Tag: spirtuality

Untradable Summer

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, writing

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

Smackdown Satan

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Archangel Michael says, “You shall not misuse the name of the Lord by calling him, “Fake News Mercy God”, Lucifer. Just because God won’t give WWF wrestler Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings, despite you having a soft spot for flaming bear wrestlers in tights.” Lucifer fires back with, “Michael means, “Who is like God.” You mean another micromanager control freak? I give humans the permission to exercise free will in the service of pleasing themselves. That makes me the good life giver, not God Michael.”

Archangel Michael says, “You don’t get to be the ears of God, Lucifer, I do.” Lucifer says, “Don’t think for a second, I want to trade winged tipped shoes with you Michael. Your name Michael means who is like God. You mean another micromanager square who won’t give Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings because he considers drug overdoses a form of subconscious suicide. Your name Michael means who is like God, but what it really means is sloppy second spokesperson after Moses. And if Moses really knew God face to face, then why didn’t he prophesize about the condemnation of goatees on metal rappers during Woodstock 94, before the entire shit show went up in flames?  But that’s what happens when Jewel is considered a seat stayer middling act before Limp Bizkit gave Carson Daily sustained stiffage until Kid Rock’s performance blew everyone away in college bliss paradise.”

Archangel Michael says, “Why am I hearing a new rumor around Heaven about you being the voice behind the Burning Bush Lucifer? You’d literally piss on Moses’s grave if you knew where to find it. And you wonder why God makes you feel like the sloppy second son, brother.”

Lucifer says, “I was the voice behind the Burning Bush. It was a prank I learned at Angel Magic Camp. I loved hearing Moses’ stutter like the kid in Billy Madison. But Moses didn’t shatter his teeth from stuttering after I spoke to him through the Burning Bush as expected. At the same time, Moses stumbling to articulate more excuses to turn down God’s job offer was hilarious.  Moses moans on, “Whiny Jews chosen to complain about not receiving immediate recognized sit-down service at restaurants in Del Ray Beach won’t take me seriously as your chosen your spokesperson Lord. It’s not as simple as Joan Rivers hocking jewelry to Midwest housewives she detested on the QVC. And why would Pharoah release our people from Slavery? What form of leverage do we have to offer our Lord besides the threat of my cousin Schlonka boring Pharoh to death through her mustard making workshop seminar at local JCC?”

Archangel Michael, says, “Remember when God said to Moses, God’s favorite prophet on Ranker, the last I time I checked, “You shall have no other God’s before me”, little brother? Well, that includes your Olympian size ego that rivals Kid Rock. Who I’m sure doesn’t pleasure himself in front of the mirror naked the way you do. Future Talmudic scholars will amplify God’s commandments in relation to you little bro when stating, “You shall not suck off the totality of your own awesomeness and refrain from stroking off what elongated love you provide the universe without 1st giving shout out props to the Lord, for endowing you with such special equipment to become such a star powered lighter upper with.”

Lucifer says, “But similar to Jeffery Bruckheimer, God isn’t the only big swinging dick in the producer business Michael. Tell that to Brian Grazer at Imagine Entertainment or to Mark Wahlberg, who’s the executive producer of Entourage for Christ’s sake.”

Archangel Michael says, “And you wonder why God never speaks directly to you anymore, only grumbling to his assistant Joshua in the background whenever you bother to text Shana Tova this Jewish new year. Lucifer says, “Communication is a 2-way street brother. And if I do hear from Dad, it’s because he’s dictating another business memo to his cherished assistant Joshua, who could transcribe all the sketched in stone commandments without complaining about a surging case of carpel tunnel syndrome in the making.”

Archangel Michael says, “We get it Lucifer, you want to feel like God’s gift to the universe 24/7, but forget angel wing promoting power, that’s far outside your pay grade brother. Granted, Bam, Bam Bigelow was a phenomenal wrester for his size, who power slammed his opponents into the mat with forceful funk authority like a more feral Junk Yard Dog, cranked up on Crystal Meth despite swallowing a cauldron of Hooter’s hot wings prior. Still, you don’t get to draft your own team of archnemesis angels.  So, stop acting as if your Dr. Jerry Buss in Winning Time on HBO who was anointed with savior type status for the city of angles, with the deep pockets to match. At least Kayne made money enough money off his artistry to justify his ego enlargement therapy sessions on wax for Def Jam and Roc-A-Fella records.”

