Tag: sports

Wimp Heaven

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, technology, writing

I wonder if Kevin Smith used a Fountain Pen with red ink when he got hired on the down low to rewrite Good Will Hunting. I know only Seinfeld is allowed to crack wise. Interesting fact, Walt Disney preferred tobacco brown ink, over black. You don’t say? According to Walt, black ink didn’t give much texture to each stroke. Wasn’t the Constitution written in black ink? I know ancient, outdated relic of yesteryear, totally get it. But black ink doesn’t give much texture to each stroke? Ice Cube, feel free to chime in anytime you want, anyone out there, Mueller, Mueller. But Walt Disney only favored tobacco brown over black ink for mere aesthetic reasons only. Sure, and bug on stick trucks in Davos this year won’t clean up. Black ink doesn’t give as much texture to each stroke. Tell that to Ice Cube’s Raider’s gear in the eighties. Even today, those throwback Raiders jerseys exude more layered in your face attitude than Tony Gwynn in Padres pinstripes ever did is all I’m saying. Wimp Heaven lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Sensitive To Stale

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

The technician from Optimum reconnects our Internet.

I declare.

“God is dead. Not today Nietzche, not on Optimum’s watch. God lives, Challah, thank you very much.”

And the Optimum Tech says, God lives. Can you include that plug in your customer service satisfaction survey?” Hashtag, #GoWokeYourselfNietzche.

Fresher is better, Challah.

Thank you very much.

I’m flipping 2 middle fingers to the Internet for being out for 3 days by playing a plethora of records at home on vinyl during our Internet fast such as Fats Domino, Warren Zevon, Miles Davis and Meatloaf. But then I try to inject artistic deepness into my life by buying Hunky Dory by David Bowie to play on a Saturday night which failed to give me sustained stiffage of any kind.

You know a David Bowie record is a chuck worthy offense. When you can’t even get through half of the second side without flicking the clunker at little Hudson’s face.

And say, “Stop bitching kid. Your hipster hack dad could’ve named you Bowie instead. Ziggy Stardust sucks when he reverts to being David Bowie again. Glam metal is no substitute for an enviable personality kid. That’s why your mom Micro-Doses with magic mushrooms to make you more interesting than your father pretends to be.”

Fuck David Bowie.

I want to dress my blond-haired son as Craig Ehlo for Halloween.

To celebrate a time, pre-social media when the NBA wasn’t a safe space for Lebron James ego before he anointed himself, King of The Persecution Complex.

Just so a dad from my Gen X generation says.

“Hey kid, are you dressed as Craig Ehlo from the 86 Cavs? I should call Child Services. I can’t tell if you’re dressed up to go Trick or treating or tea bagging with MJ? Hey kid, did you know that Tom Chambers isn’t in the hall of fame after scoring 20,000 career points? White privilege, my ass. ”

Fresher is better, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

8 Million Butterflies

by doitalldadyear, posted in beauty, blogging, books

It’s your fault if you don’t make Hanukkah more festive than Christmas. I get it. Most likely Jesus himself who celebrated Hanukkah with his apostles, even invented Christmas to make the holiday season feel more festive. When the strongest drink offered was Manischewitz before eggnog was invented. Spinning Beastie Boys records while blaring Intergalactic planetary to honor the Aliens in helping his fellow Hebrews build the Great Pyramids wasn’t a thing yet. Can’t all the Jews, Muslims and Christians unite on the 1st night of Hanukkah on the premise behind Home Depot never being erected in the Israelites’ honor? Growing up, I’d push my dad to honor my mom’s Christian side after she converted. I say, “Dad, mom dumped Jesus to marry into your putzy DNA. The least you can do is let mom throw up a tree. Dad says, “The only time a Jew from the Bronx would get a Christmas Tree is if he planned to convert it into a tricked-out Treehouse and flip it for a profit.”

Finally, one year, my year my dad budges and allows my mom this pathetic, sorry excuse for a bonsai tree relegated to the side patio covered in cobwebs that got less touches than a St. James Bible at a bath house colony in Pronvincetown. But seriously, can’t you see Jesus recognizing the festive limitations of Hannukah after receiving one carved dreidel too many? Jesus says, “Thanks for the Dreidel, Judas. I’m glad that my carpentry session on dreidel building 101 at The 92 Street Y paid off so handsomely. But why don’t we make Channukah a more drawn-out celebration that’s ten times festive by celebrating my birthday for the entire month of December after Hannukah.”

