The Jolt Felt Around The World

It was 1986, Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with bad ass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life.  Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the 4th grade, spending more time now star gazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid because she saw how tweaky, sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did. Her younger brother Arthur, would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later discontinued Jolt cola, which was the equivalent of 6 cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep deprived 1st grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store. But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss, because she had to write a paper about it for class. Actually, Matilda’s 4th grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, Goody Tushu square.”

Now, Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Way’s from Halloween she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again till 2061. By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous Astrophysicist who would eventually go viral, despite the Internet not being invented yet, when she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt to.”

Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt and in a frenzied spurt, darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite in her inner square telling her she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice in a lifetime event, if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us, before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow bigger up than you know what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, with his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads. As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister, yet unfortunately, she inherited her dear Dada’s clunky, heavy feet, which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden, colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon either.

Arthur turns his head and spots Matilda and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt on a school night to.” Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about Arthur. I’m not Matilda, you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation.  I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind like Hon Solo after Leia unfreezes him from Carbonite in Jabba’s place actually.” Arthur adds, “Don’t BS me Tilda. Wait a minute, I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.” Now, Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green forcefield enclosing, brain eating Alien bug. Arthur freaks out as expected, yelling, “I got killed Tilda. I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m to get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”

Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching Arthur, I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet. Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins. As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with discarded Milk Way wrappers on it. Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over baby.” Matilda has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain drilling noogie, look ups to her Dad and asks in a perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet Dad?’ Dad says, “But then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grown on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need. “

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Neverending Prick


“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort”, asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a 50 something well dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like. The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment within the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights from Julio Silverbade, the 3rd, before his co-op eviction trial began.

The Manipulative Prick otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot, loved doing cocaine, mainly on the weekends though, when he wasn’t working. So what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine to. Last month, when the newlyweds received their 1st of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a 40-year-old phone sales rep Verizon says, “Relax babe, our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me, because his life sucks compared to mine, that’s all. Wife Kate, a 35-year-old, one time divorced pretty yet worn-down looking ER nurse says with weary disgust, “You’re a 40-year-old cokehead who sells smartphones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of a hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about exactly, your tar stains on your 2 front teeth? Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career secure?  You think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at 4am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody free snatch? Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor for a Jewish cokehead, your Hebrew name is under judicial review? Maybe, he’s jealous about you being a no-show Uncle, whose more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from 5 years ago today, than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on News Years Day, moron.”

Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor, who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day and says, “First off, I take incredible offense, being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.” Then, a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke to get him erect with aroused interest at all these days.”

The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money here.” This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it. Now, the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion, during your eviction notice hearing already. You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name automatic fuck up, or what?” Now, the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

Co-Op Board Member 2, a wrinkly, diminutive yet feisty, retired realtor chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other 50 plus and over tenets when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion free during your final eviction notice hearing? Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, drugged out loud when consequences for your got to have satisfaction up my nose, whenever I want behavior have never been greater.”

The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him, the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior in addition to the realtor’s wig and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone when my wife works the weekend shit, especially since COVID hit these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils, which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much actually.”

Now, a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling, through a fancy schmancy chandelier, while looking more like the worm giant from Dune as all the Co-Op Board members duck for cover under their judgement table, as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction. Co-Op Board Member number 2 squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face screams, “What the fuck is that? The Never-Ending Prick.

The End  

Michael Kornbluth

The Eulogy Ghost Writer

Do It All Dad had a bit in his old standup comedy act called Wise Black Grandma, where he’d say, “If I could do it again, I would’ve subbed my no show whiny Jewish Grandma for a wise black Grandma to fill in her place at my wedding instead. Post an ad on Craigs List, “Wise Black Grandma need for a wedding in Woodstock. Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome, must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only.”  Growing up, Do It All Dad grew a fondness, teetering on full blown love for his substitute Grandpa Ed, who exuded the furry browed, warm hearted, wiser glint you’d expect from a retired Jewish estate tax lawyer from Queens, in his button up, neatly woven sweaters and whiff of well put together after shave.

Becoming a grandpa doesn’t make you into Santa Claus, yet Grandpa Ed, his substitute Grandpa, who his Jewish Grandma Ethel remarried soon after the death of her 1st husband Murray, would shell out an always, neat, crisp 5 dollar bill for the grandkid who found the Afikoman which is the half broken piece of Matzah little Jewish kids go looking for after dinner for Passover, which was a nice, cheer filled touch to celebrate the Jewish people’s liberation from slavery in honor of God’s hardcore divine intervention years, on the behalf of his chosen people, meant to become cosmic perfectionist lovers of TV, who lived to complain in restaurants about unrecognized, immediate service.

Now, Grandpa Ed had a grandson from his 1st marriage, yet you didn’t get that distinct impression based on the eulogy he delivered on his grandpa’s behalf and Roger was billed as the really smart one because he played chess and wore plenty of turtlenecks, which gives you 10 extra IQ points easy.  Grandpa Ed was dead now and Roger who later went to Harvard was supposed to be giving a heartfelt eulogy in honor of his biological grandfather, not his rebound one, yet merely reading some boring letter his original wife wrote to Grandpa Ed, devoid of any juicy details such as their sweaty sex period after World War  2, when she used to lick Ice Cream Bonbons off his bellybutton during those brutally hot summer Queens nights, before Grandpa passed the bar, become a family estate tax lawyer and could afford an AC unite of their own, failed to bring back any semblance of real deal connective feeling either.

Eulogies really do separate the men from the ungrateful twats such as Roger, who couldn’t muster up a single original, expressive remembrance of his dead biological grandfather, who treated him like the 2nd coming of Bobby Fisher.  Eulogies also reveal if Grandpa raised a cunt for brains daughter to. Now, there’s a good kind of gaul and a bad kind of gaul. Faye, Roger’s, clammy, insincere peppy, patronizing, style free, tad stumpy mother, showcased the worst kind of gaul, when during her eulogy, she went for the kishke’s, meaning the intestines in Yiddish by openly declaring permanent f you season on Do It All Dad’s grandma when she said with what felt like manufactured, dialed up invective, “I’m just glad that now Dad can join mom now in heaven”, which was a low blow on par with Mini Me trying to gnaw off Austin’s Power’s Nuts, In The Spy That Shagged Me.”  

Now, in the limo ride to the grave site, Faye asks Do It All Dad, a 20-year-old college junior at the time, “You didn’t write your eulogy did, you? He says, “No, my mom wrote it for me Faye.” Faye almost stutters and says, “Well, I just thought.”  The 20-year-old Do It All Dad adds, “You thought what Faye, I hired a eulogy ghost writer with my bus boy tip money this summer in Cape Cod. My eulogy was well received by the Rabbi because it sprang from my heart Faye. Regardless, if Grandpa Ed was my rebound grandpa or not, he still treated me like I was his own grandson worthy of his wisdom and love. I recall him telling me how to place my feet when using a 7 iron once, which is more than my own dad ever taught me besides a half-formed hook shot. Wasn’t there anything Roger could’ve mentioned to honor his legacy outside of reading an old letter his 1st wife wrote? Reality is, your son Roger, the genius, is the one guilty of plagiarizing, by stealing the memories contained in an old letter your mom wrote, to fill in the lapse of having any soul serenade sermon to deliver on his own. And where do you get the gaul to disrespect my grandmother at her dead husband’s funeral, regardless, if you feel her endlessly manic bi-polar art buying spree of southwest American Indian art, being responsible for draining his will to live one second more either. Also, Jews focus on more Mitzvah and doing good for the sake of doing good hear on Earth, without the intention of sole financial gain or promised hooked up afterlife in Heaven, where all sins are cleared, even if Grandpa Ed asked Jesus to forgive him for raising such a cunt for brains like yourself. Do I have way with words or what? But I’m positive Roger will make an excellent food coloring chemist for Johnson and Johnson to overcompensate for his color free personality, which he could thank you for inheriting at your funeral to.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth   

Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

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 get’s a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”  Reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his 1st born 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 on hearing about his youngest non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and 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 forte. For example, after his 2nd 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 last call from the bathroom stall.”  Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug free monk, even after becoming a father of 3, 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 Comedian on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green, knowing 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 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, 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 druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention, 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 2 decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most, about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause 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 his dear Matilda’s effortless warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come or rain shine and she wasn’t some dead weight conversationalist snooze, who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family prematurely 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 this email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this, “I’m a great fit for his 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.  Last, 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 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 7 every night. Little did mama know, Matilda similar to lip syncing 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, which 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 far away hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over my Chinse big pharma companies, looking to expand past the market for muscle soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football cool down 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 into far later after Dada tucked in her 2 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, triggering a pleasant stroll down memory lane, when Dada said to his daughter 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 4th of July weekend, mama and I were there to see a Further show, which was the new version of the Grateful Dead. The show was only 12 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 get’s 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 renters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and 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 found 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 forget 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 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, 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 to many holla for challah chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast whenever Mama 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 midnight showing of Higher Learning or not.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Yoga Scout

The Yoga Scout enters a wine shop and locates his prey, a handsome white dude, most likely in his mid-thirties, trying to figure out what wine to get. Yoga Scout goes in for the kill and says, “Buying wine for your wife again because you have a hard time expressing how much you’d prefer she do core exercises with her Peloton app instead?” Married white guy says, “How did you know? Wine Shop owner approaches, “Anything in particular, you’re looking for? Yoga Scout’s eyes remain locked on his prey and says, “Ignore the wine merchant of death. She doesn’t care about making your sex life above average again, I do.”

Wine Shop Owner says, “How dare you?” Yoga Scout continues to focus his eyes only on his prey and fires back with, “We’re in the middle of a conversation. I’m in the process of offering a new lease on life. All   you offer is boring talking points from Tucker Carlson. So, with all due respect, I’d like to help save what remains of this man’s flagging sense of independence. Pretend you care about another customer’s interior life while we wrap up our bonding session, here. I’m not your sigh heavy husband, who has to act content with your indifference to high stepping out of those spanks from more box jumps in the yard after you’re done pumping artificial love juice into sour relationships, which reached their expiration date ions ago lady.”

 The Wine Shop Lady rolls her eyes and returns behind the cash register as a new customers enters, who’s a pretty faced gal, most likely in her early forties, who shoots a warm, semi flirty smile at the Yoga Scout as she enters inside, which he feels from behind the back of his head, because his 3rd eye is open to eye sensations from every direction imaginable.  The Yoga Scout resumes his pitch, “Look, I know you’re buying wine for your wife because you strike me as more of an IPA guy for starters, despite your complete lack of facial hair, 2nd hand cloths or visible tats straining for hardcore Indie cred respect. More importantly, I’ve been in your shoes before, married, constrained, worry laden because you share more in common with your 9-year-old daughter than your own wife, who has done everything in her power to depreciate your relationships with your family and old friends because she’s always struggled with accepting how much joy others are capable of giving without her interference.”

Middle aged white dude says, “Are they doing a remake of Candid Camera again?” How do you know so much about me already? Or am I really that much of an open book on depression? Also, do you realize that pretty face gal who just came inside was giving you the yummy eyes the moment she came in the store. The Yoga Scout says, “Of course I did, my 3rd eye feel all lusty awe. More importantly, do you long for greater flexibility in your life? Do fantasize about doing what you want to do to satisfy your own shot at fulfillment on this earth, that more often than not, doesn’t include your wife these days?” Middle aged dude says, “Is Coors Light the pounding beer of choice in Daytona Beah on Spring Break because it’s lightweight and easy to inhale in rapid succession like miniature yenta breaths sorority girls from University Of Buffalo. Personally, I wish they’d made a toothpaste that tastes like Coors Light, so I don’t taste anything afterwards.”

The Yoga Scout exudes a booming laugh, which shakes the pricier, magnums of 1st growth Bordeaux on the walls a little bit. Middle aged guy says, “That’s the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard. It was on par with a room full of black guys in the audience on Def Comedy Jam after Bernie Mac came out and said, “I aint scared of you motherfuckers, which set off a bomb of cataclysmic motion of high-flying legs and flailing arms in every direction, which screamed touchdown.”