Lucifer says, “Enough talk. I challenge you to a Ladder match in Heaven to wrestle away your favored angel status from Dad Michael. Problem is, you don’t know how to fight do you, Michael?”

Archangel Michael says, “Unlike you Lucifer, I have friends in high places, to end your smack talking reign about Big Mouth Moses for good.”

A winged, Macho Man Savage launches into his famed elbow drop from way up high in the Heavens on top of Lucifer’s head while the Lord from above bellows, “Oh yeah”. The Lord adds, “You want to be my ears now Lucifer you got it.” Next, a winged Super Fly Jimmy Snuka comes flying down off a golden ladder from the World Trade Center with a coconut in hand that smashes into 2 as it comes crashing down on Lucifer’s rapidly rupturing head.” Then, a winged Owen Hart, swoops in to unleash a dropkick that smacks Lucifer straight to Hell, to deliver justice for all, especially in honor of Moses, Abraham and David who earned their plethora of Mensch and a half shouts outs in the Torah for a reason.

Archangel Michael gives a bunch of ariel high fives to his new angel brothers in arms, Macho Man, Super Fly and Owen Hart, all highflyers till the end of time and says, “Slim Jim’s on me”, as Flying High by Ozzy Osbourne blares on the Lord’s decked out gold plated surround sound speakers as guitar God Randy Rhodes puts on a one man show for all WWF angels including the female wrestler Chyna. The Lord took her into Heaven despite her doing the sex tape Back Door to Chyna in addition to her subconscious suicide from pills and booze. Even the Lord Hashem, is a softy for female body builders. So, the Lord gave Chyna her angel wings because she already shouldered the responsibility of being the 1st WWE female wrestler star to get over in the “attitude era”, while becoming the only female wrestler to win the Intercontinental Belt Championship, let alone beat Triple H and high flying, metal howler Chris Jericho in the process. Besides, who else is going to break balls about Macho Man’s steroid size nuts in Heaven with such divine powered authority?

“Hey, Randy, can I be your new Miss Elizbeth in Heaven? Your balls filled out a missing person report ages ago, but are they still big enough to take on the Chyna challenge, which is drilling my hell hole into China for Back Door to Chyna Part 2?”

Macho Man says, “Oh yeah. Then again, power slams are more up Bam, Bam, Bigelow’s alley.”

Michael Kornbluth

Better Than Everything

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, travel

You want your kids to stop bitching?

Then, authorize their brothers and sisters to bitch shame them with chants of Nitpicky Lame.

“Daddy, this Tofu is hard to eat because the pieces are stuck together.”

“Nitpicky Lame.”

“Is this Ranch or Tartar sauce?”

“Nitpicky Lame.”

“Daddy, the COVID vax shot fucked up Katy Perry’s face and gave her temporality paralysis during the last show of her Vegas residency.”

“Her tits weren’t feeling shit in the 1st place.”

“Nitpicky Lame.”

Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Nothing Shitty

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

I’m paying our Septic bill in person and say, “If somebody doesn’t pay, you really have them held over a barrel.” 85-year-old Bird laughs and says, “You couldn’t pay me enough to change Biden’s drawers.” I say, “You’re not an opportunistic, perv enabling, small town ho, who outwore the usefulness of her fishnet stockings during her cradle robbing babysitting years. I call this administration the never-ending shit show since the day Democracy died. Anyone who supports, apologizes or enables this shit show of an administration is shit in my book United We Laugh.”

Old Bird says, “I agree, and I would know about never-ending shit shows since my father started this septic tank business in 1922. In fact, my entire life has been shit.”

I say, “Either something in life is great, medium suck or shit.” She says, “There’s nothing shitty about you kid.” And I love that eulogy ghost writer business idea champ.” I add, “Yeah, my new pitch to Funeral Directors is, “Do you employ eulogy ghost writers for hire? Because our religious leaders have failed us post COVID damage done, and our loved ones deserve better send offs than this shit. And if I hear one more Rabbi during the High Holy Days use Holocaust and COVID in the same sentence. You’ll see more body bags than ever, during a Hell in The Cell match between The Undertaker and Triple H.” Old Bird laughs long time.

United we laugh, I prove it every day. What’s my mantra for a winning life in America? Nothing shitty and don’t be a half ass putz like Hair Plugs Sniffer playing President on the fake news White House set. And let’s contemplate God powered light through my 5-Year-old son strumming my Fender Stratocaster, singing, “I tried, I lied, I died. Now, I’m in Heaven with Daddy, the end.” I just quoted my son verbatim; did I mention that he’s 5? Like father like son, nothing shitty from our gene pool today, Challah. Thank you very much.

And this is me making an honest attempt to reconnect with my dad who grew up on the streets of the Bronx.

“Hey Dad, did you know that Edgar Allen Poe used to live in the Bronx near Fordham? Dad says, “How much money did he make off his writing?” I say, “He could afford to drink himself to death. But he was also the 1st well known American writer to a earn a living through writing alone Dad. You were editor of your school newspaper when you attended Clinton in the Bronx. I’m sure you can appreciate that feat.” Dad says, “His prose was weak and maudlin tone was excessively weary.”

I add, “He wrote humor tales to.” Dad says, “I’m sure the gentile from Boston was a barrel of laughs. Edgar Allen Poe wrote humor tales, use that in your act or podcast or whatever you do anymore because that shit is hilarious. You can’t write NOTHING that shitty. Nothing shitty, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Buckets Of Challahs

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, politics, psychology

Edgeless comedy blows.

Reason to forsake Adderall. When you take it long enough in a row, it feels like a burnt-out devil is stuck in your head, intent on stealing your time, soul and brain from its intended form forever.

Yesterday, I sensed a lit agent being a smug prick in declining an offer of representation for my book The Koshertarian Comedian. So, I check his Twitter feed, which includes a retweet about Melania failing at defeating cyberbullying with a screen shot of her husband’s suspended account. So, just to fuck with him back, I email, “Fuck your fake news sincerity. Trump won. But keep thinking Mr. Groper got more votes than Trump or Obama Be Good ever did. Which is like claiming DMX gave up weed for catnip during Lent. DMX lives. Yonker’s is getting black as shit up in here Challah, thank you very much.

If you’re still concerned about catching COVID, then just admit your precious vaccine works less than Jared Kushner does on his tan, when he’s got Ivanka to do whenever she talks dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again, resuming her role as Christina Tightcoochie, otherwise known as Jewess Who Swallows. 2 seconds later, Jared Kushner blows a follow-up load for 2 minutes straight into her pearly white face and says, The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming. Hide your borscht soup recipe for Passover or we’re screwed Trumpy Goo.” Can I get a holla for some money blasting Challahs? Killer With A Cause, Challah, thank you very much.

The new mayor of NY consulted the mayor of Chicago, lead maker of blood controlling kits in our country, on how to tackle crime better than the cast of 21 Jump Street without Johnny Depp willing to resume his FBI informant role in Donnie Brosco Does BLM Busts The Most for anything less than 50 million in bitcoin and all the cases of Chateau Margaux Keith Richards can drink.

How can the mayor of NY tackle crime better? Why not, condemn Jussie Smollett for trying to incite a race war on Obama Be Good’s behalf and say to the NY media, “Deplorable is anyone who’s glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.”  At least it’s a start.

What’s a woman? 2 tits, a hole and a heartbeat, right? Next question. Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi needs a working heart for an actual heart transplant, so she’s off the to do list, Challah. Thank you very much.

What’s the science behind exempting the Mets 1st baseman from getting the clot shot over 1st responders who ran into the Second Tower without sweating the prospecting of catching an itchy esophagus? Gold Gloves matter most.

What’s the science behind discharging Marines who refuse to take the clot shot? Fuck Face Fauci is my friend, no matter what. Who cares if the DOD database says COVID vaccine shots cause a 300 increase in miscarriages? Court packing the Supreme Court with pizza partying throwing pedophile sympathizers means those kids would’ve been in breathing distance of early release child predators anyway.

The Don’t Say Gay bill will kill kids? Yeah, like Rolling Stone Magazine refraining from calling Michael Jackson gay killed off his age of innocence ruining terror like a smooth criminal. What would Michael Jackson say in his defense against all his Never Land accusers today Rolling Stone? All the Beatles royalty points in the world can’t buy me love.