Matthew says, “Yeah, but Jesus wouldn’t Hannukah then be considered a forgettable warm act, that gives you ball balls just thinking about it.  You were born my immaculate conception, right? Yet by the time your 4 brothers James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon were born, the magic was gone baby, baby gone.”

Jesus replies, “Yeah, but I had a vision in desert last night about a future comedian named Billy Crystal bemoaning in his autobiography, Baby Boomer Arrogance Never Dies, about how Jews bend over backwards to adopt Christmas traditions, so they don’t feel so old world clingy Jewy. Nobody cares anymore about the rocking band of Maccabees reclaiming the Great Temple of Solomon because they’re not the polytheistic whores like the rest. Taylor Swift is the number recording artists in the future, and she grew up on a Christmas Tree farm for Christ’s sake.” Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Matthew asks, “What’s a Christmas Tree Jesus? “Jesus says, “A camouflaged cross, but it’s going to be tricked out in lights that run on electricity, which will outshine any burn a mile of minute candles on a Menorah.  Any Jewish record executive would jam a pinecone up their ass if they promised Taylor Swift more inclusiveness gayness spirit to be produced on her next Christmas album.

Now, I used to get very tense about the mention of Jesus, but not anymore, since my invention of a new tradition, Jesus Fridays, which allows me to break my Koshertarian diet of the past 2 years and counting. Understand, I’ve been following the Koshertarian Diet for 2 years now. Finally, I’ve allowed myself the inclusion of shellfish for a special occasion because who cares about eating soulless shellfish? Plus, Jesus, the original super Jew rocked the Pescatarian diet. So, if it’s good enough for Jesus, then it’s good enough for me. I also like the idea of acting less like an all-knowing exalted prick. And celebrating Jesus Fridays inspires me to connect with my fellow Gentile like a retired fireman who runs the best deli in Westchester in North White Plains. Outside my new office, after just resurrecting my IT Headhunter Writer career. Where I’m getting paid to creatively sell job opportunities for Software Engineers, digital designers, and Information Technology workers in general, whose job prospects have more legs than Lieutenant Dan. I like Jesus Fridays because it divorces me from perpetuating any messianic complex of my own, which screams, the original version of the Bible is better than second part that I’ve barely dabbled in for the most part. And I’m tired of being that old timer Gen X guy that just bemoans new age Simpsons episodes as woke filler compared to season 1 through 7 without even dabbling in the newer versions to make any ultra judgy informed decisions of my own. Like when I saw Juno, ages ago and got angry about how everyone was hailing the hardcore hilarity of it, when I saw Juno as nothing more than a poor girls’ Jeanne Garafalo. I wrote a blog about the movie being overhyped, yet I told myself afterwards, don’t be a critic, hack breath like the rest. It’s way better to originate, then merely pontificate. So, I wrote mini porn parody that I turned into my 1st screenplay, Juno Does Williamsburg, later named Brooklyn Blogger. Edgeless titles suck pinecone dick, Challah. Thank you very much.

At the same time, I’ve worn Jewish pride on my sleave for the past 5 years and change as host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, responsible for banging out comedy records such as Big Mouth Moses, Koshertarian Offensive, and the Pig-Headed Jew, Challah. Thank you very much. I’ve also written and published The Great American Jew Novel, which Diane Sullivan from the Midwest Book Review described as a “Hilarious exploration of New York Comedy and Culture.” Which proves that my material wasn’t too overtly Jewy pushy annoying for the Heartland’s tastes. And for the past 2 months, I’ve renamed my Do It All Dad Year Podcast, the Shabat Shalom Ramble, in honor of my dad accusing me of never being on point, despite him proclaiming 5 years ago before I launched my podcast, how nobody cares about my political opinions anyway, 45 thousand page views on my Do It All Dad Year blog later.

