Emotionally Compelling Situations 

Roots Of My Wasabi Tears 

A Wasabi Salesman in Bergen, Norway, loses his heralded sense of taste.

DVD Phone Girl 

A phone sales rep for a porno studio in North Hollywood loses her sex talk fluency after getting talked into snuggling.

Tom Petty Girl 

A pothead waitress forgets to take the pill.

The Koshertarain Godfather

A shadow banned comedian puts an ad in the Wall Street Journal for a Koshertarian Godfather.

Headstart on Cancer

An estranged trust fund baby tells his dad about coming out as a stay at home she male comedian called Killerset Kornbluth who performs topless with a pink Brooks Brother tie on for his rapidly expanding fan base on Only Fans, which he’ll be promoting on Facebook before his potential Lung Cancer biopsy diagnosis.

Gum King Of New York 

A broke, stay-at-home dad reinvents himself as a pitch person for the QVC after going into business with his sponsor at AA.

Lust for Lita 

A stay-at-home dad gets busted by his wife for falling victim to a fishing scandal by a fake news Lita Ford.

Mitzvah Moves 

A just-fired IT Recruiter disrupts the job market for young adults with Down Syndrome by recruiting an army of door-to-door sales reps at the Special Olympics to sell his new hop-flavored gum Hop-O-Rama Chew. 

Michael Kornbluth

Stage Names for Only Fans

Michael Flamer

Michael Rocker

Michael Lifer

Killerset Kornbluth

Michael Spewer

Off The List Kornbluth

Unfocused Kornbluth

Bud Man Kornbluth

Loudman Disease Kornbluth

Sustained Stiffage Kornbluth

Half Heeb Crazy Kornbluth

Edgeless Comedy Blows Kornbluth

Joshua Higher

Heavenly Toppers Kornbluth

Adderall Conqueror Kornbluth

Year Without Edibles Kornbluth

Far From Korny Kornbluth

Laugh Yanker Kornbluth, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Aw Sucks

Honestly, fellas, how much do you hate a dumpy older woman who uses the word Aw concerning your heartfelt expressive emotion?

Aw sucks my asshole after suicide sprints with Mineral Ice creeping up my balls.

Aw sucks limp dick around varicose veins with the lights on again.

Aw, sucks, putrid pussy. Think Stormy Daniels cleaning tuna cans out of her snatch.

Aw sucks the cocaine cobwebs out of Zelensky’s nose on Good Friday.

Aw sucks worse than watching the floral print dry out Jill Biden’s long-lost sex appeal of yesteryear, small-town townie ho fishnet stockings on or not.

Aw, it makes the do-good meaning behind the cancel hate hashtag yucking up my LinkedIn feed inconceivable.

Aw is a dumb fuck default for an emotionally retarded expressionist who speaks in empty platitudes like do what you love because that option in Corporate America is so readily available on tap, you blah breathed hack for hire.

Aw, is code for thanks but no thanks for the compliment faggot.

Aw, that means you’re desperate for compliments today, aren’t you, Lord Bryon light in the loafer light?

Aw is a passive-aggressive alternative to the unverbalized directive; get a fucking life, alright, I’m not even a 5/.9 by old school My Space standards. You still put woman on a pedestal as if your mother cares about your love life outside of pushing a premature marriage to conceal your default faggot pushover position.

Aw screams it’s springtime for fruitcakes.

And I’m old enough to be your mother and past my fag hag years prime, thanks.

Springtime For Fruitcakes, aw sucks lives, Challah!

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Obama Leaks

Imagine any member of the black community getting a gag order today?

Jill Biden would still invite them to the White House.

And say.

Unload in my mouth.

Obama ordered you to leak it.

Obama Leaks, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Imagine Obama being arrested for anything.

What’s the charge, your honor?

You’re a Trump appointee, aren’t you, Judge?

Trump appointee judges are still considered controlled opposition, according to mongoloid commentators on the Gateway Pundit.

You don’t scare me is my point, Judge. Amy Barrett is Mia Farrow with better husband selection.
Judge says.

So, you listen to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast too?

That Michael Kornbluth is one half Heeb crazy Moffo.

Deplorable is anyone who’s glad Jussie Smollett took a shot is economical genius right there.

I can’t get enough of the kid, personally.

So back to you, Obama, Be Good.

You’re being arrested for writing off hot dogs and pizza for pool time entertainment at John Podesta’s house as a fundraising expense since you become the face behind the open borders, openly grooming, rape enablement party?

Get the fuck out of my face.

You look like Andy Dick in blackface after Aids.

I still can’t get the picture of former NSA head John Brennan sniffing your Birkenstocks after your bike ride together in Martha’s Vineyard caught on Anthony Weiner’s laptop when you weren’t looking.

I’m sending you to Gitmo; you’re our last domestic terrorist left; you traded them all to Iran for a carton of Camel Extra Wides, right?

You might get lucky if Hair Plugs Sniffer jails a terrorist again for Arafat appreciation month.
And go woke yourself; Thugs Lives Matters Most.

You ruined the country with your race-baiting bullshit in less than ten years flat like your she-he’s wife tits.
Brittney Griener feels busty in her presence, my chest.

Hey, Hussein, has anyone ever told you, you’re a Mallato drone version of W, but worse?

At least Ellen admits to being friends with W because she’s pro-Bush.

I only remember your thicker half, flapping it around on Ellen like she-he doesn’t care.

I’m good friends with Marv Albert; I understand the attractions to Trans gals in the sack.

But allowing kids to chop off their dick before it blooms under their fruit of looms seems a tad premature.

So, the charge you’re going to Gitmo for is enabling Genital Mutilation gone wild only to downplay your surging interest in taking it up the colo from Michelle on the regular since you were at Walter Payton’s club in Chicago on Sprinkler Blitz Back Night.

What’s my problem with genital mutilation gone wild, Obama Be Meh? Lou Reed Junior’s dick will still be missing at the China Club when he’s 17 pre-hackathon off, despite him feeling lust loinless arousement behind some fat ass Latina swallowing up his fake news cock whole, because the link to his boner directive youth is going baby gone.

Genital Mutilation gone wild.

Sharia Law lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Man Meat Mojo Rising

I fell in love with a rosy-cheeked Irish Lassie last night. Any gay-leaning thoughts went poof in her presence. I never wanted to kiss a girl more in life than I did last night. I bet her box tastes like pinkoliscious-haired weed. She was saintly by tolerating this drunk, rambling older Irish Granny, who admitted to being part Irish and part Jewish. After pounding a Jack on the Rocks at an Irish bar outside Grand Central on a Sunday night with some time to spare before my train left, I say, “Part Irish and Part Jewish, that means she’s got the gift of gab on both sides. And if she has schizophrenia, she’d hit the trifecta.” Her entire Irish posse laughs long time. Almost immediately later, my rosy-cheeked Irish Lassie, bursting with poetic pouncing, juicing flavor, says, “You should be joining us.” And I declare my love out loud, “I want to marry you, which I was saying to myself after we crossed eyes prior.” I don’t call myself a slut in a strait jacket for nothing.

My year without beer is coming up with a miraculously strong finish, with only 15 days to go. Breaking free from the chains of addiction to Adderall for the past two months is kicking my flirty forward personality into perpetual rock-solid motion with fetching older gals into my man meat mojo rising in their presence too.

Man Meat Mojo Rising, Challah. Thank you very much.

Would Charles Bukowski drink alcoholic seltzers if his drying-out years in San Pedro extended till today? Or would all mighty Bukowski deride White Claw Seltzers as a too girly man for his tastes? Who toiled away at the Post Office too long to identify with a non-essential Betty Draper?

After a recruitment training seminar today, I got borderline flirty with my pretty, MILFY blond, role-playing partner from Jacksonville, Florida, by imploring her to practice her lines on me after work. She calls and says, “Lying to a candidate about having a meeting about them before calling them is next-level sketchy, don’t you think?”

I say, “Totally; only Hillary has a meeting about a candidate with the DNC about how they’d steal the nomination from Bernie.”

Florida MILF laughs long time.

Florida got to love it.

Bernie Bro Tugs live.

Man Meat Mojo rising, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Smashes, Thrashes & Tactless Bits

What’s the best way to reveal that you’re a flaming fruitcake in your dad’s eyes?

Whip out your chop stick skills in front of him in a Chinese restaurant in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Dad says.

You use chopsticks now?

He might as well say.

Get plenty of practice pinching Ming’s dick when you lived in Hermosa Beach.

Mom never understood why you introduced her to your gay Chinese friend.

She just thought, our son is eclectic dear.

But I thought.

I should’ve have known by the way he ran down the basketball court on his tippy toes.

Looking like he was sporting high heels instead of high tops.

If LaVar Ball was your sub coach dad in high school, he’d yell, “Were trying to sell Baller Wear son, not Jimmy Choos.”

But that’s what I get for raising my 1st born in the snuggle soft confines of Westchester County.

Of course, he’s soft, the only thing that gets blown around those parts is leaves.

New joke to get me kicked off Twitter again:

My kids recognize actors’ names now, which is a relief, because analogies are easier to make.

We’re watching a Nicholas Cage movie that reenacts the Lincoln assassination.

I drop knowledge.

So, John Wilkes Booth was a famous actor, a real national treasure of his day.

It would be like Leonardo Dicaprio assassinating Joe Biden.

Assuming, Hair Plugs Sniffer forced Greta Thunberg to rub up against his leg hairs in black face for Buckwheat Appreciation night at the next White House Correspondents dinner.

I just bought Crash by the Dave Matthews Band on Vinyl. Because the chorus Crash into me is what played when my wife lost her virginity too, before I dented in her good. And that’s before we had 3 kids in almost rapid succession because I never mastered the art of the pump fake. So, sue me for wanting to pretend my wife had a super tight snatch again. 2 seconds later, I say. “The lube isn’t working babe. Can you just suck the hate speech out of my super soaker. Pretend NPR ordered you to leak it. This way, you’ll get to taste my yum, yum sauce down your virgin esophagus as I tear apart your tonsils instead. Which is better than having to ice your snatch down with Ben Jerry’s Rocky Road To Peace, which is a bloody mess bound to happen like Madonna playing kick the can with her camel toe clit in a minefield throughout the occupied territory during Ramadhan.

Smashes, thrashes, and tactless bits, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Blown Load Blues

Valentines Day growing up was weird. My dad never celebrated it, because he already blew his love load on my mother the day before on her birthday.

Chances are that my mom made a stink one year and never dared to rock the boat again.

Mom says, “So what are we doing for Valentine’s Day tonight dear?”

Dad says, “We just went out for your birthday. Plus, we normally only go out once a week. So, don’t be a greedy bitch about it. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be eating Squirl kabobs in Kentucky for dinner, versus Veal stuffed with prosciutto, off the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. Look at it this way dear, if we went out to eat tonight, I’d just cut you off from ordering a 3rd glass of Chardonnay like I do on your birthday. So, what difference does it make?”

Hillary Hammer Time Cankles sours the mood again.

Blown load love lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

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