Dr. Seuss Is Tony Robbins For Kids

Dr. Seuss’s illustrations are steeped in harmful stereotypes they say. But I don’t recall him drawing a picture of BLM protestors looting the Gucci store, who refuse to pay.

Dr. Seuss drew a picture of a topless African in a grass shirt. He’s a racist then, it’s set. But I didn’t know Fubu was in fashion yet.

Has anybody complained about the hooked nosed, Goblin Bankers in Harry Potter yet? You know Mel Gibson was overjoyed with that movie set. Did JK Rowling, think, I’m hiring Mel Gibson as the set designer on my flick, Mel being a throbbing Jew hater dick, makes him my automatic number one pick.

What if I don’t care for Green Eggs and Ham? This means what, I hate the Irish race and refuse to play beer bong with them at such a rapid fire pace? Or does it mean, I insist on watching Irish movies with subtitles because of the funny way they sound, while also refusing to unfold my arms and dance in junior high to more Jump Around?

Dr. Seuss drew pictures of Asians eating with chopsticks, how sick. It’s worse than drawing a picture of Cardi’s B dropping chopsticks into her cum bucket, full of other forgotten stuffing’s in there like a lost lost chicken nugget.

What happens in the book, And To Think I Saw It on Mulberry St? Did Sonny and his crew beat up a bunch of rowdy bikers on the street, because they sprayed beer on the bartender and should’ve stuck to ordering their drinks neat? Wait a minute that happened in the Bronx Tale. American made mafia tales about the working man can’t be beat. I only wish Chazz Palminteri’s acting career, still packed so much heat.

Dr. Seuss is the Tony Robins for kids, who continues to inspires millions of kids to keep fighting for their dreams, instead of recommending they watch, 13 Reasons Why, whenever they feel their lives are falling apart at the seams.

Dr. Seuss was right. There is fun to be done and games to win. Just stop playing the victim, give Twitter a time out or just dump your tablet into the trash bin.

Michael Kornbluth

The Sales Raise Dinner

6 months after perpetual beat down, heart tissue shredded despair from cold calling IT Directors twice my age at the tender of age of 22 in LA with no promising relief in sight, I was finally able to slam the phone down on the receiver and yell with emphatic, triumphant vibrato, “Deal”, as all my fellow IT agent recruiter sisters and brothers in arms all put down their phones in symbiotic unison and my bum rushed my section of our open office boiler room to give me one kick ass high five after another. Prior, to bawling my eyes out after winning Most Improved Basketball player at Sleepaway Camp, it was the happiest, most joy spewing moment of my life. After spending many afternoons at 5:30 PM, crying in the bathroom stall, after being hung up on all day again for 6 months straight, getting my 1st deal under my belt was equivalent to Forrest Gump getting to bang Jenny in her dorm room after her fake news original Blowing In The Wind striptease act. Then again, Hair Metal wasn’t invented yet, so you can’t be too harsh on Jenny for trying to reinvent herself as a hotter, better stacked, Joan Baez cover act in the making either.

Once you did your 1st 3 deals at Remington International, the big machers, meaning all the big-time billing managers would take you out for a fancy sales raise dinner to give you a taste for living the high life again. Steve Winwood lives post Traffic, holla, thank you very much. Understand, the sales raise wasn’t substantial at all and made zero difference after taxes for my biweekly take home paycheck. Granted, I could still afford to pay the rent on my rent-controlled apartment in West Hollywood, see a movie once a week in the Century City Mall and splurge on the Sunday NY Times pre-fake news to get my brain back in working order after puffing the green with my ex or doing E once my dealer in the valley got access to it frequently post Y2K, but that was it. None of us dignified, scrappy, resourceful yet lowly IT agency recruiters in my position made enough money to survive really, because none of us made actual commission on a 20 grand placement there, a 25 grand rip there, but at the time my illustrious sales raise dinner at Morton’s in Beverly, Hills that its, totally made up for it, Dice lives, holla, thank you very much.