 Well, I haven’t read the news since Dominion Machines won. And I don’t see Kari Lake recruiting Linda Hamilton as her VP to take down the new Sky Net For good. Plus, how much more can we stomach talk of Alex Jones being bad Santa versus John Fetterman being a burnt out offering of the Democratic party who looks like the Good Will Grinch who showers in Bong Water. So, more than ever 3 million Jews in the US, according to Alexa, which is most likely an inflated claim, like Antifa still being nothing more than an idea in Patton Oswalt graphic novels, about a gang of wannabe Punisher vigilantes, in hoodies, could use some miraculous ways to modernize Hannukah and make it more festive than Christmas than Google ever would. Because I want other Jewish American Dads to derive extended Nachas from pronounced Jewish pride from their offspring when they proclaim to Daddy how they get butterflies in their stomach every day before each night of Hanukah begins, which was the opposite of my experience growing up. Getting a Pinball Machine one tear one year for Hannukah was unbelievable, despite being woken up every night prior to Hannukah because dad couldn’t resist the urge to play with it himself and break it in personally. Which made my younger brother and I believe that Aliens from Space Invaders were raining Gama Rays on top of our house eight nights prior to Hannukah because my dad was making his best Hannukah gift all about his own self-enrichment over ours. Still, my dad was raised an only child, so you can’t blame him for occupying his inner loneliness in his forties the week before Hanukah, because playing Dreidel by himself, gets played out faster than trying jerk off with your left in honor of shortest-lived New Year’s resolution yet. Which only leads to more played out blue ball’s devastation. So, here’s 8 ways to start making Hannukah more festive than Christmas. There are 14 million Jews worldwide. So, if this post goes viral, my Hannukah wish of 8 million butterflies can come true. And you can’t knock the miracle of mitzvah moves, Challah. Thank you very much.

  1. Understand, I haven’t collected paychecks in 8 whole years till this past December after resuming my IT Headhunter Career, where I can drop lines like, “Michael Kornbluth here, Recruiting Manager for Digital Unicorns USA. With a last name like Kornbluth, I specialize in mind control, in Kayne’s mind. So, when my wife tells me, “Don’t get carried away with getting the kids gifts this year for Hannukah.” I fire back with, “New tradition kids, when you get 3 Big Kahuna gifts on the 1st night of Hannukah. You each declare loud and proud, “Hannukah Hatrick, Challah” I add, “So, in this instance, go woke yourself babe, Gentile Grinch.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  2. 2nd way to make Hanukkah more festive is to start the tradition of Hannukah Halloween. And force your son to dress up like Van Halen with a pack of candy cigarettes in hand. Who cares if your mini air guitar appendage looks like an overdose at the limelight waiting to happen. Party Monster spirits live, Challah. Thank you very much.
  3. 3rd way to make Channukah more festive is to play Dreidel for Bitcoin versus more fake news Gelt. But explain the rules in humorous ways. For example, when the dreidel lands on Hey, you sing, “Hey, hey Paula, I want to marry you. Now give me half and full custody of the kids. I don’t want you coughing your natural immunity all our kids anymore, you anti-vaxer piece of shit.” Challah, thank you very much. Shin, means put it in, think Cardi B on a slow Tuesday. Nun, means nothing, goonish. Remember our routine at the Deli Matilda, when you could only put 2 words together? What did Tyson Chandler give the Knicks Daddy? And you’d say,” Bookpus, Boopku. And Gimmel means, give me everything because we control all the blockchain technology, Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole too. Son says, “Samuel, don’t even think of stealing my bitcoin, or I’ll sell your pure blood on the Dark Web along with your vintage Cobra Commander with the blue mask and eyes holes in it that looks like Gung Ho’s bottom bitch in Robot Chicken remake of Pulp Fiction.” 8 million butterflies Challah, thank you very much.
  4. 4th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to play the Adam Sandler Channukah song on Vinyl backwards only to hear the latest and greatest chorus addition, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.” Challah. Thank you very much.
  5. 5th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to Jewish guilt Software Engineers at Amazon into seriously questioning the state of their moral compass by sending them LinkedIn Inn-Mail messages through LinkedIn Recruiter that read, “Tell Bezos to make the Hebrew Hammer available on Amazon prime already despite Florida and antisemitism being so hot right now.” 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  6. 6th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to sign your kids up for art classes that teach your kids how make masked morons made out of clay for fuck the CDC day. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  7. 7th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas, permit your kids the freedom to pile drive mommy’s white Guido, non-denominational tree while dressed as Mr. Wonderful for Channukah Halloween instead. 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.
  8. 8th way to make Hannukah more festive than Christmas is to launch your Burning Mask Party already, for eight glorious nights while throwing some of mama’s Gnomes on top because they look like Santa’s burn out Trust Fund Babies on Social Security. What’s another burnout offering after making Goodwill Grinch Fetterman the new face of the Democratic Party. So, what difference does it make? 8 million butterflies, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Mustard House Is For Sale

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, storytelling, writing

Once upon a time, in 1903, there was a Stay-At-Home dad, Bukowski Kornbluth, who lived in the derided Mustard House within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, forty miles north of the original Yankee stadium known as Hilltop Park in Washington Heights. This was before it became a cocaine pickup haven for suburban kids in the eighties throughout Westchester Country, who required more stimulation that what the leafy suburbs and colonial house-populated streets offered, knowing that the only thing getting blown on a regular basis, there, were leaves.  

            Every day, Bukowski Kornbluth would stare at his newborn son Arthur and bemoan, “I can’t believe Hasbro rejected my game Condiment Land and chose Candy Land, those anti-Semite bastards.”  

            Before, Bukowski Kornbluth had worked as a shoeshine boy outside of Grand Central, making enough to live off Hebrew National dogs. But that was it. Now he was developing a stomach ulcer at ripe old age of 25, and was married to an Irish nurse, Chloe Duffy, whom he got pregnant by mistake (because pulling out on time was physically impossible, knowing that Bukowski Kornbluth blew his load in 1.1 seconds flat).

            After Chole Duffy’s prominent fireman lieutenant dad died, she inherited some money and made a down payment on the Mustard House, while using her collection of rare Irish whiskies that her father collected (tracing all the way back to Rob Roy times) for collateral because Bukowski Kornbluth was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under judicial review.

            Even during his shoe-shining days, Bukowski had dreams of becoming a professional songwriter, because growing up in a cramped tenement on the Lower East Side with nine other siblings, it was the radio which filled him with dreamy, big city success wonder. This made going to sleep still hungry again a tad more tolerable, knowing that his dad’s career as a pickle sales rep for Kosher Dill Delights wasn’t getting them a townhouse on Park Avenue anytime soon, either.

            Now, more than anything, Bukowski Kornbluth wanted to write a better song than ‘The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous’, to take him out of his Mustard House jail so he could finally enjoy some bright lights and big city success for himself.

            But one day, things changed when Bukowski had the radio on at home to hear the Yankees play, after he started throwing Cracker Jacks at his newborn son Arthur because he was hungover from drinking too many Rob Roys alone; because his nurse wife worked nights and he was stuck at home with his son again on Shabbat, with nowhere else to go but down self-pity lane (which was getting tiresome and beyond boring at this point in his life).

            Growing up in the Lower East Side, Bukowski Kornbluth was a solid stick ball hitter, which earned him the nickname Yard Blaster (which certainly beat the nickname his putz prone, younger brother earned on those same streets, Trips on Curbs).

            What if, instead of writing songs about ex-loves and depleted dreams, Bukowski Kornbluth could refocus his attention on baseball and dreams of being a big shot at the ball game for a much cheerier, less depressingly dreary change of pace? 

            Bukowski Kornbluth continues to pelt his son with more Cracker Jacks, yelling, “Duck! Cracker Jack attack!” Then an idea ẻmerges, and Bukowski Kornbluth says, “I finally got it this time, kid. I’ll write a song about going to the ballgame for anything except more fucking hotdogs, to remind me of this damn Mustard House.

            “But what if the object of universal interest I focus my song on is Cracker Jacks?

            “Old Bet, the famous circus elephant, was buried ín nearby Sommers outside the famed Elephant Hotel, so I’ll write about grabbing some peanuts at the ball game in his honor, too. There’s no reason why I can’t write a hit song about America’s favorite pastime and pigging out at the ball game. It’s a home run, kid.

            “Where can I find a pencil? Arthur, give me those crayons, if you haven’t eaten them up already.

            “Despite me being miserable about being an unemployed Stay At Home Dad out in the sticks, it doesn’t mean I love you any less, Arthur. But Stay At Home Dads can’t survive unless they have something grander to aim for in life besides being a loving, proud dad; and this is my last shot to hit one out of the park, kid.

            “Never stop swinging hard for the fences, Arthur. You’re an all-American slugger like Daddy. I can feel it in you just by the way you made me partially deaf from smacking me in the ear with your rattle, once.”  

            Bukowski Kornbluth wrote ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game’ as his son Arthur finally got to sleep in a pool of his own Cracker Jack vomit.            One year later, Bukowski Kornbluth got introduced at Yankee Stadium (then known as Hilltop Stadium) and waved his Yankee hat to all the adoring fans in attendance, raining down hollering praise for the man who wrote the official father/son bonding anthem for baseball games in America.

            Now his son Arthur pulls on his dad’s leg as the cheers grow even more vociferous for the Do It All Dad done good, and says, “I got a Honus Wagner rookie card, Dad.”  

            Bukowski Kornbluth says, “Stop ruining the moment, kid. They just sell you the cards for free gum.”

            Arthur says, “I think it will be worth something someday, Dad. Also, can you remind me why I can’t stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack, again?”

Michael Kornbluth

Chipmunk Hucksters

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, poetry, writing

I love telling Hair Sniffer supporters left how Democracy is dead.

You’d think I barged into a crowded theater and yelled, “He took showers with his daughter.

And forced her to talk like Buckwheat in the pursuit of hair follicle raising paradise.”

Rock Journalism is dead when Steph Curry graces the cover of Rolling Stone.

That’s like putting a young Cameron Crowe on the cover of Rolling Stone and just as lame.

Why not put Stephen A. Smith on the cover Rolling Stone?

He can complain about not getting paid more than Skip Bayless.

Because of his inferior character after getting Max Kellerman kicked off 1st Take for refusing to kiss Lebron’s ass as if his clot shot hush money from the CCP was riding on it.

About to resume my IT staffing career again.

Dad says.

Mom told me that there’s plenty of money on the table.

Now, will see if you can get it.

Tony Robbins can retire his headset now.

A new life coach motivator is in town.

My dad might as well say, “If you only had Hunter’s contacts. I’m only calling because mom guilted me into it. I still don’t know how were related. My tennis buds still know you as a sheltered bum.

Dad adds.

My old sales boss Norb says, “If you make a mistake, just fess up to it and explain your logic behind your dumb fuck decision.”

I reply.

So be a thoughtful salesperson and don’t be a defensive asshole whenever you fuck up in the process.

Got it pops, I don’t think Poopy Pants in the fake news White House got the memo, Trumpy Poo Tits included.

Lebron’s kids are on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Headline reads Chosen Kids, chosen to what? Hock Lebron’s Tequilla when they turn 21 on Instagram as brand evangelists.

What does Lebron know about Tequilla again?

I thought his body was a temple and only flopped down into the faceplant position for mere show.

At least Mark Wahlberg was the inspiration behind Vincent Chase on Entourage.

Lebron just culturally appropriating MJ’s out of this world clutchness in Space Jam 2.

If John Fetterman is presidential material, Democracy is capable of being revived in our county through a Narcan only.

A cool dad buys his son a drum set at the Guitar Store. His wife says, “Hope you can handle the noise.”

Husband says, “Whatever it takes to drown you out bitch.”

Brother says to my mom, “Football is Brady’s life mom. You can’t expect him to leave it behind for Giselle’s uppity lisp. Besides, at this point, she’s 80 in model years.”

I say, “That’s my material. Do you identify with Carlos Mencia now? If my book United, We Laugh wins some contests and goes on to become an international best seller, I can afford to buy my wife her Range Rover or just make a move on Giselle because I can afford to for a change. What, I’m same age as Tom Brady. Plus, he didn’t win Grooviest in High School. Last, I can make Giselle my latest and greatest, Impossible To Top Cheesesteak that’s made from Impossible Burger Meat which will guarantee immediate lock jaw love in return long time, all the time. I also don’t recall Brady being blessed with the funny Jew bone. And mine is more endowed than the rest. I could mount her standing up versus my German speaking trainer on the Peloton and scream, “Do you feel it in your belly button yet? I’d drink Pineapple Chili hard Kombucha out of your slippery sly snatch during my next fast for carb free week. You can use your Super Angel wings on my daughter for Christmas. I won’t give a shit about her looking like an overdose at the Limelight waiting to happen. I’ll suck on your toes like they were Empanadas stuffed with Duck Confit. I’m down for a three-way Giselle. I’m better at multi-tasking now, off Adderall, I promise. Although if you really want to piss off Tom, you’d be better off banging Pete Davidson. My name Michael Kornbluth is too long for your lisp to wrap around it, it’s a total mouthful. Kim Kardashian can’t wrap her mouth around it. Who would pay money to see that sex tape? I’d rather watch Jared Leto pleasure himself with one working arm in Requiem for a Dream. What’s their idea of pillow talk? So, Kim, what do you think of Steph Curry being on the cover of Rolling Stone? Does Kayne blame the Jews for killing rock journalism too? Kim says, “I’m sure you were on Jan Wenner’s short list Pete.” Chipmunk Hucksters rule everything around us, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Sounds Of Dronish Cuntry

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Kevin Durant is frustrated with Ben Simmons is the gayest sentence of all time.

