Johnson dad’s is a stellar example of being a God loving, do it all dad done good. Still, Magic’s dad also slung other’s people’s trash, so his son wouldn’t have to, similar to Papa schlepping over the George Washington Bridge for 25 years only to get nickeled and dimed by the likes of Potomka Pickles while working as VP of Sales for a plastics and glass company in Union, New Jersey, otherwise known as the Swamp Thing State, so his 1st born wouldn’t have to follow in his steps and blaze a new trail of funny man innovation to derive prideful enrichment of some kind on his own.

But what really pissed off my dad was Papa resisting the notion that I had genius potential in me because his waste of height son was too much a mongoloid moron in his eyes to birth such a star powered, out of this world seedling capable of moving millions with my own powers of imagination, poetic lift and storytelling powered song. Daddy went to Ithaca College, which he derided as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But he graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications, so he could suck down some bingers of extra strong Tompkin’s country outdoor weed and avoid stuttering every other 2 seconds. I loved the idea of going to Columbia growing up, yet Daddy viewed Manhattan as yesterday’s news and planted the idea of me attending Williams University in Massachusetts instead, because former owner of the Yankees George Steinbrenner, otherwise known as the Boss, was a famous alumnus and larger than life NY bred personalities like George Steinbrenner don’t get any big more time than that. Plus, Daddy loved the standup comedian Jim Norton who claimed Boston woman were the best to slay with. Also, at Uncle John’s wedding, AKA, Sir Snort a Lot, Daddy said, “God gave my younger brother more second shots at respectable redemption than what George Steinbrenner gave Steve Howe”, which got goonish at the time. Plus, I remember my dad driving us to the Manhattan to go skating at 30 Rock once for my birthday and he points out the new Yankee stadium off the Deegan and says, “Look Matilda, the new Yankee Stadium, the house that gentrification built.” I knew all about Reggie Jackson otherwise known as Mr. October, who hit not one but 3 first pitch baseball homers in 1979 to clinch the World Series for the Yankees at the original Yankee stadium, otherwise known as the house, that Ruth built. I also knew that Babe Ruth had the most homers during his day but had the most strike outs to, because there was nothing half ass about the Babe who went down swinging, coming through in the clutch with his back against the wall like the great Messier, Derek Jeter, Andy Petite, Eli Manning and Frank Sinatra all the way. Daddy imparted the lesson of why New Yorker’s have big time egos for a reason. When Daddy actually contemplated moving our family to Texas during year 2 of COVID, I said, “Daddy, how many great comedians are from Texas? Daddy said, “Bill Hicks and Sam Kinson.” I say, “Bill Hicks only made me laugh once. And Sam Kinson had one good comedy album from start to finish that was pure standup without the cheesy Wild Thing cover song on it, that’s it. Now, name me star comedians from New York? Daddy says “Rodney Dangerfield, Andrew Dice Clay, Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Greg Giraldo, Joan Rivers, George Carlin. Have I mentioned myself yet? Alright you’re right, Texan comedians suck compared to native New Yorkers, Joe Rogan included.”

For some time, I just wanted to be a singer and write my own songs, singing in pubs like Amy Winehouse without developing the heroin addition, yet my dad insisted I become an A Plus student and accept no other goal acceptable, so he could boast to his new comedy manager and rapper friends in South Africa, where his new record label was located, that his daughter went to Williams College, which rocks the old world King Solmon Royal purple. And my Do It All Dad thought the deep purple look exuded an edgy deep suave vibe similar to Jimmy Hendrix’s head tripping beanbag within the mixing room at Electric Lady Land studios in Manhattan. Daddy also had a black and white picture of famed writer director Bill Wilder in his old office where the famed writer, director of Ace In The Hole and Fortune’s Cookie, was marching in his office with his talking stick of sorts as his famed screenwriter partner Charles Brackett is on the writer’s  couch in letting him go long again, who is another Williams alum that helped co-write Sunset Blvd, which is good work if you can get it.  The other line Daddy would always pound into my cranium growing up was from Stephen Sondheim, which is, “God is in the details”, and the famous Broadway composer lyrist graduated from Williams to, so dumb, dumb burn outs didn’t even bother to apply. Reality is, I almost never got into Williams College nor ended up becoming the female Carl Jung of my day post COVID damage done after graduating Magna Cum Laude after triple majoring in English, Psychology and Philosophy, achieving the trifecta of liberal arts lunacy, I know. But believe it or not, my fate at William’s became sealed, not because of my college essay where I insist Carl Sagen was mothered by a starless atheist cunt who gave Booger face Behar on the View a whiff of semi-respectability in comparison for a change when she asked Don Lemon why he was nothing more than another race war inciting scumbag like Jussie Smollett minus the SAG card after she got red pilled by Russell Brand from turning her on to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast during bi-sexual pride appreciate month, I think. Actually, pursuing the harder, less shit laden path started by Daddy posting an ad on Craig’s List for a jerk buddy in search of more than a friend.  

“Why did I post an ad for a jerk buddy on Craig’s List? Because I thought it was healthy alternative to laughing at my own material on the couch after my daughter was tucked in, before breaking up with my wife off 11 years, again and again”, A 45-Year-Old divorced Comedian says to his chesty, red headed, Psychologist who was an English and Psychology major at Willaims herself. Mara Weitzman, the Psychologist from Williams says, “What if I jerk off your ego instead of some random stranger on Craig’s List, who would give Jim Norton the creeps?” Do It All Dad, now a divorced still struggling comedian, living on the couch of his Film Grip bud in Ridgefield, CT who wants to be the Bill Graham of Death Metal festivals in Upstate New York one day, says, “Does my health insurance cover that added expenditure on my behalf?  Psychologist Mara Weitzman says, “Remember, the time you talked about that 1st hand job you got from Carolyn Verdichio, in Cotswold Park, which you nicknamed Actionless Park in your bit at the Montreal Comedy about how you’re no gentle giant or else why would you insist on staying home to ignore your kid for the privilege of writing more jokes while choking your wife too hard financially, again and again? You described your 1st hand job as a throbbing extension of your brutishly rough personality, to the point where she almost skinned your pussy wrecker rearranger alive, while your jeans kicked wildly in the mud like a hardheaded hog in heat. Well, what if we reenact the moment right now? I played the steel guitar growing up in Plano Texas, so I’ve got stronger hands that most. Let me if see if I can yank out that rough side out of you for good. I’ll even put in a good word for your daughter at the Williams College during admissions season. Do It All Dad drops his pants and says, “I don’t feel like such a self-centric jerkoff anymore. Mara Weitzman, you’re the only masturbator equalizer for me. Now rip off that top and start jerking it like its 1999.  I’ll give those busty beauties a liberal load to boast about it when you pump up my long-term endowment potential to your fellow alum members after I blow you away with a blast of teen spirit of my own. Kurt Cobain lives, Challah. Mara screams in extreme anticipatory ecstasy, “Nirvana, come reign on me.”

Minutes later, Psychologist Mara Weitzman buttons up her top and puts her murky stained glasses back on and says, “See you next Tuesday Do It All Dad. Williams College will be lucky to have your daughter attend next fall, if she follows after your money blasting footsteps. Thank you, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Fired Up Freak

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Wife says, “Do you want to see the new House of Dragon episode on HBO?”

I freak her out and say, “I can get fired up for albino black guys blowing each other if you can.”

She says, “Black guys can’t be albino.”

I said, “Who’s the racist homophobe now.”

Fired Up Freak flames on, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth