Set List: Rocking Maron and Got Rubbed?
- Joshua Kornbluth here, Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. Consider me a less annoying matchmaker than Kris Jenner or the sloppy third Kardashian sister.
- Joshua Kornbluth here, Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. I’m like Match.com without the doctored photo. It’s not how you met but who you meet, that matters, right?
- Joshua Kornbluth, Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. I’m a professional flirt for a living. Think Vince Vaughn in Swingers minus the SAG card.
- Joshua Kornbluth calling. Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. I’m a poor man’s Tony Robbins who doesn’t overcharge for my life coaching expertise.
- Joshua Kornbluth here, Recruitment Manager for the Human Edge. I bring dead resumes to life like an EMT worker who moonlights as Dr. Frankenstein on LinkedIn Pulse.
- Joshua Kornbluth here, I’m a Recruiter for the Human Edge. I’m not an edgeless putz or else I’d still working for Robert Half.
- Joshua Kornbluth here, I’m an IT recruiter who specializes in mind control in Kayne’s mind.
- Joshua Kornbluth here. I’m an IT recruiter whose been talent hooking since Y2K. So, I wasn’t born with a vape pen in my mouth yesterday.
- Joshua Kornbluth here. Before I launched my IT staffing career. I worked as the number one assistant for Moses. Because I didn’t complain about my developing carpel tunnel after transcribing the Torah into stone.
- Hi Mary, Joshua Kornbluth here. I’m an IT Recruiter who wrote The Great American Jew Novel. So, you know I’m not your middle of the road schmuck in a headset either.
How are you doing today?
All of a sudden, I feel like Billy Madison reentering the workforce after being a stay-at-home dad during Covid.
Doing my best to block out how my wife tried to pack me a Quaker Dewy Chips bar for work.
But my father hates the term stay at home dad. He prefers Sheltered Bum.
Michael, thanks so much for allowing me to have a look at your book.
I really appreciate it. Unfortunately, it’s too similar to a project
that I’m already handling, so I’m going to pass
Sure, being a Christian book Lit agent, a book called The Koshertarian Comedians is too similar to project your already handling.
Yeah, and Evangelical Christians are auctioning off signed Trump bibles on Ebay to keep their coffers full.
What project are you handling that’s too similar Christian Lit Agent at large, ANTIFA eats Ben Shapiro’s Matzah Balls for Breakfast?
You don’t want to represent a writer who dares talk about election fraud and operation death speed through the clot shot, I get it.
Although, I can’t wait for Biden to cut of Baby Boomers from their social security checks to reduce our deficit and redistribute the rest of their remaining wealth for the endless stream of illegal immigrant dreamers in full.
Then, we’d have a 70 million baby boomer march.
Spike Lee dies from more than blood clots.
Breitbart can do a film about it with Gina Carano plays, the female Braveheart called, “Invasion Of The Social Security Card Snatchers”.
While yelling, “Told you they could take your social freedoms too, you smug elitist, ANTIFA excusing pieces of shit.”
Stepford Wives and MAGA moms will unite in D.C and show what a real insurrection looks like,
Fuck the hippie dippy chants of the 60’s.
Take away social security checks and redistribute them to their hired help on the cheap.
And the 2nd Woodstock resembles an innocuous warm art.
The ghost of JFK emerges from the flames and eggs them to burn baby burn like BLM’s spurned love child that just got booted off the Standard and Poor’s Index.
JFK says, “Ask not what your country can do for you. But what you can do for Lennon and King who gave a peace chance.
It didn’t work out to well for them.
So, what the fuck are you going to do about it?
Besides, burn your draft card again and spit on Vietnam vets when they returned, you unpatriotic pussies.
You want to eclipse, the greatest generation, now’s the chance.
Or die a soul sellout fake news hippie like rest.
Because when you live in Arizona for 10 years away from your 3 grandchildren to work on yourself, and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon.
You’re a fake news hippy.
Burn Baby Boomer Burn, Challah.
Thank you very much.
President Poopy Pants cuts off Boomers from Social Security.
What’s my lopsided love remedy?
Text my brother on his birthday with this.
