New Lover Hunter

Wife tells me that our daughter is the last girl in her class to get breast buds. I say, “Then, why haven’t yours sprouted yet?

What’s wrong about telling jokes about my daughter being the last girl in class to get breast buds?

She isn’t competing on America’s next Teen Tranny Prom Date for Bill Maher.

If my daughter barley fills out a clam shell bra like Ariel in the Little Mermaid, then similar to mama, she won’t have to worry about throwing out her vertebrae by lunging for lost royalty change from Spotify at a Fish Monger’s market in downtown Oslo like Lars Ulrich in town for the Monster Penny Pincher of Metal Tour.

The benefit of zero tits is my daughter never getting hooked on pain pills like Fentanyl from her back being weighed down by busty beauties like Jennifer Tilly.

Because Fentanyl has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking it with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

Did you know Lena Dunham was Hillary Hammer Time Cankles Social Media Community manager on her campaign? Only Lena Dunham could make Huma Licker Breath less likeable and relatable in one blubbery swoop.

Feme Fatales don’t have small tits either. So, I don’t have to worry about my daughter seducing an insurance agent to knock off her wealthy husband for the insurance money. Detective asks, “Where were you last night during the scene of the crime?” Feme Fatale says, “Betting on video game horse racing in Atlantic City. Actually, I was feeling myself up in the dressing room at Neiman Marcus, if you really need to know. I’m still sporting the squeeze marks if you’d like to take more than a bird’s eye peak detective. Did you just sneak a Bazooka in your pants Commando Joe? Or do you always get this stiff before raiding pantie drawers for a smoking gun to pin on a damsel in distress under the suspicion of blowing her husband away for the money because I’m cunty to the core like the rest, Prince Harry included. You don’t think scruffy Archie actually tried to kill himself, do you detective? Prince Harry hasn’t shaved in years.” Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Untradable Summer

Jerry Garcia died, Garth Brooks played to 93,000 in Central Park and the Knicks still made long playoff runs that boasted more legs than Lieutenant Dan. Casino, Heat and Braveheart all came out in the same year, years before your in-laws who didn’t care for Inglorious Bastards, reserved stadium seating to see Apocalypto on Fandango 6 million months in advance. And Joshua Kornbluth, an aimless, long haired 20-year-old college student, who interned for the office of Special Narcotics actually developed a semi-sober conscious by giving his brain an overdue week from the weed, which also included abstaining from the less potent sprayed kind from the boogie down Bronx at Aquarius Records that tasted like Windex.   Because it’s hard to maintain a clear conscious interning for the Office of Special Narcotics when you’re perpetually burnt out on the sticky icky, responsible for draining you of what soul powered glint you were blessed with the first place that some would say beamed brighter than most.  Especially, when you’re listening in stupefied awe to an undercover cop, who’s regaling you about his latest undercover assignment as if he’s a black Donnie Brosco come to life who looked like a younger version of Duck from White Man Can’t Jump come to life.

Reality is, Joshua began to question his lushy littered past while drinking another winter break away with his friends from high school at the local bar, J. P’s, where everyone knew, you could get loaded on gin and tonics and smoke weed out back and not worry about jack shit. Which explains why Joshua once made a bet with his Japanese American friend Kohji about whether Darryl Strawberry now playing for the NY Yankees at the original Yankee Stadium before they replaced it with the House That Gentrification Built. If Darryl Strawberry went yard, then his friend Kohji would give Joshua the highly prized Bob Marley boxset which included the ultimate singer songwriter lament, Acoustic Meledy followed by the ultimate killer pick me up follow up, Hurting Inside. But only if Joshua dropped his pants and ran across the street while flinging around his drunk, dizzy dick throughout the thick, muggy summer wind, while chanting, “Darryl, Darryl, Darryl.”  Kohji fulfilled his end of the bargain, after Joshua sealed the deal with his own version of riding the bull pre-Happy Gilmore while showcasing his stroke of excitable good luck between his legs in the process.