The Yoga Scout says, “My throat Chakra is clear as Times Square on News Years Day. So, I have no problem projecting with mountainous echo feeling.” Middle Aged dude says, “Are you a yoga instructor? I learned about Chakra’s when I used to live in LA. My psychic told me about I should’ve been a big-time comedy writer already but had to pay 2 grand to clear my Chakras 1st because they were more clogged than my freshman one hitter. Although, one unplanned kid later and with me still working as a journeyman IT agency headhunter, whose more of a trickler than a consummate rainmaker, not too much has changed since. Wearing sandals in the dead of the winter in addition to your Spread Eagles tank top should’ve been a dead giveaway. It looks my 3rd eye needs much greater opening than I thought after all.”

The Yoga Scout says, “I do teach Yoga, hot naked yoga after dark to be exact. But I’m also a single dad, who was tired of living in his head, but that wasn’t enough to stretch myself outside my comfort zone for a change. It took my 7-year-old daughter at the time to buy me some yoga classes from her Lavender cupcake bakeoff sale at school, which made me realize how much I need pretty feet in life for nirvana on earth to help me heal my jaded heart for denying myself that scrumptious, inhalable pleasure for so long. There’s no bunions in my yoga class, Spread Eagles.”

Middle aged dude says, “How can you provide a no-bunion guarantee?” Does your third eye possess x ray vision to? The Yoga Scout says, “You know how normally you can tell if a woman tastes good or not? Well, the more hot naked yoga you do after dark, in a candle lit room with In A Silent Way by Miles Davis on, the more in touch you become with your powers of intuition. Plus, anyone who enrolls in a hot naked yoga class, is most likely bunion free. Plus, I offer a full month membership refund if they do. My Spread Eagles hot naked yoga classes after dark is full of many single men moaning to. I wanted to create a safe space mixer for divorcees to meet without having to go through all the drawn-out time suck charade of having to wine and dine each other 1st, because when you’re a single dad or mom, who has the time for that bullshit anyway. Also, if you sign up for my class it means you no have no problem with your fellow classmates objectifying your body knowing how much my Spread-Eagle line of scented lubes and yoga mats with my signature spread eagle logo of spread legs with picture perfect toes flies  off the shelves to.” More importantly, my class helps heal the trauma of repressed rage and latent sexual tension, which has been held imprisoned by shame and guilt for way too long. Our motto at Spread Eagles is, “Moaning Is Good, Sighing Is Bad, because when you moan for pleasure it means whatever you’re doing, is making your body has come alive because it feels so good.”

Middle aged guy says, “Do you have yoga studio nearby? Croton, Falls NY isn’t a bastion of after hours hot naked yoga studios last time checked on Yelp.” The pretty faced 40 something gal approaches The Yoga Scout and says, “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear you 2, but do you teach Yoga at Spread Eagles in the city. My best friend met her latest and greatest boy toy there at your Tribeca location I think.” Middle aged guy says, “Waite a minute, I thought only divorcees were invited to attend.” The Yoga Scout says “There’s more fucked up feet out there than you’d think. So, in the true spirt of compassion and love for variety, Spread Eagles does everything in its power to spread the love.”

Michael Kornbluth

Dreaming On Past Covid

Dear God,

I’m dying of Covid-19 alone allegedly, yet I don’t think smoking 2 packs a day of Turkish blend, extra wide Camel cigarettes fended off my surging lung cancer either. I’ll never forget how top of the world scrumptious that Camel extra wide tasted after losing my virginity to Katie King in the Cape. If there was ever a reason to take up smoking again, so I could enjoy sucking face with my summer wind love who enjoyed her Camel extra wide smokes even more than I did, it was for my sweet darling, inhalable on the spot always, pitch perfect southern belle, the always magical, chills down my spine inducing from mere memories of walking hand in the hand throughout Main Street in the Cape, my dear Katie King. Especially, knowing how my bitch roommates at the time, hated how the Jew boy from New York struck a summer romance with such a striking, statuesque gentile from North Carolina, who ended up graduating Duke as a double major in 3 years flat. Oh yeah, that’s right, one of those girls went to McGill in Canada, which was a safety school for stoners obsessed with free healthcare and Justin Trudeau’s purple specked socks. So, it looks like I’m one who came out on top of Katie’s perfectly plump, never draggy dumpy, 36D tits.  

