Angel Light

How do you fuck with your Atheist wife? Be serious about expressing your desire to adopt a kid with Down Syndrome. But they can die at 40 from cancer. Athletes are dying from the clot shot in their twenties now. So, 40 is the new 90 really babe. Plus, your username on the Peloton is Flowers and Babies. Shouldn’t all kids enveloped in our circle of love in our comedy estate home come up roses in your eyes? You work in the NICU checking for vital signs. All I check for is for retweets. You want me to prove I’m not an A Plus Narcissist and break the curse of my family tradition for good? Then this is it. Huey Lewis and the News live, Challah. Thank you very much. Although leave it to Uncle John, AKA Sir Snort A Lot to contaminate our air of holiness at home, the one time he offers our adopted son with Down Syndrome some blow and says, “You don’t always have to be down kid.” But who’s going to look after him? You still don’t have a job. He’ll help me sell my new gum invention Hop-O-Rama Chew. Who’s going to say no to a kid with Down Syndrome? What, I want to disrupt the job market for young adults with Down Syndrome. Most kids with Down Syndrome are highly creative. Plus, they possess highly developed senses of humor like Phil Rosenthal’s cousin in Somebody Feed Phil or the guy in Something About Mary. And who could resist our adopted kid with Down Syndrome going to door to door in Brooklyn selling Hop flavored gum to overweight Stay At Home hipster dads who identify more with Lena Dunham since she morphed into the Hunchback of Bushwick during Restaurant Week? We can call him Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, which gives him immediate hipster cred after he introduces himself in addition to some immediate breathing room to pitch. I want to out Hipster the shit out of these guys. Door to door sales would do wonders for this kid’s self-esteem. At the same time, nobody is slamming a door on a kid’s face with Down Syndrome, especially if he’s blowing the biggest bubble, you’ve ever seen while holding up tape recorder that plays our pre-recorded radio jingle for Hop-O-Roma Chew. “Blow your blues with away some Hop-O-Rama Chew. Our bubbles are easy to blow. Even kids with Down Syndrome can blow big bubbles while chewing on a daily nugget of wisdom wrapped inside each burst of bright-eyed flavor inside.  Hop-O-Rama Swami says, “Beer Bellies give self-love a bad name. And Sarah Palin is better than you. So, add some extra bounce to your step with some Hop-O-Rama Chew.”

“Also, your best friend Sara will feel like a more self-involved narcissist for only having one kid versus our 3 plus one adopted one with Down Syndrome. And our 4th kid being an adopted one with Down Syndrome would really piss my parents off. Just think of what a big deal they made about putting up a pool fence. But I don’t view a kid with Down Syndrome as an eye sore but as angel light and their laughs are the purest. Plus, when a kid with Down Syndrome smiles it could light up a youth hostel in a no-go zone area in Germany with no-WI Fi during the Chinese planted plague made in Wuhan delivered through remote controlled drone bats, next day delivery. Supply Chain problem solved because everyone will be dead. So, what difference does it make? Except that our best of 4 worlds family, that being all 4 kids, because were not family without them, will be able to bask in some angel light before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames. As we sing in a beautiful, truthfully tuneful harmony, “It’s the end of the world, and we know it, and I feel fine. Because Samuel needs a younger brother to look after. And denying him the opportunity to be the biggest hearted big brother ever would really blow more than being denied the chance to see if your mother would terminate her Nazi dog Heidi over a more playtime consideration with her grandchild with Down Syndrome. Will see how God blessed she’ll act in the face of our new kid with Down Syndrome who will do abortion jokes in my honor over Christmas. One kid only means your diaphragm is for walls after all Baba. Plus, how could I ever be sad in the presence of Dad? Funnier dad, happier baby. Thanks Dad. For giving me the confidence to do more than dig ditches for non-biodegradable masks at McDonald’s before the never-ending shit show goes up in flames.” Angel Light lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Half Heeb Crazy

The best thing about weed being legalized is not pretending to like your old dealer anymore. Until it’s cheaper to visit your dealer instead of blowing 50 bucks on gas on your way to the Berkshires. You’re forced to make small talk again.