Am I the only one who doesn’t think it’s kosher for the kindergarten teacher in Billy Madison to be teaching my kids about masturbation just yet? What can Veronica Vaughn add to that conversation that Do It All Dad can’t?  When your Pete Sampras, you can pick out any ball girl you like. And you don’t have to play with yourself anymore like you do with your GI-Joe figures.

In Kentucky they offer self-pleasure workshops for toddlers, which is fitting I guess, when finger food down there is considered anything that tastes like your cousin’s panties. Those same self-pleasure workshops offer hands on lessons on simulating masturbation called Giving Up Blow For Blow Painting to get off instead by Hunter Biden, AKA Sir Snort A Lot, whose done hearing last call from the bathroom stall at Molly Malone’s while his biker bud extras from the Sons of Anarchy yell, “Where’s Hunter? Who else is going to pay for this shit?”

My daughter has ruined Jello for me by saying, “It’s made of horse bones daddy.” So, I got back at and her said, “Linzer Tart cookies are made out of Unicorn Periods.”

It’s hard to keep the Tooth Fairy story alive when you blank on putting money under your daughter’s pillow again. Daughter says, “Daddy, is the Tooth Fairy even real? I say, “The Rock slept in for a change alright.”

Why would my mom think my brother’s ex-wife would return her diamond engagement ring after he expunged her inner light forever? That’s like giving a girl HIV unintentionally but expecting her to return the Lexington Steel replica dildo used to fuck her over and help seal the deal with.

Just learned that Zelensky had his 2 kids baptized. So, calling Zelensky Jewish is like calling Jihadi John Jewish, just saying. Which reminds me, ISIS aren’t good recruiters. They just hit on lonely virgins on What’s App, who wish their phones blew up. And a 2-state solution is inconceivable if the Muslim Brotherhood in the struggle keep fucking. Also, why are Jihadists in general so into deflowering virgins? Don’t these divine powered angels of light have enough bloods on their hands already?

My mom focuses way too much on my 11-year-old daughter’s legs, who go on for miles and miles. Granted, her hips already hit the ceiling. Still, doing my best Trump impersonation while judging my daughter’s statuesque figure in the making feels more off wrong than Kosher right for me but I’ll try anyway.  She’s Miss New York material for sure mom. So, clap your hands for the next Miss America but Trump keep your hands up where I see them. All of a sudden, I feel like I’m conducting a Zoom call with Jefferey Toobin at CNN for Drag Queen Reading Hour Appreciation Day.

I’m opposed to Drag Queen Reading hour, because fluorescent library lights don’t look flattering on anybody, especially on a poor man’s Marilyn Manson impersonator.

Why should I side with my great Aunt who fired her maid of 20 years for refusing to wear mask while cleaning her toilets? I’d prefer to take the maid out to lunch at Russ & Daughters and offer her all the smoked salmon platters she wants for sticking to her guns.

You know gas is expensive when 10 dollars isn’t enough to last you through smoking a half a pinner.

People Magazine is blaming blood clots on unhealthy diets now. Then, why is Raphael Nadal complaining of sudden chest pains? He abstains from gluten and from following the herd mentality. Wait a minute, that’s Djokovic, my bad.

How can you say sentences for child rapists are too harsh? 80 percent of the prison population wouldn’t be in there if they weren’t fucked over by some parental figure in one capacity or another. The arc of justice has gone straight to hell if Americans defend any Supreme Court Justice nominee pick who plays the opposition research Pete Townshend card while defending hand slapping punishment against pedophilia, when Joe from Scranton clicked on Soapybottomsnothingtoseehereatmoveon.org. Alex Jones lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

In Mosey’s Dream

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

Remember when your mom walked in on us singing, No Mosey No Cry for my final goodbye? You were in the Bubble again, sparkling like the Lion cub of Judah under the hot Ethiopian sun with your chosen curls dancing in the name of the Lord. And your mom asked in semi-hurt disgust, “What does Mosey no cry mean Mosey?” I say, “Were just humming some Bob Marley love songs for Michael’s bubble, nothing new here, Ms. Kornbluth.” Your mom being a banker for Chemical Bank had no idea who Bob Marley was, so she couldn’t feel too burned yet over our Lazt Waltz together before your parents moved to the suburbs so you could cry it out in your crib upstairs, which always makes the more muffled moans of despair easier to bear. Then, there was the time, when your mom walked in on you calling me mommy in the Bubble, which hurt her much more inside. She says, “Did my son just call you mommy?” And I say, “It sounds like Mosey doesn’t it.” That’s probably why your mom calls herself Me-Me around your children now. Your mother added, “Son, your being raised in Forrest Hills, Queens, not Jamaica, Queens.”

The sun wasn’t shining in my heart that day. I mean, Jamaica, Queens is fine if you don’t mind dirt weed blowing through the air as you push your son on the swing to chants of, “I’m going to take you higher.” Your dad never cared for that joke reference despite him always telling me the story about waking up in a post Acid haze to hear Sly Stone serenade 400,000 hippies with, “I’m going to take your higher”, at Woodstock only 9 years earlier because I was Jamaican, and he assumed I smoked weed at some point in my life before I decided to clean my act up and become a nanny for the prettiest boy in Forrest Hills. You were such a gay baby, Michael. You’d even choke on the rattler for fun. But I’ve been sobor for 40 years and I have you to thank.

You see I grew up in the prosperous part of Jamaica when my father was a big-time record producer for Island Records. Peter Tosh was my Godfather and taught me how Marco Polo introduced the Europeans to Lassie Soup after traveling to China, who also believed in evil Spirits like Rastas do. Bob was a was Duppy Conqueror, meaning an evil spirit conqueror, which means one who conquerors worried plagued fear. My dad never conquered his Duppy spirit and got addicted to the hell water, thinking it was his only way to conquer his doubts of having golden ears, after he passed on signing Bob Marley and The Wailers. So, once the fire water rum took over his life, he was forced to become a Janitor at Ska parties in Trenchtown on dirt roads with no electricity as he scrounged for roaches at the end of Punky Reggae parties to lift his sagging spirits, which is where the term dirt weed arose from actually. At first, I dated a Rasta bum who sold coconut water on the street in Times Square during the summer before it became available at your local 7/11 but that was it. I fell in love with his falsetto voice, he reminded me of a young Bunny Wailer really. But he smoked so much ganja, his handwriting wasn’t even legible anymore whenever he tried to write me love songs, but this was before Apple had released their desktop computer in 76, because he wasn’t the best speller on the typewriter before either. Plus, he insisted on calling Wite-Out colonial imperialism against commas to break up his killer flow, or something like that. He was higher than Richard Pyror at Freddie Prince Junior’s funeral, far from looking good. But I cut him out of my life and fell in love with a black Israelite Marcus, who became a public defender for the DA’s office, who taught Shofar lessons to rich kids in Riverdale, to pay for our wedding in Israel by a resort beach town in Eilat. Marcus wanted to visit King Solmon’s grave, who was known to have a steamy affair with the Queen of Sheeba. Bob Marley mysteriously inherited the ring King Solomon possessed, that traces back to the time when he was tapping the Queen Sheeba’s ass on the regular, did you know that? Anyway, your father always called you the cleanest boy in Forrest Hills, of course this was before you’d live in West Hollywood for 3 years and end up recording Pretty Dirty Mind for comedy record 76, I think. So, my obsession with cleaning up my life spilled into me giving you 3 bubbles a day, Michael. You were so happy in that Bubble, as I hummed you more Bob Marley love songs, which was permanent rainbow country for me. And I passed the dreaded typing test before getting a job at Apple in 76 before becoming the VP Of Sales for their floppy disk game division. I made the game Oregon Trail, the best-selling floppy disk game in America before Carmen San Diego came out as a flasher perv, stalking Bill Walton at Padres games, whenever the Grateful Dead were in town. I know that you’ve been suffering from night screams, feeling evil spirits strangle the life out of you in your dreams lately. But recently, those dreams have abated, and that’s because you haven’t lost faith in the sweet Lord, all mighty Hashem, being your protector, redeemer and ultimate celebrator, or else you wouldn’t have produced all these amazing books and comedy records to move, touch and make the universe laugh with, coming together as one. United we laugh, you prove it every day. I’m your biggest fan, always have been. Although I like this idea of you selling furniture for Bob’s Furniture in Norwalk, CT. I think this 1st interview will materialize into more good fortune for you. You’ll be inspired to get back on stage once you get out of the house again. Your soul is too pure and big for the cramped office life. Plus, I want you to write that story about triggering a Canadian furniture designer, living in Northern Westchester County who designs bookshelves for Chelsea Handler, only to tell him face to face, “Bob’s Furniture has way better stuff than this shit. And you’ll have a leg to stand on, which will be an empowering, duppy spirit conquering place to be Michael. Don’t give up on your dreams of making a living off comedic song for a living eventually. Bob worked at the Chrystler factory in Delaware before he became Bob Marely. No money, no cry for now, but earning some for a change will help remove those talking blues. Deep down you have to believe your funny enough to fill out those clown shoes.

Michael Kornbluth

Spiritually Superstitious

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Call me elitist. But I like eating Kosher because it makes feel less common and ordinary blah. Deli guy says, “No Bacon, with that?” “Is my egg and cheese order not manly enough for you, Dominick, I ain’t no Fag Scholanti?” Plus, I can watch the Showrunner of Everyone Loves Raymond, Phil Rosenthal on Somebody Feed Phil, squirm with discomfort around the actor from Treme went he told him to put more “swing” into whatever French creole named sausage he tried to annunciate with divine powered glee knowing my commitment to upholding a Koshertarian diet comedian lifestyle would allow me to make fun of it with detached bemusement soon after. Although in terms of comedy, nothing could beat the Treme actor explaining his learning process about cured meats, “Oh, so Pate is like hog’s head cheese.” Hilarious, prior he explained his use of a blood bucket growing up in Louisiana used in the making of Blood Sausage. And I’m thinking, Phil Rosenthal has less in common with this actor’s roots than white man’s disease. At one point in the episode, Phil attends a non-Kosher seder, with a giant Gefilte Fish stuffed with Shrimp. And Gefilte Fish slop plop is so old world Jewy disgusting in Microsoft Word’s eyes, autocorrect doesn’t even acknowledge its existence. Actually, I was being a self-loathing, paranoid half Jew, who was spelling it wrong. Reality is, my mother was raised Catholic I think in Kentucky, she never talks about it really, before she converted to Judaism after my dad nailed her with his Hebrew hammer, I guess. Seconds later, mom says, “Jesus who, never heard of the guy. But anything beats eating Squirl soup, so fuck off Christian nation, I’m moving to Jew York into some shitty tenement in the Bronx, that’s not Riverdale, I’m out of here.”

I love the south. My favorite summer wind was Katie King, who was from Winston Salem, North Carolina. We met in Kennedy country in Chatham, Cape Cod, the 1st time I asked God for anything by the beach. I say, “God, I don’t need Marilyn Monroe, but just a summer romance of some kind, so I can have someone to think about while playing I Remember You by Skid Row although Sebastian Bach sporting a shit that read Aids kill fag Dad is an extraneous exclamation point at that point in the sentence.” God delivered with resounding authority and gave me the scent of the south in Katie King. Outside of my great, great, great, Grandfather Austin Gollaher saving his boyfriend friend from drowning while running home late for some racoon soup, this will go down as the greatest save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby. But what was God saving me from exactly outside of more ordinary blah? Easy, he saved me from non-stop hurt, because good loving is what I got, Sublime lives, Challah, thank you very much. More importantly, until then, I never knew or had any clue about my capacity for being a joy spreader for others. During one of our last night’s together after another legendary kiss, that went on for years in a good way, my dear Katie King said, “I never knew somebody could make me so happy.” Being a New York Yankee who sported a circumcised schlong versus the ant eater look tipped the laws of attraction in my favor to. So maybe, my mom converted to Judaism because settling for the ant eater look between some southern gent’s legs would’ve circumcised her happiness also.

I fell in love with crawfish and all its succulent manifestations while working as a waiter at a Creole style restaurant in Park Slope ages ago, back when Lena Dunham has much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself. Before birthrates in Brooklyn had reached an all-time low due to overweight hobbit hipsters pulling out early from excessive meat sweats. At the same time Lena Dunham’s encouraged arm flapper look wasn’t encouraging more porking over pounding more pork buns either. Crawfish, you know shrimp with personality. Think Madeline Kahn over Samantha Bee. I had crazy sex with a girl from St. Louis during Marti Gras on my friend’s couch in and out of a black out powered haze although I remember sucking face with her after drinking a Hand Grenade prior and she tasted fantastic. So, I have plenty of love for southern accentuated fun. You can’t beat southern loving hospitality like this. So why forsake more drunken revelry down on the big easy, where banging random, giving girls you just met is easy? Because my dick would fall off from overexertion and pop out of its joy socket. Either that, or I’d wake up in 2 months without a livable liver because of my own self-inflicted wounds.

But what are my ungodly reasons for sticking with the Koshertarian Diet for the home stretch of my life? For starters, abstaining from pork shields me from future charges of Islamophobia. Especially, after a smartphone catches one of my future performances a Carolines on Broadway, when I say, “A 2 state solution is never ending as long as Hamas keeps fucking.” I’m also drawn to bragging rights for one upping Dad. Did we eat Kosher in the house for 22 years? Yes, but we ate Chinese and bomb veal parm in the Bronx outside the house, which isn’t the same thing. I’m not against swinging both ways, but for once, I’m committed to a monogamous relationship with Kosher law, and I don’t mind being feeling like a slut in a strait jacket in this instance, which is a welcome change of pace. I also like forward, upward motion, which is why I’m doing my year without beer, so I can drop whatever deadweight that’s preventing me from achieving Do It All Dad dunking out glory. So, working towards being a Koshertarian Comedian lifer that’s constantly striving to reach a higher spiritual place of fulfillment is a soul cleansing place to be, after pleasuring yourself to 3rd, legged beauties.com prior. Being a hit blasting Koshertarian Comedian for the bast 13 months, 121 comedy records later, beats Jolting Joe’s 56 game hitting streak by a mile. So that’s an ungoldy reason to stick with my funny man Koshertarian Comedian path that gives me a leg up on my competition, knowing how God’s hooking me up with more sheets of comedy gold in return. And like Ron Shelton wrote in Bull Durham, “You don’t fuck with a winning streak.” Plus, at this late in the game, I don’t want to cheat myself out of the holiness I feel from upholding my Koshertarian diet. I think my kids would be more disappointed if I carried on a new love affair with a fan on my WordPress blog than breaking my Koshertarian vows really. Have I made a vow to honor my Koshertarian Diet till my last dying breath? No, but self-imposed restrictions make me feel like a more in control beast similar to my year without beer so far. And it’s no longer just about my own self-serving needs but inspiring my kids to rise above being slaves to your give me now desires. The Metallica album Master of Puppets is about being a slave to drug dependence. Fine, eating a Shrimp Po Boy isn’t in the same league. Still, I miss the idea of having that option more than the action of inhaling a shrimp boy itself. But ultimately, sticking with the Koshertarian Diet has provided good restrictions that have forced me to be more creative that’s resulted in my primo, heavily workshopped, 2nds demanding Farfalle pesto with no cheese using a mixture of pecans and pistachios, always being the best, while throwing in some diced up Kosher chicken breasts from the air fryer in addition to some well salted, thinly sliced, cherry tomatoes top.

Other ungodly reasons to stick the Koshertarian Diet is ensure my book the Koshertarian Comedian gets published one day, in spite of the masked bitch at the bookstore in Rhinebeck, who acted grossed out, perplexed, when I asked, if they had a Kosher cookbook section. She gives me an immediate, “no.” And I say, “What if I asked for you for a Hallal cookbook section that gave shout outs to Allah in honor of all the porking you get do in Allah’s gangsta paradise as a reward for killing more infidel bitches like yourself, hashtag, hacking hymens to shawarma shreds.” Ungodly Reasons, Challah. Thank you very much.

It’s tempting to break my Koshertarian diet when I visit a semi-close bud from college in St. Louis later this summer to see George Thorogood and the Destroyers, Sammy Haggar is the opening act. I hear his Tequilla goes down Van Halen light. Will I be able to turn down smoked Brisket and burnt ends in St. Louis away from my beamish 3 kids for 2 nights with no restrictions outside of abstaining from bourbon and banging some random chick without passing out in my condom 1st? Will see, but I’m looking forward to some man-on-man bonding company more so than suckling down some Pit master made Brisket while pitching my bud new ideas for my screenplay Gum King Of New York, about a stay-at-home dad who reinvents himself as a pitchman star on the QVC during his year without beer while hocking his new brand of hop flavored Gum Hop-O-Rama Chew. I plan on selling the action-comedy adventure as a cross between Pineapple Express, Joy and The Founder except its origin story takes place in St. Louis in 2022 with some Midwest Jewish mobsters in Kansas City ala Casino thrown in between.

Ultimately, though I just don’t want to fuck up my winning streak on the keyboard. Call me spiritually superstitious then. At the same time, I also enjoy my slimmed down physique that’s a direct result of a veggie loaded Koshertarian Diet and I refuse to let Phil Rosenthal look more wide eyed happy slim for having less of a need for fostering a divine connection than the need for edgier, funny man commentary on his tour of Copenhagen for Somebody Feed Phil. “Copenhagen is known for its inclusive diversity embedded in its architecture such as these Moroccan titled fountains and fake news no go zone areas over here.”

Every morning, I thank God for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And sticking to the Koshertarian diet has allowed me to do that although Bill Maher would prefer to call him my imaginary friend, so be it. Rocky’s been Stallone’s imaginary friend for 4 decades straight and it’s paid off handsomely for Sly. Although learning that 420, the national pot smoking holiday is on Hitler’s birthday, was a total bummer man equal to when learning how Sly snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. I also close out every morning prayer session with thanking Hashem, the most high, for the opportunity to grow closer with him. And I feel that sticking with the Koshertarain diet is a nice tender touch that helps keep our love connection alive, versus my wife rolling over to the other side of the equator whenever I try to snuggle her for old times’ sake at night.

Is the Koshtertarian Diet my life preserver needed to achieve publishing glory or just a cute, gimmick fad to create a niche in on LinkedIn? Time will tell, but for now I’m all in on God, no more in and out of God shit, call me Superstitiously Faithful, I don’t give a shit. All I know, is that my son, the other day, says in a semi-joking manner, “I don’t like life”, to make me laugh before camp. But wish you were here vibes are easy to sense. And I say, “What you mean Samuel is that you don’t like your life when Daddy isn’t in it as much since you started camp. And you’re pissing in your bed again, because camp is ending soon and you’re scared about missing on more hangout time with Daddy once Kindergarten starts, correct? Son tears up a tad and says, “You’re not such a moron son, after all Daddy. But once camp is over, I get to sell your books and comedy CDs with you like Flipper Bird Baby, Daddy, deal?”

So, why I would want to give God sloppy second consideration for the sake of crawfish pie, when he continues to bless me with such an endlessly growing love life like this? Especially knowing how anger is normally a realer emotion than love, but not in this instance. For example, how often do you hear your wife or girlfriend say I love you without it sounding manufactured hoarse as if she’s forcing the issue to avoid a divorce? On the other hand, when you say, “I hate what New York City has become, because no bail policies have turned the Big Apple into OZ without any Proud Boys to bail your ass out of trouble in sight. When my son says, “I hate hanging out with mommy.” What’s he’s really saying is I really like hanging out with you that much more because he’s gets bored around her too easily. I always knew he was a quick learner. But what makes one parent more loveable than the other? Selective tenderness maybe, but I think it comes down to involving your kids in your life, which is easier to do when you’re Stay At Home Shemale Comedian for 5 years in row since my lucky 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born. Kids tend to love back with boatloads of tenderness because you make them feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Having your father’s shoulder’s collapse when you go in for a hug gives you the distinct opposite impression. Plus, funnier dad, happier baby. Victor Borge says, “Laughter is the shortest distance between 2 people.” So, if you can find a way to make your loved ones, especially your kids laugh more, you’ll grow closer to them for it. When your children laugh, especially from your own efforts, you grow closer to the divine, which for me is the cherry on top. And who doesn’t want a piece of that pie? And there’s nothing common or ordinary blah about that. Spiritually Superstitious, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

All Metal Baby

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, books, celebrity

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to Sloppy Seconds Hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Tabitha Soren, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his banger pretty wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H. So, I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism Man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows above all else, when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth