Homers, Dunks and TKO’s

My father gave the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me.
Jim Valvano

If I took PED’s at Sleepaway Camp. I would’ve struck out with more accelerated speed. PED’s make you stronger but they don’t come with a no choker guarantee. Nor do PED’s automatically deliver Kate Hudson on top of your lap, to tap for an overdue power surge against the Phillies in 2009 World Series.

 

So, what does A Rod coming to life after banging Kate Hudson in her prime have to do with Homers, Dunks and TKO’s? Or Kate Hudson trying to make her ex-husband Chris Robinson, lead singer songwriter of the Black Crows jealous again? Which is hard to do when you’re good enough to make a record from your sold out shows at the Greek Theatre, playing nothing but Led Zeppelin covers with Jimmy Page.  It comes down to confidence. And what I’ve learned in life is the only way to develop confidence is from the forward propelled thrust of momentum powered winning.
Growing up, I never had conversations with my dad about how Larry Bird was a Gym Rat who lived in the gym, or how Michael Jordan kept his work out routines top secret to maintain his competitive edge. All I recall hearing from my dad who did coach me in basketball throughout elementary school if you want to call it coaching, is to get out of the way for Carmine to take the last shot.

 

Carmine was a way better ballhandler and shooter than me and one year older, but he also wasn’t my son. It wouldn’t have been nice to have a dad who pushed me to take the last shot, instead of defining me as a soft choker. Incapable of becoming a true Alpha Male on the court due to my tendency to prance down the court on my tippy toes. Looking like I was rocking high heels instead of high tops.
If LaVar Ball was my coach dad growing up, he’d offer Rihanna future profit participation points in exchange for hooking up my knock-kneed ass, so I’d feel like a bigger baller inside. He’d throw a spin the bottle house party in my honor. And only invite stuck up Jenny from the Block. 2 minutes into the party, Lavar Ball, my substitute, coach dad, barks at Jenny. “The Yahoo bottle, doesn’t spin itself bitch.” I never had the opportunity to perform that bit at the Apollo Theatre for its amateur showcase audition because I showed up later than the 300 Michael Jackson impersonators before me. Had no idea there was a number cut off for the open call auditions. I would’ve showed up earlier but my wife needed to sleep because she worked the night before at the hospital. And 3 kids aren’t old enough to babysit themselves yet. My 1st moral parenting stance was insisting my daughter only watch Woody Allen films which were made pre-Soon-Yi and only listen to Michael Jackson songs released pre-Jackson 5. Then, my pedophile neutralized playlist rule was more black and white.
Carmine’s father coached his 1st born son in football and turned him into a beast on the football field and hardwood floor. Carmine never hesitated or questioned his ability to drive to the hoop into heavy traffic, draw contact and score with resounding, Raging Bull authority. And on the football field nobody hit harder with more technically sound, wrap both arms around the hip’s proficiency, as he drove you into the ground like a welter weight Dick Butkus more than Carmine did. Thing is, Carmine was a sweet, Italian kid off the sports battlefield who wasn’t a bully Guido at all. Guido’s don’t get enough credit for being the 1st Metrosexuals of their time but I digress.
I haven’t thought about Carmine in ages, especially his dad, who was the closest thing to a cigar chomping, clone of Vince Lombardi mixed with the bravado panache of a more imposing, barrel chested Pat Cooper. He’s an old school Italian Catskills comic who still appears on the Howard Stern show. He’s the Italian Don Rickles minus the career but a living legend, worth seeing before he chokes on his Pasta Fungoo, nonetheless. I’m a Jewish New Yorker so it’s my birthright to bust balls. Plus, according to my wife I’m a shitty actor and a wise ass Jewish New Yorker doing a wise ass Italian New Yorker isn’t a stretch, nor does it require much reconfigured, accent accentuation to pull it off  the limited  character transformation either.

 
Back to Carmine’s coach Dad, who was very intense on the sidelines of football games. Basketball wasn’t his real love because I don’t remember his dad attending any games at all, despite Carmine being the best clutch baller on our Rec basketball team by far. Football was his father’s love, so Carmine’s father poured his heart and soul into turning his 1st born and only son into a pounding, winning machine. Who left all his blood sweat and tears on the field.

 

Carmine oozed a passion for winning which was more palpable than most. The hunger and drive to exert his will and dominate anyone who got in his way was a thing of beauty to behold. I want my 3 kid’s to be in the game, not so it will look good on their college resume. I want them to be in the game because they live for taking the game winner. I want them to shoulder the responsibility of winning and push others to become clutch leaders in big moments themselves. I want my kids to believe in their ability to will a way to win, regardless of what ailment plagues them like when Jordan beat the Utah Jazz for his 6th NBA ring despite playing with a debilitating, draining case of the flu. Hillary couldn’t even make it to a campaign rally in Wisconsin because of her nervous coughing fits of despair. I want my kids to get addicted to winning. So, they become hungrier for bigger, meatier conquests to conquer with all their fighting might.

 
I tend to be very hard on myself for not doing standup comedy earlier or not getting involved in my radio station at Ithaca College because I had a radio show my sophomore year when I attended Lake Forest College, on the North Shore of Illinois prior. Reality is, I was a major stoner at Lake Forest whose roommate was an even bigger stoner from the Big Island of Hawaii. Kowal was Chinese American and cousins with Bette Midler. Which makes sense, because he’d get a tad hysterical yentaish Freshman year of college. Bitching non-stop about the low quality of commercial Midwest weed, he was blowing a mini-fortune on at college compared to the higher quality, cleaner tasting, longer lasting, Maui Wowie dreaming. Sophomore year, Kowal had his kid brother mail him the primo 70 dollar an eighth-crystal specked green delight in peanut butter jars from home. Which Kowal later mixed with Moroccan Hash, courtesy of Bora and Kappa. Who smuggled in their hash from Turkey in swallowed up plastic bags, forgoing the price of paying a drug mule for the handling cost of delivery. In short, my brain was fried constantly, sophomore year in college. As a direct result, of playing perpetual catch up from both spending one more extra day in Mardi Gras than I should in addition to mixing, the strongest strains of THC on this planet on a daily basis for the entire school year. Plus, I did zero preparation for my radio show, thinking playing a 22-minute Whipping Post by the Allman’s at Filmore East was a wonderful use of my time there to work on my craft knowing I only had 30 minutes of air time for myself on the campus radio station mike in the 1st place.
As I explain to my kids, I half-assed my radio show at Lake Forrest College. I should’ve shown more pride in my work but add that to the list of things my dad never talked to me about growing up. But you only take pride in your work when you care about doing the job good. And that’s hard to accomplish, when you’re smoking 70 dollar an eighth weed on school nights where after only 1 hit. The entire movie Pink Floyd Wall, flies by like that and you feel like you comprehended everything and all its meanings but not really.

 
Still, one day at Lake Forest College on my radio show, I did try something different with a vein of humor, involving the Gamma Roe Sorority and shaving cream. Which was a pretty ballsy move on my part in retrospect because it’s not as if I was face deep in high grade Gamma Roe puss. Sure, I hooked up with a striking looking Ecuadorian gal Edna in addition to a real cute, hippie pothead Nicole who was friends with those sorierty sisters but this was the extent of me putting my MOJO imprint on top of the Lake Forrest College map. Before I finally lost my virginity, but not really at 1st because I couldn’t squeeze into the traditional hole of choice, which never felt lubricated enough, nor would I dare to watch my surging manhood disintegrate in my own hands, from putting a condom on the wrong way again. Unfortunately, this upper classman musician as cool as she was with her Rocket Queen pierced nipples, wasn’t the one known for putting condoms on by the skin of her teeth.

 

Look, I understand most boys to men fumble with a condom for the 1st time in the process of losing their virginity. Still, having some semblance of a winning streak with any girls in high school prior would’ve provided much needed momentous might in this instance. Or if my dad pushed me to sign up for Kung Fu lessons in Junior High. I’d be a more centered, less fretful putzy of a Jew at 20 years old. And at the time, not feel like such a stupid, useless jerkoff in the presence of a willing, busty, giving upperclassman, ready to pounce and make my wet dreams come true.

 
I’m not drinking beer until I achieve my target weight of 195 pounds, JJ Reddick’s playing weight in college for Kansas. I’m 6’4 like him and now down to 205 at 42 years of age. And I would get asked for ID when I was still drinking beer, out with my 3 kids, no less. Which made me feel like a teen mom dropout from Tallahassee. Recruiters find me on LinkedIn under Crystal Meth Homemaker. Come to think of I should go back to school like Rodney after all.
When I got married eight years ago, I weighed 230. How did I become a such a bloated, pasty, over the hill hipster conjuring hack in the making? Thinking I was deep enough to handle drinking fine Kentucky Bourbon in my late thirties on top of sucking down endless double IPA’s for aperitif topers didn’t help. My reason for losing the remainder of my past binge drinking weight is to show my kids the importance of taking pride in your appearance. Which is taking pride in your brain also, because the 2 are interconnected. I saw a camcorder video at a friend’s house with me in the outfield for Pee Wee league picking my nose, looking like the most ineffectual, lost boy loser on the planet. How my parents allowed me to develop into such a useless sloth is beyond me.

 
Now, I’m abstaining from my cherished IPA’s till I get down to my target launch weight, so I can dunk out in front of my 3 kids like an old school Tom Chambers with resounding, divine powered, authority. Dunking on the hoop this summer at the park with a kid’s ball that isn’t regulation size doesn’t count. I’m losing this remaining weight, so I can reclaim and reassert my manhood on a far bigger scale than ever before. Proving to my children’s it’s never too late to shine. Proving to them, prides on my side. Proving how it’s never too late drop-dead weight from your life in order to fly.
Watching my 7-year-old daughter launch another whiffle ball long and hard against the back of our humble abode as she rides the bull on our yellow whiffle bat is a thing of beauty to behold. Watching my 4-year-old son Art Show USA whiz catchable Johnnie U tight spirals down from the stairwell from a mini football into my arms again and again this morning, was a better feeling than pure E kicking in. My 20-month-old Samuel mimicking pushups downstairs on our new Rocky Rug, resembling more of a Downward Dog dry hump will soften the most hardened of hearts, Hillary Hammer Time Cankles excluded.

 
Both of my son’s said ball for their 1st words because they spent so much time at the park with their stay at home comedian dad. For Matilda it was dada. The role of Life Coach for my 3 kids is by far the most empowering role of a lifetime like Robert Downey Junior as Iron Man before he started acting funnier than he actually is in real life.
All 3 of my kids listen to me because they respect me. They listen to me because they see the positive results of my tutelage. Matilda conquers every new set of Monkey Bars with relentless, making them her bitch every time ease. Arthur is now doing the same nor was he threading tight spirals of any kind prior. Samuel is already doing 5-pound Kettle Bell raises at 20 months old, freaking multitasking as we’re watching the Goldberg’s, on Hulu, reliving my age of innocence as family together as one.
In the past episode of the Goldberg’s, Wonder Years for Gen X, basically my pitch for my pilot trilogy Heavy Metal High that I pitched to VH1 Classic, except Dice plays my imaginary life coach whenever my manhood is under siege again. So, in the Goldberg’s, great show by the way, tremendous writing in it, the father pushes his son to get into shape, so he can do a pull-up for the new national fitness test instituted by Ronald Regan. At first, his mom gets a letter from the President excusing him. In the end, the nerd kid in love with movies like Red Dawn, does the chin-up and gets commended by the coach for a job well done. The father watches this all go down from the door of the gym, pumping his hands up in triumphant victory. He gave his son the gift of believing in him. Plus, he gave his son the gift of getting him addicted to winning so he’d become hungry for more. Homer’s, Dunks, and TKO’s won’t be in the kid’s future, but greater confidence in himself to overcome past paralyzing obstacles built up in his head will.

 

John Wooden, hall of fame coach of UCLA Bruins says, “Failing to prepare, is preparing to fail.” And that job is on me, being the involved do it dad that I am. As a father, if you can’t get excited about your role as life coach over your kid’s education to ensure they become more big time than you. Then, you’re self-serving, miserable cunt who I want nothing to do with ever. I’m making sure my kids are prepared to know what hard work and self-belief is necessary to become winners and bigger, bolder, better dream maker, shot callers than the rest.
The End
By,
Michael Kornbluth

Wishing My Son’s Birthday Never Blows

I don’t recall one special birthday as a kid besides my Bar Mitzvah Party. If the Aussie transplant student Joanne Matthews slow danced with me with too much upper body stiffness, then my 13th birthay would’ve been a total bust. Slow dancing with brace face Denna Kleinman was nice and I liker her spunky, not as peppy cute Punk Brewster personality. But she failed to stimulate visions of walking hand and hand along the boardwalk at Rye Playland at night. The way statuesque, fuller lipped, high caste conjuring, big blaster laugh Kajal did.

My son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, AKA Art Show USA, AKA Feather Foot, AKA Number 1 Capricorn, AKA Gimel Be Good, won’t have an issue attracting woman to slow dance with him at Bar Mitzvah Parties or for him. Because my son Arthur already looks like a handsomer, pubescent Leo. At 4 going on five, Art Show USA, number 1 Capricorn who was born on New Years Day, looks like a dreamy pairing of child star Chad Allen from Our House  and a less aw shucks, mop head blondie Ricky Schroder from Silver Spoons. But never coming off overtly preppy stiff either.

Arthur’s also hilarious already. These are his greatest ad lib hits so far. “Cortana, throw yourself out the window.” And “daddy be funnier than Weird Al by Christmas or I’ll kill you with your sharpest knife for real.” This morning, I’m working on a new blog post chapter post and ask him. “Art Show, what do you think of the title, Book Authors Are Fire Proof?”  He says. “Your office is on fire.” And my wife questions my comedic tutelage by exposing my son to an episode of Robot Chicken. Until I realized how Seth Green grew up in Hollywood as a child star. So of course his sense of humor is going to be ten times darker than mine. Assuming he hung out at the Viper Room with River Phoenix 1 more time than I did.

But forget the God given good looks and intrinsic sense of funny man timing, my son Arthur also happens to be the sweetest boy in the world. Who was drawing a picture of me as I picked him up early from Pre-K today. Arthur launches into yummy dances after taking a bite of my blanched broccoli, shitake bake casserole supreme in my honor. Whizzing around the kitchen back into our living room dinning room area. Singing “Best daddy ever, best daddy ever.” Arthur plays so well with his 7 year old big sister Singing Rose Matilda. Besides when Arthur orders his big sister around. Commanding her to put down her Barbies and play Honey wit him. Which is their teacher, pupil imaginary game. Under these circumstances, I’ll control my son with comedy and address his pushy, controlling behavior in a playful yet direct tone. I say,  “Calm down Little Hitler. You have the best sister ever. Because of Matilda your bare minimum grandparents on both sides are rendered 100% useless.” In case you’re wondering, Arthur, doesn’t like it when I call him “Little Hitler.” If he ever really pissed me off, I’d buy him eight MAGA Hats for Chanukah and drop him off in the middle of Prospect Park by himself and go for a run there for old times sake.

I’ll never get over my parents ho hum embrace of Art Show USA’s birth into our family.   The thing is Arthur was born 2 weeks early and my parents were already retired in Scottsdale, Arizona for 5 years already. So on some level, I feel my dad resented Arthur’s birth a tad because it’s not a good look when you only see your not 1 but 2 grandchildren now, only 10 days a year. When you’re both retired in your mid sixties in an Arizona Estate shrine home for themselves. Despite claims of getting it to make it a marquee vacation destination for my family to visit despite their old yenta friends spending way more time than our family has. And despite them buying the home after we already had Matilda and still hadn’t added 2 more children to our Kiss Army family at large.

Don’t get me wrong. My parents worked hard for their Arizona Estate home. Nothing was given to them. I respect their achievement in this respect immensely. Still, this financial, career offshoot accomplishment in a cushy Clinton years economy, pre 911,  doesn’t erase the fact that after my son Arthur was born, I sensed 0.0 rush to book the 1st flight to NY to hug and kiss their grandson.

What was more infuriating was me on the phone with my Dad who was on his way to Vegas after my son Arthur was born. On the phone, I said Dad. “Don’t forget to bet on 1 at Roulette in Vegas.” But my dad whose never been a narcissist according to my younger brother. Totally blanked on why he should bet on 1 at Roulette in Vegas. So I yell over the phone. “Let me help you dad. Bet on 1 at Roulette because your grandson was born on New Years Day.”

I return to work, cold calling Directors in charge application development as a new business development rep for the IT consulting staffing division of Robert Half at the time. As the day progressed, I become consumed with clench fisting rage over the fact my parents weren’t on a Southwest Flight heading toward Kennedy already because their flight back east was already pre-booked 2 weeks in advance. Later that evening, I told my mom how I felt. Thank God, my mom realized our fledging remnant of a relationship, depended on her booking a flight ASAP to see her grandson back east. Pops didn’t join her. My dad doesn’t do the cold anymore. Now, his favorite pastimes, retired in Scottsdale, Arizona. Are playing tennis with Dr. Ken and jerking off to the Weather Channel, whenever a new winter storm does a bukkake all over the eastern seaboard. Slamming it harder and harder with more flurries of winter blasts, again and again.

Last year a day before Arthur’s 4th birthday my wife still hadn’t contacted Jame’s mom from Pre-K yet to invite them over for Arthur’s birthday. And James was his only main bud there. To say I was infuriated was an understatement but I assumed ownership of the situation. Called Jame’s mom who I chatted it up with numerous times at Arthur’s Pre-K prior. She’s a pretty, striking, tall Croatian. So I got off making her laugh and she got my off the cuff humor which is always nice.  James made it to Arthur’s birthday with his mom, big sister and construction worker Dad. Who made me feel like Rocky staring up at Drago after he kills Apollo. I got every big balloon possible from Party USA. It’s a birthday tradition I established with his big sister Matilda from the start. We don’t have a big home so only inviting James and his family was perfect.  Jame’s big sister really got into me after I told her I hosted a podcast even though I hadn’t recorded an episode yet. I’ve done 57 since our exchange last year in case you’re wondering.

My parents always claimed birthdays were never a big a deal for them. But my children’s birthdays are for me. I tell my kids their birthdays are mine to because all 3 kids of mine have made me born again. All 3 of my kids have blessed me with the divine powered opportunity to relive my age of wonderous innocence but through more mature lives through lens this time around. So I can make sure they suffer less than me. So I can make sure they suffer from less career hampering mistakes than me. So I can make sure they develop richer, more substantial, more long lasting friendships than I have.

All of my kids birthdays also celebrates me becoming a family man, not a degenerate, self serving, show biz slut for hire. I love my children’s birthdays because each was a big deal then and always will be, come rain or shine. Without my children, I don’t do my podcast. I don’t decide to become a best selling book author. We make a great home team and celebrate all our unique brands of specialness all the way.

My children are superior company than most. And if you can’t get excited about the birth of my children, which are in essence sweeter, superior manifestations of me. Then, I think it’s safe to assume, I don’t possess a special place in your heart after all. As long as I’m around, my kids birthdays will never blow.  I’ll always make sure to make them feel like center of my universe and never be afraid to show it. I love my little Kiss Army with all my heart. Fathering my kids good is my starring part.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

The Meaning of the Hebrew Hammer

Dad texts 9:45 EST. Michael, have the kids call us tomorrow tonight at 6:30 so we can wish them a happy #Chanukah. And I’m thinking, chopped liver gets more respect from gentiles than this.

Call my nurse wife at work at night.

Wife
Is everything OK?
Me
You should defriend whoever gave you this wine for your birthday.
It tastes like Manischewitz and your mom’s cheap shit Prosecco had a baby.

Wife
Why are you drinking my wine?
Me
I just learned the Good Men Project is republishing 19 of pieces before sundown on the 1st night of #Chanukah .
Wife
Guess you deserve it.
Me
Why didn’t you say spoiler alert 1st?

Thanks and Praises Prayer
Lord, thanks for making my daughter Matilda so me oriented sweet. Her hair band holder #Chanukah gift to clip my felt tip pen around my wrist because I had stained my beige Levi jean pockets made me feel I’ve done good.

Thanks and Praises Prayer Part 2
Lord, thanks for the 25 dollar telescope steal of the century at Goodwill. It made the best big kahuna group #Chanukah gift ever. I think my wife wanted to overdose on the vitamins she gave the kids prior.

INT. NORDSTROM
Me
I’d like this Ugg Slipper because the grey one will encourage my wife to wear her black robe with floral print which I can’t stand. When my daughter wears it, I resent my wife for turning me off from my daughter.

INT. HOME
Me
Pete Davidson trending on Twitter again is really testing my commitment to comedy. I never contemplated cheating on comedy until now Matilda. That kid exudes less personable charm than a wax replica of Paul O’Neil.

What’s the meaning of the Hebrew Hammer Dada? Part 1
Andy Dick orders his pet reindeer’s Jew Hater Horn 1 and 2 to impale his Jew Lover dad Santa to death because he worshiped the golden Jew Adam Sandler more because he’s more child friendly than Dick.

What’s the meaning of the Hebrew Hammer Dada? Part 2
Andy Dick, Santa’s Jew hating son, has Santa’s Reindeer kill Santa because he refused to back Mitt Romney’s bid to gut Dreidel World and turn it into an Illuminati looking Nutcracker factory.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

My New American Dream

INT. HOME
4 Year Old Son
Is God happy?
Mom
God can be a she.
Dad
Mama’s feminist teen spirit post Meto eclipses any shot of Nirvana for God kid.

I got misty from the palpable love “The Fiz Kids” showered coach Fizdale with last night. And I’m still convulsing with roarish glee from Emmanuel Mudiay’s out of nowhere in your face, Mike Conley’s contract slam for the ages.

Eddie Vedder’s voice fluctuates between hushed, garbling, constipated tones and cathartic, overacted overtones like a darker, more masculine sounding Dave Mathews on better weed.

Lena Dunham is profiled by the Cut? But she got her own pad in the West Village without having to depend on her daddy for a handout. Lena cuts off her dad, not the other way around. Oh, I thought Cut was an indie glamour mag about suicide, my bad.

Did you know Lena Dunham was Hillary’s Social Media Community Manager? Only Lena Dunham could make Hillary Hammer Time Cankles less likable and relatable in 1 blubbery swoop.

When Trump won 2 years ago. I prayed for the Wall to be built around the strip clubs in Montreal. So Lena Dunham, wouldn’t scare away all the clientele. Amy Schumer is having a baby. Lena Dunham and Sarah Silverman are losing.

I hate stories about seeing Bruce live more than stories about seeing the Grateful Dead pre-Aids before Magic made HIV disappear. When you could bang any chesty Italian gal from Jersey in the parking lot at Giants for drum solo filler in between.

Wife
You haven’t given me any smiles today.
Husband
Stroke my ego and you know what else more. Then, talk dirty to me.
Because I want action tonight, satisfaction alright. And your PJ look with no make up on isn’t enough to make Thor go higher. I call my mighty pounder mallet Thor.

Foot Doctor Assistant
You didn’t show for your last appointment.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I have 3 kids and been blessed with useless, bare minimum, Facebook grandparents on both sides of the virtual fence babe. So don’t bust my balls babe.

INT. ZERO GRAVITY OFFICE
Elon Musk talks to his AI powered life coach computer.
Standing desks were so 2017 Tron Robbins.
If I move to Mars, I’ll be single longer because maintaining long distance relationships from mars are always a stretch.

INT. KITCHEN
Wife
I’m going to ask for work off Monday.
Husband
It’s your life.
Wife
That’s the meanest thing you can say.
Husband
You really think I’m a slacker, don’t you?

Shameless recycle of my gift letter opener for my part Turkish friend from college for Kwazna. He doesn’t celebrate Kwanza but some Turks must. Dear Dave,
Happy to hear about your path to sober, healthier, less destructive living.

Everything in Greenwich, CT is greener, brighter and prettier. My new dream is to buy a home there for my family as a well off writer performer entertainer. Westchester Country is like brownish, regular commercial weed in comparison. I can pass a drug test. I swear. My Weed Exit Interview Podcast was 3 months ago at least.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

Fatherhood is a Childhood Do Over Improver

I hate to make being a father of 3 all about myself. Meanwhile, the only available book at Barnes and Noble under the Parenting section for dads include: The Expectant Father, The Ultimate Guide For Dads-To-Be. So good luck gleaming any words of wisdom on how fatherhood grants you the gift of reliving your age of innocence for the benefit of your 3 children through more mature, lived through, less shy slouched, shaky lens. In an edgeless, humorless book about a fake news dad who’s  not even a dad yet I’m assuming.

The title Expectant Father is a dead giveaway on this dad knowing jack shit about being a dad yet. So from where I stand his 9 months, Hugh Grant inspired book, only proports to be about how the remainder of his wife’s pregnant life is dealing with his wife’s feelings regarding him drinking around her because he still can. Though it’s not encouraged, regardless of the husband being denied boom, boom time as a form of punishment for it. Which as a penalizing loss, loses less luster in your loins unless you’re eyeing other pregnant woman who aren’t your wife on the subway or maybe that was just me.

Allow me to indulge in a tad perverse, poignant old school obsessional point of mine for  1 more second here. Pregnant woman’ complexions are never better. Most pregnant woman are quite glow filled, celestial beauties in my book. I’m not saying I jerked it to Demi Moore on the cover of Vogue back in the day. But fully dressed pregnant woman on the Lex line. Still dressed to impress for work at Goldman Sachs.  With their added brazier bustage. On top of their luscious, healthy locks of yankable hair only added to the allure of this sexy Italian gal. Who laughed at all my ad libs during our natural birthing class is all I’m trying to say.

Especially, when I learned in our class how our late sixty year old, varicose vein heavy, birth instructor revealed 5 classes in how she never gave birth before. My reply in class? Wait a second. So you’re teaching a birth on natural child birth but never had a baby before? That’s like me paying 600 bucks to Perez Hilton. If I ever wanted to learn how to unhook a bra. The class was 8 years ago for what’s it worth.

The Expectant Father book might as well be renamed Slut in a Straight Jacket about now. And I know I’m not only 1. Or else I wouldn’t be in the exalted position to bang out my comedic parenting book masterpiece the Stay At Home Comedian “Controlling My Kids Through Comedy”? With neither sets of grandparents to lend a helping around.  Choosing Skyping their sister for 5 hours a time, and more tax reveal fake news money shot reveals on Maddow. But I digress, I confess.

Yeah, so back to original topics almost 500 words later. I’m no longer on Adderall. I promise. Fatherhood really is a childhood do over improver and in my case times 3. Because I have 3 children. This is the extent of mathematical structured language in my writing I assure you. In High School, my parents got a bumper sticker for my mom’s Acura which said “My son sucks at standardized tests.” Despite private tutors and help from Princeton Review.  So much for the aura of Rhode Scholar ex-Knick Bill Bradley  rubbing off on my son through a whiff of vibrational, reverberating Osmosis. My Dad fumes like a poor man’s Phil Jackson. Gnashing off the wet end of this Tareyton 100’s in his ashy chair in TV room at home with my brother and I present as the Knicks sucked the joint again.

Worst cigarette ever by the way Tareyton 100’s. For Chanukah 1 year I got my dad a raft from Marlboro for all the Marlboro miles I accumulated from him steering me away from such a rancid, cigarette creation known as Tareyton 100’s in the 1st place.

I don’t smoke cigarettes anymore in case you were wondering. Which is more than I can say for my Dad and younger brother. They also don’t wear seat belts either. Nor do they see themselves as narcissists despite my younger brother being the guy who poses selfies of himself driving on Instagram and Facebook. Sorry, dude, you’ve zoomed past the point of objective return dude.  Plus, my father’s death wish isn’t to die in his tomato garden as his grandchildren zip around singing Here Comes the Sun. It’s dropping dead on the tennis court from playing tennis in the dead of August. Content blowing off his 3 grandchildren for another summer of scorched love in Scottsdale, Arizona, for 7 years running and counting. No wonder why my dad questions whether how we’re related in the 1st place.

So fatherhood is a childhood do over improver. Because your dad’s, boorish, arrogant, bullying assholish vibe is 3000 miles away in Scottsdale, Arizona for starters. 2nd, fatherhood is a childhood do over improver because your young brother there isn’t there to make you feel like a perpetual loser around his chesty Israeli girlfriend in your parents house until you eventually hook up with a couple of Israeli girls during your Masada teen tour in summer of 93. When I’d whack it till my fingers bled. It was the summer of Fah, Foolin with my hand.  When I wasn’t wearing out my Pyromania Def Leppard tape on my Sony Walkman at the time.

3rd, fatherhood is a childhood do over improver because you don’t have to receive a book for Hanukkah from your mother called the “12 Stages of Puberty” at 15. Knowing, your younger brother already hit puberty at 13 and banged the 3 hottest girls in his class. That you tried to jerk off to at the time but couldn’t. Which made you feel like a real big brother bust. Think Eddie Curry from the Knicks with an even shittier, hook shot.

After receiving the puberty book, I declare. Great gift mom, the “12 Stages Of Puberty.”  Can’t to wait to reconfirm how behind schedule I already am. What’s the chapter called on losing my virginity? Let me guess. Deep Impact? Also, mom why would you give me this book in front of my younger brother? Knowing he can play with himself whenever he wants? Mom replies. But you do that all the time upstairs with your GI-Joe figures. Well past the recommended playing age listed on each new half naked GJ-Joe purchase for you to bang together late into the evening. But you don’t hear a peep out of me? Do you?

4th, fatherhood is a childhood do over improver because you’re able to coach your son in all forms of athletics and prove to label limiting grandpa. Your son will be more than a decent athlete. Whose Ninja conjuring quickness has already earned him the nickname Feather Foot for a reason.

5th fatherhood is a childhood do over improver because you’re able to give your dad heart palpitations for a change whenever he graces you with his presence from Arizona once a year because he can’t handle the east coast chill anymore. Now, his favorite activities during the winter in Arizona are playing tennis of course and jerking off the weather channel. No bullshit. His tennis instructor to me. My dad’s forehand has never been stronger.

Yeah, so back to the heart palpitations. Meaning, fatherhood is a childhood do over improver because I’m able to make my father feel like an inferior manly molder of men compared to me because I have my 6 year old daughter doing Kettle Bell Cow Girl swings with a 5 pound weight in his presence. Also, earning her nickname Deltoids Dawn due to her Kettle  Bell dense strong meat free, hulking physique so far. My daughter can beat me up in a year easy, especially since I got her enrolled in Kung Fu so she can bring out the ruckus if necessary. Point being, my father watches my 1st born,  6 year old Deltoids Dawn swinging the Kettle Bell Around like it’s a freaking rag doll as my Dad cramps up inside thinking. If I pushed weight training on my 1st born at such an early age, he could’ve saved me a fortune and at least secured a half ride to Iona College and live at home to save on room and board.

5th reason, fatherhood is a childhood do over improver because you get to vicariously live through your daughter’s glowing in person teacher reviews in your honor.  Which reflect quite well on this Do It All Dad’s handy work from the start. For example, my daughter’s 1st grade teacher emotes. I love your daughter Matilda. She’s the perfect student.  I wish I can clone more of her. Later on in the evening. I say to my daughter. Mrs. Farney gave you nothing but the highest marks but I’m most proud of you Matilda for being commended most for your perseverance. Daughter asks. What’s perseverance Dada? Doing what you have to do, even if it’s only once a year on her birthday.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth