Holy Time Shines

I think it was Socrates or Plato who said, “Happiness is fleeting pleasure.” Fleeting, disappearing pleasure for me is my kids losing interest in hang out time with daddy. This explains why my youngest son Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was busy at work drawing pictures of us hanging out together once I started bonding with his big sister over her new favorite show, Never Have I Ever, been a bigger fan of Johny Mac, he’s the narrator than I am now. Fleeting pleasure for Do It All Dad over here, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, recently renamed Pause Daddy Podcast, funny fast stories, for you and me, is me losing interest in earning respectful impressiveness from my 3 adoring Koshertarian Comedian friends.



Now the kids are in a Delaware for the next 3 weeks while I do everything in my power to stop a decade long streak of co-dependent bitchy dependence on my wife and parents since my Stay At Home Comedian Dad journey began. Sure, I got to write some cool host intros for a couple of music video countdown specials that aired on Vh1 and VH1 Classic. Only to make my producer a Bruce Springsteen mix while doing my best to assure him soon after, “This doesn’t mean, I have a crush on you, Boss.”

Jokes aside, I rely on the kindness of others to feed my family, those others being my parents and wife. By feed, I mean those with the means to finance grocery shopping for my 3 Koshertarian comedian friends, that being my 3-fuss free, endlessly glowing, holy light time shining children.

They say man can’t eat live on bread alone. Well Daddy can’t eat the shit sandwich of shame for failing to earn bread for his family of 5 for the past 5 years without wanting the chance to rectify.

But applying for jobs doesn’t guarantee job interviews. Nor do job interviews result in immediate job offers soon after. Despite the Marketing Director at the Chef’s Warehouse nodding with respectful impressment after you referenced your 41 thousand page views on your WordPress blog. Marketing Director adds, “I saw that on your Writer Got Game Resume.” And I’m thinking, “At least, somebody is fucking reading it.”

But how do you cope with your mother resenting you making a yummy pesto mozzarella sandwich on bomb sesame loaf on her dime during her visit back east? How do you black out your mother-in-law calling you “pathetic”? How do you cope with a nurse wife who feels taken advantage of because you’ve been choking her too hard financially?

You become committed to becoming the best Koshertarian worshiping Comedian, who’s ever lived. Granted, Jerry Lewis, ate crab’s benedict, Woody Allen should’ve stuck to just eating Tuna Tartare at Elaine’s. And who gives a shit about what David Steinberg eats or what Paul Reiser orders at Nate and Al’s besides, “How was Hollywood ever mad crazy into you ever, So-So Special Sandwich number 5000?” Fine, Paul Reiser was mildly amusing in Bevery Hills Cop, but Gilbert Gottfrid funny he wasn’t. On the set of Beverly Hills Cop Gilbert Gottfrid says, “Paul, what’s the difference between The Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher and your comedy career? They both blow. Is Helen Hunt cute enough to be reformed Jewish? I can’t tell. If Helen Hunt is as good as it gets, I’m Lenny Bruce’s tailor in comedy heaven. Lenny says, “Easy with the needle Gilbert. You’re shakier than Eugene after cumming to the sound of his cousin’s shitting out Kreplach. And based on Albert Brook’s ballooning girth and highly developed sense of dark humor resulting from his father dying form a heart attack after killing at a roast of Lucile Ball prior, I don’t see the west coast Woody rocking the Koshertarian diet any more than a MAGA hat prop on the set of Curb Your Enthusiasm for episode 7, “Seinfeld Auctions A Porsche For Charity, Hope Half the Proceeds Went To Larry’s Kids.”

Again, how do you cope with being dependent on your wife’s sweat labor on her feet at the NICU while she checks for vital signs on blue faced newborns? When all you do is check for retweets? You shoot for perfect laugh lines on your Do It All Year Blog to recycle on your last and greatest comedy album, Watching Hacks Cry.

“I don’t like Snoop Dog claiming he culturally appropriated Ric Flair, so freely, during his 30 for 30, titled, “You’re A Boy and I’m Not.” Iceberg Slim was Pimp Of The Year for 6 years in a row at least and we got Ric Flair, 16-time World Champion. Don’t get your pigments twisted Dog. If you want to beat the man, don’t get bent over by Suge Knight in the can. No offense Snoop, but you don’t hear Ric Flair yelling, “Dog Fighting, woooh! That’s a MAGA country thing. Don’t be culturally appropriating our shit.” Watching Hacks Cry, Challah, Thank you very much.”