Out of all the drunken, wasted nights of carefree collegiate youth spent at J.P’s throughout wasted winter breaks of yesteryear, Joshua remembered one encounter that stood out from the pack as, “Hey Tonight”, by Creedence blared on the jukebox which never grew old like EZ Wider Double Widers back in the day used to overcompensate for piss poor, barely even elementary rolling skills while being forced to roll the joint on a flat surface no less. Yes, Joshua wasn’t good at weed, despite him looking like a preppy version of Kevin Pickford from Dazed and Confused minus the hot, borderline mute artist hippie girlfriend. As Joshua went back to the bar for another stiff pouring of gin and tonic, he bumps into an older Latino gent by the jukebox who he never talked to prior, who says, “You shouldn’t drink too much bro. And I don’t think all your weed puffage, based on your bloodshot eyes is doing your imagination any favors either. I see you being a major public speaker one day, maybe, even an important politician, not like these other drunken animals around you. So, slow it down kid.”

And slow it down, he did. Now, Joshua woke up every morning in his old childhood room before getting dressed for his internship in Manhattan before the subways had centralized AC with a lighter flow to his step as he’d blare Sly Stone’s Greatest Hits in the car on his way to the train station and sing, “Everybody is a star.” He started running the steps after work at his high school track and field where he spent more time senior year trying to get into slamming Budweiser Tall Boys if he wasn’t sipping on flasks of Southern Comfort when hanging out with his friends, wasting time, who didn’t share his crazy alcoholic hick DNA from his mom’s southern side to contend with as much, not that his boys back then, were fuck up free Angel’s either. On Friday’s, Joshua would take the local Lex line in Manhattan and get off Astor Place from City Hall to use his weekly 125-dollar stipend to buy up whatever Grateful Dead bootleg audiocassette tapes being sold that day on the corner of Saint Marks Place in the East Village. He’d cruise the bars at North Avenue on the weekend located in New Rochelle, in southern Westchester County, because everyone went out back then. How else do you explain Zima mixed with grenadine becoming a trend at all? Joshua and his high school buds drank forties of Old English, not known yet as Snoop Dog’s ho sprayer of choice. But giving up the weed, whether it was result of developing a semi-sober conscious because of where Joshua was interning that summer or an issue of no longer wanting to be mentally enslaved by the all-mighty ganja anymore, Joshua found his smile again, exploring haunts in Little Italy for lunch in his pursuit to track the down the perfect shrimp parm hero. But if Joshua ever lost his sense of direction, which still happened on occasion, despite taking a break from the weed, he’d still have the World Trade Center to use as the ultimate North Star in his city, to help regain his bearings again.

Now, Joshua has grown a bit, and leading a boat tour of lower Manhattan as a divorced comedian in his early forties, who hasn’t broken big yet. The Freedom Tower was finally built in 2006, after a crater of death hovered over Lower Manhattan, which seemed to stretch out forever like W’s presidency before our precious news media hailed him as some sudden misunderstood genius, since he started painting pictures of maimed vets, he gave PTSD under his permanent fuck up watch. Especially now, since Ellen was spotted palling around with W at a Cowboy’s game, only for her to admit on her show soon after how their actually friends in real life. Because regardless of political affiliation or role in allowing 9/11 to happen under his watch, Ellen is pro-Bush all the way.

Joshua no longer a long-haired, completely directionless hippie, spots a woman on his tour from his untradable summer of 95. As Joshua proceeds to wrap up the tour of Manhattan as the boat spots Lady Liberty, a petite, pretty Italian girl from Staten Island raises her hand. Joshua, never one to forget a face, remembers his Staten Island girl who he took to the free Garth Brooks that summer after meeting her at a local bar on some random Friday during the summer of 95, only for them to fail at picking up more Budweiser’s to bring to Garth Brooks, because the 95,000 in attendance had already cleared out every bodega within the 20-block radius along Central Park West.