“Joe Rogan thinks Michelle Obama, What’s Talent Got To Do With It, would make a great next president. And Mr. Groper in the White House got more votes than Obama ever did, which is like claiming DMX gave up weed for catnip during Lent because he isn’t a Catholic on his Jewlery only. Michelle Obama calls it racist to flee from the southside of Chicago, the lead maker of blood controlling kits in the country, as if the southside of Chicago is only one Crepe Food Truck away from Gentrification. Gentrification, you know old school liberal talk for less black people before All Lives Matter became the new n word. I don’t care if Michelle Obama is trans, just stop acting like you hate Trump’s America so much, when you admitted to playing with Malibu Barbie as a kid. Throw a wig on in the eighties and Trump could’ve passed for Malibu Barbie with smaller tits.”

Old weed dealer says, “Michelle Obama isn’t trans.” I say, “How many trans have you gone down on exactly? I’ve done the dirty work and gone deep undercover. Call it a Trans Dar. Just imagine Catilyn Jenner facing off with Michelle Obama on the debate stage after coming out as Trans. Caitlyn Jenner says, “Michelle, so glad, you finally decided to join the party, especially after Trans Chucky teamed up with that unhuggable cunt Kelly Osbourne and ruined Fashion Police forever. Fashionably late my balls. That’s right, I still got them Chappelle.  Did you participate in leaving trash talking notes about Trump in the White House with Chappelle during your last blow out party at the White House Michelle? Or was that beneath you, despite claims of Melania having to fumigate the Lincoln bedroom on your way out the door. I know, Icky Shuffle Biden got the most votes out of any president in US History. And you regretted pissing on the ceiling fan in the Lincoln bedroom during Trump’s inauguration. Hours later, The Donald comments to Melania, “Is this what Michelle meant, when She-Hulk said, “When they go low, we aim high”?  But keep getting your panties in a bunch over Michelle being Trans in real life dude, get over it already. Richard Pryor talks about an affair he had with a Trans woman in his book Confessions. He called it the best piece of pussy, Bill Maher never had. Half Heeb Crazy, Joan 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

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 shit 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 being 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 more 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 I would 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’s he’s really saying is I really like hanging out with you that much more because he’s gets bored around her too easily. 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

Endlessly Right

English muffins reminding me of the time alcohol prevented my son from dying a premature death.

“So, Arthur, one time, I went to Fire Island with an old work bud, who wasn’t a complete Long Island hack like the rest, when I used to sell online ads for CitySearch in Manhattan. Our primary target audience was gay men searching for who gave the best facial. I had just met mommy, yet we weren’t in a committed monogamous relationship. Son interrupts my flow. “What’s monogamous daddy?” I say, “Decoupling in reverse.”

“I was semi-seeing this Filipino girl at the time who co-owned a restaurant in the city. She showcased way too much upper gum for my taste. But she was the 1st one I ever did phone sex with because of her instigating encouragement. Son says, “What’s phone sex? I say, “Kama Sutra talk without getting naked, so there’s no harm in it really, assuming you have her consent to give her endless dick over the phone that is. Still, she pushed me to write a Family guy spec during one of my brooding moods, after asking point blank, “What’s going to make you happy?” And I said, “Writing a Family Guy Spec, so I wouldn’t feel like such an ineffectual jerkoff outside of what sporadic laughs I was getting throughout the open mike stage outside of a semi-reliable opener at the time, which was, “So far, my claim to fame was an appearance on the show Blind Date. All I got out of it was a free meal and herpes.” Son says, “What’s herpes?” I say, “Worse than long COVID, next question. And just when you think you’re in the clear, it keeps breaking out from within.”

“Yeah, so back to Fire Island. I made Avocado toast on a toasted English muffin with melted Munster and turkey bacon and all the yenta breaths went hog wild over it. All of a sudden, I felt Jerry Seinfeld minus the career, which reminds he just sold one his vintage Porsches for charity. I just hope that half the proceeds went to Larry’s kids.”

“So, for my 1st time on Fire Island, I was feeling semi-cocky, already had some living under my belt after living in LA for a bit. I didn’t miss driving in LA. But I did miss road head. Son says, “What’s roadhead? I said, “Primo pole position all the way.” Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.”

One time I did that joke at the Comedy Cellar and addressed a banger pretty NYU girl sitting close to the stage with, “Did you just call shot gun?” And the crowd screamed touchdown. Yeah, so I wasn’t married to any one fun hole just yet, my days of being a slut-in-straight jacket hadn’t happened because I didn’t get mommy pregnant by mistake.” Son says, “How did you get her pregnant by mistake? I say, “By being a stoner who forget to ask if she were on the pill. Or from being too much of a chicken shit in a post feminism world to inquire about whether the pill still made her “nauseous” or not, which is code for, run for the hills if you don’t love the bitch.”

“So, I hit on this beautifully, sexy gal on Fire Island who was sunbathing all by herself. She was a better stacked, prettier faced Phoebe Cates with longer luscious hair than the sexless, dike cut she sported in Gremlins 2. All the yenta breaths surrounding us, got their panties in a bunch over the new big headed Heeb in town hitting on a far sexier Barbara Stanwyck without breaking a sweat because girls this sexy are normally dating some alpha man jock who lettered at 3 varsity sports, which I didn’t, who most likely didn’t run down the basketball court, looking like he was sporting high heels instead of high tops. At the time, I didn’t know that she broke up with her boyfriend. Chances are, he banged her hotter friend because guys are scumbags like that, always interested in doing the next best thing. So, I bump into her on the dance floor at some random bar later that evening. We grind on the dance floor as I flexed my magic mike love stand behind her love buns to Moby from what I recall. I’m also on incredibly strong E and have been drinking for 5 hours straight, which is a blackout combo waiting to happen.” Son says, “What’s a blackout?” I said, “Your southern hick DNA sabotaging your chances of getting laid again.”

“Eventually, she says, “Want to take a walk by the beach. I follow her lead. Shit, I would’ve followed her into a glory hole at a Chicago bathhouse during Arafat Appreciation Month. Son says, “What’s a glory hole.” I say, “Russian Roulette with your dick.”

“So, we sit on the sand together but now I’m light-headed. So, I recline back on the sand to look up at the stars. And I feel a bump. She says, “Did you just pass out?” I can’t believe we came that close to fucking.” And that’s how my crazy hick DNA prevented your premature death. Crazy Hick DNA lives. But endlessly wrong produced endlessly right in you kid.”

Endlessly wrong produces endlessly right, 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

Captain Fruitcake

My honeymoon phase with my daughter is waning. It only took 11 years, which lasts longer than most. It died with my wife after a stream of milk squirted out of her nips on our honeymoon in Australia, especially, after I nibbled on them for old time’s sake while totally blanking on how they now tasted like a regrettable non-fate latte. Our plan was to get married in Australia on Mother’s Beach, where my wife grew up around, yet my mom.crashed that concept real fast. Mom calls, “Fuck Australia Scoops. Australia is a long flight from New York. And your father doesn’t love you that much. You’re the sloppy second son for a reason, remember?” I console my wife later and say, “Babe, assuming we have a boy, instead of hiring a Rabbi for the circumcision, will hire Crocodile Dundee. Just so we can hear a roomful of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”  Most honeymoon phases fade after their sweaty sex period anyway. Where the bed achieves blast off despite perpetual poundage downward, which defies all laws of gravity all together. 

So, I’m not sweating the prospect of my honeymoon phase coming to a deflated end with my daughter at 11 years old. She has breast buds now, so I know she can’t remain my little girl forever. It’s not as if I identify with Woody Allen in my late forties now either. Who pines for the days of keeping naked pics of a 9-year-old Soon-Yi in his top sock drawer to tap for future script ideas on scripts such as Crimes and Misdemeanors the Early Years or was it The Plowing Field? Shit, the only crusty pic missing from Woody Allen’s top sock drawer was Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine. Still, 11 years old feels early for breast buds, don’t you think? Wife says, “Matilda and Shannon are the last girls in their class to get breast buds.” And I said, “Then why haven’t yours sprouted yet?”