Second, is Ben Simmons wants Kevin Durant to give a Ted Talk on how to block out the sound of cyberbullying.

Sounds of dronish cuntry live, Challah. Especially now that were officially under control of The Dominion Machines.

The Dominion Machines always win.

Unless Kari Lake recruits Linda Hamilton to run as her Vice President to take down the new Skynet for good.

After endless more stolen elections, I’m supposed to believe Dominion Machines aren’t wired for cheating.

Yeah, and John Fetterman doesn’t know what bong water tastes like.

Tell that to his hoodie from 86.

He’s like a mutant roach on life support.

Sounds of dronish cuntry, drone on, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Placation Nation

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

If Kyrie Irving hated Jews so much.

Then, why would he play basketball in Brooklyn?

The only thing Jewier than Brooklyn are fag hags like Lena Dunham.

Who’s the biggest reason why birthrates are an all-time low in New York.

Over the hill hobbit hipster hacks are pulling out early due to excessive meat sweats.

But the Hunchback of Bushwick during Restaurant Week, rocking the arm flapper look on Instagram isn’t helping.

But seriously, if you hate Jews so much, why would play in the Barclay’s Center, when it’s only a 10-minute walk to the heart of Park Slope?

Schillinger from OZ would last long, working as barista in Park Slope, as part of his new worker release program since Ari Emanuel from Endeavor Talent Agency took over for Leo Glynn as the new Warden of Ozwald State penitentiary.

“You know, I’d feel safer if you wore a wool hat in July like the rest.”

“Yeah, I asked for a double macchiato, not burnt espresso with a flaccid facade of foam on top.”

“So, try again. You don’t want to circumcise my happiness again, do you?

Schillinger cracks the coffee cup over the customers face.

And yells.

“Send me back to The Hole Ari.”

“I’d rather lose my mind on my own time.”

“Of course, this sniveling shit took a knee for BLM.”

“He drained them dry till Yom Kippur.”

“I bet Squid and The Whale was read Bi-Curious George growing up while being reared on Lou Reed Records?”

“I’d rather hear BLM do a Ted Talk on how Turbo Tax is some culturally biased shit. Then, serve fancy fagalah coffee drinks to these neutered nincompoops. What, I grew up on the Upper East Side on York, in the heavily German section while it still lasted. Who do you think was chasing Tony Curtis down a fire escape? It wasn’t Kyrie Irving’s grandfather; I’ll tell you that much. That part of Manhattan didn’t reek of shit weed from blunted nation yet either. Fuck this placation nation bullshit, I’m out of here.”

Placation Nation lives, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Jolt Scratch Fever

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, storytelling

It was 1986. Metroid came out on the original Nintendo, which had a female protagonist alien destroyer who reveals her bushy Red Sonia hair at the end after tossing off her futuristic, intergalactic helmet with a badass, nonchalant, superhero flourish, as if Molly Ringwald and Stan Lee had a dreamy comic book baby creation come to life.    Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in the fourth grade, spending more time now stargazing with her new telescope she got for Hanukkah than playing Metroid, because she saw how tweaky and sketchy her younger brother got once he got addicted to winning Metroid before his big sister did.

            Her younger brother Arthur would now sneak downstairs to the basement to pound his secret stash of later-discontinued Jolt Cola, which was the equivalent of six cups of coffee, resulting in him becoming the most sleep-deprived first-grader since Sam Kinson hooked up Drew Barrymore with his coke dealer at the Comedy Store.

            But her younger brother didn’t finish off all of his Jolt stash in the garage, because Matilda had snagged the rest to stay up for Haley’s Comet, which she couldn’t afford to miss because she had to write a paper about it for class.

            Actually, Matilda’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McCracken, gave her a permission to stay up late for Haley’s Comet by any means necessary, saying, “Isaac Newton wasn’t sent to jail for proving the earth was round, for her to punk out and be a lazy brain, goody two-shoes square.”

            Now Matilda is pounding more Jolt and noshing on some leftover Milky Ways from Halloween that she discovered hidden in the garage, eagerly awaiting to spot the world’s most famous comet blaze across the sky, knowing she won’t be able to see it again ’till 2061.

