Wheels Of Jew Hate Burning

This is my 9-year-old daughter playing marriage counselor again. Enough daddy, mama got your point mid breath. Holla, thank you very much.

My wife is pushing me to see a therapist for my anger management issues. I suggested primal scream therapy. Wife says, “Don’t you do that on your podcast already?” I say, “How would you know? You’re only 460 episodes behind babe. Never mind your complete lack of interest in the 7 books I’ve written since our lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years.” Holla, thank you very much.  

Wife insists our 3 child Samuel, gets bored whenever he spends too much with her. I always knew he was a quick learner.

My son Samuel was bound to woo. He stops traffic at the Stop and Shop even after the prime rib sample station has closed. Random Italian grandmas consistently bum rush the kid and say, “You’re gorgeous. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” I’ll reply, “If James Woods had this face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

All my fights with my wife revolve around me not making money off my comedy yet. Since I got kicked off Twitter, I can’t even write off a joke about the Chinese resisting Wuhan lab investigations more than Aquafresh as a charitable donation anymore. Holla, thank you very much.

Imagine John Lennon resenting Paul McCartney for shaming him into becoming a stay-at-home dad against his will. Paul McCartney did write Hey Jude in honor of John Lennon’s neglected son Julian, who Lennon didn’t spend much time with during the rise of Beatlemania.  2 seconds into a leisurely baby stroll through Central Park West with his 2nd kid Sean, John Lennon yells up at the sky, “Choke on a fucking Cucumber Scone Paul.  Playing the role of stay-at-home dad, is no walk in the park mate. Even primal scream therapy has its limitations, like trying to snuggle off bad acid with Yoko whenever Dr. Leary drops by with more CIA made ACID again.” Holla, Thank you very much.

The Left says there is a rise in anti-Semitism and Islamophobia.  Arabs chanting “Hitler was right” and “Allah is great” while beating up pushover Jews in the streets of New York, London, and Los Angeles, with the blunt ends of Palestinian flag poles while the cops do shit to protect them, doesn’t mirror the act of extending an olive branch in the hopes of giving peace another chance either. I don’t see these sparks of divinity inspiring observant Jews to skip Shabbat dinner at home in favor of going to a new oxygen bar opening in Astoria once the mask mandate is cleared in NY either.

Palestinians attacking Jews in the subway, asking random New Yorkers who’s Jewish, so they could beat the shit of them with the ends of Palestinian flag poles doesn’t inspire me to try out that authentic shawarma stand in Astoria, despite the elite Yelper claiming, “It’s worth getting your skull cap crushed into your cranium for it.” The elite yelper throws in a warning advisory label in her review to and says, “Just don’t call random Palestinians attacking Jews in broad daylight, Islamic supremacists, that’s a big no go zone area in Allah’s book. Bill Maher would concur. Because he knows Israel will never achieve a 2-state solution with Palestine if Hamas keeps fucking.” Holla, thank you very much.

I’m afraid to reveal the totality of my Mezuzah necklace on the subways in NY these days. That doesn’t make me Islamophobic. It just means I’m scared of getting pushed on to the subway track and having my white man’s disease preventing me from jumping back up to the subway platform in a NY minute in the nick of time. I can’t even do one legitimate pull up if my Do It All Dad Tree Trunk was riding on it. But I’m supposed to be overly confident in adrenaline alone to catapult me high enough to grab on to the subway platform before pulling myself up to safety like the Jewish Stallone in Cliffhanger? Yeah, and Rashida Talib is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

Imagine being surrounded by a bunch of crazed Palestinian nationalists on the subway, demanding for you to tell them if you’re Jewish, without having to prove it by whipping out your business card from Goldman Sachs 1st.

Equity research analyst David Rosenbluth from Short Hills, New Jersey tenses immediately and says, “Jewish, no, of course not. Look, under my arm, I still read the New York Times. I don’t even know how many zeros are in a trillion. I count with my fingers for simple arithmetic, which your people invented from what I’ve read in the Atlantic, Mazel Tov. Oh vey! Please don’t kill me. I’ll block Mark Ruffalo on Twitter. Israel is guilty of genocide, not Mao, Stalin or Pol Pot. I voted for Obama twice. I think Farsi is the most beautiful sound in the universe to. And Obama loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Gassing all his nuke deal critics would be a gas. Palestinian nationalist says, “You’re too funny for a WASP. Samir, chop his fucking head off. So we can jump for joy like it’s 9/11 again already. And I thought David Lee Roth was a long-winded Jew.”