Staten Island girl says, “How do you explain 9/11 to your kids?” Joshua remembers her being the 1st girl he ever hooked up with who admitted being a single mother prior, which at the time, prompted the response, “I can handle it if you can babe.” Joshua takes a minute to reflect on her question since becoming a single dad himself after getting divorced for failing to maintain any form of steady employment till he found his sweet spot and achieved a steady stroke against the winds of change in life, as a boat tour guide of Manhattan, which combined his love of comedic storytelling and his cherished concrete jungle of Manhattan, that he loved so, that 1st love powered dreams are made of.

The island of Manhattan was also the birthplace of his endlessly beautifying son, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, already a star architect at 19 years old, who just joined the American Institute of Architects, who would in fact join him for occasional joint boat tours involved the sweeping historical knowledge and sweep necessary to give a big city architectural boat tours of lower Manhattan with larger-than-life flourish. After all, when Joshua’s son Arthur was only 5-year-old he told his daddy that one day he’d built an apartment with an adjoining enclosed bridge passageway, so they could live together when they got older, which finally came true. Now, Joshua’s son emerges from the background, looming much larger than life than his dad sporting spiky blond hair and a six-foot six frame, looking like Donald Trump birthed a preppy hipster art show baby. Joshua’s son, affectionally nicknamed Art Show even before he was conceived answers the question.

“My Dad always explained 9/11 as the day his age of innocence died. But my dad would always use humor to lighten the darkest realties on his lifetime like the prospect of dying from the killer queen virus of them all, no not COVID, Aids. He’d say, “If I had a daughter, I’d encourage her to become a Lesbian because the Kama Sutra is a recipe for Aids. Plus, when you’re Lesbian, you can take a licking and keep on ticking. Don Draper lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Art Show, The Architect adds, “How did my dad make fun of the uptick in crime during the Mayor Adam’s years? He’d say, “Sanctuary Cities are encouraged lawlessness on crack. Still, the crazies on Twitter rant and rave about wanting to ban ICE. Because Homeland Security was so Weapons of Mass Destruction years.” And how did my dad bring up the Holocaust without being depressingly dreary about it? He’d made jokes about it because humor allows us to get in the last word against our dying of the light. Dyland Thomas lives, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Dad would say, “Did you know 4/20 the national pot smoking holiday in on Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this duped since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. Anyone visit the home of Anne Frank in Amsterdam? My 1st impression was one of shock and awe, as I thought to myself, “This place is enormous. I’ve never seen so much closet space. I expected a cubby, not a walk-in-closet.”

The entire crowd in the boat tour can’t stop laughing as beautiful streams of endless, purifying laughter fill the air. Lady Liberty radiates a prettier punctuating light that pierces through the purple and orange sun set draping coastline. And the grown-up mom from Staten Island says, “Fuck Pete Davidson, let’s crown the new king of New York comedy. I had a feeling he’d bang out something special one day. The Big Apple is a brighter place with you 2 twin towers in it. And I thought Darryl Strawberry was juicy to take in whole.”  

Darryl, Darryl, Darryl.

Challah, Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Owner Of A Heavy Heart

Welcome to Rough Talk Rules, I’m your radio host Solomon Kornbluth, helping you work toward better tomorrows without your deadweight conversationalist ex friends and romantic partners of years past. And today is Dumping Tips Tuesdays, but first let’s take a call from Robert Gauler in Stamford, CT. Hi, Robert, what’s weighing down your heart today?

“Hi, Solomon, what’s weighing down my heart today is being unemployed during the Passover season again.  I’m losing heart from receiving more rejection emails from employer’s that read, “What kind of a moron are you today? For thinking, you could mosey your zero leveraged, broke down ass into our loving arms after a 5-year vacation life as a Stay at Home Dad, I mean sheltered bum, jerkoff. You’re obviously optionless and friendless in this world right now for a reason. Blog stats we can’t verify don’t count as give a shit credentials for our copywriter position that requires at least 5 year of agency copywriting experience. Sharing mock print ads for Woodford Reserve Whiskey with headlines such as, “Class in A Glass”, aren’t going to secure any invitations to interview for any creative professional role within our constellation of star powered creative technologists, designers and witty wordsmith scribes at large, OK! “

Radio Host Solomon says, “I feel your pain, Robert. When was the last time you pulverized a vagina of any kind?”

