Joyous Jiz Jangle

At the supermarket I eye a basket of scrumptious looking tomatoes. So, does the grey-haired Grandma next to me. I say, “They’re feel up worthy. Sophia Loren lives. Wife thinks I’ve got a sexualization problem. I’m a G Rated version of Andrew Dice Clay. Grey haired Grandma continues to laugh long time. Joyous Jiz jangle, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Masturbator Equalizer

“Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.”

Salvador Dali

“Money equals middle finger power”, is what my dad always told me growing up in our quaint yet artistically loaded Comedy Grant House 50 minutes North of Manhattan within the bucolic, historically tiny village of Croton Falls. Now famous for being the birthplace of my dear dada’s famous catchphrase, “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”, on his Do It All Dad Year podcast that ultimately got him a recording label deal to produce comedy record 100 Too Tall Jew, on Blessed Records and the rest is comedy gold machine making history. Personally, I preferred the comedy record title, Birds Eye View Bitches, but Daddy thought that it was tad long winded even for Bob Dylan’s tastes. At the Montreal Comedy Festival Daddy got big laughs when he said, ‘”Sorry pops, but when you live in Arizona for a decade and counting and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon, you’re a fake news hippy. I don’t care if your Bob Dylan station on Pandora suggest otherwise.”

Still, growing up Papa, my grandfather, nicknamed my daddy Waste of Height because my father is a 6’4 Jewish New Yorker, who’s only highlight when playing Varsity basketball senior year was scoring 10 points against an all-Japanese team, which isn’t hard when the opposing players thought the pick and roll, mean their choice of fish. Now, my dad was being billed by Rolling Stone as Killer Set Kornbluth, while Variety magazine hailed him as the new giant of late night after replacing Bill Maher with a new talk show called Seriously Clowning. So, at this point in his life, my dad had every right to look down on any soul sucker dream detractor who tried to make him feel like a delusional, crazy man narcissist for pursing A plus comedic glory with a middle finger power mansion located at the highest point in Bel Air next to Jerry’s Lewi’s old school crib. So, the shelf life behind papa’s degrading nickname, Waste of Height, in relation to his 1st born blossoming son, no thanks to his encouraged direction had gone sailing, Dean Martin, lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

But daddy is what you would call a late bloomer, who didn’t start tasting big deal success till his late forties, combining that with a sexless marriage, with a man who is far from straight, on top of his mom wanting him to sling other’s people’s garbage instead of his own A plus gemry jokes for a living one day, combined with in-laws who force fed Eucharist on his Jew blood tainted kids behind his back, combined with zero creative collaborators outside of his own children during his 5 year journey into the wilderness while kicking is decade long addiction to Adderall for good, resulted in creating a tsunami of resentment fueled rage that almost burnt out what love spreader light that existed left in my dear dada’s endlessly beautifying, beyond spiritualized projecting soul, before it was too late.  Because of that, Daddy did everything in his power to ensure I established moonbeam blast shot goals early as possible compared to his mother urging her “artist son”, to settle and shoot for shit by chucking the joke writing career all together and become a full-time garbage man like Magic Johnson’s father in Lansing, Michigan. Obviously, Magic Johnson dad’s is a stellar example of being a God loving, do it all dad done good. Still, Magic’s dad also slung other’s people’s trash, so his son wouldn’t have to, similar to Papa schlepping over the George Washington Bridge for 25 years only to get nickeled and dimed by the likes of Potomka Pickles while working as VP of Sales for a plastics and glass company in Union, New Jersey, otherwise known as the Swamp Thing State, so his 1st born wouldn’t have to follow in his steps and blaze a new trail of funny man innovation to derive prideful enrichment of some kind on his own.

But what really pissed off my dad was Papa resisting the notion that I had genius potential in me because his waste of height son was too much a mongoloid moron in his eyes to birth such a star powered, out of this world seedling capable of moving millions with my own powers of imagination, poetic lift and storytelling powered song. Daddy went to Ithaca College, which he derided as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor. But he graduated from the distinguished Roy H. Park School of Communications, so he could suck down some bingers of extra strong Tompkin’s country outdoor weed and avoid stuttering every other 2 seconds. I loved the idea of going to Columbia growing up, yet Daddy viewed Manhattan as yesterday’s news and planted the idea of me attending Williams University in Massachusetts instead, because former owner of the Yankees George Steinbrenner, otherwise known as the Boss, was a famous alumnus and larger than life NY bred personalities like George Steinbrenner don’t get any big more time than that. Plus, Daddy loved the standup comedian Jim Norton who claimed Boston woman were the best to slay with. Also, at Uncle John’s wedding, AKA, Sir Snort a Lot, Daddy said, “God gave my younger brother more second shots at respectable redemption than what George Steinbrenner gave Steve Howe”, which got goonish at the time. Plus, I remember my dad driving us to the Manhattan to go skating at 30 Rock once for my birthday and he points out the new Yankee stadium off the Deegan and says, “Look Matilda, the new Yankee Stadium, the house that gentrification built.” I knew all about Reggie Jackson otherwise known as Mr. October, who hit not one but 3 first pitch baseball homers in 1979 to clinch the World Series for the Yankees at the original Yankee stadium, otherwise known as the house, that Ruth built. I also knew that Babe Ruth had the most homers during his day but had the most strike outs to, because there was nothing half ass about the Babe who went down swinging, coming through in the clutch with his back against the wall like the great Messier, Derek Jeter, Andy Petite, Eli Manning and Frank Sinatra all the way. Daddy imparted the lesson of why New Yorker’s have big time egos for a reason. When Daddy actually contemplated moving our family to Texas during year 2 of COVID, I said, “Daddy, how many great comedians are from Texas? Daddy said, “Bill Hicks and Sam Kinson.” I say, “Bill Hicks only made me laugh once. And Sam Kinson had one good comedy album from start to finish that was pure standup without the cheesy Wild Thing cover song on it, that’s it. Now, name me star comedians from New York? Daddy says “Rodney Dangerfield, Andrew Dice Clay, Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Greg Giraldo, Joan Rivers, George Carlin. Have I mentioned myself yet? Alright you’re right, Texan comedians suck compared to native New Yorkers, Joe Rogan included.”