Happy Birthday bro, despite you not acknowledging my birthday since I came out as a Stay At Home Shemale Comedian outside of texting happy birthday bro once in 7 years.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, don’t do heroin on your birthday.
And get Hanukkah gifts for all 3 of my kids if you want to rekindle any semblance of a relationship with them ever again.
You’re getting the entire inheritance anyway, once you share this text with mom soon after.
And when you give thanks for Thanksgiving with mom and dad in Arizona without me, my wife or 3 kids, thank your demons for convincing mom and dad that your ex-wife was the driving force behind your decision to add heroin to your resume into your early forties as if doing blow for 4 decades straight, after only hearing last call from the bathroom stall wasn’t enough.
I don’t care about being the sloppy second son anymore.
I don’t care about mom and dad betting against my capacity to achieve full blown independence again.
I don’t care about you being a sketchy, sniveling, drug addict bitch who can’t even muster the class to wish me good luck at my new job on Monday, which is the 1st full time opportunity I’ve had to feed my family in 7 years.
I don’t care about your life always being deemed more important in mom and dad’s eyes because of your innermost need to feel special, compared to the other mere spoiled, dumb son over here.
I don’t care about your opinions on anything, including mom and dad’s judgement of my talents, direction or beliefs anymore.
I don’t care that mom and dad would do dick for me if I wanted to get divorced.
I don’t care that mom and dad don’t treat you like the regrettable dumb fuck one.
I don’t care that you talk shit behind my back in the service of preserving your drug money from mom and dad.
I don’t care that dad gets an extra glint in his eyes when trying to upsell your endless fuckitude again.
I don’t care that mom made Yom Kippur all about whether I’d help you move.
I don’t care that mom wasn’t feeling the need to wish me a happy Jewish New Year in return because she was all over your morose dick again.
I don’t care about how you’re the sorry excuse for why and mom and dad, never spend more than a week or 2 back here every summer to see the kids.
I don’t care that your legal fees and divorce lawyer fees are the reason they reneged on taking the kids to California for Spring Break allegedly.
I don’t care about you not being a conspiracy theorist.
I don’t care about you playing the forced intermediary on mom and dad’s behalf anymore, whenever they want to meddle in my life again.
I don’t care about mom breaking into cankers sores on your behalf anymore.
I don’t care about mom only focusing on the center of your existence whenever she visits back east to see the grandkids allegedly.
I don’t care about lopsided love anymore because God put me on this earth to ensure I don’t make the same mistake with my 3 Pescatarian Comedian friends, that being my children, Matilda, Arthur, and Samuel.
That’s right, like mom and dad you refuse to acknowledge the fruits of my labor, in this case being my book The Koshertarian Comedians, which will sell huge, mark my words, no thanks to any emotive encouragement from you, mom and dad, that’s for damn sure. The follow up sequel hit book will be the Pescatarian Comedians, forget about it.
I don’t care about trying to impress you, making you laugh, or making you feel special anymore, because you’re just going to focus on you and not my kids.
Mom says, you’re making money now. I say, “Take the boys out to a baseball game.” And all I get is more bullshit promises in return.
I don’t care that you, mom and dad are A plus narcissists times infinity compared to me anymore.
I don’t care that lying, deceiving, downplaying, and minimizing has become second nature to you all.
I don’t care because I’m the star parenting genius and your enablers aren’t.
I don’t care because come Monday at my new job, will mark the greatest recruiter winning streak of all time.
I don’t care because I’m taking my family to fucking Jamaica man for Spring Break and you’re not, because you don’t have a family, but I do despite mom yearning for versions of you the most inside.
I don’t care because all of my kid’s teachers want to clone future versions of them.
I don’t care because I’ve got 3 masterful books to self-publish or sell.
I don’t care because I get to work for an older Jewish woman with style, class and a sense of humor now, who’s a loving, local, involved Grandma no less.
I don’t care because I’ve got 136 comedy records to convert into 99 cent E books for sales while having my genius artist son design all the covers after his 3rd grade teacher last night described him as the best art student she’s ever had. Especially, after she laughed long time when I said. That’s why, I call him Millionaire By 10 for a reason, Challah. Thank you very much.
I don’t care about lopsided love from mom and dad anymore because I’ve endless sheets of comedy gold, endless a plus, laugh yanker nicknames for my 3-fuss free, pitch perfect children and Dad doesn’t it, Waste Of Height, because it’s a term of affection but a great title lead for my all-star collection of funny man flash fiction stories, Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories. I like getting milage about my dad’s endless assholishness on my behalf.
I don’t care because I’ve got one more final comedy record special to record from home on Sundy called Spoiled Dumb Son before I start cashing checks 20K commission checks on the regular while you’re hooked up to a weed pen on a forklift.
I don’t care because my Shabbat Shalom Ramble is going to kick into extra fucking high rollicking gear tonight.
I don’t care because before my birthday in April, I’ll have a screenplay Gum King Of New York to blow Tarantino away with.
I don’t care about your hurt feelings of dejection in the face of my towering genius anymore because now I live for watching hacks cry.
I don’t care about lop sided love because this is the winter, I don’t drink a drop of alcoholic, even hard fucking Kombucha, so I can finally achieve Do It All Dad Dunking out glory on my lucky 47th to make Dragon’s Lung’s year finish on fire.
I don’t care about lopsided love anymore because it only illuminates what beautifying magic the opposite can be.
Like Ayn Rand said, “New love is always waiting around the corner. And I plan on being its biggest spreader as I become the Relo King Recruiter of North White Plains as I scurry to score jobs and monster commission rips for any remaining in demand tech talent who hasn’t gotten the fuck out of New York, yet. As Jimi sang on Jimi Hendrix Blues, “I hear my train coming, and pretty soon I’m going to buy this town and put it all in my shoes. That’s what I’m going to do.” Jimmy lives, Challah. I might even pretend to give a shit about my freedom buying success that will allow me to kill on stage eventually down the line too.
Lopsided Love woes in my bruised heart are the off the fucking list, starting now, forevermore.
Thank you, sweet Lord, for my lopsided love remedy blog post very, very much.
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?
He openly questions how were related.
How much would you like him then?
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.
What kind of an asshole has a kid today at 46 years old?
What do you say to that kid when we start pledging our allegiance to the CCP?
Freedom of Speech had a nice run, but Trumpy Poo Tits made too many derisive nicknames on Twitter.
So, Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi and other Swamp Thing hostages in Congress gave George Soros and friends in China the green light to release the Franken Bat on MAGA country to ensure we the people never meant jack shit again.
And today, I’d be thrown in jail if I try to prevent you from cutting your dick off before you bloom under your Fruit of the Looms.
Shit, who am I kidding.
Kids don’t wear underwear anymore.
The Commando look went viral when Little Nas became our next President.
Open borders rule everything around us now.
Homeland Security was so weapons of mass destructions years.
Times Square in the 70’s is considered good times now.
At least then, you didn’t have to wear a mask to jerk off in a theater like a moderate Muslim trans wanting to squeeze right in with the crowd.
But I’ll be 66 when you graduate college, which isn’t that bad.
Who cares if my wife has to microdose to make you interesting if you take after me.
Banking on boring, Challah.
Thank you very much.
I never liked my old drinking buddies enough to seek out their company sober.
I’ve never gotten bombed with new buds in my life come to think of it.
Plus, the one relationship I rekindled that I care most about maintaining is a college bud whose been sober for 15 years.
I still like my gummies, but the idea of meeting up with old drinking buds for drinks offers less appeal than saying grace whenever my mother-in-law launches into a grace at our own Jewish observing house that sports a Big Mouth Moses Nutcracker to freak out fiercely protective gentiles at large in November before expecting a complete monopoly of Christmas decorations for December in full and the following 3 lazy stash away months that follow.
Year Without Beer, is shaping up nicely, my belly too, Challah. Thank you very much.
Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”
Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.” The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.
At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.” Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”
Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.
Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.
Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.
So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).
Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.
Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.
Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.
“Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”
” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever.
“Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”
Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.
Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.
Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.
Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.
“It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”
Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.
Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”
Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.
American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.
“Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?
Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”
Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).” Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”
Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”
Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.
“Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”
Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”
Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.” Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”