You cope with being a dependent by perfecting perfection in the kitchen with your heavily workshopped pesto ribbon pasta with Kosher air fried chicken thighs and sliced cherry tomatoes on top. And you grow closer to God and your 3 Koshertarian Comedian loving kids through the more “Yummy Dances”, you make. “What the hell is a Yummy Dance?”, my father says. Stop acting like your anything more than sheltered bum, my father adds in my mind. Glad you asked. Yummy Dances are standing ovations, curtain calls and victory laps in your dishes honor all combined into one as your 3 biggest fans in the universe run around the living room through the kitchen yelling, “Best Daddy ever.” That’s a Yummy Dance. It puts you in touch with the divine because God gives kids to only the lonely and this funny man giant is lonely no more. Watching Hacks Cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Yummy Dances are why holiness rocks. Yummy Dances get you addicted to achieving such holy powered highs. But how do you cope with your son wanting to meet your old friends when they can’t be bothered to comment via text or state emotive love online about your 123 comedy records posted on LinkedIn to shake up the corporate controlled thought in the straight world? The same so-called friends of yesteryear who left for you dead. You decide to befriend Sean Lennon by sharing your book Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story or nudge him to check out your comedy record Laugh Yanker Love on SoundCloud, where you showcase some A plus stay at home dad material in his honor. “This is John Lennon 2 days into being a Stay At Home Dad. Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul. Even Primal Scream Therapy has its limitations mate. But Kate Spade wins the award for writing the most passive aggressive suicide note for her only daughter to read ever. Note reads, “It’s not your fault, Dad will explain.” Dad explains, “Explain what, how I was the one who was impossible to live with? What a bag of shit Kate. The other day my son says, “I prefer vaginas with no hair. I’ve seen mamas before. I add, “Big boobs compliment better.” Soon after, Sean Lennon is financing my recording sessions at Electric Lady Studio’s to release my box set of comedy records before I’m famous that will be 124 in total, titled Totality Of Me or Watching Hacks Cry. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But isn’t holiness being a monk? It’s my year without beer and I’m almost 5 months in. So go woke yourself. Holiness kills hackery, Challah. Thank you very much. Isn’t holiness perfecting perfection? If God represents otherness holiness and the children from Isarael and Forrest Hills Queens are molded in his likeness, then shouldn’t I want to dress up my son like nature boy Ric Flair for Halloween because he already whips out his schmekel spot whenever he likes while I yell in catchphrase bliss, “Not Kosher Baby.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

Mind of a yummy dance works like this. Your goal is similar to getting laughs at the local farm to pick up some fresh eggs, whenever another MILF hits on your youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo again, “Your son has such nice hair. When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” And I’ll say, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.” Laughter fills the air. Daddy kills again. So, the goal of a yummy dance similar to scoring another laugh is simple, Respectful Impressiveness, that’s your reward for not making any bread off your creatively jacked dome, relentlessly innovative might and shishy bitch dad leanings just yet. I know this is my 2nd time using the expression respectful impressiveness, but only Shakespeare can invent words like “thoughtless”? While Dice coins expressions such as I’ve got a friend, one of these “Trans-Testicles.” Personally, I’m against Drag Queen reading hour because fluorescent library lights aren’t flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator, no offense. One time my daughter asks, “Daddy was Shakespeare Trans because he dressed like girls in all his plays.” I say, “I don’t know if Shakespeare was Trans. But I think Kevin Spacey is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.” I sampled that joke on the character Billy from Six Feet Under at the local Target in Mount Kisco. The joke got a big laugh from Billy. He even slapped my outstretched hand that I placed there to receive a high five of approval in return. That’s a Yummy Dance. That’s holiness killing hackery. Watching hacks cry, Challah. Thank you very much.

Holiness killing hackery is best whenever I receive some help from my Koshertarian Comedian loving friends. I use my 1st born, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, AKA, Effortless Magic, AKA, 10 Homer Daily as my creative sounding board for all of my comedy record titles if her 2 younger brothers Art Show USA and Hardcore Hunga Rocks aren’t in the room with her 1st. Matilda says, “I like Year Of Dragon Lungs a bit better than Half Heeb Crazy. Sloppy Second Stories is a good title for your debut collection of flash fiction short stories, but I still love the original title, Waste of Height, Really Short Stories the best.” Art Show USA enters the room and interjects,” Am I going to design your record cover for Greatest One, Daddy? But all your records are great, so isn’t Greatest One, a tad one note redundant for your tastes?” Youngest son, Hardcore Hunga Rocks points an imaginary remote control in my direction and says, “Pause Daddy. I write the jokes for your comedy records, got it, Moron Son.” Daughter adds, “You should do that Greta Thunberg bit on Greatest One daddy where the dad freaks out on “burry brow”, your words not mine, for keeping his twin daughters up with eco-anxiety despite popping melatonin gummies like Nerds at 10 o’clock on school night. Because a doorman can’t keep a typhoon out of their townhouse duplex on the Upper West Side.”

But how do you cope with your kid outgrowing their broken-down rusty bikes on a hot August day while taking them out for a spin? Knowing you can’t afford to replace those bikes anytime soon because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review. You include them in the making magic time in the kitchen by sticking your son on pistachio de-shelling detail before making their farewell pesto bow tie pasta supreme before leaving for Delaware, which was a bust last time, because you decided to get funky fresh and add excessively bitter sages leaves to the basil, pistachio nut mix which was bad idea like Hunter making a crack cocaine in his bungalow at the Chateau Marmont because it forced him to give up blow for blow painting, which is a bigger cock tease than a lap dance with a no touch policy on Kid Rock’s yacht, called Harpooning The Most. You cope with being a dependent dad by savoring the sheer joy in all 3 of your children inhale what’s being hailed as your “best batch yet daddy.” While your youngest one comments in ultra-focused manner, “Too yummy for yummy dance”, before resuming his role as Belushi 2.0 in Koshertarian House. Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

But how do you cope with having to dip into your daughter’s Tooth Fairy droppings, that she haphazardly left on the kitchen table before camp that your parents paid for again? So, you could pay for your kid’s slushies at 7/11 without having charge more fun time on the credit card before mommy gets paid again when your cellphone is due to get deactivated the day your family leaves for Delaware? You throw the Rodney Dangerfield No Respect CD on in the car your parents lease to use when they visit only to hear your eldest son says, “Daddy, your comedy records are way better than this.” Daughter adds, “Yeah, Daddy, Rodney just sounds boring depressing here. And his 1st joke was about being on the Tonight Show prior, so Rodney shouldn’t be so unenthralling from the start.” Respectful Impressment lives, Challah. Thank you very much. I add, “Jimmy Fallon’s writers hate him now. Because when Jimmy Fallon tried to rub Trump’s hair off, a real-life skinhead never emerged. But if I’m still not scared of Trump. Then, I’ll never be into my mother as much as Seth Meyer’s. Then again, I’m the sloppy second son for a reason. If Jimmy Kimmel cares so much about the environment, then why is he so wasteful by only using Smart Water for some post show bong hits because his gal pal Jennifer Aniston hooks him up in bulk? At the same time Smart Water adds bounce to your step. All of a sudden, you feel like Jennifer Anniston on the rebound. Our state of the union is like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky. It’s too bad Bill O Reilly is no longer important enough to impersonate. At least, O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas before Comedy Central executives resigned Trever Noah for the foreseeable future. Hey Trever Noah, Conan Obrien wants his good luck maroon hoodie back from the Harvard Lampoon.” Holiness killing hackery, Challah. Thank you very much.

On the other hand, you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t you only focus on getting a decent paying job in Corporate America? Sure, but like Frank Zappa said, “Magic is what happens between the notes”, and nobody is stopping me from creating more magic time on my time between new job interviews on the horizon come rain or shine. Sinatra lives, Challah, thank you very much.



Well, more yummy dances and random hugs from my son behind can buy me some more holy time to shine.



When your son takes a bit out of your Koshertarian Wings with a homemade barbeque sauce that’s made with a pomegranate glaze and states with divine powered authority, “Always Kosher Daddy.” Holy time shines.

Getting fired up to please your favorite people in the universe is when holy time shines.

A man can’t live on bread alone, but he can by on laughs and yummy dances in between with a little help from his Koshertarian friends.

So, stop thinking children don’t appreciate extra effort.

Stop thinking aiming to please your children through cooking is antiquated fun.