For some time, I just wanted to be a singer and write my own songs, singing in pubs like Amy Winehouse without developing the heroin addition, yet my dad insisted I become an A Plus student and accept no other goal acceptable, so he could boast to his new comedy manager and rapper friends in South Africa, where his new record label was located, that his daughter went to Williams College, which rocks the old world King Solmon Royal purple. And my Do It All Dad thought the deep purple look exuded an edgy deep suave vibe similar to Jimmy Hendrix’s head tripping beanbag within the mixing room at Electric Lady Land studios in Manhattan. Daddy also had a black and white picture of famed writer director Bill Wilder in his old office where the famed writer, director of Ace In The Hole and Fortune’s Cookie, was marching in his office with his talking stick of sorts as his famed screenwriter partner Charles Brackett is on the writer’s  couch in letting him go long again, who is another Williams alum that helped co-write Sunset Blvd, which is good work if you can get it.  The other line Daddy would always pound into my cranium growing up was from Stephen Sondheim, which is, “God is in the details”, and the famous Broadway composer lyrist graduated from Williams to, so dumb, dumb burn outs didn’t even bother to apply. Reality is, I almost never got into Williams College nor ended up becoming the female Carl Jung of my day post COVID damage done after graduating Magna Cum Laude after triple majoring in English, Psychology and Philosophy, achieving the trifecta of liberal arts lunacy, I know. But believe it or not, my fate at William’s became sealed, not because of my college essay where I insist Carl Sagen was mothered by a starless atheist cunt who gave Booger face Behar on the View a whiff of semi-respectability in comparison for a change when she asked Don Lemon why he was nothing more than another race war inciting scumbag like Jussie Smollett minus the SAG card after she got red pilled by Russell Brand from turning her on to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast during bi-sexual pride appreciate month, I think. Actually, pursuing the harder, less shit laden path started by Daddy posting an ad on Craig’s List for a jerk buddy in search of more than a friend.  

“Why did I post an ad for a jerk buddy on Craig’s List? Because I thought it was healthy alternative to laughing at my own material on the couch after my daughter was tucked in, before breaking up with my wife off 11 years, again and again”, A 45-Year-Old divorced Comedian says to his chesty, red headed, Psychologist who was an English and Psychology major at Willaims herself. Mara Weitzman, the Psychologist from Williams says, “What if I jerk off your ego instead of some random stranger on Craig’s List, who would give Jim Norton the creeps?” Do It All Dad, now a divorced still struggling comedian, living on the couch of his Film Grip bud in Ridgefield, CT who wants to be the Bill Graham of Death Metal festivals in Upstate New York one day, says, “Does my health insurance cover that added expenditure on my behalf?  Psychologist Mara Weitzman says, “Remember, the time you talked about that 1st hand job you got from Carolyn Verdichio, in Cotswold Park, which you nicknamed Actionless Park in your bit at the Montreal Comedy about how you’re no gentle giant or else why would you insist on staying home to ignore your kid for the privilege of writing more jokes while choking your wife too hard financially, again and again? You described your 1st hand job as a throbbing extension of your brutishly rough personality, to the point where she almost skinned your pussy wrecker rearranger alive, while your jeans kicked wildly in the mud like a hardheaded hog in heat. Well, what if we reenact the moment right now? I played the steel guitar growing up in Plano Texas, so I’ve got stronger hands that most. Let me if see if I can yank out that rough side out of you for good. I’ll even put in a good word for your daughter at the Williams College during admissions season. Do It All Dad drops his pants and says, “I don’t feel like such a self-centric jerkoff anymore. Mara Weitzman, you’re the only masturbator equalizer for me. Now rip off that top and start jerking it like its 1999.  I’ll give those busty beauties a liberal load to boast about it when you pump up my long-term endowment potential to your fellow alum members after I blow you away with a blast of teen spirit of my own. Kurt Cobain lives, Challah. Mara screams in extreme anticipatory ecstasy, “Nirvana, come reign on me.”

Minutes later, Psychologist Mara Weitzman buttons up her top and puts her murky stained glasses back on and says, “See you next Tuesday Do It All Dad. Williams College will be lucky to have your daughter attend next fall, if she follows after your money blasting footsteps. Thank you, very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

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.

Michael Kornbluth

Fired Up Freak

Wife says, “Do you want to see the new House of Dragon episode on HBO?”

I freak her out and say, “I can get fired up for albino black guys blowing each other if you can.”

She says, “Black guys can’t be albino.”

I said, “Who’s the racist homophobe now.”

Fired Up Freak flames on, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Year Without Beer

“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

                        –Toni Morrison

            Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of three, was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height, already.  He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him; yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be?  Do It All Dad had a gorgeous-looking jump shot; yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league, knowing that his ball handle was weak, and he could only dunk out with a mini-basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand, while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process.  

            One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie on the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain-punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY, and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters there.

            They mostly came from the boogie-down Bronx, versus his more snuggle-soft secure upbringing along the Tudor-housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked-over Hebrew National Dog from (assuming your uncontrollable, putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again, or you’d just dropped and spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer-pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed being puffed at an increasingly rapid rate.

            One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad (then known as simply Josh) was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages phone book, and launched high, with zero hesitation, for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority.

             He was the lost twenty-year-old college senior without a passion to latch a career onto yet; miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating from the top communications schools in the country (that being Ithaca College, which he’d call ‘Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor’ in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later).

            He thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So I scored ten points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor.

            “It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge, then, which consisted mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi-forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint. I knew that whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away, scared, from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla.

            Then, after Julio’s raise-the-roof, in-your-face, I’m-the-man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking himself, saying, “Your turn, Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it, player.”

            Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension, knowing that his less-than-lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his varsity-playing basketball days, when he used to run on his tippy toes instead of high tops, made him look like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model, instead.

            If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach! He’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did. He’d joked about this in an act, when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater, once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the greatest.

            “He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck-up Jenny from down the block. Two minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck-up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-Hoo bottle doesn’t spin itself, bitch.”

            Now Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline, who gives an encouraging fist pump,  signaling, You can do this, champ.

            Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he starts running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff. This stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim.

            It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing that fear prevented him from flying high again.

            Julio approaches Josh as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, ‘I’m such a worthless putz’, deflated state, and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly, B.”

            Now, at 45, what was keeping Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels?  Assuming ownership of his original birth name, Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua (knowing that Michael was considered partially Godlike, in the sense that he packed enough firepower to kick Lucifer’s ass out of heaven) wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.

            Do It All Dad loved his IPAs, yet, after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut (which most would say was done in extreme poor taste), he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPAs had to offer his rapidly-depleting, voided world without his three beamish wonder kids in his life, anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay-at-home comedian for years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match, after the next.  

            Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic, to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet, because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so-called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior.