The festivities started with a Grey Goose and tonic or 2, before the scallops wrapped in bacon appetizer arrived. Understand, despite growing up in the upper middle class affluent confines of Westchester County, only 50 minutes north of Peter Luger’s in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I had zero exposure to fancy schmancy steak house appetizers of this holy shit good magnitude. Every bite was perfect. The bacon wrapped around this sumptuous, high end scallop that was never rubbery chewy bland for one second, was bursting with bubbly, over the top crackling, in your face flavor. Outside of my mind melting from relishing such a tubby bitch, fine dining steakhouse appetizer at the same Morton’s in Beverly Hills, which used to be the go-to afterhours Vanity Fair party hot spot after the Academy Awards, it was impossible to not derive a communal sense of shared brotherhood with the older management crew in attendance, who all hailed from back east like myself, living it up like senior agents for freaking CAA for Christ’s sake. Pete Clochaney, the former wrestling stud from upstate in Buffalo, the living legend Michael Burns, from Greenwich, CT, who toured with Dead, bartended at Kelly’s Korner and made us watch Rudy for inspiration one morning before our daily cold calling assault resumed and my direct boss Alex Dubovoy a garbage sons from Brooklyn, done good. I loved how much vicarious pride they derived from me making it to that table with them. For once, I felt I truly earned my keep. They all wore really nice Canali suits who possessed a working knowledge of obscenely expensive brown liquor shots such as Louis the 13th cognac. My head was spinning from being accepted and encouraged to do even better under their sales leadership direction, feeling like a waste of height no more and my succulent, divine blessed, Porterhouse, sorry Kosher God hadn’t even arrived yet.

Outside of savoring every juicy, heaven sent bite, my mind veered toward my Dad for a second, who was a rainmaker himself, helping build a 90-million-dollar packaging busines in Union New Jersey. Still, it drove me nuts at the time, thinking how much my father dropped the ball, never exposing me to any motivational shoot for conquest steak dinner like this, because prior, I was only accustomed to eating the perpetually shitty, anemic, consistently mushy kosher kind. My father grilling what flavor they once possessed didn’t contribute to my complete lack of enjoyment factor from eating trying to act, I was ever into them either.  

Thank you, Lord, for giving me the balls and fortitude to not throw in the towel during my 1st six months on the job as an IT agency recruiter, a long, long, way from home, with no Vince Vaughn pep talks to rouse my depressingly downer weepy spirits at the time either. Becoming an IT Headhunter in LA and paying my own way in this world made me the man I am today. College is so overrated, knowing I was the only putz to graduate from a top communication school back east with a debilitating stutter.  

They say the true definition of failure is giving up on yourself, so by that definition, my stint as an IT Headhunter at Remington International, my 1st real deal professional working white collar job was a smashing success. All those double Turkey Burgers with glops of mayor, fine shredded lettuce, draped in mounds of American Cheese on Santa Monica Blvd. were sublime to, because I earned them from not giving into the fear of failure or more perpetual shot down rejection I endured my 1st six months on the job, which provided the impetus behind the funny man with a plan I am today. Granted, my dear, lovely LA of yesteryear has morphed into a shit show tent city of biblical proportions, yet no politicized COVID lockdowns, bullshit Dominion defamation lawsuits or post woke Twitter twat celeb blather, siding with the Wicked Witch Of The East, Baby Face Omar, King Of the Persecution Complex or Obama Be Good can every take that sales raise dinner away from me.

Michael Kornbluth

Bad Boy Soy Boy Strikes Back

                                         

Once upon a time there was a biracial Korean, Jewish kid from the Riverdale section of the Bronx, Steven Park, otherwise known as Bad Boy Soy Boy, since he unleashed his Nunchucks of fury at a block party on a bunch of shit talking, instigating, black gangbangers, who wore the same wife beater, corn rows and cut off jean shorts, looking like they were dressing up for Coolio Appreciation Day. Who never dared to call Bad Boy Soy Boy, a COIVD chink in his midst ever again, as he cracked one corn row braided skull in 2 after another, without breaking a sweat in a NY Minute. Son of Sam in the seventies was scary no doubt, but the surge in hate crimes against Jews and Asians in the boogie down Bronx, Jersey City and throughout the Island of Manhattan were at an all-time high with no relief or added protection in sight.

Cops today, were younger, softer, and far less hardcore than their 9/11 predecessors. Nobody in the force today possessed the balls to make money on the side through good old-fashioned extortion like 99 percent of the force in the movie Serpico. Bail was banned in NY, garbage filled the streets, rats grew the size of Lena Dunham during Restaurant Week after challenging Leslie Jones to a Junior’s Cheesecake off. But even these woke large and in charge funny woman, couldn’t believe what a scary shithole their cherished concrete jungle of yesterday had become in 4 years flat.

Crazy talk slogans punctured the air such as, “Ban ICE”, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destruction years. It’s no excuse to mug Chinese grandma in Chinatown, yet the Wuhan made virus, made New Yorkers at large crazier than ever, placing misplaced faith in a news media hellbent on feeding more unregulated hate and fear into the nation about black men in America being America’s most hunted, despite not one enlightened BLM member encouraging their fellow brothers to just stop resisting arrest or the temptation to run out on a 2000-dollar dinner check in South Beach for Spring Break, God forbid.

Every day, Bad Boy Soy Boy worked at his parent’s deli in the South Bronx, despite living in the leafier, more snuggle soft confines, of Riverdale in the Bronx, where abandoned, torched, burnt down buildings to salvage a semblance of ROI from the insurance company were less common than a B plus Korean student at Bronx Science.

Bad Boy Soy Boy had to bite his lip at the deli every time some brother would come in there talking endless shit, yelling, “COVID Chink, this, COVID Chink that,”, despite him being fucking half Korean and half Jewish. It didn’t make a difference because cum bucket dumpsters such as Cardi B today were deemed heady, culture enriching, poets from the street, whose gaping, sloppy 3rds snatch couldn’t be beat, allegedly. Jim Rome lives, holla, thank you very much.

But one day Bad Boy Soy Boy decided enough was enough, so he opened a medicinal speakeasy weed milk bar in Bergen, New Jersey as a front to offer Nunchuck self-defense classes for Asian Americans based in any of the 5 boroughs willing to make the schlep to fight for their life to live out the protracted, rapidly fading American dream with a semblance of peace of mind as they raged, raged against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas lives, holla, thank very much.

Now, Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class, became the number one tourist destination in Bergen history, not that there was much stiff competition in this department. But Bad Boy Soy Boy had a college roommate from UPENN who he’d talk to on the phone every day who worked as a rock star chef for a Korean food truck in old city in Philly, known for their Korean eggroll cheesesteak hot pocket breakfast treats. Who now had to invest in a bullet proof vest covered food truck in Old City, which was once the only really safe area in Philly outside of Center City on Chestnut street. But safe spaces for Asian Americans were now deader than Jeremey Lin’s chances of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated 7 times in a row again, especially since JR Smith bitched to Knicks management about the golden child Harvard grad who plopped in their lap out of the freaking blue, because he was hogging the Garden spotlight and bike lane all for himself.

Asian Americans including Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, who never bothered to study martial arts, thinking, it wasn’t necessary to learn from 1994 to 2020, were flocking to Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class. Bad Boy Soy Boy’s grandfather, Michael Kornbluth was a Holocaust survivor because when all the brown shirt ANTIFA members of their day banned guns, he used his own Nunchucks of fury gifted to him from his Korean father-in-law, and cracked NAZI skulls hyped on crystal meth all his way to freedom from Nazi persecution. Who pawned enough Nazi gold teeth from the skulls he cracked in 2 with his Nunchucks of fury to buy a boat pass to NY, establish a family of his own with his reflexology wife therapist and become a proud 1st generation deli owner, getting Jewish New Yorkers hooked on Kimchi for more reasonable outs from ever having to slip their wife some tongue again.

Both young and old Asian Americans no longer had to live in helpless, paralyzed fear, all thanks to Bad Boy Soy Boy teaching them the infinite beat down possibilities unleashed from the almighty Nunchuck strikes of fury, to ensure they were never fucked with again in the name of the COVID Chink virus or not. Because Bad Boy Soy Boy was on a mission from God to prove Bruce Lee’s weapon of choice, ain’t nothing to fuck with.

Michael Kornbluth

Beyond Hermosa Skies

My old school summer wind Summer Lam rivaled the beauty of any soul piercing sunset draped over those pinkish, orange, scattered skies of Hermosa Beach. Still, my go-to-in-house date night dish, angel hair in a white clam sauce, because I could never afford to dine out for dates, adorned with slivers of neon Greek gold sweet peppers on top, offered plenty of twinkly, ultra-aroused interest to.  Those Greek gold sweet peppers known as Pepperoncini’s, are sold at all Italian Delis, and can be enjoyed at your local Greek restaurant with some olive oil bathed cubes of feta by your little Greek landlord, on top of a tringle, torn off piece of warm pita bread, assuming he’s in a more festive, less dour dumpy mood than usual.  

I got the idea of using angel hair from a weathered, grandma age, Italian executive assistant who worked for my company’s owner Terry Thor, an IT staffing legend, who founded the IT staffing firm, The Thor Group, headquartered in Manhattan Beach next to defense contractor behemoths such as Raytheon, who I placed an IT security analyst with, after insisting my friend JT give me the org chart to exploit for all its billable, employment extending worth. Actually, became buds with Shakes, the IT security analyst I placed at Raytheon, who I let crash on my couch before the interview he flew in from back east for, who possessed dreams of penning dialogue for Tinseltown to.  Come to think of it, there was an IT network security engineer, who I went bar hopping with in nearby El Segundo one night, resulting in me coming in contact with the always majestic, effortlessly beautiful, always pitch perfect, laugh-tastic Summer Lam.  If I didn’t get fired from Thor for failing to do more placements with Raytheon and for being caught on the job looking for new jobs such as selling helicopters for a living, I could’ve befriended another IT candidate who knew a TV Writer agent at CAA. No agent ảt CAA in Beverly Hills or one based in his rental Woodland Hills studio stucco apartment, would’ve singed me based on my ok Friends spec alone, despite me reimagining the Nike swoosh as Gene Simmons tongue, which impressed Summer enough for her to pitch, “Let’s move to Santa Barbara so I can day trade and you give up IT recruiting and write novels instead.” Boy, did I fuck that one up.  

Before meeting Summer, I became a master at making my angel hair clam delight for my various date nights at home, using my secret killer addition ingredient of Pepperoncini’s, available in pre-cut slivers at my local Italian Deli in Hermosa for 2 bucks a pop, who also sold bits of prosciutto ends for 2 bucks a top. “What a country”, I’d croon during those Hermosa loving nights, with unmatched, heaven on earth blasting glee.

I’d also relish taking my 5-minute pre-date trips along the always misty, majestic pacific off the pier to a local fish shack in nearby Redondo Beach for the clams, which I could actually afford for 10 bucks a pound compared to having to sell a highly punctured liver already from the even closer shishy bitch supermarket chain Bristol Farms located in Manhattan Beach instead. I can still picture the smoothed over lines on those clam shells, begging to be steamed open, so I could pour the sweaty, underbelly residue of the succulent sweet clams into the angel hair soon after, responsible for imbibing it’s one a kind, fishy delight flavor.

But now 3 kids later, I’m a Stay-At-Home Koshterian Comedian, so how can I replicate some summer loving love, having a blast with my wife and 3 kids on a damp, February night instead? Easy, I substituted my killer Pepperoncini’s add on ingredient with my tweaked, heavily workshopped twice roasted, mini me cubes of peeled Italian eggplant instead, which I sauté in bomb cold press Italian olive oil first, sprinkled with bits of fresh rosemary and peeled off pieces of garlic before shoving into the oven at 350 for 20 more minutes to add a deepened, roasted, smokier, more elastic, slivery slurpy, eggplant puss flavor, minus the funky fish overtones of course but you get the gist.

Next, you add more specs of leftover rosemary to your buttered, olive oil base to fry up bits of shallots and peeled over slivers of shaved garlic before bam, plop some pre-made Emeril’s vodka sauce on top for only 4 bucks a pop at your local Stop and Shop and you’re made in the shade.  Before eventually dropping the angel hair nestles of perfection into the pinkish, bubbly, fresh scented rosemary specked sauce along with the svelte shards of twice cooked eggplant to extrapolate the most banging, inhalable, pristine sweet flavor imaginable, capable of unearthing multiple lip moistening ums, again and again.

You know you’ve succeeded in recreating some summer loving angel hair love, when your wife goes back for second slurping’s on her own, without any repeated push in that direction either. You also know your date night in your twenties at your old school Hermosa Beach pad is going too domesticated good, when your cute blond date from down south says in the most innocuous way possible, “This is really good. Can I take some home with me? I shrugged off her innocent inquiry, kept the leftovers for myself and sent her home soon after. She didn’t taste that good. She was no Summer Lam alright. Nor could she ever replicate memories of lounging on the beach with my dear Summer Lam, getting carried away to heaven and back, beyond those Hermosa skies.

Michael Kornbluth

The Magical Mini-Me Meatball Tour

I’m at a vintage bookstore that sells used records and CD’s to buy another last-minute gift add on for my son’s endless birthday party weekend, despite his big brother constantly pointing out, “It’s not your birthday anymore. I don’t care how much Daddy is loving you more than me.  I bought John Lennon’s greatest hits on CD for 4 bucks, just so I could sample some John Lennon material on the owner like I just paid my one drink minimum for a Pap’s Blue Ribbon to do 4 minutes at the Eastville Comedy Club before becoming a full-time Stay-At-Comedian, 3 kids later and say, “On my Do It All Dad Year Podcast I state, I’ve written 4 books and recorded 400 plus podcast since my lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years, after Paul McCartney shamed John Lennon into becoming a Stay-At-Home Dad from writing Hey Jude, to console his 1st abandoned son, he wanted nothing to do with before having his 2nd child Sean with Yoko, to give involved fatherhood another shot. Still, 2 minutes into a baby stroll throughout Central Park West, 1 day into playing the role of a loving, emotionally present, Stay-At-Home Dad, John Lennon screams up at the sky, “Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul.  All the Primal Scream Therapy isn’t helping.”

John Lennon experimented with being a vegetarian yet always found a way to sneak meat into his diet after realizing what havoc Yoko’s Bean Curd Smoothies did on his sex drive, exchanging his lost, druggy, groupie drilling years in LA in favor of snuggling Yoko on too much CIA secret stash strong ACID, delivered by Dr. Timothy Leary personally, to make it another merry free Christmas, and creepy conjuring new year. At the same time, John Lennon could’ve lived anywhere in the world, but chose Central Park West in the Dakota building instead, knowing any starving artist or not could afford a bowl of good spaghetti and meatballs at Carmines on Broadway after scrapping together enough bread.

I used to have lunch dates with a pretty girl from PA named Holly at Carmines and we’d split the meatball parm hero there, which was Big Pussy with bad back problems huge. The meatball hero was also served with a side of crispy yet light Cesar Salad with fresh baked croutons, tasting as polished distinguished as the sumptuous, moist throughout, ultra inhalatory, meatballs, begging to disappear in your belly within a NY minute.  Subway Meatballs these weren’t, because they were bigger, rounder, juicier balls of balling, big time pimping perfection. Now, sometimes softball size meatballs are a turnoff, if they remind of your putz prone dad staining his nice dress shirts again after work at hard 6:30 at the latest, during Kosher meatball and spaghetti night, only for your mom to blurt out again, “Steven, you stained your shirt again. Remind me again, why I converted to marry into this.” Only for my father to reply with, “Carol, if you never met me, you would’ve married some nerd, whose mother would’ve been intimated by your perfect MATH SAT score to.”

My ex-girlfriend who went to Columbia, introduced me to the meatball pie at Lombardi’s in SOHO when we visited my parents and friends back east during winter holiday break once after living together in West Hollywood for the past year. I was blown away, knowing no Turkey Meatball, drenched in delectable, never too syrupy rich, plum sauce from our nearby Gelson’s grocery store on Santa Monica Blvd. could ever match the vastly superior, air light might of these mini me meatballs ever.

When I lived in West Hollywood, I had my mom buy me the Soprano’s Cookbook and learned how real deal Italian meatballs, used a killer combination of ground pork, sirloin and veal while also using plum Roma Tomatoes to be later boiled and peeled after dropping them into a cold-water bath soon after to part the skins from their tender loving juiciness, itching to be unfurled with scatterings of peeled garlic and diced up fine shreds of Italian Parsley inside. I actually felt like a semi-functioning adult back then, going to the Farmer’s Market at the Grove to buy the different meats for Tony Soprano’s homemade meatballs versus splurging at the far pricier supermarket chain Bristol Farms, walking distance, not that anybody walks anywhere LA, from the 4 Seasons in Beverly Hills, because despite my rent controlled apartment on Harper Street in West Hollywood back then, my inner Jew couldn’t justify the more extravagant price point purchase just yet, despite shopping there more likely putting me in contact with George Plimpton loading up on more organic vanilla bean ice cream to serve Ronald Regan and Nancy after taking in a home screening documentary on Kurt Cobain triggering, Howdy Dowdy.  These meatballs, using the holy trinity of pork, veal and sirloin ground meat were so good, I shot off death stares at my ex-girlfriend, for offering my bountiful leftovers to her best friend from Bel Air, who was a member of the Nordstrom family, before they stopped selling Ivanka’s statuesque working girl shoes, because most yenta breaths in Manhattan failed to fill out her longer, shapely size lines, I guess.

I’ll still never forgive my dad, for dumping pounds of meatball heroes made for my Bar Mitzvah party by his close friend and famed chef of Bronx made fame, Carmine, who had nothing do with Carmines off Broadway outside of his artisan genius being lumped together with what native New Yorker’s considered a glamorized, middle America size catering, tourist trap, which is unfortunate because both restaurants make you proud to be a beneficiary of eastern standard, heartwarming, Italian American cooking again and again.  

Now, my daughter is taking weirded out bites from my homemade mini me reconstructionist meatballs to kickstart my son’s 4-year birthday weekend celebration in extra rollicking high gear, which used Rao’s Tomato Sauce to save me time, after sautéing these mini balled beauties in expensive, extra virgin olive oil, fresh chopped parsley and ample sprinklings of shaved garlic and red-hot chili pepper flakes, to take this Eastern standard spaghetti and meatball dish so much higher.  I can’t get mad at my daughter’s weirded out bites, despite me making them mini meatballs, so she wouldn’t be so freaked from staring down a fistful of cow at a time, knowing she’s only been eating Kosher meat, since my Koshertarian Comedian project to get my kids excited about giving the Koshtertarian Diet began.

I cooked the mini-me meatballs in the sauce under a low heat with the cover for a solid hour, which paid huge dividends, making it more than worth the weight, especially after I spot her younger brother, Arthur, hunched over in a perpetual, soul tantalizing, attack mode, uttering every other neat yet mountainous inhale, “This is really yummy daddy.”

Growing up, the Kosher Butcher store was always a turnoff because the Butchers there always seemed like they literally slept in raw pink meat. Now, that pubescent concern is a thing of the past, as I proceeded to finish off my mini me meatball birthday creation for breakfast and lunch the following the day to embrace reimaged eastern standard greatness and celebrate a newborn dad kind of love, offering the possibility of more success filled tomorrows, to make 2021 by most glorious year yet, back again, in a New York groove.  

Michael Kornbluth

Loud Man’s Disease

How loud was Do It All Dad? For starters, when seeing Aerosmith live in Las Vegas 2 summers ago with close seats to the stage before a mask muzzle was designed to kill freedom of speech forever, his incessant hollering and wooing, made lead singer Steven Tyler, shoot off retaliatory hate stares of disgust in his direction which screamed, “Somebody shut this loudmouth Jew up already. This is my showcase career retrospective, not his. I didn’t blow millions on blow and almost derail my stadium selling out career in the seventies to have this big-headed putz project louder than me without a microphone, Joe Perry and a state-of-the-art sound system working in his magnifying favor either.”

There was also the time Do It All Dad saw Dice in a casino in Arizona with his younger brother, only for the Dice Man to single out the loudmouth Jew and yell with exasperated force, “You’re an asshole”, and all he was doing was laughing longtime all the time prior while sporadically yelling, “Dice Lives, holla, thank very much.” Dice was so flummoxed by Do It All Dad’s laugh throaty roar, he beelined into his nursey rhymes prematurely way ahead of schedule to get the fuck out of dodge at a hard 45 minutes into his set.

Then, there was the time when Do It All Dad saw Bon Jovi at Mohegan Sun with his daughter Matilda, fairly up in the nose bleed seats this time behind the stage, yet his bombastic, rocket fueled voice, still managed to get under Zebra print’s skin, as the old school long cowboy from Jersey, projected a damning you ain’t shit thousand-yard stare toward Mr. Loud Man’s Disease general direction, as he sang along with rock star blasting authority, “Bad Medicine is all I need.”  

Do It All Dad didn’t only piss off living legendary comedians and hall of fame rock star front men with surefire, unintentional precision. His omnipresent Loud Man’s Disease enraged his normally English dour, future father-in-law over a dinner at his home in Delaware only 2 minutes after grace, compelling him to bark out in depleted, drained already disgust, “He’s more talkative than the other one.” The other one being the gentile mute from Indiana, his daughter was engaged to before his daughter found her real deal partner in love this time, at least for the time being.

The major issue now was Do It All Dad’s loud man disease causing his son Art Show USA to develop all-consuming migraine headaches, leading his son to sport a permanent PMS face, until he started to take up mainlining extra strength Tylenol again. And Do It All Dad’s son was tough. How tough you ask? Well, when Art Show USA required stiches for tripping on top of an empty IPA glass on the ground and had to wait 1000 lifetimes in the emergency room so the other doctors could serve all the 1st in line dreamers in attendance, the doc gave Do It All Dad 2 options, “Either A) Authorize the doc using an anesthesia which would take 20 minutes to kick in, or B) To stich up his son the spot as his gaping gash continued to open wider than Octomom after push 5000. Do It All Dad chose B, only for the doctor to say, “Your kid is tough.” Do It All Dad inquires, “Indulge me doc, how tough?” Doc says, “One time there was this black kid from Brooklyn.” Do It All Dad says, “Sold already Doc. Thanks for giving my son tough guy bragging rights for me to derive vicarious pride from till my last dying breath.”

But how was Do It All Dad going to solve his Loud Man’s Disease exactly? Would triple masking even get the job done, after getting his tonsils taken out for an extra safe precaution to? Would Do It All Dad become a eunuch monk, despite already feeling this way at times from being a Stay-At-Home Dad, bitchy underling until his comedy writing career achieved blast off already? Would Do It All Dad seek out a Voodoo Doctor in Washington Heights to cure his Loud Man’s Disease by changing his pigmentation to ESL Asian?

What could Do It All Dad do to prevent his son from receiving any more debilitating headaches in his presence again? Finally, Do It All Dad devised a cure all solution. He’d buy his son a pair of Bose noise canceling headphones to wear in his presence and teach him fucking sign language. Because native New Yorkers were made to be heard.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Fearless Maniac


Remember your dad taking you sledding? Yeah, I don’t either. I do recall the red flying saucer sled, which never achieved anything close to resembling manic speed, compared to my 4-year old’s son new Snow Screamer, which is slicker than Michael Jackson’s moon walk before we learned how he got away with murdering kids age of innocence like a smooth criminal. Also, if Michael Jackson were alive today, how would he defend himself against his Neverland accusers exactly? All the Beatles royalty points in the world, can’t buy me love.

I shared video of my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, sledding down a huge hill on a local golf course on his new Snow Screamer with my mom who lives Arizona, with the headline, winter loving, having a blast. Sometimes, I can’t help being a passive aggressive c word to my mother, knowing her standard line this time every winter in February is, “How are you handling the cold Scoops?” Growing closer to my 3 Koshertarian comedian children the more laughs and yummy dances I get, yeah, yeah, yeah. Also, doesn’t my mom realize it would be in equal poor taste, if I were to text her this summer, “How are you handling melting to death in the Arizona August sun again mom? Have you fried up a Chorizo egg scramble on your side patio tile yet? Is it hard to block out the smell of burning rubber from your Nike flip flops, mask on or not?”

My mother’s reply to the sledding video of her grandson whizzing down the golf course hill at ridiculous speed, was, “He’s fearless”, and she had no clue about the Peach Linzer Tart Hardcore Hunga Treat Trophy I got him afterwards in honor of his obvious bravery and his hardcore edge knowing he wasn’t wearing any Freezie Freakie Gloves and only wearing a thin a layer of pajama pants on to. I was in a rush to get all 3 of my kids to the golf course for a rapid barrage of sled runs before darkness fell because I still had to buy some canned pineapple later for my planned Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice Dish soon after, so the pajama pant oversight on my part, only enhanced my 4-year old’s hard-core appeal in the end. Fearless, but my mother hates her grandson’s need for a Floatie in their Arizona Estate Pool, whose gone on record how she refuses to erect another netted pool fence in his honor ever again, for our next annual Arizona visit. That’s right, the pool fence is an eye sore. You’d think the pool fence my parents got temporarily installed to prevent their grandchild from drowning to death resembled the barbed wire fencing on the cover of an Elie Wiesel novel. Still, the slight danger element to sledding or when doing Improv in front of a live audience for your graduation show at UCB, where you ended up playing a gay swamp monster and received howls of approval in return, got me thinking about the importance of never being too married to whatever your initial dinner dish presentation was without leaving room to make last minute adjustments, instead of being held hostage by fear filled, sealed in stone failure forever.

It doesn’t matter what my original vision of my dish was, which was to make a Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice dish using pineapple, green onions, and cilantro for some diversified springy adornment crunch on top. What matters was keeping myself loose enough on the cooking stage to make a last-minute adjustment, if I were to ever reclaim my kids respect as a star powered Do It All Dad Cook again. Whenever you’ve done stand-up comedy or Improv, you become consumed with self-lacerating fury whenever you don’t get laughs. Do It All Mom’s also wear their dejection on a sleave and become progressively pissed off at their kids, if their dinner dish, made with love or not, is received with nothing but sneering disdain from their kids, especially if there was a grand vision and a significant semblance of preparation and excessive chopping involved. Whenever my kids reluctantly slog through eating another obligatory bite from one of Mama’s quicky thrown together, Instant pot dishes, where the stems on the Cauliflower are thicker than Joe Theisman’s ankle after Lawrence Taylor almost snapped his entire leg off back in the day, mama will always attack her dinner table audience for not appreciating it’s nuanced, eccentric wonderfulness. All of a sudden, insisting our 3 Koshetarian comedian children are a bunch of ungrateful, unsophisticated, twats, unworthy of such exotic rounded goodness. But when my wife does this, she divorces herself from any form of self-correcting awareness along the way, which only sets herself up for increased, repeated failure and further depreciation of her cooking skills brand again and again.

Look, I used to be guilty of blaming the audience when they didn’t laugh at my jokes either but sucking to the core, forced me to dig deeper and work harder at making it impossible for the audience to resist sucking off my new and improved, material next time around. Another valuable lesson I received from taking UCB 101, is to spend more time actively listening to your scene partner, versus force feeding any predetermined shtick, which never gelled, because it didn’t arise naturally from the scene being created in real time, which is supposed to be a conversation rooted in your rapidly developing made up reality, versus a wrong way, cringe inducing monologue U Turn about your rage issues directed toward your mother who called your desire to write a screenplay back then as being,“Too ambitious.” I’ve applied these hard-earned lessons to how I innovate in the kitchen with my 3 kids, which explains why I generate more yummy dances galore than Mama does, because I don’t blame my kids for being stupid hicks for not loving her brown shit looking black bean soup, thereby allowing no room for any last-minute improvisational flourish to help win back her kids interest in giving a shit about what momentous free création mom put together next. In other words, you don’t grow as a comedian or cook if you’re constantly blaming the audience for their sucky reaction to your creations again. More importantly, if you care about killing in the kitchen to, don’t become fixated with sticking with your dreamy, grandiose, sure fire hit creation in your mind, when it doesn’t get the immediate, all consuming, loving reaction you envisioned it would receive. You think God was overjoyed with T.J Miller’s fake news standup special on HBO? No, so he got him fired from Silicon Alley, forcing him to write some funnier jokes or act outs that don’t involve egging himself on stage like a poor man’s Carrot Top, minus the six pack of abs, residency in Vegas and more hilarious hidden gem treasured bits up his sleeve.  

Even good old honest Abe once said, “The voice of the people is second only to God”, which means, the audience will always tell you what’s working and what needs work by either their lack of emotiveness or crushing disappointment worn on their face. After one bite of my Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice with bit of scrambled egg, green onion cilantro and pineapple, my daughter’s face froze up in disgust. All of a sudden, her face was completely motionless, as if she was doing everything in her power to hide her shock of disdain for her Do It All Dad’s latest bust creation but failing miserably to conceal the perplexed, jaw dropping, abject horror eating up her soul alive. Granted, my daughter Singing Rose Kornbluth, expects me to deliver the goods and you only get good at anything, when you possess a passionate, all-consuming desire to keep your hardcore fans happy in addition to a burning, manic urge to constantly outdo whatever you did before with over-the-top fearless relish, like any self-respecting fearless maniac would.

So, I took one final look at my daughter’s face, which screamed, “You’ve got to be kidding me with this shit dada. I had to wait till 7pm on a weekday for this slop? How does it take so long to just plop bits of chicken into some oatmeal with some canned pineapple thrown on top? If this rice were any mushier, you could make it into a Jennifer Garner movie about rebounding from her breakup with JJ Abraham’s on the Hallmark Channel.”

So, thank God, my UCB improv training kicked in to full gear as I took my 1st bite out of my Koshtertarian Chicken Fried Rice bust, thinking, “My daughter isn’t a know it all, teen bitch in the making after all. I better get creative to save what remnant of respect my daughter has for my Do It All Dad cooking prowess immediately. Then, I dart into the kitchen to grab some sweet chili sauce, which I introduced my kids to recently over some frozen egg rolls mama got from Trade Joes’ to give the standard, cheap, starter appetizer some much needed oomphy zing. In the end, the last minute improvised add on addition of much needed sweet chili sauce saved my dish from dying a premature, depressingly dreary death. Plus, my kids regained faith in their Do It All Dad’s improv chops once again, proving I’ll always get by with a little help from my Koshtertarian comedy friends.

So, like Adam Sandler’s character Donny Berger says to his friend Vanilla Ice in the hilarious movie, That’s My Boy, “You better stop, collaborate and listen.” And if your kids are less than enthralled from your latest and greatest creation, there’s a reason. I wouldn’t want it any other way, because Koshertarian Comedians will never rule if they remain nothing more than cry, cry, babies.

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