Stop thinking your kids are a less worthy audience to impress.

Stop thinking that doing things for love alone don’t matter.

Stop thinking your life is fantastic without your kids adoring you in it.

Stop thinking kids are an impediment to middle aged fun.

Stop thinking kids don’t sense half-ass love from a mile away.

Stop thinking technology has zapped your kid’s ability to emote in your honor.

Stop thinking you can’t inspire your children to follow your lead, “Always Kosher Daddy.”

Holy shine time is holy bonding time.

And that’s as good as it gets.

Holy Shine Time shines on.

Watching Hacks Cry.

Lennon lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.



Michael Kornbluth

















New Rule Asshole

New Rule: Stop acting you’re on my side. If you think my kids should wear masks in schools like Michael Jackson’s adopted kids on holiday in Bahrain.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you act like kids with COVID are a scarier health risk than backend entry into The Dallas Buyer’s Club.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you voted for Mr. Groper to make hair sniffing great again.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you think Thug Lives Matter most.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you still listen to weird, weak, woke Howard Stern, who didn’t dare criticize Governor Cuomo when he was in power after writing a book on How to Kill Italian Grandma Without Throwing Off Her Off The Train, because Perm Head didn’t want to be banned from Jimmy Kimmel’s house for more 2 bite chicken parm dinners.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you’re not grossly offended when demonic, Democrat hacks like Denture Breath Pelosi compare January 7 to 9/11 but are totally cool with Ellen DeGeneres professed friendship with W because she’s a fake news humanitarian who’s pro bush all the way.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you blame the burning of food vendor trucks at Woodstock 99 on white rage but refuse to condemn ANTIFA for being fake news Punisher vigilantes in hoodies from Target who never outgrew their pyromania phase.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you still watch the NBA, which makes ball gags made in China to ensure the Houston Rocket’s owner never tweets in favor of the Hong Protests again, which makes every day Yuhan paper trumps all day, especially since COVID made in Wuhan, was used to steal an election through mail-in voting, wreck our economy, gut our cities and destroy our children’s age of innocence more than any Dick Cheney move by Oliver Stone ever could.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you don’t condemn Biden for being a lying piece of shit for lying about visiting the Tree of Life in Synagogue during the Jewish New Year in Pittsburgh. Despite the Rabbi who was there, claiming, “I’ve never met Joe Biden in my life. And I’m not going out of my way to hang out much at Ben & Jerry’s much these days either.”

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you don’t think Israel has a right to defend itself, after 5000 rockets are launched in its backyard, while only expecting to receive an Edible Gift Basket in Return with a thank you note written in Farsi.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you’re still a degenerate, lying, beyond petulant, perpetually druggy scumbag who makes Hunter Biden come off as a serial slacker underachiever in comparison.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you support sanctuary cities, which is legalized lawlessness on crack or have no problem with every day for the cops being standing down day since BLM made it kosher to shoot cops in Dallas without any image depreciation blowback.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you wanted Kyle Rittenhouse to get anal AIDS in prison before getting beaten to death because the jury in Kenosha refused to let mob justice rule.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you insult my intelligence like you’ve done for 5 years in a row and tell me with a straight face that you think Biden got more votes than Obama or Trump despite Mr. Groper’s campaign rallies not being big enough to fill out Ariel’s little clam shell bra’s.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you believe our elderly deserved to die alone despite COVID having a 99 percent survival rate, when you’re a degenerate Jewish gambler who has no problem betting 5 large on the Jets against Tampa on a slow Thursday.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you still watch Bill Maher after he wished for a recession to get Trump out of office but got COVID instead. The same Bill Maher, another self-serving, Obama licker protector like the rest. Who had no problem with Obama posting Israel’s classified nuclear program on Medium or nuke gifting Iran 150 billion to create overseas manufacturing jobs for Build a Bear to make their economy less reliant on the sale of chest hair removal cream for the Kardashians.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you think you’re not blatantly pathetic for only now criticizing the news media for perpetuating the overblown COVID death counts because you’re feeling more courageous in admitting to your buyer’s remorse after SNL makes fun of Biden’s pedophile whisperer speech impediment after all these years.

Stop acting you’re on my side, if you think John Goodman is a good guy because he came out on Jimmy Kimmel to declare Rosanne isn’t a racist, after agreeing to the spin off the Conner’s based on a show and career she created for him in the 1st place because a brief part in Raising Arizona wasn’t the career launcher he imagined either.