“I’m living in my grandma’s old apartment, which reeks of middle-aged mildew malaise. Plus, I’m so broke I can’t afford my past cell phone due bill past tomorrow. So, swiping over some random cum dumpster chick I met on Slut in A Straight Jacke .com isn’t happening anytime soon either. I can’t afford my oil pill or my electric bill, so I don’t even have the option of electrocuting myself to death in my tub with a working toaster from GE for that matter. Even if I could convince an ex-booty call to drop by, she’d get cold feet upon entry because I haven’t been able to afford the heating bill in months either. You know the price of gas is high when 10 bucks at the tank burns faster than a 2-hit pinner”, Robert Gauler from Stamford, CT says.

Solomon Kornbluth laughs and says, “You’re a funny guy Robert. Laughter is the best cure all, used to lighten the stressed-out load of fixed ineffectual, stuck in a ditch depression, that’s squeezing the life out of your loving heart, making it borderline impossible to take semi-easy deep breaths for more than 2 seconds a time, I totally get it. My advice moving forward, is to attend, an open mike, which doesn’t charge the one drink minimum, prepare some jokes about your non-existent love life on stage or just rant and rave about how much your life love life sucks compared to Martha Dump Truck in Heathers and you’ll feel less alone in your rapidly building misery. Chances are, if you’re emotionally honest about why you hate your past friends and former loves who left you for dead and kicked dirt on your premature grave, regardless of it being deserved or not, it will become impossible for the crowd to not empathize with what a decrepit, sad sack, shit sandwich, you’re forced to eat every day without sporting’s it’s an all good, all love, big pimping Puff Dadd vibe along the way. It feels liberating and empowering to get out of your head, especially on stage in front of strangers, because any form of comedy allows you to rewrite the narrative to your own liking while giving the golden opportunity to get in last word or final laugh along the way. Who knows, you might even get luck out tonight with a Lesbian poet whose heart isn’t into munching on far from scrumptious stank fumed vagina anymore.”

“Ok, I’ll take one more caller before we start our fan favorite segment, “Dumping Tips Tuesdays.” Next up is a call from Lindsey Lam from Louisville, Kentucky. My mom grew up down south in Kentucky, although my ex-wife insists Kentucky is more Midwest south. Regardless, finger food down there is considered anything that tastes your cousin’s panties, hey now. Lindsay Lam you’re on the air with Rough Talk Rules. How can I lighten your heavy heart today?”

Lindsay Lam says, “Today, I showed my daughter this pathway in the woods where I used to sneak though during lunch in the 10 grade to grab some Burger King for lunch. After pointing out to my daughter, how I used to go there alone for lunch, she made feel a level of defensive embarrassment, which I never experienced until now when she said, “Mommy, that’s a really sad story. But I don’t recall being completely miserable housing a double whopper with a cheese and a chicken sandwich all by myself in the process. Daughter says, “Didn’t you have anyone to share all that food with?” And I said, “Can you stop rubbing in me being an owner of a tubby heavy heart already?”

Solomon Kornbluth says “Look Linsday, I spent plenty of time eating lunch alone growing up. At the time, I never felt that so and so’s presence would’ve made me more at peace with world or provide any greater amount of endorphin releases than what the Double Whopper with Cheese was giving me already, I waited at least 2 minutes for the cheese to melt on it just right. God forbid. You shouldn’t allow your daughter to make your feel shame 20 years after the fact, I’m assuming, for being a friendless loner teenager at the time like Lisa Simpson with a piss poor GPA. Roger Daltry from the Who called high school a Teenage Wasteland for a reason. Maybe, reframe your solo lunches in the 10th grade with me myself and I to your daughter as self-care dates, solo shrink time, or in the spirit of the late great Warren Zevon, “Splendid Isolation,”. Warren didn’t need no one, Challah, thank you very much.”

“But now it’s time for Dumping Tips Tuesdays.  If you give a friend a thoughtful gift like a John Candy biography with an inscription you wrote inside it without receiving a thank you note or word of acknowledgement in return, it just proves you weren’t as close as you imagined. But don’t dwell on infusing more specialness into your so-called friendship. Instead, slap yourself on the shoulder for possessing a more active imagination than he ever did. But so-called friendship works both ways. So, let’s a say you claim to be friends with someone from high school 25 years after the fact but have zero desire in seeing their newborn kid, with zero plans to remember the kid’s name, then it’s safe to say, you’re a shit friend who should’ve been dumped before the relationship went to shit in the first place. So always remember, don’t act like your shit doesn’t stink when it does or else you come across as an insanely judgy, bigger headed prick than the rest. So be less shitty to yourself today and do what you want to do like eating alone for lunch without shitting on yourself for not having any deadweight conversationalist friends to invite for the privilege of being in your splendid company after all.”

Michael Kornbluth

Owner Of a Heavy Height

Welcome to Rough Talk Rules, I’m your radio host Solomon Kornbluth, helping you work toward better tomorrows without your deadweight conversationalist ex friends and romantic partners of years past. And today is Dumping Tips Tuesdays, but first let’s take a call from Robert Gauler in Stamford, CT. Hi, Robert, what’s weighing down your heart today?

“Hi, Solomon, what’s weighing down my heart today is being unemployed during the Passover season again.  I’m losing heart from receiving more rejection emails from employer’s that read, “What kind of a moron are you today? For thinking, you could mosey your zero leveraged, broke down ass into our loving arms after a 5-year vacation life as a Stay at Home Dad, I mean sheltered bum, jerkoff. You’re obviously optionless and friendless in this world right now for a reason. Blog stats we can’t verify don’t count as give a shit credentials for our copywriter position that requires at least 5 year of agency copywriting experience. Sharing mock print ads for Woodford Reserve Whiskey with headlines such as, “Class in A Glass”, aren’t going to secure any invitations to interview for any creative professional role within our constellation of star powered creative technologists, designers and witty wordsmith scribes at large, OK! “

Radio Host Solomon says, “I feel your pain, Robert. When was the last time you pulverized a vagina of any kind?”

“I’m living in my grandma’s old apartment, which reeks of middle-aged mildew malaise. Plus, I’m so broke I can’t afford my past cell phone due bill past tomorrow. So, swiping over some random cum dumpster chick I met on Slut in A Straight Jacke .com isn’t happening anytime soon either. I can’t afford my oil pill or my electric bill, so I don’t even have the option of electrocuting myself to death in my tub with a working toaster from GE for that matter. Even if I could convince an ex-booty call to drop by, she’d get cold feet upon entry because I haven’t been able to afford the heating bill in months either. You know the price of gas is high when 10 bucks at the tank burns faster than a 2-hit pinner”, Robert Gauler from Stamford, CT says.

Solomon Kornbluth laughs and says, “You’re a funny guy Robert. Laughter is the best cure all, used to lighten the stressed-out load of fixed ineffectual, stuck in a ditch depression, that’s squeezing the life out of your loving heart, making it borderline impossible to take semi-easy deep breaths for more than 2 seconds a time, I totally get it. My advice moving forward, is to attend, an open mike, which doesn’t charge the one drink minimum, prepare some jokes about your non-existent love life on stage or just rant and rave about how much your life love life sucks compared to Martha Dump Truck in Heathers and you’ll feel less alone in your rapidly building misery. Chances are, if you’re emotionally honest about why you hate your past friends and former loves who left you for dead and kicked dirt on your premature grave, regardless of it being deserved or not, it will become impossible for the crowd to not empathize with what a decrepit, sad sack, shit sandwich, you’re forced to eat every day without sporting’s it’s an all good, all love, big pimping Puff Dadd vibe along the way. It feels liberating and empowering to get out of your head, especially on stage in front of strangers, because any form of comedy allows you to rewrite the narrative to your own liking while giving the golden opportunity to get in last word or final laugh along the way. Who knows, you might even get luck out tonight with a Lesbian poet whose heart isn’t into munching on far from scrumptious stank fumed vagina anymore.”