So, my parents, younger brother, friends, and ex-girlfriends can’t visit me, but I’d sure love to kiss the never annoying, always pleasantly plump on top, Katie King again. The last time I kissed her was when I surprised her while driving cross-country to California for my last semester of college, with an aching in my heart. She was more than a friend of mine Lord, Katie was a guardian angel as you know, who was sent down from Heaven to make me a true believer in the power of prayer and modern-day miracles, which benefited my love life immensely for a change. I remember praying to you alone on the beach in Cape Cod Kennedy country, during the summer when the Fugees broke big, finally giving me a woman to cry about in my heart after our romance came too a sudden, crashing end. I said, “God, I love Hair Metal ballads because they’re hopeful songs full of longing, and I always longed to have a real-life girlfriend to walk hands with at Rye Playland to win stuffed animals for, as I drained more basketball shots from way downtown with effortless, in the zone, choke free ease.”

You’ve always provided me with divine intervention comfort Lord, so I’m not going to fret against my dying of the light this late into the 9th Inning, with me going up against Mariano Rivera with a 5 run lead at the new Yankee Stadium, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. Gentrification Lord, you know, liberal talk for less black people. I wouldn’t have written that a plus joke gem without your divine powered assistance as usual. Has my sadness enshrouded heart weighed heavily on my weepy, hurting inside soul in Synagogue some years on Yom Kippur, knowing it’s another year, where I ask for another shot to be a productive, functioning member of the Jewish race versus another schmuck in a headset, whose been fired more than a Palestinian Slingshot. I’m also not going to bitch about certain friends or family members not always being there to consistently support my comedic ambitions, which lead me to killing at the Montreal Comedy Festival, thanks to your steady, unrelenting support in me doing me all the way. Those friends came to my bringer shows in Manhattan at the New York Comedy Club, when I was an average nobody putz, because they believed in my potential, which you always have Lord, back when my pursuit of getting lady laugh off long time, all the time began.

My parents raised me in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County, performing well at high paying jobs, which were no labor of love either.  Plus, acting like an excessively obnoxious, supremely spoiled, entitled twat, never felt right with my labor of laugh lust pursing heart either. You made me grow up and become a man in LA, when my parents cut me off, forcing me to overcome a debilitating stutter as an IT Headhunter, cold calling through the Los Angeles Journal Book of Lists like a man possessed to be a pushover putzy no more. I got to sing Karaoke in the valley and perform high kicking, windmills to Baba O-Reilly, proving to myself I was meant to strut my stuff and sing the gift of comedic song on stage for a living one day.

Should I order Chinese for my last meal to earn myself social justice righting props on Twitter, instead of insisting how those bio-chemical warfare starting commie bastards have resisted investigations into the origin behind the Wuhan lab originator of the virus more than Aquafresh? The only time I ever feared dying was from weed induced panic attacks, thinking, I’d stop breathing, because I was being a degenerate Jew again who was bound to lose his gift of gab sooner or later.

Dying semi-alone through Zoom, doesn’t appeal to me much Lord. I say semi-alone because you’ll always be the bursting source of light in my laugh loving heart come rain or shine. Also, I prefer to say goodbyes to my parents, friends, ex-girlfriends, and younger brother through emotive, giving letters like this, which touch the soul far deeper than any belabored, drawn out Zoom call could, while our new Chinese slave masters monitor our every last show of vigorous, in your face emotion.

Dying prematurely at 44 bites, only if you never got to fall in love or get to be cool like Neil Young blares with rollicking empathetic flourish like no other on Rocking In The Free World. I’m positive that song gets plenty of play in stage performer heaven, which I wouldn’t mind entry into, knowing Lou Reed could use some added some levity up there from time to time, next time he showcases the insufferable gaul to insist on charging Billy Idol for the priveledge of recording with him while waiting for his man Marlon Brando again off Broadway upstairs for A Streetcar Named Desire, now that’s he’s love with the act of on-stage creation again. I’m not worried about being a pseudo homo preventing me, from being embraced by your loving light in afterlife. Desmond Child isn’t dead yet, but there’s no way a loving God would damn the writer behind Livin’ On A Prayer to endless agonizing hell on par with forcing him to to act like he enjoys hearing the Fleet Foxes live in front a log cabin, on his one ordained night out for his birthday in homo performer hell, year after year.