            One quote which always weighed heavily on his guilt-plagued consciousness was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that weighs you down.”

            Now Josh was divorced from what had descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love or the patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life; yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly.

            On a less psychic mumbo jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini-beer belly which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking-out glory where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good.

            The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.  

            Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife like at two-drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC, for starters.

             After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or two, to enjoy the post-kill rush among a sea of new touchy-feely female fans?

            Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now that the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post-COVID-controlled universe gone wild.

            If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into an actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle by giving up his precious espresso pods and IPAs. He needed to focus on shedding the extra twenty pounds holding him back from flying with rock-powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks of amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself that he was capable of being a better man, after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet her at a Seattle coffee shop.
            But what would Josh do for money, to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute?

            Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again.

            No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification, this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which would make him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years.

            Josh was blessed with a booming motor mouth, too, and was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his second oldest in swimming, and his third into volleyball; all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each.

            So, how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate, and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child support payments up?  Because getting another 50K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at age 45 wasn’t going to get the job done, either.

            Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia, a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blonde mom in tight ripped jeans (normally, who was caught staring at his swollen package the first time he gave her the green light to give him his spikey-haired, lean, mean machine makeover, an idea emerged.

            Josh says to the chesty, sweat-drenched, perfect-feet-manicured Julie, in bed, “I can’t make a living as a working comedian or as an author, yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time-suck on my life (which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow).

            “So I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Peloton riding instructor, because they all bore me to freaking death.

            “I don’t care how tan, ripped, and solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leader board every time, without completely coughing out a lung, either.

            “Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison, in addition to becoming a star provider for my family (after all, this is what I pray to God for every morning, anyway).

            “The most popular Peloton instructors make 300K a year. No wonder they smiling so fucking much, because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning.

            “Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor who can look stylish and be cheeky and bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch, while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Peloton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home, too.

            “Plus, I wrote the entire script for VHL Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kickass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time.

            “And, I know enough about hard rock to know that Foreigner kicks way more ass than the fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”

            Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?”

            Josh says, “Mormon moms. They’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US—even more than Beverly Hills.

            “I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming that I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.”

            Julia says, “Look, Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks (which I’m not complaining about one iota, either), but let’s be honest. I’m your divorce rebound lay—nothing more, nothing less.

            “Although, sometimes, a divorce rebound lay can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”

            Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA, for the back cover pic.

            “I think I finally found a way to do it—on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion National Park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla; thank you very much.

            “Do It All Dad Does Mormonism can be sold as a self-help, midlife crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides that the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down—that being beer and a nagging ex-wife who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer (which is bullshit all the way).

            “This would prove her wrong, and I could become the star provider for my family after all.”          Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything for this part, like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?”

            Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink-free edibles, claiming PTSD after learning that my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my three kids behind my back.

            “The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello-wresting wife night.    “I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it.

            “I could throw in a line about how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to block the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the first place.

            “Ban ICE because homeland security was so weapons-of-mass-destruction-years, my chest.”        Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big-time, Peloton instructor, maybe I’ll fly to visit you.”

            Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay, career-revitalizing muse, of sorts, with steamy, inhalatory glee and says, “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers From Yonkers, NY.

            “Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition.

            “So, how about I pump up your box one more time for the road, instead.”

            Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and he says, “I’ll take that as a hard yes.”

Michael Kornbluth

Reference Check Girl

Once upon a time, there was a high-energy, constantly-red-in-the-face, yet easily excitable IT agency recruiter in his early twenties from Long Island, Patrick Dublin, who worked for a small staffing agency above Madison Square Garden called Unicorn Staffers.

            Unicorn Staffers specialized in recruiting and placing Unicorn UX Designers, who also did the nitty-gritty back- and front-end coding. They made billion-dollar apps and various new age tech startups come to life, blessed with visionary founders brilliant enough to avoid sexual harassment charges at work by creating in-office innovations such as designing a panic-free, jerkoff-safe space bathroom.

            So, security never had to escort you from the building, legs first, from the bathroom stall, only to knock your head against the mildew-lined walls one more time before hearing the security guard croon, in his best Tom Petty voice, “You don’t come around here no more.” 

            Since the era of #METO began, Unicorn Staffing had to conduct more rigorous background checks with ex-girlfriends for the Unicorn star studs they represented who couldn’t control their urges to whip it out during a Zoom call, despite the Head of Application Development from South Wales, Australia trying to manage unwanted sexual harassment claims at work in a post-virtual meeting, COVID-controlled universe gone cagy nuts by addressing his team of developers and designers with, “Welcome, all. Now, if everyone is going to feel safe during this Zoom meeting, let’s raise all our hands high, where I can see them.            “Please don’t be such a knee-jerk reactionary cunt about it, you Jefferey Toobin wannabes at the New Yorker; thanks.” 

            Sexual harassment was a dirty secret infesting the tech startup world today, even among the biggest tech company in the world, Google, despite most of the employees being too busy banging out to code to actually hit on girls at work while sporting their yenta noise cancellation headphones, in the first place.

            Plus, your typical software command script at Google (or elsewhere) wasn’t “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”

            Now Patrick the IT Recruiter is conducting a background check with a 25-year-old, chesty Digital Marketing manager, Lisa, based on her LinkedIn profile picture. She used to date his star candidate (who was awaiting a verbal offer of 145K for a new permanent Creative Technologist Director position with a cannabis lifestyle startup,, from Oakland, CA, that was looking to expand its online digital magazine division here in NYC. It was targeted towards working, functional pothead millennial mousketeers).

            Patrick takes a deep breath, loosens his tie a tad, and gets ready to call Lisa, the Digital Marketing Manager for Hip Hops, a new multi-level old-school hip-hop gastropub club in the East Village. He wants to talk about the extent of her past relationship with his star candidate, whom he’s very proud of connecting with after LinkedIn banned him from the site for sending too many failed connection requests before he enrolled in a Spam A Lot Less Sales Seminar offered by a former power ballad songwriter-for-hire-turned-Life Career-Coach, Michael Rocker.

            Patrick calls and says, “Hi, Lisa. This is Patrick Dublin. I’m an IT recruiter for Unicorn Staffers, and I’m calling you about Max Diesel, who’s being considered for a top Creative Technologist Director position for a cannabis startup,

            “Can I ask you a couple of quick questions about your relationship with Max, in the past?”

            Lisa says, “Yeah, we only hooked up once after meeting at the Windows Expo in downtown LA.

