Set List: New Work Banter, Nitpicky Lame, Year Without Beer Film Premise, Selectively Suspicious, Qatar Rocks, Big Pharma Blues, Headhunter Writer, Lame Love Lives.
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?”
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.”
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.
“I can’t believe you didn’t cry at the end of Rudy!” Dr. Tearjerker says. Fred, a bald, bearded, stumpy forty-year-old recently remarried furniture salesman from Nyack, NY replies, “Was I supposed to cry? It’s just a movie, doc.”
Dr. Tearjerker takes a deep breath to compose himself and says, “I think you’re incapable of experiencing joy for others.”
Matt the furniture salesmen replies, “How you can say that from only talking with me now, after I paid you 300 dollars an hour to watch Rudy for the past two hours?”
Dr. Tearjerker says, “My sports movie crying therapy bought me my house in Nantucket, a spacious 3-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side on York, and a Victorian mansion in Mount Vernon, NY.
That’s Denzel Washington’s childhood stomping ground, by the way, and I’m not a Long Island hack like yourself. That’s how I know, motherfucker.”
Matt says, “Doc, take it easy. You sound like my ex-wife already, and we just met. Look, I’m only here because I just got remarried; yet my kid from my previous marriage is already causing a strain on our marital relationship.
“All the melatonin gummies in the world can’t help my daughter sleep better at night, regardless of whether she thinks my new wife was pretty enough to replace Mommy or not.
“My new wife hates how I can’t cry at the end of schmaltzy, happy movies like Rudy, too, and questions whether I really want to have a do-over baby with her, after all.”
Doc says, “What the did movie Rudy make you think about?”
Matt says, “I don’t know, doc. How Vince Vaughn let his looks go to shit? I was never too into Sean Austin Green’s melodramatic lisp, regardless of whether The Lord of The Rings franchise was huge for his career or not.
“I thought about my Dad spending more time watching the Knicks stink up a joint, as a kid, than helping me develop a halfway decent hook shot or believable pump fake, in the post.
“I thought of how my parents reserve their most emotive cheerleading efforts for my younger brother, instead.
“I thought about the time my mom had me get her phone, which she left in my car, only to glance at a text for my younger brother to realize that she uses a nickname for me, Scoops, and for my younger brother, too.
“If your mom regifted a nickname to younger brother, the mama’s boy, because he’s always been her idealized romantic partner based on her sloppy slow dance display at his wedding, wouldn’t you have issues crying at the end of Rudy, too?” Dr. Tearjerker says, “How did that make you feel, to learn your mom uses the same nickname on your younger brother?
Matt the furniture salesman says, “It made me feel like a used furniture salesman; a nobody; an unwanted futon with bedbug bite marks after college.
“I’m open to more sports movie crying therapy, doc. I just want to start resenting my mother less than my wife.
“Since I became a dad, I started morning prayer; yet I’m worried about God taking my good fortune away, since giving me a daughter, because I don’t respect thy mother’s opinion on how and what I should be doing with my life when she’s barleying around to help with my kid in the first place.”
Dr. Tearjerker says, “Why do you resent your mother, besides her not being around to help with your daughter as much as you’d like?”
Matt says, “Whether I visit her in Florida or she visits me back east, she’s always sulking whenever my daughter gives me another jump hug. This saddens her because our bond will never be as close, I guess.
“Fuck radical empathy, Doc. My mom’s default sourpuss mode around my happiness-spewing daughter will always piss me off, more so than her misspelled texts inquiring about how I’m handling the weather back east after I regrettably text her another video of her granddaughter sledding on her Snow Screamer with hardcore funky smoothness from start to finish.
“Either you’re excited about your firstborn raising a girl who won’t turn into the cum bucket-drenched girl from the Fallen Angel video, or not.
“I get it, Mom. You really wanted your favorite to have given you a grandchild, instead, but he was too busy snorting coke for four decades straight, developing a mysterious stomach irritation out of the blue, and yet somehow blames it on being lactose intolerant.
“When all else fails, don’t look yourself to mirror or change your depraved ways. Just scapegoat fucking Lada Lakes. But I’m glad my mom decided to keep the crib for my daughter Matilda around their house in Florida to symbolize positive thinking and wish fulfillment at it’s finest. “And my wife calls me the unstable one for yelling at my mom the last time she visited, after insisting I get a maid, which I can’t afford, or that I express my displeasure with my younger brother personally for not acknowledging my daughter’s 10-year-old birthday whatsoever.
“Bet he’s got distracting demons to contend with; got it. All I know, Doc, is that my mother would never break into a constellation of canker sores over worrying on my behalf.”
Doc says, “Why do you resent your new wife? Didn’t you just get married?”
Matt says, “I love her, Doc, but it’s not my role to criticize my daughter so soon. Four years down the road, sure, but my daughter will be out of the house by then.
“So, if she chooses to live like a slob then, it’s her business, not mine. And no, I don’t want to get my daughter tested for ADD. I talk this much off Adderall, Doc. I actually stopped taking Adderall during my first marriage to focus less on how annoying my wife could be. It didn’t make a difference, really.”
Doc says, “Looks like our time is up.”
Matt replies, “So, what movie magic do you have planned for me next week, Doc? Remember The Titans, or Hoosiers, perhaps?”
Doc says, “So you feel nothing when Dennis Hopper fills in for Gene Hackman as the basketball coach after being found in his home, waddling in drunken squalor, before his son locks his beamish, proud, piercing eyes into his pa’s soul and says, “I’m proud of you, Dad”?
Matt replies, “I can’t believe you get paid for this shit.”
Doc yells, “Get out of my office. You’re banned permanently, you deplorable piece of shit.”
Dr. Tearjerker ended up in an insane asylum because his revolutionary sports movie crying therapy didn’t work on the furniture salesman from Nyack. This made him feel like a fluke and another vastly depreciated, average nobody, too, despite his own mother never reusing his nickname on his younger brother to project the aura of equally distributed, encouraged love.
Now Dr. Tearjerker sports a permanent straightjacket after trying to kill himself with a basketball pump needle once, during outdoor play. He spends all his days, now, in a white padded room, running suicide sprints with a look of extreme determination on his face and chanting, with increasing force, “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy,” only to add, “I still shed tears of joy for you, Rudy. And if I’m deemed crazy by New York State standards for deriving happiness from other’s people’s success through the silver screen or not, I don’t care. At least I know that I’m not among the walking dead, yet.
“Rudy, Rudy, Rudy.”
Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”
Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.” The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.
At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.” Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”
Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.
Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.
Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.
So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).
Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.
Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.
Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.
“Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”
” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever.
“Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”
Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.
Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.
Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.
Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.
“It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”
Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.
Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”
Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.
American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.
“Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?
Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”
Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).” Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”
Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”
Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.
“Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”
Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”
Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.” Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”
Once upon a time, there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease. He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song ‘Hells Bells’. Michael Yeller always believed that louder is better until now, because he was longer able to sing ‘Search and Destroy’ by Iggy Pop and the Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss.
Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders on the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding; the steel guitar-slaying Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella; and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop, CC Deville, from Poison.
Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah, but he’d already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.
After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA, but IT directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker, who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.
Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and nondescript, low-key bars on random, zero-foot traffic streets; unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael, who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl, once.
Eventually, Michael moved back to NY, did digital ad sales for Citysearch, and started to try open mike stand-up comedy. When working for Citysearch, he’d say, on stage, “Citysearch is a city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.”
But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rockstar on stage, because if his first joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggyback off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any newly-inspired direction of hilarity he chooses.
At the Christmas party for Citysearch, Michael sang his best rendition of ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high-end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting blackout drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to ‘Oh What A Feeling’.
Knowing that Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of ‘Fallen Angel’ in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job where his loud man disease could be neutralized—where it wouldn’t become such a career-hindering liability.
He got a job in the suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY, selling state-of-the-art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system altogether. Michael would be selling noise cancellation headphones (“Yenta Silencers” is what he’d call them, specifically, before trying new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know that Google fired twenty-five software engineers for sexual harassment? But, software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”).
But one day, during a demo presentation for AC/DC’s ‘Back In Black’ on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell church bell clang to ‘Hells Bells’. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease, forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, now losing all semblance of voice control whatsoever?
Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but the reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose, but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him to rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most badass metal rock records of all time (which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally).
Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse, and Van Halen with divine-powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard nonstop all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing that his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kickass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again.
In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore, but he was still able to sell his love of loud metal music through his blogs, and also had the kickass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head, for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him that two out of three ain’t bad.