Stop acting you’re on my side if you side with arrogant baby boomers who want Joe Rogan canceled for the crime of interviewing an infectious disease expert that knows Fuck Face Fauci personally, who fluffed the monkey with the banana driller used to create Aids with, in addition to Magic’s Johnson’s secret HIV suppressor stash.

Stop acting you’re on my side if you’re going to insist the entire world has gone mad all around, when it’s the crazed, just vaccinated Karen’s that have ruined dinner parties for the foreseeable future let alone a stroll to Target with your kids only to hear, “Wear the damn mask.” “Yeah, not until you suck the misinformation and hate speech out of my chosen schlong first Karen. Pretend Obama ordered you to leak it.”

Stop acting you’re on my side if you’re sick of COVID when you’re not a nurse forced to mask up for 2 years in a row who’s had to lose her job because she refused to get an experimental clot shot that’s weakening more immune systems than backend entry into the Dallas Buyer’s Club.

Stop acting you’re on my side. If you think you’re a man of the people, who’s not a guilty of endorsing mass murder, done dick to condemn evil and more than tolerated the lockdowns, and forced terminations of jobs for 2 years that’s lead to thousands of businesses destroyed, countless drug overdoses, numerous suicides and fucked up kids for life with future fertility issues and heart problems on the way for using our kids as fucking political pawns by pushing a clot shot drug on them to keep evil enshrouded scumbags like Gavin Newsome in power that has single handily destroyed my beautiful southern California of yesteryear in one slimy, sociopath ridden swoop.

Stop acting you’re on my side. You’re narrative about you being a good guy truth spreader after claiming anyone who offered alternative treatments to combat early bouts of COVID as conspiracy theorists like every blah breath hack deluded into thinking that intended silence shaming aside will shut us the fuck up knowing you’ve been the easily duped, rube hick who’s been breathlessly citing the Washington Post for the past 6 years in a row mongoloid moron.

Stop acting you’re on my side, when you have no problem with 2 million illegal immigrants infiltrating our border with COVID and more fentanyl made in China that’s killed more cracker in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

Stop acting you’re on my side, when you don’t have kids or give a shit about protecting the kids. All you care about is preserving your urban legends about George Floyd being the patron saint of resisting arrest, Obama Be Good doing more than rebranding ISIS, ISIL so they’d sound more start up friendly in the NY Times while claiming to be a good Jew when you don’t eat Kosher, perform Shabbat or demonize the UN for funding death tunnels to kidnap and kill Jewish children in the name of terrorist inclusivity.

Stop acting you’re on my side, when you don’t even shrug at the thought of kids being discriminated, segregated against and psychologically tortured because their parents don’t worship the cult of Obama Be Good or the Democratic lead rape enablement party nor are they dumb to subject their kids to experimental gene therapy for desired social acceptance among the enemies on the fake news elite left that ushered and continue to push the utter destruction of our kid’s youth, safety our inner cities and facade of the US government and our doctors as a whole caring about anything else besides self-enrichment and job preservation since the day democracy died.

You’re the enemy asshole, if you remain a stranger to self-awareness and all the evil you endorse, even if Bill Maher gave you permission to open your mouth otherwise from time to time because it’s socially convenient now to do so, you sell out hack.

Get banned from Twitter for insisting the Chinese have resisted Wuhan lab investigations more than AquaFresh 70 comedy records later and get back to me on what a crazy, hardcore thought leader you on are LinkedIn, asshole.

Michael Kornbluth

Ballsy Better Hits

Bourdain and Joan Rivers walk into Heaven. Bourdain says, “How about a titty blast Joan?” Joan says, “I thought you’d never ask. Shit God, can you zap Bourdain’s foreskin off in a flash.”

Fuck Michael Jordan for calling Pippen selfish for daring to postpone knee surgery during the Last Dance. I’d make every day standing down day to, if I was being paid less than BJ Armstrong’s nanny.

If a boy is born 100 percent gay, does he suck down booby milk regardless, because he doesn’t know what his preferred oral fixation is yet?

Explaining Internet porn to my kids eventually. It wasn’t enough for Louie, it’s our last safety rail left. It’s what daddy does to squeeze in some me time alright.  

Coming to terms with my ex-social life pre 3 kids. It was the best of times whenever the condom broke from overexertion, as I yelled, “Woo, sex is fun again.”

I’m sacred of getting a vasectomy because I don’t want my ball sack to feel like Edward Scissor’s Hands face.

What Gen X parents understand. Snoop’s Dog’s wine tastes like mouthwash used in porn hood hell.



My son finds the Kama Sutra book in my office. And my son says, “My penis popped out opening it.” Daughter starts singing, “Irresponsible Daddy.” I say, “Matilda, ignore this book because it’s a recipe for Aids.” Daughters says, What’s Aid’s Daddy? I say, “A reason to become a Lesbian. You can take a licking and keep on ticking.”

Daughter gets the book Rebel Girls from Grandma for Hanukkah. Grandma asks, “Do you know who Hillary is?” Daughter says, ” 2-time loser alcoholic, Russian dossier financier, best-selling voodoo doll in Hatti year after year?”

My son is the best slacker alert of all time. Son asks, “Daddy, did you go on the Peloton today? I said, “I got COVID, and food poisoning form the Halal Guys. Son says, “Enough with the excuses daddy, “You’re worse than Hillary.”

Random parents always ask, “Why is your son, so happy, “I say, Funnier dad, happier, baby.” You want to compare kid photos buzzkill boomer? My son has more muscle memory to flex from than a young Leo on the set of Growing Pains with Alan Thicke.”

Why do kids love back? Because you make them feel like the center of your universe, instead of the reverse. Kids love back because when you say I love you, it doesn’t sound manufactured hoarse, like you’re forcing the issue to avoid divorce.

A son’s love is a second chance at respectable redemption, because abstaining from bourbon at home does wonders for your complexion.



This is my younger brother getting defensive on the behalf our father because he’s the favorite despite making Hunter Biden come off as a serial slacker underachiever. Brother says, “Dad isn’t a narcissist.” I say, “You post driving selfies on Facebook. Your past the point of objective return bro.”

My 3rd kid is Chosen Curls Was Bound to Woo because chesty Italian MILFS hit on him constantly. One said, “When you get older, you’re going to have 3 girlfriends to juggle. I said, “If James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”



This is my daughter playing marriage counselor again. “Pause Daddy, mama, got your point mid breath.”



Fact, kids don’t need to be dressed up in masks like Michael Jackson’s kids on holiday in Bahrain. Plus, we shouldn’t gut any more cities, and ruin more professional lives over stupid vaccine mandates over catching an itchy esophagus. COVID has 99 percent survival rate. So, stop treating COVID as if it’s death sentence like backend entry into the Dallas Buyer’s Club.

But masks are the new condoms, not. Only because I can’t cum in my wife wearing one either.

Anyone see the new Woody Allen doc on HBO, Crimes and Misdemeanors the Early Years? Woody actually kept naked pics of a 9-year-old Soon Yi in his top sock drawer. The only naked pic missing was Soon Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine.

I’m so sick of seeing Cuomo’s ugly mug in the paper. He still looks like the Thing and Mama Fratelli from the Goonies had a baby. And Cuomo getting paid to write a book leadership is like Hitler getting paid to write a book on anger management or Woody Allen getting paid to write a book on hands off parenting or R Kelly getting paid to babysit the latest Kardashian out the womb.

The Italian Reptilian inside Cuomo, getting paid to write a book about leadership makes less sense than Kevin Durant getting picked to do a Ted Talk on how to block out the sound of cyberbullying.  

What does makes sense is making Carmelo Anthony the next spokesperson for Tampax Tampons already. Name another NBA player, responsible for stopping so much flowage.

Growing up, I wish LaVar Ball was my substitute coach dad because he wouldn’t have allowed my younger brother to lose his virginity before I did. LaVar Ball would’ve held house parties in my honor and only invite Stuck-Up Jenny from the block. 5 minutes in the party, LaVar Ball yells into Stuck Up Jenny’s ear, “The Yooho bottle doesn’t spin itself bitch.”

I stopped smoking weed because I felt like a moron answering my daughter’s question on it after I thought she was already asleep. Daughter asks, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created the universe?” I eventually come up with, “God went back in time, in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk. Daughter says, “That’s really convincing Daddy. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.”

This is an impersonation of merger talk between Dr. Dre and Eminem. “Hey Slim Microsoft paid 3.6 billion for LinkedIn. Worrrrd, LinkedIn is lamer than ever yoh”

This is Russell Simmons denying rape allegations with Gayle King. “Read my lisp.” I didn’t rape any of those vengeful over the hill hos.”

This is Jeff Ross roasting Jay Z in the VIP room for Super Bowl Sunday. “Child Separation is overrated Jigga. Look how you turned out. Plus, if Coco never got separated from his family, he never would’ve become a mini–Los Lobos in the making.”

The Woman’s March on Washington was gross. All I saw was a whole lot of Rosie’s sporting a whole lot of chins. My mom asked if my daughter watched it. I said, “No mom, Matilda’s finally learning how to read. So, the last thing I need in my life is my daughter trying to make out one of those protest signs on TV and ask, “Daddy, what’ a pa, pa, Pussy Power? Is that a new show on Amazon Prime?”

At the grocery store, I comment to the lady behind me, “I wrote the book the Koshertarian Comedians. So, I can’t make it, but do you ever make shrimp wrapped in bacon? Or is your attitude, “I’ll dine at Morton’s for a post Burning Mask Party, maybe.” Italian NY mom laughs long time. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth



The Regrettable Road Traveled

I thought making brownies with my kids for the 1st time would be a dose of old school American fun. It wasn’t.  Domestic bliss is a lie when a semi straight man tries to make brownies with his kids. Now I know why I occasionally watch The Great British Bakeoff with my wife to feel a tad more snug secure in my drooping masculinity. I’ll never get into the domestic science of experimenting in the kitchen with my 3 kids hovering around me wanting to get involved in making brownies again because caring about perfecting a homemade desert is too fussy sweet for my taste. Also, did you know most brownie recipes, require an entire stick of butter? I’d rather stick to pounding more Sierra Nevada Pale Ale’s, the pale ale that never gets stale, thanks. And microwaving down an entire stick of butter in a measuring cup is gross. It’s like watching what happens to Martha Dumptruck after a whopping minute on the Peloton.  

So, what does raising my kids Koshertarian have to do with my brownie bust experiments? Did I use Kosher salt over Pinko Himalayan Salt?  No, I stuck with Kosher salt because using Pink Himalayan salt didn’t feel Kosher to me because whenever I think of Nepal I think of mind melting hash I got baked with in Amsterdam, which would’ve stripped the old school, this land is your land, American vibe I was trying to tap into for my brownie bust experiment regret of 2020 man.  Still, trying to make brownies with my kids was important to me at the time, because I wanted to instill a sense of American community and a dash of do it all dad bliss, so I could prove to mama, whatever you don’t do, I can do a smidgen better.  The ghost of Robert Frost can go pound Kosher salt, because I took the road less traveled to please my kids and do a group of activity that didn’t involve me wrestling with my kids on our yoga mat, throwing them around our blown up pool this summer from China or playing blackjack with our fancy poker chip set, and regretting every second of it. Our 1st batch of brownies was too cakey, the other batch was too sugary, and I don’t have a spare third testicle, so doubling down on my shot at becoming Betty fucking Draper tweaked on Adderall to feel like a more essential domesticated homemaker hearth warmer failed to fill me with good intended cheer, leaving me with nothing but morning after disgust generated from doing Martha Dumptruck more than twice.

So, what is the magical recipe for domestic brownie bliss. Easy ,use flower, egg, coco powder, sugar, butter and your wife to do it, unless you want to feel like those permanent eunuchs in Empire Of the Sun. Do I sound like a bitter clinger to my non-baker bust past? Yes, but I’ve lost all interest in acting like an American sweetheart when I don’t want to be. Gen X Dads understand. We grew up in the age of Aids, 9/11, multiple recessions and now have massive mask shaming hysteria to contend with from our NPR worshiping wives. So, don’t expect us to do cartwheels over the prospect of relishing the campy, airy, non-divisive feel of The Great American British Bakeoff. No, our tastes in sweets and coffee is like our preferred taste in comedy, dark and bitter, with a dash of some fun filled, foam party conjuring foam on top. Gen X dads are the Macchiato generation, hyper focused, around the clock hustlers obsessed with American made success and teaching our kids more than Different Strokes did such as how a Macchiato is a circumcised Cappuccino, which makes you feel like a less empty, blowhard baby boomer inside.

Michael Kornbluth

Tofu The Terrible Slayer

Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth, was in no singing mood today. Every day, she’d wake up singing,” Good day sunshine” by the Beatles even if she got up at the crack of dawn again or decided to work in Norway away from her mom and dad throughout an entire darkened 5 month winter as a 9-year ski model for Northface, knowing in a post-corona universe, she was used to doing remote learning away from school anyway. But this drab Thanksgiving morning was different, because she had to act thankful for eating Tofurky Roast again, despite the spirit of Tofu The Terrible terrorizing her dreams since she described soy dogs in her school lunch cafeteria blog as “Rubber dog link nosh toys.”

But how could Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth act grateful for eating a Tofurky Roast, since her 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Right, made it clear how the native American Indians weren’t responsible for teaching the Pilgrims how to turn soy milk into white blocks of semi-firm bricks of soy with higher levels of estrogen to feminize John Smith’s sturdy stock of sailors with. Also, Thanksgiving this year post-Corona wasn’t feeling particularly festive, knowing Matilda was suffering from PTSD from wearing all of those Corona masks to death. Matilda was now having nightmares of being terrorized by the masked man, Tofu The Terrible who ruined every favorite meal she’d dream of. For example, if Matilda had just won the Gold Medal in the Hardcore X Games for Equestrian Riders within the Under 10 Years age bracket, having to complete jumps through rings of fire with an occasional baby dragon on her tail. She’d normally celebrate with her best friend Shannon in her dream over their favorite treat Jellybeans for a sleepover party soon after. But now all that appeared in her dream were pasty, slimy soybeans in the place of jellybeans because Tofu The Terrible was punishing her for calling soy dogs on her cafeteria food blog, “Not good enough to pass for rubber dog toys.” And Matilda hated pet dogs because they ate dog food with minced horse meat inside. Matilda had always been a hardcore vegetarian loyalist, yet she greatly offended the spirt of Tofu The Terrible, a ferocious Chinese vegetarian warrior from the Ming Dynasty, who even got Genghis Khan into Mapo Tofu over Jasmine Rice, a fiery, dish loaded with super scary Sichuan spice. The smell from the grounded up Sichuan peppercorns would make most grown men cry, making their lips tremble in fear at the prospect of having to try one more bite, knowing Genghis Khan would be hoarding all the Sake rice wine for any temporary relief for themselves soon afterwards.

Matilda was convinced she’d never enjoy the food she loved in real life again such as her Dad’s fried Icelandic cod in a barbeque aioli without tasting anything but mushy, dog drool instead.  

Now, it was time for everyone at the table to give thanks for Thanksgiving, which Matilda had been dreading from the start, because she was consumed with nightmarish visions of Tofu The Terrible ruining all her favorite foods in her dreams and in real life, such as her Dad’s star side dish creation, caramelized cauliflower potato  gratin, combining cave aged Gruyere and Raclette cheese from the Swiss Alps, which  injected the dish with an extra scrumptious, creamy fresh finish.

Matilda’s Dad, a Stay At Home Comedian Author, Podcast Host and self-taught semi gourmand Chef could tell his daughter was dreading her turn to participate and says, “Matilda, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is Tofu The Terrible ruining the taste of your Jellybeans again?” Matilda perks up, shaken out of her petrified, frozen comatose and says, “How did you know about Tofu The Terrible Daddy?” Matilda’s dad says, “I helped you launch your own lunch cafeteria blog on WordPress remember? Your last piece Tofu Brownie Blues, was about how Tofu The Terrible threated to shred everyone’s masks at school, unless the Brownie Girls started selling his special batch of Tofu Brownies at the next school bookfair instead.” Matilda says, “Do we have to eat the Tofurky Roast this year?” Dad says, “No, try this veggie Barbeque Pita instead.” Matilda takes a reluctant bite but is moved by her Dad’s gesture of goodwill. She says, “Yummy daddy. Her Dad says, “I fried up cubes of semi-firm soy inside that bad boy. The sautéed onions and peppers keep the memories of mushy dog toy food at bay. Tofu The Terrible was dead in Matilda’s head and she started singing again while giving thanks and praises at Thanksgiving, singing, “Soy Dogs still suck, Tofu The Terrible to, but you’re no longer so bad, since my daddy came to my rescue.”

The End

Michal Kornbluth