            “It was right around the time Microsoft bought LinkedIn. I was working as a bartender hostess at the event before I met the CEO of Sierra Nevada at that same event, before becoming their Digital Marketing Manager, after I started riffing while making some drinks, insisting that Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA blows all other IPAs out of the water.          “Then I crafted their sentimental-laced campaign for the 30-year anniversary of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, calling it “the pale ale that gets stale.”

            “I conceptualized the guerilla marketing campaign for printing a bunch of bar napkins with love poems on them in honor of first loves; my personal favorite being, “I fell in love with you from the start. You’re my favorite valentine etched on my heart. You made love spill out of me like overflowing treasure. The idea of pounding you again gives me non-stop pleasure. You were my first love, when I didn’t know what that meant. All I knew is that we’re heaven-sent. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, You Never Got Over Us, Did You?

            “So, Max starts flirting with me after I snagged the business card for the CEO of Sierra Nevada, and said, “This is my impersonation of merger talk between Dr. Dre and Eminem after Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn: ‘Hey, Slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, ‘Worrdddddddddd. LinkedIn lamer than ever yoh.’

            “Personally, Max had me at ‘Hey, Slim’, because he dropped his voice low enough to pull off a semi-decent doctor impersonation.

            “Hey, did you know Hitler’s birthday is on 420? Puffing the bong to more Tuff Gong never felt so wrong. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.        “So, to answer your question, I hooked up with Max on the dance floor sky bar in West Hollywood later that night, but then Frans Drescher from The Nanny caught his interest, and I never heard from him again.

            “He left me a business card and said we should stay in touch through LinkedIn, which I’ve never got over, completely, especially knowing how I got interested in hooking up with Max only after he dumped on LinkedIn in the first place.”

            Patrick finally interrupts Lisa, trying to be as diplomatic as possible, afraid of blowing his potential nine-grand commission tip in the making, and says, “Well, Max thought enough of you to list you as reference for ex-girlfriends, to a conduct a background check to assess his sexual harassment factor risk at

            “Did Max ever touch you on the dance floor too aggressively, at the Sky Bar?”

            Lisa says, “Hell no. I’m the one who shoved his hand up my skirt. I told him my panties were packed in my purse and we could go skinny dipping at this house in the hills that my friend was house-sitting for. It’s next to Roman Polanski’s old house (he’s a serially underrated rapist compared to Cosby, in my book. I still don’t understand how they pulled the Roseanne show off the air, yet have no problem showing ads for Ambien between replays of the Cosby Show, on syndication on Nick at Night).”

            Patrick says, “You’re really funny. Why are you doing wasting your time doing digital content marketing for a living?”

            Lisa says, “I’m too sexy for stand-up, Patrick. Sara Silverman and Chelsea Handler twenty years ago were never in my league of looks.

            “Also, I don’t see myself posting endless naked pics of myself, like Chelsea Handler, with another book in hand to showcase my social justice warrior-reading credo to downplay the world from my tits’ sagging popularity in the process, either.”

            Patrick says, “So, if called you tomorrow to ask you if Max was a sexual assault liability in the making, what would your response be, exactly?”

             Lisa says, “That all depends on you, Patrick. Do you like old school hip-hop like most old school wigger Irish dudes from Long Island?”

            Patrick says, “How do you know I’m from Long Island?”

            Lisa says, “I already looked you up on LinkedIn. You’re cute. Why don’t we wrap this interview up at Hip Hops, later tonight?

            “I crafted the playlist. I’m playing only old school rap, myself. It’s flush with songs by Biggie, Nas, and even Snoop. Who cares if Snoop’s brain hovers a notch below Porn Hood Hell?” 

            “My exact measurements are 36d; my pic on LinkedIn doesn’t give my balling beauties justice.”         Patrick thinks to himself, “I better learn how to code, because that safe space room to get my whack on can’t come soon enough.”

Michael Kornbluth

Perverted Science

“Does Hollywood’s fetishized push to sexualize a new generation of kids with Instagram-friendly labels such as Trans Centric or Gender Fluid Fickle feel very organic or “child appropriate” to you?” says Joe, a seventeen-year-old debate stud for Richard Pryor High, a new charter school in Peoria, Illinois.

            Unfortunately for his alpha dog debate team peers, including his best bud Paul, Joe was just getting his yak pipes warmed up, adding, “The problem with parents enabling pubescent teen mutilation makeovers in their politicized dash to let their children slash their protracted age of innocence in half, is that it never factors in irretraceable buyer’s remorse once little Joey blooms under his Fruit of the Looms and realizes that he can’t get his grind on with a gal on the dance floor if he wanted to, without feeling a missing link to old school rap in the process.

            “Plus, whatever happened to kids being asexual from age one through eleven, at least?           “Also, for all the scientific worship these days (in place of you know who), where is all the hard evidence of Chaz Bono being a beacon of mental calm since his far-later-in-life transformation into Just One Of The Guys?

            “You know—the same Chaz Bono who doesn’t eat wings at the bar, wishing he was at the MGM Grand in Vegas, instead, to hear Cher belt out ‘If I Can Turn Back Time’ to relieve his severe case of blue balls paralysis, already.”

            Paul finally cuts off his dear debating bud, goes in for the retaliatory attack, and says, “Is this a debate team trial run, or Joe’s personalized open mike to test out more groan-generating trans material for the Montreal Comedy Festival?

            “I get it. Little Boy Blue in the fourth grade at nine years old isn’t expected to declare his major in Gender Studies at Oberlin College, just yet. So why should we expect him to make a life-changing decision such as sexual realignment surgery any sooner than when he turns nineteen? Nineteen is the new fifteen, because that’s when most kids are losing their virginity these days, anyway; especially since swiping for dick picks became the death of small talk on both sides of the glory hole cubby divide.

            “I don’t think the government should be allowed to intervene on their parents’ behalf, though, if they start feeding their nine-year-old effeminate son enough testosterone blockers to turn him into Mayor Pete’s dumpier side-up half.

            “I bet it was Mayor Pete’s idea to parade his hubby around, triple masked in a Winnie-The-Pooh coat—as if catching the China-made virus from a stiff breeze is a bigger concern for him than barebacking in the shower at the local health club on KY Jelly street without flip flops on, for gay pride swinger week.

            “Wait a minute. Now I’m doing trans schtick, too.

            “Look, how can I be transphobic if I’d rather suck off Bruce Jenner with no makeup on, and suck up every last demon drop, than go to the Lego Store with my nephews, again, after the coast is clear, with all our masks securely on, feeling like Michael Jackson on holiday in Bahrain before Magic made HIV disappear?

            “I’m actually turned on immensely by shemales, myself, knowing they typically possess tighter bods than most girls willing to date me.

            “You also know they have no problem swallowing because they have no other use for my love juice. Also, most girls today have blown-up-looking snatches by age sixteen, so I’m not complaining about a tighter hole to not get her pregnant in, either.

            “I’d even go the movies again (assuming they ever reopen) to see a trans remake of Weird Science; except this time, they’d create their dream shemale vision come true all over their shattered visions of rock-solid heterosexuality again.

            “Still, I’m talking about a madeup movie, Perverted Science, where the doll who comes to life is played by a real life, grown trans woman who made an informed, evolved decision because he/she wanted to come in closer contact with her feminine side, and realized along the way how she made a better-looking chick.

            “And if you got it, flaunt it, baby.

            “I tried putting a pink wig on, once, and makeup, after my girlfriend got a strap-on for us to play, with one night. And never in a million years did I think I’d look like such an ugly, homely-looking bitch.

            “Granted, when I played basketball in junior high, I used to run on my tippy toes, looking like I was running in high heels instead of high tops. But this still doesn’t mean that I was a gentle high-stepper of any kind.

            “If LaVar Ball was my substitute coach dad, he’d still bark on the sidelines, yelling, “We’re trying to sell Ballerwear, son, not Jimmy Choos!

            “I think Paul and I should start selling trans jokes to Dave Chappelle, because he can afford to not give a shit. We can’t. Who wants to have that debate, next?

            “White comics can’t get away this material today, ever. Even Aerosmith is getting grief, these days, for their song ‘Dude Looks Like A Lady’, which is ridiculous, because in the song, Steven Tyler takes more than a peak, proclaiming, with surging, mounting lust, ‘Oh, what a funky lady. And I like it, like it, like it, yeah.’

            “So did Richard Pryor, He said it was the best piece of pussy he ever had, so get over it, already.     “Hate speech, not. Maybe I won’t give up on wining a debating scholarship if Chris Rock finances a new college serving as a safe space for politically incorrect material, God forbid.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Headless Headhunter

Once upon a time, there was a journeyman headhunter, Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, who wasn’t much of a rainmaker. He was more of a trickler. He placed copywriters with major ad agencies along Madison Avenue with middling success, only for Don Draper to qualify these candidates even further if they got the past the initial phone screen with zero bullshit, cold-as-ice gentile inquiries such as, “Tell me, again, why you haven’t been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot, because your portfolio shows less promise than Jimmy Carter’s solar panel-powered weed plant in the White House’s new greenhouse garden.”

            It was 1976. Boston broke big with ‘More Than A Feeling’, and Peter Frampton jammed with Jimi Hendrix’s trippy, metal-type finesse on Frampton Comes Alive in your daughter, again, (assuming she looks like a less-big-backed Brooke Shields, with eyebrows that don’t take up her entire face, either).  

            Zevon was married only a year, yet his relationship with Mellissa wasn’t filling him with ‘She’s The One’ crooning vibes anymore, especially since blowing her hubby became a once in a lifetime event, like Haley’s Comet or Joe Namath seeking a shrink for depression, or Reggie Jackson sweating the dry-cleaning bill for his mink coat (assuming that George Steinbrenner refused to pay for it out of sheer winning, dependent spite alone).

            Every day, Michael would cold call creative directors in Manhattan to get them interested in copywriters who grew tired of working as freelance writers for Esquire because Norman Mailer had a monopoly on all the good Ali articles—or they grew tired of more short story rejection letters from the New Yorker, who sucked off John Updike’s short stories because he made their editors come across as less boring and annoying than usual. (If only Gore Vidal’s personality and erudite edge could’ve rubbed off on John Updike through sheer osmosis).

            But, one day, Zevon was running late for work after one too many bourbons at a strip club in Times Square called Honeysuckle Divines. He lit a cigarette on the subway path, totally oblivious to his surroundings, and before he knew it, a Metro cop smacked the cigarette out of his mouth with such force, he accidentally knocked him over and down to the subway track before the Lex line knocked his head right off from his perpetually tense, growl-heavy internalized neck.

            The problem is, The Headless Headhunter was really looking forward to his best friend Ari’s bachelor party at Honeysuckle Divine’s in Times Square the following night, which is why he was there in the first place, to scout some local stripper talent he could recruit to talk his best friend out of marrying his finance, knowing he could do better and was settling for the meh new thing.  

            More importantly, The Headless Headhunter knew what a sigh-heavy, living hell his life had descended into once he allowed his parents to push life-ruining decisions on his behalf, such as who to marry, what job to take, and when to make up with his younger brother again, thereby losing all enviable sense of righteous, self-assured, pissed-off rage (whenever he felt duly entitled to feel that way without any guilt-imbibed, parental interference to make him second guess his innermost guttural instincts again and again.

            For example, Zevon was a struggling recruiter who normally didn’t hit his monthly quota and was always coming from behind, so he didn’t have enough money to buy his future wife an engagement ring, and only got one after his mom pressured him to do so, assuring her he could pay her back after the wedding. This felt more forced for him than the time he’d tried taking it up the ass with a strap-on from his girlfriend (later, wife), only for him to question whether something extra was missing from this relationship, if this added stimulation was necessary for him to get excited about going through the motion of pulverizing her slippery snatch on her birthday again.

            Now the bachelor party is in motion, yet Ari isn’t in the most festive mood, since his best friend Zevon (now known as The Headless Headhunter) was just decapitated by New York’s closest version of a bullet train. The Headless Headhunter is in the bathroom but doesn’t know how he ended up there; and in front of the mirror, he realizes he has no head as he overhears some dudes in the nearby bathroom stall talk about seeing Kiss at MSG as ‘King Of Nighttime World’ blares in the background.

            One of the Kiss fans in the bathroom stall whips out some coke and says, “Dude, you got to take off your Gene mask if you want to do some of this blow.” The guy with the Gene mask on flings it over the bathroom stall, landing it smack in the middle of the sink, which The Headless Headhunter grabs with zero hesitation and throws over his headless head to see if sticks (and it does).  

            The Headless Headhunter bolts from the bathroom and bumps into a stripper with tits which are so humungous, they almost knock him on his ass from their sheer force of jiggly might alone.    Stripper says, “Watch where you’re going, Gene. I thought you had a show at MSG tonight. Is it true, what they say about your tongue?”

            The Headless Headhunter decides to play along in his Gene Simmons character and says, “Yes, I can tongue my own balls if I were into that sort of thing, but I’m only into licking up Playmates and groupies who I can bang standing up, with my chosen people blessed, circumcised love gun.