This is Mark Ruffalo apologizing to Jon Stewart about accusing Israel of genocide. Mark Ruffalo calls. “Hey, Jon, it’s Mark. Sorry about accusing Israel of genocide despite them giving Hamas plenty of advance warning to get their kids the fuck out of dodge before they strike back again and again. Normally, genocidal maniacs like Mao prefer to starve millions to death. And Jews don’t like to blow through money if they can avoid it.” Jon Stewart says, “Don’t sweat it, Mark. I don’t care if you repeat old school Farrakhan talking points like the mulatto version of Public Enemy. Nor do I care if Palestinians get green with envy about the Jews controlling the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. I let Trever Noah reveal what partisan hacks my Emmy winning writers have become by siding with ANTIFA and BLM to silence any form of speech that paints them or their enablers in the White House and establishment media as the fascist, racist terrorist enablers that they are, regardless of how much CNN orders Kamal Bell to pontificate otherwise like a schlumpy, unfunny Paul Mooney for hire. I also didn’t press Obama on my show to do a better job of selling his time out deal with Iran, which had less legs than Lieutenant Dan. So, what difference does it make?” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles lives. Holla, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Boob Doctor

Samuel was so fond of boob; he became a Boob Doctor one day. Growing up, he’d suck mama’s boobs dry after he turned his parent’s bed into a 24/7 open milk bar. One time, it got weird because his big sister was in his parent’s bed when he said, “Booby”, only for his sister to lift her shirt up and say, “Sike, April Fools Day Samuel”, before pulling her nightie shirt immediately back down, before her younger brother could punch her nipple dots into bruised ones. Big sister was only 9, so she had no lumbering boobs, weighing down her structurally damaged vertebrae from massive overextension already, although if she did opt to get breast reduction surgery when she got older, for some selfish, stupid reason like mild back pain discomfort from bending over on clay courts in Florida in Palm Beach from playing tennis too long, chances are, it wouldn’t be a huge load off her shoulders if she filled out on top even less than mama did.

Baby Samuel would hold up one of his sister’s naked Barbies on occasion and ask his Dada, “Do you think she’s hot Dada?” And Daddy would say, “By southern belle standards, I’d give her a 7.3, although if she lived in the East Village of Manhattan these days, I’d give her a solid 9, because she’d be taller than most of the munchkin gals off off Saint Marks who you could never mount standing up, unless you held them up high up against the wall, which your Do It All Dad is too putzy to pull off, if you really need to know.” Baby Samuel was always fascinated with his Dada’s human anatomy book, which he got so his kids would have an easier time coming up with funny sounding body parts whenever they played Mad Libs, anus hole, being a made-up body part name, that became their go to personal favorite. Baby Samuel always wanted his Daddy to show him where he came from in mama’s vagina, as he constantly implored his dear Dada, “Show me where I used to live in mama’s vagina, back in the day, when I used to sip booby milk through her umbilical cord.”

Now, Baby Samuel is The Boob Doctor with a big pimping plastic surgery office in Miami Beach about to consult a 39-year-old exotic dancer, Buttercup, about a potential breast reduction surgery. Buttercup wears a tight white sweater and cheap sunglasses to her appointment with The Boob Doctor as she examines various framed degrees on the wall before The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters. The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters his office and Buttercup’s nipples begin to jingle with nervous trepidation. Dr. Kornbluth taps her shoulder ever so gently, which sends shivers of titillating tingles up and down her spine like never before, before he get’s comfortable in his desk chair to deliver his breast reduction surgery consultation.  Dr. Kornbluth says, “So, my tennis partner Dr. Ken says, “He doesn’t want you dancing at Senior Tatas in South Beach anymore.” Buttercup says, “He’s very possessive of my glittery busty beauties, but that’s not why I’m here Dr. Kornbluth.  You see I read on the Internet how breast reduction surgery causes scars, and I was wondering why any woman would be willing to risk damaging their natural beauties the way God intended them to be.  Do you ever feel like Dr. Frankenstein for playing the role of Nip Tuck God, by picking off where he left off? I was double major in philosophy and English at the University of Florida, in case you’re wondering.” Dr. Kornbluth says, “I’m confused Buttercup. I thought you came here for a breast reduction surgery consultation but it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already. I’m still getting paid by the hour, so I don’t give a shit, especially knowing how I get to glance at your luscious lobes of perfection jiggle with anticipation in my presence. I have that impact on all my female patients, except the hardcore dikes, but they normally have nothing to flaunt and hide under their natty looking, dress sweaters for a reason.” Buttercup says, “I do play plenty of tennis in my downtime with Dr. Ken and I have noticed a slight strain on my back as of late Dr. Kornbluth. Plus, I own a hot Pink Range Rover, my own boat and a condo with high ceilings and fancy fuck bags made of shaggy futon in the fancy arts district of Miami, so I’ve gotten plenty of ROI out of my gorgeous gals on top already. I just want to know what love feels like without them being the centerpiece, force field, which dominates every man’s universe.” Dr. Kornbluth says “Like Kayne West says, one good girl is worth a thousand bitches, with depleted tits on top making them half the woman they used to be, BAM.” Buttercup says, “You mangled that Kayne West line a bit Doc, but I heard your message loud and clear.” Buttercup stands up erect, pulls down her cheap sunglasses ever so slightly and says, “I wouldn’t trade in your posh Miami Beach office for a shit box in Park Slope, Brooklyn either Doc. New York is so yesterday’s news.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth