The Mustard House Is For Sale

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, 40 miles north of the original Yankee stadium known as Hilltop Park in Washington Heights, before it became a cocaine pick up 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 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 over Candy Land, those Anti-Semite, bastards.”  Prior, Bukowski Kornbluth 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, who he got pregnant by mistake because pulling out on time was physically impossible, knowing 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 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 9 other siblings, it was the radio, which filled him with dreamy, big city success wonder, which made going to sleep still hungry again a tad more tolerable knowing 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, 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 Roy’s 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, earning 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 ballgame 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 ẻmerged 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 Jack. Old Bet, the famous circus elephant was buried ín Sommers outside the famed Elephant Hotel in nearby Sommers, so I’ll write about grabbing some peanuts at the ball game in his honor to. 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 in the sticks, it doesn’t mean I love you any less Arthur. But Stay At Home Dads can’t survive unless they got 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 TheBall 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 why I’m can’t stomach the idea of eating another Cracker Jack again?

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Waste Of Height

Once upon a time there was a Giant who lived in a tiny village called, Humungous Falls in Northern Westchester County, who never really fit in, despite owning a popular deli called Foot Long The Giant, which is what all the local lumberjack giants frequented every day, before chopping down more trees later used for bookshelves for their hobbit hipster southern neighbors in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Every day, the Lumberjacks would taunt Foot Long The Giant, calling him a waste of height for wasting his life making sandwiches for his fellow giants, when he could’ve just hired a bunch of Hipster Hobbits to perform the job instead. Ever day, they’d accuse of him being soft, for shying away from more hardcore forms of manual labor involving chopping down trees from dawn to sunset. One day, an 8-year-old aspiring professional food writer hobbit from Bushwick known as Hardcore Hunga, wanted to do profile for The Bushwick Post on Footlong The Giant, considering his legacy for making the best foot long heroes in New York, which were totally worth the schlep from Bushwick, assuming, you didn’t get too freaked out about getting stomped to death by a Giant Lumberjack by mistake on his lunchbreak. So one day, Hardcore Hunga fakes a tummy ache, ditches out on school, and flies his pet dragon to Humungous Falls to meet Foot Long The Giant face to face, praying none of the local giant lumberjacks sneeze in his general direction, which could send him flying all the way to Stink A Lot Jersey, where all the shitty smelling swamp creatures roam.

Footlong The Giant, descended from a land of giants who grew up to their full height out of Mother Giant’s womb, expected to get working from day one, being denied any sustained age of sheltered innocence from the real world of a grinding worker existence till their last dying breath. Mother Giant finally banged out her last giant, and with no female giants to procreate with, making these remaining giants the last of their kind, who normally started dropping like flies at a hard 40. So these lumberjack giants barely slept, and dedicated their walking life, to chopping more wood and tearing Foot Long The Giant down to size, for thinking he was better than them for being an artisan sandwich maker instead, when they weren’t getting wasted off Stouts, Porters and Barley Wine, which they were paid in from their Hobbit Hipster clients in Bushwick while competing in humungous cannon ball contents throughout Humungous Falls after work to blow up some much needed steam.  They also sold wood for precious gems to local Waterfall dwelling Nymphs, who made enormous bed structures, which always broke down and needed repairing for Sleeping Giants Are Us.   

Today, wasn’t any ordinary day in the life of Footlong The Giant, because today he turned the big 40, but as usual had nobody to celebrate it with, that is until the best looking, biggest hearted, funniest hobbit from Bushwick graced The Footlong The Giant Deli with a tape recorder in hand to conduct a career launching interview with the greatest hero maker the empire state has ever known.

Footlong The Giant gets ready to blow out 40 lit candles that go down in a straight line along his longest, star hero creation yet, a 40-foot hero that rests on a giant bench table that reaches from one side of the deli to the other. Footlong The Giant turns off the lights in the store and braces himself to take a depressingly long deep breath to make a 40th birthday wish, thinking, this might be his last and says, “Just once, I don’t want to feel like a waste of height anymore.” Then, as Footlong Giant opens his mouth to blow out the entire row of candles on his 40-foot-long cheese steak sub topped with Italian cherry peppers, lined with mayo, and semi-sharp provolone, he hears a knock on the door, which startles him a tad, because it was already way past lunch hour and was normally used to spending this time in the store to get the chicken parm stains off the wall after the standard lunch hour rush from the sloppiest eating lumberjacks who ever lived.

Hardcore Hunga knocks on the door again but peaks inside the window this time to see if anyone was inside, noticing a gorgeous flickering lighting of candles, thinking, he walked into a Death Memorial Giant Service, knowing the giants of Humungous Falls were a dying breed and dropping like termite infested Totem Poles these days. Footlong The Giant opens the door, not noticing Hardcore Hunga, who’s a solid 4 foot 2. Footlong The Giant says to himself, “I must be hearing things in my old age.” Hardcore Hunga, still holding his baby dragon on a leash instructs Dragon Lungs to blow a fire ball that nearly misses Footlong The Giant’s head. Footlong The Giant looks down and finally notices Hardcore Hunga and his trusted, always reliable companion, Dragon Lungs. Hardcore Hunga starts pitching, “Footlong The Giant, I’m Hardcore Hunga, I came all the way from Bushwick to interview a living hero maker legend.” Footlong The Giant laughs hard and long, blowing Hardcore Hunga Hobbit off his feet yet Dragon Lungs puts on the brakes to make sure he doesn’t get blown away into the wilderness, by wrapping his leash around Hard Hunga in midflight before slamming him to the ground to start wrapping him up as if he were roping a calf at a Texan rodeo. Footlong The Giant feels bad and invites Hardcore Hunga Hobbit and his pet dragon, Iron Lungs into his store yet totally forgets about never blowing out his row of 40 candles. Hardcore Hunga was smarter than your average bear, so he realized almost immediately, that he just crashed Footlong The Giant’s lonely heart, birthday celebration if you want to call it that. Hardcore Hunga Hobbit does his best to cheer up the sad hearted giant and says, “Happy Birthday Footlong The Giant, this looks like your greatest hero creation yet. You really are a living legend for a reason.” As Hardcore Hunga examines the scrumptious cheesesteak hero bursting with over the top, dynamite flavor, draped in glistening creamy white provolone that’s hugging on to the sesame loaded Italian loaf from end to the other for dear life and counts 40 candles in total in the process, which fills his hobbit heart with extreme sadness, knowing 40 is normally a death sentence for all giants who hail from Humungous Falls.  

Hardcore Hunga encourages Footlong The Giant to blow out his candles and make a wish already and says, “Make a wish and blow out the candles, Footlong The Giant. Wait a minute, one the candles went out already. Dragon Lungs do you mind? Dragon lungs blasts a stream of fire which lights the unlit candle on the end with laser sharp precision, which puts a big smile on Footlong The Giant’s face. Footlong The Giant wants to return the good, favored cheer from his kind, loving guests and gives them a birthday surprise to remember. Footlong The Giant turns his bum toward the 40 foot hero, lifts up his right leg and rips a humungous fart, which blows a gusty jet steam of sweaty, leg flapping, foul mist, which blows out all 40 candles in one swoop. Hardcore Hunga and Dragon Lungs fall down this time from laughing uncontrollably, while holding their noses in the process.  Footlong The Giant shoots off a smile that could light up a youth hostel with no Wi-Fi during the next Chinese rat planted Plague.

Footlong The Giant turns on the light in his deli and says, “Let’s eat.”  Footlong The Giant cuts off a four-foot 2 hero and serves it to his new friend Hardcore Hunga, who conducts a lengthy interview till they all finish the 40 foot hero together, Dragon Lungs included. After the story about Footlong The Giant got published in the Bushwick Post, New York state declared Footlong The Giant Deli a cherished, historical site, especially now that all his Lumberjack clientele dropped dead the next day after turning 40 themselves. Footlong The Giant no longer felt like a waste of height since his glorious friendship with Hardcore Hunga Hobbit began, who made him feel like the biggest star in the universe. After all the lumberjack giants drooped dead throughout Humungous Falls, Footlong The Giant moved to Bushwick with Hardcore Hunga Hobbit and opened a local deli, specializing in much smaller portions of course, when they weren’t building snow cones as big as skyscrapers every year for Hardcore Hunga’s birthday in February, the day before Valentine’s Day, which the entire village of hobbits licked up till they all became mostly brain freeze dead, proving how the biggest hearts come in all sizes and packages.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

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 get’s a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”  Reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his 1st born 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 on hearing about his youngest non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and 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 forte. For example, after his 2nd 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 last call from the bathroom stall.”  Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug free monk, even after becoming a father of 3, 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 Comedian on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green, knowing 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 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, 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 druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention, 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 2 decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most, about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause 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 his dear Matilda’s effortless warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come or rain shine and she wasn’t some dead weight conversationalist snooze, who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family prematurely 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 this email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this, “I’m a great fit for his 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.  Last, 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 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 7 every night. Little did mama know, Matilda similar to lip syncing 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, which 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 far away hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over my Chinse big pharma companies, looking to expand past the market for muscle soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football cool down 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 into far later after Dada tucked in her 2 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, triggering a pleasant stroll down memory lane, when Dada said to his daughter 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 4th of July weekend, mama and I were there to see a Further show, which was the new version of the Grateful Dead. The show was only 12 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 get’s 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 renters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and 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 found 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 forget 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 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, 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 to many holla for challah chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast whenever Mama 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 midnight showing of Higher Learning or not.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Boob Doctor

Samuel was so fond of boob; he became a Boob Doctor one day. Growing up, he’d suck mama’s boobs dry after he turned his parent’s bed into a 24/7 open milk bar. One time, it got weird because his big sister was in his parent’s bed when he said, “Booby”, only for his sister to lift her shirt up and say, “Sike, April Fools Day Samuel”, before pulling her nightie shirt immediately back down, before her younger brother could punch her nipple dots into bruised ones. Big sister was only 9, so she had no lumbering boobs, weighing down her structurally damaged vertebrae from massive overextension already, although if she did opt to get breast reduction surgery when she got older, for some selfish, stupid reason like mild back pain discomfort from bending over on clay courts in Florida in Palm Beach from playing tennis too long, chances are, it wouldn’t be a huge load off her shoulders if she filled out on top even less than mama did.

Baby Samuel would hold up one of his sister’s naked Barbies on occasion and ask his Dada, “Do you think she’s hot Dada?” And Daddy would say, “By southern belle standards, I’d give her a 7.3, although if she lived in the East Village of Manhattan these days, I’d give her a solid 9, because she’d be taller than most of the munchkin gals off off Saint Marks who you could never mount standing up, unless you held them up high up against the wall, which your Do It All Dad is too putzy to pull off, if you really need to know.” Baby Samuel was always fascinated with his Dada’s human anatomy book, which he got so his kids would have an easier time coming up with funny sounding body parts whenever they played Mad Libs, anus hole, being a made-up body part name, that became their go to personal favorite. Baby Samuel always wanted his Daddy to show him where he came from in mama’s vagina, as he constantly implored his dear Dada, “Show me where I used to live in mama’s vagina, back in the day, when I used to sip booby milk through her umbilical cord.”

Now, Baby Samuel is The Boob Doctor with a big pimping plastic surgery office in Miami Beach about to consult a 39-year-old exotic dancer, Buttercup, about a potential breast reduction surgery. Buttercup wears a tight white sweater and cheap sunglasses to her appointment with The Boob Doctor as she examines various framed degrees on the wall before The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters. The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters his office and Buttercup’s nipples begin to jingle with nervous trepidation. Dr. Kornbluth taps her shoulder ever so gently, which sends shivers of titillating tingles up and down her spine like never before, before he get’s comfortable in his desk chair to deliver his breast reduction surgery consultation.  Dr. Kornbluth says, “So, my tennis partner Dr. Ken says, “He doesn’t want you dancing at Senior Tatas in South Beach anymore.” Buttercup says, “He’s very possessive of my glittery busty beauties, but that’s not why I’m here Dr. Kornbluth.  You see I read on the Internet how breast reduction surgery causes scars, and I was wondering why any woman would be willing to risk damaging their natural beauties the way God intended them to be.  Do you ever feel like Dr. Frankenstein for playing the role of Nip Tuck God, by picking off where he left off? I was double major in philosophy and English at the University of Florida, in case you’re wondering.” Dr. Kornbluth says, “I’m confused Buttercup. I thought you came here for a breast reduction surgery consultation but it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already. I’m still getting paid by the hour, so I don’t give a shit, especially knowing how I get to glance at your luscious lobes of perfection jiggle with anticipation in my presence. I have that impact on all my female patients, except the hardcore dikes, but they normally have nothing to flaunt and hide under their natty looking, dress sweaters for a reason.” Buttercup says, “I do play plenty of tennis in my downtime with Dr. Ken and I have noticed a slight strain on my back as of late Dr. Kornbluth. Plus, I own a hot Pink Range Rover, my own boat and a condo with high ceilings and fancy fuck bags made of shaggy futon in the fancy arts district of Miami, so I’ve gotten plenty of ROI out of my gorgeous gals on top already. I just want to know what love feels like without them being the centerpiece, force field, which dominates every man’s universe.” Dr. Kornbluth says “Like Kayne West says, one good girl is worth a thousand bitches, with depleted tits on top making them half the woman they used to be, BAM.” Buttercup says, “You mangled that Kayne West line a bit Doc, but I heard your message loud and clear.” Buttercup stands up erect, pulls down her cheap sunglasses ever so slightly and says, “I wouldn’t trade in your posh Miami Beach office for a shit box in Park Slope, Brooklyn either Doc. New York is so yesterday’s news.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Boob Doctor