“Ok, I’ll take one more caller before we start our fan favorite segment, “Dumping Tips Tuesdays.” Next up is a call from Lindsey Lam from Louisville, Kentucky. My mom grew up down south in Kentucky, although my ex-wife insists Kentucky is more Midwest south. Regardless, finger food down there is considered anything that tastes your cousin’s panties, hey now. Lindsay Lam you’re on the air with Rough Talk Rules. How can I lighten your heavy heart today?”

Lindsay Lam says, “Today, I showed my daughter this pathway in the woods where I used to sneak though during lunch in the 10 grade to grab some Burger King for lunch. After pointing out to my daughter, how I used to go there alone for lunch, she made feel a level of defensive embarrassment, which I never experienced until now when she said, “Mommy, that’s a really sad story. But I don’t recall being completely miserable housing a double whopper with a cheese and a chicken sandwich all by myself in the process. Daughter says, “Didn’t you have anyone to share all that food with?” And I said, “Can you stop rubbing in me being an owner of a tubby heavy heart already?”

Solomon Kornbluth says “Look Linsday, I spent plenty of time eating lunch alone growing up. At the time, I never felt that so and so’s presence would’ve made me more at peace with world or provide any greater amount of endorphin releases than what the Double Whopper with Cheese was giving me already, I waited at least 2 minutes for the cheese to melt on it just right. God forbid. You shouldn’t allow your daughter to make your feel shame 20 years after the fact, I’m assuming, for being a friendless loner teenager at the time like Lisa Simpson with a piss poor GPA. Roger Daltry from the Who called high school a Teenage Wasteland for a reason. Maybe, reframe your solo lunches in the 10th grade with me myself and I to your daughter as self-care dates, solo shrink time, or in the spirit of the late great Warren Zevon, “Splendid Isolation,”. Warren didn’t need no one, Challah, thank you very much.”

“But now it’s time for Dumping Tips Tuesdays.  If you give a friend a thoughtful gift like a John Candy biography with an inscription you wrote inside it without receiving a thank you note or word of acknowledgement in return, it just proves you weren’t as close as you imagined. But don’t dwell on infusing more specialness into your so-called friendship. Instead, slap yourself on the shoulder for possessing a more active imagination than he ever did. But so-called friendship works both ways. So, let’s a say you claim to be friends with someone from high school 25 years after the fact but have zero desire in seeing their newborn kid, with zero plans to remember the kid’s name, then it’s safe to say, you’re a shit friend who should’ve been dumped before the relationship went to shit in the first place. So always remember, don’t act like your shit doesn’t stink when it does or else you come across as an insanely judgy, bigger headed prick than the rest. So be less shitty to yourself today and do what you want to do like eating alone for lunch without shitting on yourself for not having any deadweight conversationalist friends to invite for the privilege of being in your splendid company after all.”

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 your done pushing more 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 customer 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 you without her presence.”

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 feels all lusty awe. More importantly, do you long for greater flexibility in your life? Do you fantasize about doing what you want to do to satisfy your own shot at fulfillment on this earth, which 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 Beach on Spring Break because it’s lightweight and easy to inhale in rapid succession like miniature yenta breath sorority girls from the University Of Buffalo. Personally, I wish they’d make 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 in my life. 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 ain’t 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 there told me 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 told me you were in the Yoga business. 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 desire alone, wasn’t enough for me 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 fly 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 come alive because it hurt so good. John Cougar Mellencamp lives holla, thank you very much.

Middle aged guy says, “Do you have a 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

The Hop Farm Scare of 1852

Once upon a time, there was a family man, hop farmer, who gave the best foot massage in Upstate New York like his father before him, name Farmer Todd. He sang for his local church choir sounding like Neil Young and Al Green had baby, who refused to sell his hops to West Coast Breweries, preferring to make IPA’s from his own locally sourced hops because of upstate New Yorker farmer, pride, represent, represent, represent. Farmer’s Todd always told his 5 sons, “The way to unlock the gene glow in a gal is to rub her feet like a magical genie lamp, which is the most direct passageway to her heart filled embrace of your slowed down metabolism and all your warts inside and out to.”

Farmer Todd like Ben Franklin believed good people, drank good beer, so he dedicated every day of his life, to making the finest IPA beer because just growing hops to sell them like a pushy hop peddlers with nothing else to sell was boring and a not family business he could bequeath to his 5 gorgeous, hard working, ultra chiseled sons with as much innovative pride. Every day before sunset over his hop stud farm, Farmer Todd, would give his Yoga instructor wife Crystal a foot massage, which turned her into orgasmic mush every time, opening her up to the prospect of banging out more kids, to keep their hop stud farm open to tap for more non-stop business.

Until one day, 5 days before Halloween the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, ran through Farmer Todd’s Hop Fields with her green, orange and pumpkin, foot root, which infected all the hop vines on his farm, wiping out any chance of crop growing again because she got banned from a yoga class, when she used to be a famous winemaker in Ithaca, NY known for making Ice Wines because her feet grossed out the clientele, which is Yoga wife instructor wife, Crystal enforced. The Wino Witch of Croton Falls, never got on her feet again until now.

Because of this Farm rot, fungus pandemic caused by the Whino Of Witch of Croton Falls, Farmer Todd had no way to keep a roof over his family’s head, which included 5 boys all named after hops varieties, including Angus, Apollo, Atlas, Bravo and Flyer. So during his morning run through the back trails of his former hop farm fantasy, he’d took notice of a the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, flashing her naked, gross, purple, green and orange feet on a tree swing and says, “Farmer Todd, did you teach your 5 sons to give foot massages like the one you give your wife every day before sunset?” If so, you just need to tell your 5 stud sons to massage my discolored pumpkin size bunions, one for each day of the week during the week of Halloween and I’ll bring your hop farm roaring back to life again.”

Because of that Farmer Todd told his 5 sons to make the Whino Witch of Croton Falls, welcome in their hands, unless they wanted to starve to death or were willing to sell enough blood to buy an apple tree in the hope of turning that into a batch of hard cider to sell at the Farmer’s Market, which was tad girly sweet for their collective tastes.

Because of that, each massage the five sons give makes the Whino Watch of Croton Falls, helped ignite her glow gene inside, which made her feet return to a beautiful, inviting form again as her transformation from Whino Witch of Croton Falls to the Fairy Hop Queen of Croton Falls became complete.

Later, Farmer Todd foots the bill for his 5 sons to open up their own hop brewery farms, knowing they’ll be able to keep growing toward profitability as long as they keep the Hop Fairy Queen’s feet happy during week of the Halloween, when all of her sordid, past emerges, through a disgusting outgrowth of fungus and wart on her feet as punishment from the Tree Spirits of Lake Oswego for making her canoe sink into the water during one her drunken diatribes against the Indians and how their Buffalo Burgers are too bloody for her taste, in addition to being racist against Native American Indians for refusing to dry and cover her wet feet in Moccasins whenever she hopped out of the Waterfall for a midnight skinny dip, and for playing the ultimate Indian giver on Halloween. Who used to give away blue cheese to little Indians trick to inject their Buffalo burgers with funkier, less gamy heft, only to demand they’d give her mini wheels of blue cheese back for her tickling her feet feet with their headdress feathers, lying about being a half-breed, called, “Tickle Foot With Feathers.

The moral of the story is don’t be an Indian giver or you’ll be cursed with ugly feet, which will turn you into a cold, whino witch queen, scaring away any suitor from ever trying to soften your bitter, angry, nasty heart again.

The End

Michael Kornbluth