            “To blast with gunky-filled fun all night and every day, too, is pushing it.”

            Stripper says, “I’m only working tonight, for a bachelor party. It’s normally my night off. I had to scalp my tickets to see your band at the Garden tonight, Gene. Can I call you Gene?”

            The Headless Headhunter says, “Let’s stick to Love Gun Master, for now. But do me a favor—give the bachelor Ari more than a lap dance. Give him every reason why getting married to his fiancé is the worst idea than Neil Young starting shit with Lynyrd Skynyrd.

            “She wants him to abandon his dreams of becoming the Jewish Bob Newhart, and he’s blessed with the funny Jew bone, too. Also, she’s already moaning about having to constantly walk on eggshells around him, acting as if she’s the helpless Olympic athlete during the Iran hostage crisis.

            “His finance is a gentile, too, so there’s no way she’s going be Kosher with raising their kids Jewish, either (which he’ll bang out by mistake because he got stoned again to Lenny Bruce records, forgetting to ask her if she were on the pill).

            “Plus, I met his future English mother-in-law, and she’s less original than a Kiss cover band with a Gene Simmons character, who Crazy Glued on a prosthetic tongue because he thought it was a bright idea. He was on too much acid, one night, despite me never doing any drugs, ever.

            “Last, his fiancé has zero tits, which offers Ari zero sustained stiffage one year into the relationship, already. I just hate the idea of Ari losing his edge to become another ordinary sales rep selling pharmaceuticals for a living because his future CFO father-in-law can make a phone call at Johnson and Johnson on his behalf.”

            The stripper says, “I’ll ride his joystick off for you, no problem, Love Gun Master. By the time I’m done with this fiancé, he’ll be drained dry ’till Yom Kippur.”

             The Headless Headhunter says, “That’s funny. Only through you can I finally call myself a rainmaker.”

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 he 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 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; a pretty-faced gal, most likely in her early forties, who shoots a warm, semi-flirty smile at the Yoga Scout as she enters. Which he feels from behind the back of his head, because his third 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, secondhand clothes, or visible tats straining for hardcore Indie cred respect.

            “More importantly, I’ve been in your shoes before—married, constrained, and worry-laden because you share more in common with your nine-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-faced 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 third 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 during 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 first-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 as clear as Times Square on New Years Day. So, I have no problem projecting with a mountainous echo of feeling.”

            Middle-aged dude says, “Are you a yoga instructor? I learned about chakras when I used to live in LA. My psychic there told me I should’ve been a big-time comedy writer already, but I had to pay two grand to clear my chakras first, 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 who’s 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 like my third 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 seven-year-old daughter, at the time, to buy me some yoga classes from money made from her lavender cupcake bakeoff sale at school, to make 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, too?

            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 candlelit 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.

            “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, too. 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 first, 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, too.

            “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.” Holla John Cougar Mellencamp lives, 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 I checked on Yelp.”

            The pretty-faced forty-something gal approaches The Yoga Scout and says, “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear you two, 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, “Wait 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

America Winning Again Soon

Vermont should change its state motto to CBD Oil only. Bernie Sanders couldn’t even make Vermont great for pot heads on vacation.

My 4-year-old son says to his older brother, “Arthur sit on my penis.” I say, “Not Kosher baby. But sit on my penis is a rock solid, bare bones line to use in a Russ Meyer’s film, Topless Tudors. After little Johnny scores an A+ in his pop quiz on geometry on top of a pentagram shaped bed the director bedded Jayne Mansfield in prior for Devilish Dicks.

All my kids talked about all weekend was a scene from Peter Rabbit 2, where a carrot gets jammed up some bloke’s butt. Turns out I need to get out of the house more often, because when I saw the scene, I yell out with dejected disgust, “Where’s the penetration? Is this film G rated or what? Then again, penetration is overrated. That’s what Meghan Rapinoe said to her date at The Enchantment Under the Sea Dance. Now, soccer star Meghan Rapinoe is a new fashion model for Victoria Secret. I can’t wait to blow 80 bucks on edible shin guards that taste like hairy fish sticks. Meghan might run for President one day. What’s going to be her campaign slogan besides, “Penetration is overrated? Bring back the L Word to Netflix Obama. You’re are only hope?”

Learning that my younger brother went weed shopping with my dad at a dispensary in Arizona that I texted my dad the address for after going there myself prior solo was weird. I don’t understand why you’d include dad for this 1st time experience since weed became legal there. We didn’t get high with our dad growing up. Still don’t. Our Dad has only puffed twice in the past 50 years. Still, the moment weed becomes legal in Arizona, it’s very fitting for my dad’s favorite son to have that communal shopping experience together, while Dad utters, “Don’t tell your brother, but this means I love your druggy degenerate side more. At least you still watch ESPN and don’t do a podcast defending Trump for free.”

All British standup comedians sound and look like nerdy, neurotic Jews minus the hardcore hilarious Jew bone. At the same time, all English actresses even the so, so pretty ones look dowdy dumpy with that makeup frosting caked on their faces to, Elizabeth Hurley excluded. Still, every time Elizabeth Hurley opens her mouth in Austin Powers, her measured annunciation rockets her sexiness factor into China where all the buried boners from the Ming Dynasty reside, next to all the cracking Geisha bones their master overlords are forced to hear in Commie Hell whenever they’re forced to take another bite out of their Scorpion lollipop for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Stephen A Smith has a blunt message for the US Olympic basketball team. Vince Carter should tea bag your whole squad, poker face Pop included, like when he dunked over the French center in the 2000 Olympics for losing your 1st Olympic game to those Froggers from France. Granted, America doesn’t exist without Ben Franklin convincing the French to give us their money, ships and troops to defeat those mole tainted British bastards. Still, I don’t care how much Damian Lillard downplays the loss to France, especially when he excuses us losing to France without Tony Parker as a “national pride” issue. Dude, you’re an uppity, glamorized, miniscule jump shooter, who instills less fear in NBA opposing players than maternity suits. Who still gets to dictate more favorable trade destinations and get PAID permanent f you Corporate America money for life, regardless if you become a go to choke artist number 3 option on the Los Angeles Lakers or not? So how is Damian Lillard struggling to drum up some more passionate national pride again, knowing Willis Reed in the seventies had to sell homeowners insurance for All State in the off season before Trump 2020 Banners sent ANTIFA attack home premiums through the roof?