I’m cooling on my daughter because of her overuse of the word “Nice.” Had a pothead friend Cling in college cool dude, worked as chef in Nantucket during the summer to pay for his high-end hippie lifestyle. But he could also throw down like Leo and went to Berkshire, a boarding school that got printed up in the NY times in 96 after a student sold 90 doses of acid to a student population of 300, although I’ve been told nearly every student there was tripping balls, including some of the professors. Headmaster calls in the dealer. “You really thought you’d get away with this shit? Are you smoking coo-coo puffs or what? Who’s your supplier?” Student breaks out into the giggles and can barely muster, “You, said, coo-puffs.  That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.” Headmaster adds, “I knew that hiring that English teacher from Berkley was a bad idea. O Captain, my Captain Trips was his quote in his high school yearbook for Christ’s sake. He quoted that fruitcake Robet Frost to. I bet those woods were lovely, dark and deep on 5 hits of acid, when the Maple Tree morphed into Aunt Jemima ordering you to sodomize each other with your lacrosse sticks because the ghost of Jim Brown will shit on your dreams of breaking his scoring records at the University of Syracuse regardless.”

Yeah, so Cling, the same guy who rolled perfect joints, who’d blow smoke rings that shaped into the contours of the skeletal shape seen on Deadhead shirts, would use the word “nice”, if you said something he liked. For example, “Hey Kling, saw 311 live last night. They kicked total ass. I practically touched the rafters. For once I no longer felt whiter than White Man’s Disease.  And Kling says, “Nice”, despite it being way more momentous than nice.  And I didn’t have to compete with an I-Pad in front of him for his attention. So, when I say, “Matilda, Daddy’s final comedy record, Last Licks, will be my Siamese Dream, Too Fast for Love, Appetite for Destruction and American Idiot, all wrapped up into one.” Only to hear back in return, “Nice daddy.” In other words, “Sell some comedy records later summer whether it be Last Licks or Billionaire Brain in my honor, and I’ll give a bigger shit. I’m sure I can find you an emoji for that. Just let me get back to being a budding pre-teen already, who doesn’t have to suck off the totality of your ego every two seconds. Besides, isn’t that what mommy is for? I get it, making comedy records at home is like playing with yourself. You can only spend so much time jerking off your own material without wanting others to do it for you. Is that what Brian Wilson meant when he sang, Wouldn’t It Be Nice? Anyway, let me plan my 1st sleepover with Kendel at our house with the tent in our yard Daddy. Just be glad I’m not pushing for more horse riding lessons that you can’t afford because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review.  Just make enough money for a Bat Mitzvah trip in 2 years to France, so I can practice my French while ordering you some high-end Rose from Provence, Captain fruitcake. We can toast my official entry into fully budding womanhood, and you finally making it a semi-working artist writer comedian of some kind, so you can stop freaking out about not having enough new lovers of you yet. Nice enough Captain Fruitcake? Nice lives, Challah. Thanks for the stroll down memory lane Kling, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Head Banging Nation

Best part of being a parent is freaking out other parents. Drop the kids off at camp blasting old school Metallica at full blast with the windows down. Daughter tenses and turns down the volume because she shouldn’t be caught driving shotgun in the 1st place. Wife says, “Air Bags kill people under 100 pounds.” I say, “But Rebel Wilson dropping 100 pounds killed off her tits and sex appeal that came with it.” As my kids get out of the car for camp, I criticize my daughter for acting like an uptight prude. I say, “Matila act more prudish. You couldn’t be more self-conscious scaredy pants if you tried.” Youngest son yells with excitable boy glee, “I’m not self-conscious Daddy.” And I say, “That’s why you’re Hardcore Hunga Rocks, AKA, All Metal Baby, Challah.” No regrets head banging nation, Metallica lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth