Tag: science

The Jolt Felt Around The World

by doitalldadyear, posted in family, storytelling, writing

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 a badass, 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 fourth grade, spending more time now stargazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid, because she saw how tweaky and 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 six cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep-deprived first-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 fourth 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 two-shoes square.”

            Now Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Ways from Halloween that 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 having been invented yet), where she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt, too.”

            Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt, and in a frenzied spurt, she darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite her inner square telling her that 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 up bigger than you-know-what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, 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, spots Matilda, and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt—on a school night, too.”

            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 Han Solo after Leia unfreezes him from carbonite in Jabba’s place.”

            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 force field-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 gonna 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 it, 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 other, landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with the 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, who has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain-drilling noogie, looks up to her Dad and asks, in 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 grow on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need.” 

Michael Kornbluth

The Leech Doctor

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

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 firstborn Zevon Kornbluth, who’d died in Vietnam from a falling tree. Aioli Kornbluth’s father always said, “Laughter is 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, such as, “Make your bed, Aioli. Take out the trash, Aioli—your Snoop Dog records, too. 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. This prompted him to save 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 and sporting his standard, ironed, Catholic private school suit and tie attire from the same school 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 short, so you have more time to ramble on. I can’t shake the feeling that my dad will never forgive God for taking his firstborn, my big brother, away from him so soon. You’d think I’d offer him 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 Fats Domino records on Sunday while sipping more Blanton’s High Balls and reading more damn Michael Crichton novels, than ever taking the time to throw the pigskin 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—and not some annoying Brazilian chickenhead, either. Giselle is also, like, 80 in model years.”

            Chief Longwinded Bow says, “And Oliver Stone has the gall 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 towards 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 that crawfish are 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 is 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 tryout 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?” The 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 that, being raised by a bunch of Mardi Gras Indians, I wouldn’t let a microphone chord rattle my game.” The crowd laughs again.  

            Laughter is 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.”

Michael Kornbluth

Baffled & Confused

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Please be advised, Albert Einstein College of Medicine requires that all successful applicants must be fully vaccinated against COVID-19, including the Booster shot (if applicable) as a condition of employment and provide proof of such vaccination prior to commencement of employment.

In other words, were guilty of culturally appropriating deadly experimental vaccines in the name of Dr. Joseph Mengle because Florida and Anti-Semitism are so hot right now.

And Kayne thought he was in a Defcon 3 mood, Challah. Thank you very much.

And fuck you Albert Einstein College of Medicine for being another willing, collaborator pusher of non-stop death. You didn’t have a choice, I heard. Gotta to keep on printing that COVID paper from the federal government and get paid. Who cares if thousands were forced to die alone while your vaxxed doctors who haven’t dropped dead yet from cardiac arrest chill in St. Barts this winter, acting as if their made in shade. I’m paraphrasing, but didn’t Einstein say that the definition of insanity is doing something the same way again and again while expecting different results? But keeping pushing the clot shots with more spike proteins that depress your immune system more than entry into the Dallas Buyer’s Club. Watch your insurance premiums go through the roof man. If so called brainiac doctors are baffled and confused at why sudden adult death syndrome is the new pandemic to truly shits bricks about, then former Onion writers for the Daily Show are making a mass exodus to the Babylon Bee. Ever think all the young deaths happening today have one thing in common and it’s not from dying laughing at anything wannabe funny Jewish writers at the Babylon Bee ever produce for Christ’s sake. But the founder of the Babylon Bee thinks victims of rape should bang out more celestial beams of light to neatly fit into his shit free premise of all life forming the moment a zygote hair appears on the ultra-sound report, as if the humane thing to do is pushing anymore unwanted life into a shit show like this.

Michael Kornbluth

Show Me The Funny

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, travel, writing

Daughter asks, “Daddy, what’s anti-semitism? I say, “Hostility toward Jews regardless of it being earned or not. For example, Jews are gifted but belong in their country to annoy themselves to death.”

I need a new email address, so employers take me more seriously. Doitalldadyear@outlook.com is beginning to sound too pornographic punctuated for my tastes. What, unholyfather@nothingtoseehereatmoveon.org was already taken. Damn you Cock blocking priests for hoarding up all the dark web accentuated email addresses for yourselves.

Which reminds me, not that it’s a fair comparison. But I can’t get into my new Rabbi as much anymore knowing how he just quotes the same news stories that my wife hears about on NPR 1st. He uses an analogy during Yom Kippur services about some Nasa laser used to knock off the trajectory of a simulated Asteroid by stating how making a small change in our life can cause a big impact later. Only for my wife to say, “I think he follows the same stories that I do on Instagram.” And I say, “Great, so the Rabbi is an Instagram horror and a slave to NPR summation stories like the rest. No wonder why he was giving me hate states during services after listening to any of my comedy records after Rosh Hashanah services prior like, Stab the Clown, American Screwed or The Day Democracy Died, take your freaking pick. Understand, this Rabbi runs a Chabad house, which is a Hasidic strain of Judaism, which is considered more hardcore secular religious than most. So, you’d think he might throw a bone to the Gateway Pundit for citing stories about the pandemic of the vaccinated and how the lion’s share of new COVID cases in Israel, the most vaxed country on the planet, are from the mandated vaxed despite the FDA being less trustworthy these days than Hamas terrorists hiding behind hospitals in the name of imperialistic imposed cowardice. Governments worldwide sanctioning worldwide death and permanent crippling through forcing God’s children to take clot shots till their last dying breath in order to maintain employment is no big deal. But please, suck off the altar of science some more Rabbi that’s done less to stop the spread of life saving information regarding the accelerated death shot than give Sam Harris a dose of personality to make his voice clock in a notch past catatonic, Ben Shapiro included thanks.

God forbid the Rabbi talk about our country bankrolling Azov Nazi’s who have a gun to Zelensky’s head when he’s not posing in Vouge in his finest ensemble of army fatigues from Gap Kids. Now, I know why they call them army fatigues for a reason.

Why not condemn the evil proliferation that’s stemming from the fake news White House and beyond, that’s deliberately tanking our economy to make we the people pay for electing Trumpy Poo twice before he let Democracy die under his past tweet depletive watch?

Instead, I have to hear a story about NASA using a space gun to alter the path of a random Asteroid that poses no threat of taking out life on our planet anymore than the pushing of replacing fossil fuels with mandated Telsa charging stations does. I understand how little impacts can cause changes of trajectory in your life, but not always Rabbi. It’s been 6 months since I gave up drinking beer and my ascent toward achieving orbit while dunking a basketball is barely a hair above earthbound. At this point, I stand a better shot of dunking a basketball in a gravity chamber at Nasa’s higher hopper’s institute for White Man’s Disease on Planet of Putzy Apes.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no atheist overnight. But it was hard to not get super depressed when the Rabbi retold another story about a Canadian family who have 4 kids, while 3 of them will see nothing but dark in their near future while becoming officially blind in the process. But the sweet takeaway from this tale, is the parent’s taking the kids on a never-ending world tour of the planet to fill their kids with rich filled images of Giraffes sticking their necks out for each other by stomping on any encroaching Tribesman scientists in the need for Giraffe DNA used to create a mutant superfreak to break the WNBA star out of a Russian prison for the crime of being strapped with too many weed oil pens and loaded cartridges. Who needs the Jungle Book, when you can just charge the trip on Michal J. Fox’s credit card, I’m assuming. Look, my heart aches at the mere retelling of this story. But it was hard for me to fight the urge of Googling on Duck Duck Go, Blindness side effects from the clot shot soon after. Can you even leave Canada without being quadruple vaxed? Would Trudeau even allow a Trucker family to receive such prominent placement in the NPR news feed while receiving such a plethora of goodness enshrouded well-wishes from the international community at large? Unless, Trudeau is footing the bill, I don’t want to hear this story on Yom Kippur, because it’s still beyond depressing for me to hear any positive spin in relation to oh Canada, after the country froze bank accounts, slashed tires, rented out motels, seized fuel and removed whole freaking oil tankers in a coordinated effort to freeze the protestors in their tracks, so they wouldn’t dare honk their horns in the name of being free of vaccinate mandates that have a proven track record of killing, crippling and paralyzing it’s defenseless victims at large. Put persecute the cranked up Muslim Truckers in Canada who are prohibited from even dropping No- Doze to feed their families for Christ’s sake.

Show me the funny. Fine, my parents hate me so much, they questioned my inherent goodness on the most holy day of the Jewish Calander by only focusing on whether or not I’d follow through with my promise of helping my younger brother finish moving into his new apartment this Friday to start his new lease on life after just getting divorced this past year prior. After only sharing a video of me blowing the Shofar on a mountain top at the start of Rosh Hashanah after writing The Koshertarian Comedians, whose instilled more Jewish pride in their three grandchildren than any NPR damning insurrectionist ever would, virtual grandparents included, who couldn’t even be bothered to wish their grandchildren a sweet new year individually because Putin is responsible for tanking the stock market lower than Groping Biden’s balls.

Michael Kornbluth

Fuck Lisa Simpson

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, fiction

Why doesn’t Global Warming concern me Lisa Simpson? Because Al Gore’s speaking career has cooled considerably. Plus, last winter, was colder than Harvey Weinstein’s casting couch at The Four Seasons.

Imagine Trumpy Poo debating Lisa Simpson on the huge benefits of fracking. Trumpy Poo says, “Fracking reduces our Co2 emissions Lisa. Ivanka has brains and a smoking hot bod, but you’ll be lucky if Millhouse converts to Buddhism for you, Thelonious Monk. Or do identify more with being the bleached version of Cornell West Spike Top? Stop being so fearful about fracking Lisa. Mass consumption of Mountain Dew in Springfield alone, will make up for the low birth rates in no time. Lisa Simpson says with flabbergasted disgust, “Does fracking really reduce our Carbon emissions? So even Neil Young is full of shit now? Trumpy Poo replies, “Neil Young doesn’t take showers to reduce his carbon footprint, since he dumped his wife for Daryl Hannah because he’s going through a post midlife never banged a Mermaid crisis. So, that much you share in common babe.” Lisa barely musters an audible, “But Bernie.” Trumpy Poo goes in for the final kill shot and says, “Blow your Bernie wind farm talk out of your ass Lisa. When Bernie Sanders was hot, he couldn’t even get recreational weed legalized in Vermont. At this point, Vermont should change their state motto from The Green State to CBD Oil Only. Bernie Sanders couldn’t even make Vermont great for potheads on vacation. And the only waters rising in Martha’s Vinyard are from Obama’s bong water, for some much-needed chill out time after his daughter Malia freaks out at the dinner table over Thanksgiving and says, “Dad, why did you let me intern for Miramax again? “Obama says, “Because back then, it looked good on you resume. Plus, Michelle was your chaperone there on the set of Girls on HBO. And that fat Jew couldn’t pin down Michelle if he tried.”

Michael Kornbluth

When Breathing Ends Talk

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, family, fiction

Do It All Dad, now 45 and still an unemployed stay at home comedian who just recorded his 45th comedy record to mark every year on this earth, for an eventual box set release on his 46th birthday on April 18th, Totality Of Me. Still Do It All Dad was getting perpetually downer weepy inside whenever his ebullient, radiantly fun, non-stop hilarious, rollicking son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, would ask him in another innocuous inquisitive, I wanna know manner, “How old are you moron?” Do It All Dad would constantly get snipply, prickly about it, and snap back with heart punctuated disgust for not being a highly employable, in demand comedian writer star yet and bluster out, “45 kiddo, stop reminding me already. At least Marvin Gaye implanted his fair share of sexual healing, by the time his cross dressing father shot him with at 45 with a Colt 45.”

Do It All Dad is in the process of posting comedy record 45, Reclusive Rocker Shreds on to his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, Dad friendly entertainment for you and me, while his son finishes watching The Last Jedi, where the reclusive Luke comes back to fight Darth Vader’s mope maligned millennial mouseketeer grandson by not fighting at all like a less fancy, flat footed Obi One. When the far from centered in real life, easily Trump triggered Mark Hamill espouses another deadweight conversationalist TomTom shit line to Kylo, “Strike me down in anger and I’ll always be with you. Just like your father.” In other words, there’s actually a huge upside in letting you kill me without having to break a sweat. Because A) You don’t have to humiliate me like an out of shape Tyson against Buster Douglass. Who couldn’t be bothered to find a Kettlebell to work on my core to escape an encroaching Sarlacc on Tatooine as a throwback return to some hardcore revisionist Jedi training of yesteryear. Plus B) By letting you strike me down Kylo Ren, I’ll always be lurking inside your good side conscious, when the opportunity comes to save Rey and make peace with killing off the coolest Dad imaginable. Who made the Kesel run faster than my space Kliff bars went through Yoda’s stench swampy colon on your loner Dagobah system that made Charles Bukowski come off as less cagy earthy for a a change. Also what kind of name is Kylo Ren exactly? Kylo Ren sounds like an edgeless jerkoff who rebrands himself as a Creative Technologist on LinkedIn. Who’s 2 galaxies removed from the Crimson Guard Twins in GI Joe who are trust fund terrorist babies cloaked in white priveledge. Who burn their modeling money from Ralph Lauren at the track and on extra gummy horses like AOC’s future failed run for Senate of New York after Schumer dies of soul disintegration ruin for paying off the Pope to give his blessing to Pooping Biden’s sham schlock presidency. Only for his fake news holiness to later downplay Biden’s pant soiling incident prior to meeting him by poo pooing on reporters at Brietbart who remarked about the Commander In Chief losing all control off his bowel moments knowing he was bound to drop a number 2 like a confetti mess storm down on Broadway, because he’s full of enough shit already. Later, his Holiness tweets, “Cut out the crap, President Biden didn’t poop his pants before meeting me. Doesn’t President Biden have enough face nappies to wipe up with at his disposal without having to make an elaborate pant change in the 1st place? Plus, good old Joe isn’t Catholic in name only. Modern day Catholics are cool with abortion, hell hole damned, open borders encouraged, roughhouse sex and demonizing ICE agents rounding up divine sparks of rapist light because Homeland Security is so weapons of mass destruction pass already, America.”

So after Luke’s weathered yet recharged soul becomes released by the lightsaber sword, disappears among the cosmos in a galaxy far, far away, Do It All Dad’s son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo says, “Daddy, I don’t want to die”, like a pubescent Steppenwolf whose been exposed to one too many Ingmar Bergman films already. Do It All Dad says, “Samuel, your nickname is Chosen Curls Was Bound to Woo, not Chosen Curls Was Bound To Fret and pull out his hair out from the bleak prospect of soul destroyer death for anyone responsible for hiring pool time entertainment at the Podesta’s house during upcoming donation season. Look kiddo, the best way to cope with the finality of death or a lifetime of suffering, regret or resentment stemming from alleged loving loyal ones in your life perpetually shitting on your dreams of attaining career fulfillment or financial gain from your imaginative produced artist works in this lifetime God forbid, is through feasting off laugh energy healing, which can help soothe over any fucked over feeling. Trust me, I know from personal experience. That’s why for my final 46th comedy record as a final killer addition to my comedy box set Totality of Me, we’re going to call it Do It All Dad Does Death, which gives me an excuse to bomb with fake news killer punchlines on occasion and cop-out over the mental exerted toil to get the record in fighting shape like Luke does against Kylo Ren. Who cares if any one of my breakup lines with life are laugh out loud funny or not, when breathing ends? Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo laughs and says, ” When Breathing Ends, is funny daddy. More jokes for you, is more jokes for me to put on your comedy records. Do It All Dad laughs, beaming and says, “Never forget Samuel, a joke a day, keeps insanity at bay, chosen one. For example, calling Dr. Fauci America’s doctor is like calling America’s Front Line Doctor’s China’s team, Challah. Thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Jolt Felt Around The World

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, family, fiction

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

Mr. San Diego

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, books, comedy

Grilled fish tacos are lame, especially the ones from Baja Fresh, a popular health-conscious LA fast food chain, where your sense of charming individuality and personalized edge flat line to death and die. Are grilled fish tacos healthier than battered fried ones? Did Tony Gwynn strike out less than a teen George Brett at Daytona Beach on Spring Break?  Also, did the 8-time batting champion, who batted .391 in 94, who hit .412 against the equally nerdy Greg Maddox in the post season, ever leave the impression, he’d spray even more doubles all over Petco Stadium if he went on a diet with Kirby Puckett and only ate In and Out Burgers ATKINS style, using lettuce as buns instead?  If you’ve never made your own homemade Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter Baja Fish Tacos or never sampled the all-star goods from San Diego founded, famed fast food Tex-Mex chain Rubio’s, to inhale their battered fish burrito in 7 bites max, then your life sucks more than the snotty clogged Lupus from the Bad News Bear, before he snags a high fly ball over right field and chants with sudden clear voiced, take no shit bravado, “Just wait till next year”, before pouring beer on Miguel who looks like the uncoordinated Latino Tony Gwyn in the making.

Now, I’ve fried up Icelandic Cod using the standard, eggs, flour and panko breadcrumbs, or from using homemade discarded breadcrumbs ones, blah, blah, blah, yet all those crispy exteriors, even the non-blotchy, all covering coating jobs were flimsier than Wade Boggs power numbers against Roger Clemens during batting practice compared to my Lagunitas infused beer battered one. Regardless, if Nolan Ryan drank the cocksure Roger Clemens under the table the previous night and beat his ass in darts with overpowering, clutch precision, only to throw the upstart hothead into a crippling headlock for trying to call fake news bullseyes one too many times over a high stakes game of darts during All-Star weekend in Houston, when Robert Redford was deemed young enough to play the Natural because the casting director wanted a more stoic, wooden version of Kevin Costner if possible.

Big Ups Batter Up Beer Batter slams all other breaded exterior concoctions out of the park by providing far superior crunch, snap and pop like Barry Bonds on the HGH, before his balls become the size of gumballs, better suited for the kid in the Bazooka Joe comic strips back in the day. Still, the added juicy, crackling oomph my Lagunitas IPA beer batter, mixed with rice flour, flour and baking powder required more rounded out flavor to make this Baja fish taco, the go to hot dog substitute to snag at the ballgame in Petco Field where the San Diego Padres play because HGH alone wasn’t responsible for Barry Bond’s breaking, Hammering Hank’s homerun record, knowing if I took steroids at sleepaway camp, I just would’ve struck at a more accelerated speed. If you’re going to make a consistently clutch, hit heavy Baja fish taco from home, you must add more boogie down balance and funky snap by rounding out the lineup  with a homemade pickled, purple cabbage slaw with jalapenos and Mexican oregano in addition to spreading the mini warmed flour tortilla with plenty of sumptuous, chipotle adobe mayo crema love, lined with plenty of chili powdered, in your face, spiky kick like the edge of Ty Cobb’s extra sparkly cleats up your ass, as he flew home like a bat out of hell in another blaze of natural born killer glory.

The Baja Fish tacos were a real hit with my kids, earning plenty of, “delicious nods”, so much so that I decided to make it a double header and serve them on back-to-back to nights this past weekend, doing my best hit heavy, consistently clutch, Mr. Sand Diego impression with endless joy spewing, Spring Training is almost here cheer.  For back-to-back nights, in our humble east coast Abode, Tony Gwynn, Mr. San Diego, the 1st ballot hall of famer, who would’ve most likely hit 400 or higher similar to Ted Williams during the abbreviated 94 strike seasoned lived again, especially knowing he didn’t become so pleasantly plump like fellow high average hitting sluggers such as John Kruck in the 90’s from sticking to protein shakes and black bean soup for after double header game feasts to. Even Don Mattingly, Mr. Neat, would’ve gotten his mustache and pristine pinstripes drenched in the crema from these Big Ups Batter Up Beer Battered Baja Fish Tacos, to eat his little hometown blues away, especially after the 94-strike season killed his shot at playing for the Yankees in the World Series, only to rip the ball off its seams into his favorite go to right field pocket in the House That Ruth Built, to make his own childhood Natural fantasy come true to.

Michael Kornbluth