Thanks for the thrill of killing and for the heart soothing memories involving my dear Katie King, oh, sweet Lord. Dear Katie King, the magic fairy dust beneath my wings, who took me to the other side on earth, where us oh so fortune, cosmic comedic perfectionists roam. All the bombing in life was worth the thrill of killing at the Montreal festival, especially with my dear Katie King in attendance front row to make love to my soul with her Oceanic blue blasting eyes again, conjuring our last departed goodbye kiss, when she said in the Cape, “I never knew someone could make me so happy before.” I do, it’s you Lord, all the great good in my life stems from your miraculous handy work on my behalf. I must make you laugh more than yenta breath Seinfeld ever did, to be blessed with such infinite beauty in my life, because like your other star creation Billy Cox, Jimi’ Hendrix’s old school paratrooper buddy sings with number 1 soul brother authority at the Filmore East New Year’s Eve in 1970, “With the power of soul, anything is possible.” Being blessed with the funny Jew bone, which you gave the obsessive drive to develop to the best of my God given ability helps to. I’ll love you forever Lord, for my summer wind Katie King and for making such an out of this world beauty, beautify my life, with such a majestic, soul tantalizing sweep that summer wind dreams are made of.  

All My Love,

Michael Joshua Kornbluth

The Stand Up Leech Doctor

Once upon a time there was a Cardiologist from New Orleans who moved to Manhattan to become a Stand-Up Leech Doctor named Aioli Kornbluth.  Every day in his new Upper East Side office across the street from the famed Comic Strip Live on 2nd Avenue, he’d offer his bad blood removal service free of charge. Growing up in New Orleans, his Cardiologist father Michael decided to name his kid Aioli because no son, planned or not, could compare to his dearly departed 1st born Zevon Kornbluth who died in Vietnam from a falling tree. Aioli Kornbluth’s father always said, “Laughter was the best medicine for a heavy heart”, so he named his unplanned son Aioli, which lightened his cinderblock clogged heart every time he ordered his son to do his errands as a kid such as, “Make your bed Aioli, take out the trash Aioli, your Snoop Dog records to. I don’t care that he samples funk beats and big horns from Curtis Mayfield records. His brain still hovers a notch below porn hell in my book.”

As a kid, Aioli Kornbluth was forced to feel like the unwanted, aborted one, prompting him to use his allowance for a whole year to buy a Henry Kissinger doll from a Voodoo Doctor in the French Quarter, to seek revenge on the merchant of death responsible for the rapid, incessant, blatantly unnecessary acceleration of the Vietnam war, but he didn’t have enough money saved for the costs of so much fabric. Still, the Voodoo Doctor Chief Longwinded Bow, gave Aioli Kornbluth more than a mere constellation prize in return by offering to teach the ancient black magic art of bad blood removal through leech expungement.  

A young 13-year-old Aioli Kornbluth poured his heart out to Chief Longwinded Bow, trying to look his dapper best, sporting his standard, ironed, Catholic Private School suit and tie attire, from the same school where Eli and Peyton Manning attended as kids down off the Bayou. He says, “Chief, can I call you just Chief? I’d like to be curt, so you have more time to ramble on. I can’t shake the feeling that my dad will never forgive God for taking his 1st born, my big brother away from him so soon. You’d think I’d offer some solace being on the Honor Roll year after year. I even broke Eli Manning’s single season touchdown record yet pops would rather listen to Fat’s Domino records on Sunday while sipping more Blanton’s High Balls, reading more damn Michael Crichton novels, than ever taking the time to throw the pig skin around the yard with me. Also, Eli Manning is a bigger pimp than Tom Brady. He’s New Orleans royalty for starters. Plus, Eli married his college sweetheart not some annoying Brazilian chicken head either. Giselle is also like 80 in model years.” Chief Longwinded Bow says, “And Oliver Stone has the gaul to call me longwinded compared to my younger Brother, “Snorts Coke With Vampires when he hired us as creative consultants on the set of Natural Born Killer. Moving forward I would add some leaches to your diet. You can swallow them whole or dice them and sauté them in butter nestled within a crawfish pie if you’d like. Either way, the leeches will remove any ill will you have for your father for never making you feel like an esteemed, wanted member of your family.” Aioli Kornbluth says, “I love Crawfish Pie. I’ve always told my dad Crawfish is shrimp with more personality. Yeah, my dad doesn’t think I’m funny enough to be stand up comedian either.”  

But now Aioli Kornbluth is about to turn 40 in Manhattan with no kids or wife in his life. All he’s got his fancy cardiologist office practice on the Upper East Side and dreams of becoming a Stand-Up Leech Doctor although tonight was the annual audition try out for the Comic Strip, which he had been practicing for his entire life. His number is called and Aioli Kornbluth approaches the stage yet fumbles grabbing the mike out of the stand. Aioli says, “Can you believe I’m a Cardiologist and perform open heart surgery for a living.” Crowd screams with approval. Aioli relaxes a tad and roams the stage to take in the crowd and the moment he’s dreamed of turning into reality forever while almost tripping over the coiled microphone chord. Aioli stares at the mike cord on stage and says, “The mike cord isn’t a live snake. You’d think being raised by a bunch of Marti Gras Indians; I wouldn’t let a microphone chord rattle my game.” Crowd laughs again.  Laughter was the best medicine for a heavy heart and Aioli Kornbluth was sad no more, until he died on stage soon after and was told to never audition for the Comic Strip ever again. The owner of the Comic Strip said, “Stick with sticking your heart attack patients with more stents.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

We Didn’t Start The Fire Billy

Vice President Mike Pence talking shit about Obama’s trade record during a campaign trip at a glass manufacturing company in Pennsylvania. VP Mike Pence says, “Obama presided over the most expansive outsourcing of manufacturing jobs in US history. He made W look like a serial slacker, with his feet hoisted high on the Oval Office Desk, kicking it, sipping more Coconut Water, without sweating your ability to put more God blessed pot roast on the table. Not even Billy Joel cared enough about your lost jobs during the Obama outsourcing era, to mine another gold record out of your easily avoidable misery for Christ sake. Sorry Lord, even Ned Flanders loses his cool from time to time. Billy says he’s not a big fan of President Trump, but Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits was lullaby music for 80’s Republicans. Plus, there weren’t just bused in new age Neo Nazi’s from Central Casting in Charlottesville that day but also peaceful protesters protesting the taking down of a statue of Robert E Lee, in addition to agitators from ANTIFA, who aren’t very fine people, in the mythical made up sense or not. Last, how does a member of ANTIFA respect thy mother on Mother’s Day exactly? Take out the trash and move out of her house for good? I thought New Yorkers like Billy Joel had stronger bull-crap detection abilities than this. Or is Billy from Yenta Breath Country in Long Island? And to quote the wise, God loving, Robert E. Lee, “There are few, I believe, in this enlightened age, who will not acknowledge that slavery as an institution is a moral and political evil.” So why don’t you be good American Billy and shine those lights on Broadway on how Fake News has become the moral and political evil of its day? Call yourself an Uber home, because I’m assuming your license is suspended, despite New York State giving them away for free to Illegal Aliens so the radical left can try to steal another election and make Michelle proud her of her country again, God forbid. Sorry again Lord, the Fakes News Media makes it hard to turn the other cheek. In honor of the great Kid Rock, can I get an Amen? I say, Amen.

Michael Kornbluth

Best Friend Israel Never Had

When you broker a peace treaty between Israel and the United Arab of Emirates, dismantle the nuke timeout deal with Iran and move our embassy to Jerusalem, it makes President Trump more of a Hebrew Nationalist. But black Hebrews can’t be anti-Jew because they’re the real chosen people according to Nick Cannon. Plus, in Nick Cannon’s defense, he isn’t another self-hating Jew hire to manage the post woke editorial board for the New York Times.

Michael Kornbluth