Samuel was so fond of boob; he became a Boob Doctor one day. Growing up, he’d suck mama’s boobs dry after he turned his parent’s bed into a 24/7 open milk bar. One time, it got weird because his big sister was in his parent’s bed when he said, “Booby”, only for his sister to lift her shirt up and say, “Sike, April Fools Day Samuel”, before pulling her nightie shirt immediately back down, before her younger brother could punch her nipple dots into bruised ones. Big sister was only 9, so she had no lumbering boobs, weighing down her structurally damaged vertebrae from massive overextension already, although if she did opt to get breast reduction surgery when she got older, for some selfish, stupid reason like mild back pain discomfort from bending over on clay courts in Florida in Palm Beach from playing tennis too long, chances are, it wouldn’t be a huge load off her shoulders if she filled out on top even less than mama did.

Baby Samuel would hold up one of his sister’s naked Barbies on occasion and ask his Dada, “Do you think she’s hot Dada?” And Daddy would say, “By southern belle standards, I’d give her a 7.3, although if she lived in the East Village of Manhattan these days, I’d give her a solid 9, because she’d be taller than most of the munchkin gals off off Saint Marks who you could never mount standing up, unless you held them up high up against the wall, which your Do It All Dad is too putzy to pull off, if you really need to know.” Baby Samuel was always fascinated with his Dada’s human anatomy book, which he got so his kids would have an easier time coming up with funny sounding body parts whenever they played Mad Libs, anus hole, being a made-up body part name, that became their go to personal favorite. Baby Samuel always wanted his Daddy to show him where he came from in mama’s vagina, as he constantly implored his dear Dada, “Show me where I used to live in mama’s vagina, back in the day, when I used to sip booby milk through her umbilical cord.”

Now, Baby Samuel is The Boob Doctor with a big pimping plastic surgery office in Miami Beach about to consult a 39-year-old exotic dancer, Buttercup, about a potential breast reduction surgery. Buttercup wears a tight white sweater and cheap sunglasses to her appointment with The Boob Doctor as she examines various framed degrees on the wall before The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters. The Boob Doctor Samuel Kornbluth enters his office and Buttercup’s nipples begin to jingle with nervous trepidation. Dr. Kornbluth taps her shoulder ever so gently, which sends shivers of titillating tingles up and down her spine like never before, before he get’s comfortable in his desk chair to deliver his breast reduction surgery consultation.  Dr. Kornbluth says, “So, my tennis partner Dr. Ken says, “He doesn’t want you dancing at Senior Tatas in South Beach anymore.” Buttercup says, “He’s very possessive of my glittery busty beauties, but that’s not why I’m here Dr. Kornbluth.  You see I read on the Internet how breast reduction surgery causes scars, and I was wondering why any woman would be willing to risk damaging their natural beauties the way God intended them to be.  Do you ever feel like Dr. Frankenstein for playing the role of Nip Tuck God, by picking off where he left off? I was double major in philosophy and English at the University of Florida, in case you’re wondering.” Dr. Kornbluth says, “I’m confused Buttercup. I thought you came here for a breast reduction surgery consultation but it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already. I’m still getting paid by the hour, so I don’t give a shit, especially knowing how I get to glance at your luscious lobes of perfection jiggle with anticipation in my presence. I have that impact on all my female patients, except the hardcore dikes, but they normally have nothing to flaunt and hide under their natty looking, dress sweaters for a reason.” Buttercup says, “I do play plenty of tennis in my downtime with Dr. Ken and I have noticed a slight strain on my back as of late Dr. Kornbluth. Plus, I own a hot Pink Range Rover, my own boat and a condo with high ceilings and fancy fuck bags made of shaggy futon in the fancy arts district of Miami, so I’ve gotten plenty of ROI out of my gorgeous gals on top already. I just want to know what love feels like without them being the centerpiece, force field, which dominates every man’s universe.” Dr. Kornbluth says “Like Kayne West says, one good girl is worth a thousand bitches, with depleted tits on top making them half the woman they used to be, BAM.” Buttercup says, “You mangled that Kayne West line a bit Doc, but I heard your message loud and clear.” Buttercup stands up erect, pulls down her cheap sunglasses ever so slightly and says, “I wouldn’t trade in your posh Miami Beach office for a shit box in Park Slope, Brooklyn either Doc. New York is so yesterday’s news.”   

The End

Michael Kornbluth