            By then, Matilda saw herself as a retired, famous astrophysicist who would eventually go viral (despite the Internet not having been invented yet), where she tells Carl Sagen on Real Time With Bill Maher her big bang theory, which was, “His mother was an atheist cunt, too.”

            Matilda realizes she’s out of Jolt, and in a frenzied spurt, she darts downstairs to grab one more Jolt despite her inner square telling her that she was getting more into the tweaky sugar rush high than catching a twice-in-a-lifetime event (if you’re lucky, knowing it was still 1986 and Wonder Bread still ruled everything around us before Benjamin’s become common vernacular after Puff helped Bigg blow up bigger than you-know-what. Meanwhile, Matilda’s younger brother Arthur was on his final stage of finally winning Metroid downstairs in the TV room, his eyes two feet from the TV as he sits Indian style in sweats and his NY Giant Mark Bavaro Rambo shirt from Big League Threads.

            As Matilda zooms down the stairs, she spots Arthur, still up playing Metroid. Normally, Arthur would be oblivious to all other action around him while playing Metroid, especially in his pursuit to finally the win the game before his big sister; yet, unfortunately, she inherited her dear dada’s clunky, heavy feet (which made it impossible to ever stay out late past curfew when she got older, especially knowing the creaky, old wooden colonial steps weren’t helping her stomping trail of sound subside anytime soon, either).

            Arthur turns his head, spots Matilda, and yells, “You didn’t see me. Don’t tell Dad. I’ll tell him you drank Jolt—on a school night, too.”

            Matilda says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arthur. I’m not Matilda—you’re just hallucinating from major sleep deprivation.  I’m actually surprised you’re not partially blind, like Han Solo after Leia unfreezes him from carbonite in Jabba’s place.”

            Arthur adds, “Don’t BS, me ‘Tilda. Wait a minute. I didn’t press the reset button to pause it.”      Now Arthur’s Metroid character gets his marrow sucked to death from a giant green force field-enclosing, brain-eating alien bug. Arthur freaks out, as expected, yelling, “I got killed, ‘Tilda! I’ve never been this close to winning. I’m gonna get you back for this. Can your telescope fly out the window? Let’s find out.”

            Matilda says, “Don’t even think about it touching it, Arthur. I haven’t even seen Haley’s Comet yet.”

             Matilda and Arthur bolt upstairs to his big sister’s room to wrestle control over the telescope, waking up her dad in the process. They barely squeeze in through her bedroom door together, almost becoming crazy glued together like a pair of tweaked Siamese twins.

            As they finally push loose through the door, they trip over each other, landing on top of her red, waxy bean bag with the discarded Milk Way wrappers on it.

            Dad comes in and says, “What’s all this commotion about? And why is everyone still up? Haley’s Comet just flew by 5 minutes ago. The show’s over, baby.”

            Matilda, who has Arthur in a headlock on the bean bag while giving him a brain-drilling noogie, looks up to her Dad and asks, in perplexed, enraged disgust, “Why didn’t you grab me for Haley’s Comet, Dad?”

             Dad says, “But, then I’d miss it. Plus, these telescopes don’t grow on trees. Besides, you get to grow up with Alf. He’ll provide you all the comic relief you’ll need.” 

Michael Kornbluth

Anti-Media Matters

by doitalldadyear, posted in humor, poetry, writing

Writing block is my son rubbing my pens on his penis.

Husband, Wife teams make me sick, especially the ones that operate farm to table restaurants near you.

I’d rather fuck a goat than blow 20 bucks for a burnt pizza with goat cheese on it. While resenting anyone who willingly goes into the business of hanging out with their wife for 17 hours a day, thanks.

Addias terminated their contract with Kayne at the cost of 250 million.

I thought Kayne designed his own shoes. Plus, prove Kayne’s point more America.

At this point, I don’t even care that Kayne mentioned the Jew controlled media. Let’s not act as if my so-called people in the media have done anything to spotlight our stolen election since the day Democracy died. I don’t even hear Greg Gutfeld call Amy Barrett, Mia Farrow with better husband selection. The same media, Jewish controlled or not, who doesn’t call out big Pharma, fuck face Fauci or our nefarious puppet government that’s pushed the clot shots on our children at nauseum as if they made a bet with the Dukes of Comet Pizza to see who could fuck over more young kids than remote learning and lab created meat prison camps in a NY minute.