How much do you hate the NBA players representing our US Basketball team today? They lose to France and try to philosophize why they lose with ironic detachment like Jean-Paul Sartre being interviewed by the Paris Review. “France is a very prideful country. Jim Morrison is buried there man. Dice hijacked his entire Buddy Love persona from Jerry Lewis’s Buddy Love character in the original Nutty Professor actually. Tenor saxophonist Chet Baker scored a new lease on life in Paris during his resurgent smack attack years, did you know that? Russ Meyer, famed writer director of B busty flicks such as Faster Pussy Cat, Kill lost his virginity to a French prostitute on the house as a gift from Ernest Hemingway after working as combat photographer documenting the US defeating those Nazi scum tweaked on Crystal Meth till the end, music is your only friend till the end. Jim Morrison lives, holla, thank you very much. Reporter for says, “Damian, you just mentioned all wildly successful Americans in the arts in relation to their embrace in France. Why not mention Miles Davis? Miles was actually all smiles in Paris for a change. He even faced the audience once when Bridget Bardot insisted, he’d spew his beautiful black pride over her busty brassiere that went on longer than John Coltrane jerky solos at Birdland, going cuckoo for more sheets of puffed-up sound in his honor.” A reporter from Breitbart interjects, “But Damian, your boy Obama Be Good got his presidential puppet in place, Dominion lawsuits and promises of more mask muzzle mandates working in his favor to overshadow the election stolen from Trump in the media and government. Your side got what it wanted, law and order is deader than Portlandia’s campy appeal of yesteryear on IFC reruns since your precious Democratic party let ANTIFA burn your jewel of a city into the ground. So shouldn’t you at least pretend to be more prideful than the French because at least we don’t have old ladies in the street slapping our fake news leader in the White House in the face just yet. Come to think of it, only an eight-year-old red head with pig tails would get that close for a clean shot, isn’t that right slick?

Did you know the Olympic athletes who win a gold today have to put the gold medal on themselves? If I’m an African American who killed myself for 8 years to finally win the gold, only to have myself put the Gold Medal around my own neck, I’d rather hang myself with it instead. Before hanging myself in my hotel room later with my Gold Medal, I’d yell up on the podium, “Couldn’t some disk thrower from Japan throw the Medal around my neck? Fuck CDC social distancing guidelines. I’m the new and improved Iron Mike, you fear mongering masked motherfuckers. The elusive image of my black glorious neck being draped in Olympic gold by some lowly white European beneath me who vacations 5 weeks a year sunbathing in Capri, kept me going through running up sand dunes in the dead of winter like Marvelous Marvin Haggler did. My driving vision to plow past all the pain, incessant loneliness and faded memories of grandma’s chicken fried steak was that Gold Medal draped around my neck like George Forman and Sugar Ray Leonard before me. It’s time to cash in on my well-earned gold medalist privilege already, you COVID crazed crackers. I fought myself out of South Central, a single parent home and rampant violence every step I took from sunrise to sunset. I’m not sweating an itchy esophagus at this round in the game. Vape Pens killed more of my people in South Central in their teens than the made in Wuhan virus did. That’s right, I said it, made in Wuhan. Biden can’t censor me up here on the podium. Pelosi can’t suck my blood like a bat out of hell from my spot at the top. Social distance yourself from these nuts, you raggedy old bitch. I voted for Trump motherfucker. My pops saw Tyson knock out Michael Spinks at the Atlantic City Convention Center before Tony Soprano made a large-scale seed investment into the Bada Bing. Dice lives, oh, I can’t take no more, thank you very much.

I’m so sick of hearing get the vaccine shot for the kids pitch, especially from my father because his alleged concern over my own increased fatality rate without the stab is glaringly secondary. My dad’s interior monologue reads like: Stay at Home Dads have no freedoms to begin with. So, what special life does my 1st son care about preserving exactly? The kid has been on shit removal detail for the past decade and counting. So how much shittier can his life get exactly? Although for some warped reason, my son gives his mother grief for encouraging him to become a garbage man for a living. “Shoot for shit”, my son says, is his mom’s motto for her least favored son. Like taking out other people’s trash is any different than on being nappy disposal detail for the past 10 years already and counting. At least in the Sanitation department, my 1st born, still don’t know how were related, will get paid to throw shit for for a living and can actually cite on the job experience to boast about for an attainable six figure job with benefits for a change.”

My wife isn’t any better with the get the vaccine pitch because if I give COVID to our kids, I’ll be out in the street with other mass murders who got early release from Riker’s Island because Thugs Lives Matter Most, even among those accused of double homicide with the intent to kill, again and again.

Get the vaccine shot for the kids. Marvin Haggler, an epitome of peak physical prowess died of a heart attack after getting his 2nd stab and went down harder than any flurry of one 2 punches Tommy The Hit Man Hearn’s ever unloaded on his face. I’ll take my chances. Stop acting like unvaccinated people are putting you at risk in your swinger’s club as if they just came back from a barebacking tour of She Males with Bill Maher in Marti Gas for the last mile of the three-legged tour of Mount Roraima.

This morning I negotiated a temporary cease fire agreement with my wife, before we take our kids for a little trip to Vermont later this summer, when we visit the Ben and Jerry’s factory tour. I tell my wife, “I’ll stockpile barbed one liners to unload after the tour is over. Then the gloves come off babe. Don’t Ben and Jerry know that a 2-state solution is impossible, if Hamas keeps fucking? The only thing occupying Palestinian territory is AP news for them do another hit piece on Israel refusing to be pushover putzy next time Hamas launches 5000 rockets in their backyard again, expecting nothing more in return than an edible arrangements gift basket in return with a thank you note written in Farsi. Personally, I can’t wait for the Graveyard factory Tour of Ben and Jerry ice cream flavors no longer in production like the Tonight Show one. Wait a minute, they still make the Tonight Show one, despite the stone-cold truth about how Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate, since he humanized Trump on TV by tussling his hair on TV, knowing a real-life skinhead never emerged. I wonder if Ben and Jerry discontinued the Aloha Macadamia line because Michelle Obama demanded they’d replace Obama’s favorite Samoan nuts with Almonds that grew on George Clooney’s Lake Cuomo estate instead. Where the ex-President is forcing to feel like second banana regardless. Because at least Clooney’s Oscar win didn’t feel like a participation trophy the way it did when Obama Be Meh won the Nobel Peace Prize for rebranding ISIS, ISIL. So, they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times already. And why did Ben and Jerry kill of Purple Passion Fruit? Did Prince threaten to sue them for copyright infringement while getting his ruffled tux bent all out of shape? Who ordered the hit on Holy Cannoli? Did Phil Rizzuto demand they change the name to Holy Cow, I think Meat Loaf is going to make it? Doesn’t Ben and Jerry realize Trump passed prison reform by the time Jared Kushner creams into Ivanka whenever she talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again? And if Ben and Jerry were so concerned with investing in communities of color, why would they keep their corporate headquarters in Vermont? Vermont is whiter than Larry Bird’s fake news basketball camp for higher hopping authority in French Lick Indiana. On their website it says, Ben and Jerry’s supports voting rights, assuming you think Dominion machines questionable accounting procedures are on the right side of history the day before Democracy died or not. Voter ID is racist. Does Julio from the Barrio have to pass a sudden height requirement in Georgia, that I don’t know about yet, Jerry? Now, that’s gold Jerry, holla. Seinfeld lives. Thank you very much. How do you Ben and Jerry define racial justice exactly? The USA basketball team lost to France because the NBA is down with supporting thug lives matter no matter what? I’m all for LBGT rights like Ben and Jerry yet do you think they’d agree that Drag Queen Reading Hour can be a tad freaky for our kids knowing how hard it is to look flattering fresh under fluorescent library lights? What’s climate justice according to Ben and Jerry? Greta Thunberg causing more eco anxiety to go viral again, because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon from taking out a Private Equity Director’s penthouse overlooking Central Park East. Twin daughters are popping Melatonin gummies up late on a school night again because they’re consumed with eco-anxiety. Dad comes home at 10 after a pricy client dinner at Eleven Madison Park and yells at his nanny, “Why are the kids still up? Let me guess Greta Thunberg again, that sweaty browed bitch. Sorry I didn’t take a Citi Bike to my 5-star client meal at the Eleven Madison Park. So, I could avoid smelling like shitty commercial weed from head to toe. Does Greta know Leo still uses plastic straws for blow at the Viper Room, only to hear last call from the bathroom stall? While yelling, where’s Hunter?” Plus, I hate those fucking straws made out of bamboo, avocado pits and pea protein enzymes used for Bill Gates Golden Retrievers as Four Eyes hogs up all the pricier, Tomahawk Ribeye cuts for himself. I don’t care how many sea turtles die because I don’t want to chip a tooth while sucking down an Arnold Palmer during Lent again, OK!” Dennis Leary lives. Holla, thank you very much.

What do refugee rights mean to Ben and Jerry? Squatting rights outside of Ben and Jerry’s corporate office for a staged photo op whenever the UN is scheduled for a VIP only tour? What sort of care package do Ben and Jerry offer refugees who flee to their stores for a taste of bloated smug served heaven? A Ben and Jerry coffee mug with no pristine, locally sourced aqua in it? Until they put in a 10-hour workday off the books, mopping up after fat white kids sloppier than Joe Biden after forgetting to wash down his Adderall with his extra Fierce bottle of Gatorade first.

My wife’s good friend from college has taken up micro-dosing magic mushrooms on a daily basis around her kid. But she’s also in the process of taking marriage therapy sessions to. So, doesn’t that make getting the giggles more difficult to achieve when you see in sweeping, heart pulsating detail how much her son inherited dad’s droopy defeated sense of disgust with life already? Especially since the Indie rock artist reinvented himself as a software engineer, which is a far cry from banging out more Gold Records and shrieks of joy from shrieking female fans because only ugly girls go to coding boot camp. Plus, the typical pearl command line isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”

I’m tired of my dad using the anti-semite excuse every time he isn’t embraced warmly by others. Perhaps, my dad would be embraced more warmly by strangers in Restaurants if he wasn’t so stingy with complimenting the chef for getting his Lobster Roll prepared by the time, he reminds his son how he hasn’t gotten an agent yet again.

It’s hard for me to get aroused by the Amazon show Man from The High Castle. It’s like getting excited about watching the reality show finale for the Amazing Master Race, knowing you’re bound to get blue balls regardless, assuming, you’re not a self-hating, sell out Jewish propogandist for the fakes news NY Times. I’m not comparing lamented vaccination cards to being forced to wear a gold star on my Ted Baker button shirt. But talk of mask mandates regardless if you’ve been vaccinated or not and lowering the eligible age for kids to get the jabs, door to door peddling of pandemic shots feels a tad fascist forced if you ask me. I won’t follow the Nazi experimental science that’s not even FDA approved, resulting in 6000 plus deaths, when I’ve been smoking weed out of a metal bat on and off till I discovered edibles from the Berkshires, only 45 minutes away and my lungs feel great. Dice lives again, holla, thank you very much.

I think most Americans are more painfully aware of the media’s COVID freak out scare tactics than ever before. For example, the other day, my wife had me watch Gordon Ramsey cook a bean and hash brown dish with some pork in it. I said, “Babe, I can use the fake news Pancetta you got from Whole Foods once, that stuff was delicious. She says, “Why do you have to describe everything as fake news every other 2 seconds?” I said, “What did we learn from the Mueller Report again babe? Oh yeah, Mueller only parts his hair with good old fashioned elbow grease. And anyone who voted for Trump has been declared a domestic terrorist by the FBI while the peaceful insurrectionist protestors at the Stop The Steal Rally remain beaten, bloodied and tortured within their hole of death for daring to protest against the lack of hard scientific data that would lead any American to believe Mr. Groper got more votes than Obama when his campaign rallies couldn’t even fill out the Little Mermaid’s claim shell bras.”

Fuck Disney owned Fox to. COVID scare tactics won out. So did systematic voter fraud. But Jesse Owens didn’t run Hitler’s master race theory into the ground for nothing. And my Jewish grandfather didn’t die from cancer radiation after World War 2 so Meghan Rapinoe can kick Nazi destroyers in the nuts by taking a knee for fake news fro Collin Kaepernick. Who still got the biggest unemployment check by the NFL ever recorded. What, he has a fake news fro? Have you ever seen a biracial afro that big before? Slash tried to grow it out and it was a total flop. No, we the people, know the score. Americans love winners, not cheaters. Americans love to champion the underdog. Americans ended slavery, Africa and China didn’t. Palestinian nationalists support terrorists in charge to bleed the UN for all it’s worth. Americans love American pride, almost as much as our kids’ futures. And there is zero future to be giddy about unless Dominion voting machines become kaput, fixing, worldwide election fraud once and for all. So, we the people, can pounce on our pursuit of happiness again with less jaded, weighed down gold dimmed hearts, USA, USA, USA!

Michael Kornbluth