I like Kayne sporting a white lives matter shirt since All Lives Matter became the new n word. I like Kayne pointing out how George Floyd was a slowed down version of Rodney King on Fentanyl.

“I don’t want people to give misguided hate an audience.”

If the media, Jewish or not, is misguided hate, then Judd Apatow is the Chief Happiness Officer for Breitbart.

Ari Emanuel acts like a real friend to the Jewish people by calling for Spotify to strop streaming Ye’s music when he said dick about Obama gifting Iran 150 billion without congressional approval to produce more chest hair removal cream for the Kardashians.

Don’t you think Amazon denying the sale of the Hebrew Hammer on Amazon Prime is more hostile to Jewish superheroes than Ye’s hackneyed, older than Yiddish asides Ari? Why not call for all your clients to end their streaming deals with Amazon until they remove Mein Kampf for sale on Black Friday?

WME clients like Lebron, King of The Persecution Complex, has canceled an episode of the Shop because of Ye’s continued repeating of dangerous stereotypes during the filming of it.

Voter ID is racist. How can else can you tell MS-13 apart, with all that shit on their face?

BLM doesn’t cause 2 billion dollars in property damage if brothers in the struggle stop resisting arrest.

BLM only gets charged with tax evasion because Turbo Tax is culturally biased software.

Lebron’s no role model because he makes young black men think they can get away with all the offensives charges they want.

1 kid only means your diaphragm is for walls after all.

Deplorable is anyone whose glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.

Sanctuary cities are encouraged lawlessness on crack.

No bail laws are an endless supply of get of jail free cards.

Tony Podesta has enough pedo themed artwork to gaze at while munching on pizza over games of nude ping pong with Susan Sarandon to make Marilyn Manson blush.

Westbrook should be the new spokesperson for Tampax Tampons after Melo retires his bitchy belabored ass. Name another NBA lifer in designer glasses, that’s been responsible for stopping so much flowage.

“Please support the boycott of Kayne.”

Like Kayne’s fly guy Jesus Rap was flying off the shelves.

Like atheist Jews too cheap for ad free Spotify are still clamoring to buy The Life of Ye after he hugged it out with Trumpy Pee.

And shut the fuck up Kim Kardashian. Nobody cares about your meaningless placation fodder on Instagram. Speak out against crime in your hometown of LA and I’ll care about your social justice reform efforts before the City of Angels resembled Mad Max meets Tent City sponsored by REI.

“We cannot support hate speech, bigotry or antisemitism.”

What else can we support then Kim? Bitching out Karaoke tits for bitching out a waiter in SOHO for fucking up his egg white cunt scramble.

“We cannot support any content that amplifies his platform.”

Fine, I’ll support my own hate speech. I hate everyone in the media, Jew and gentile alike who sold millions on taking the clot shot. Which causes more cases of sudden cardiac arrest than torn condoms at Bill Mahr’s Airbnb fuck pad in Rio during the last leg of his standup comedy tour, Third Legged Beauties.com.

“Hate speech is never ok or permissible.”

What if it’s about Mr. Groper, who forced our military to take the clot shot or look for solar panel sales groups to network with on LinkedIn Pulse?

Kayne only signed with Addias because he fantasizes about squeaky clean preppies like Jared Kushner being behind bars for insider trading like his father.

Like Kayne running his mouth about the Jew controlled media is going to accelerate the smash and grab robberies already occurring along the Gold Coast of Chicago and in Beverly Hills at breakneck speed before there’s nothing left to steal. Like Suge Knight, emptying Vanilla’s Ice’s sweats of any lent covered roaches after getting him to sign over ownership of his master recordings for Ice, Ice Bay soon afterwards.

In the spirit of Ice Cube, I’m not antisemitic, I’m anti-media.

Mark Levin, the Blowhard One, blows.

Laura Inghram is a less ghoulish looking Ann Coulter.

Joy Reid is Jemele Hill in drag.

Tucker Carlson is Charlie Rose in Vineyard Vine briefs.

And just as original.

Who names his book Ship Of Fools?

That’s a Grateful Dead song from Mars Hotel?

Tucker doesn’t have one pothead bud left from boarding school, since he left CNN for Fox News.

Fuck anyone in the media who’s not condemning Operation Death Speed, especially those openly sick enough to push it on our kids, licktards still into Trumpy Poo or Poopy Pants included.

Anti-Media Matters, Challah

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth