Perverted Science

“Does Hollywood’s fetishized push to sexualize a new generation of kids with Instagram friendly labels such as Trans Centric or Gender Fluid Fickle, feel very organic or “child appropriate” to you, says Joe, a 17-year-old debate stud for Richard Pryor High, a new charter school in Peoria, Illinois. Unfortunately for his alpha dog debate team peers, including his best bud Paul, Joe was just getting his yak pipes warmed up, adding, “The problem with parents enabling pubescent teen mutilation makeovers, in their politicized dash to let their children slash their protracted age of innocence in half, is that it never factors in irretractable buyer’s remorse, once little Joey blooms under his Fruit of the Looms, realizing, he can’t get his grind on with a gal on the dancefloor if he wanted to, without feeling a missing link to old school rap in the process. Plus, whatever happened to kids being asexual from 1 through 11 at least? Also, for all the scientific worship these days in place of you know who, where is all the hard evidence of Chaz Bono being a beacon of mental calm  since his far later in life transformation into Just One Of The Guys? You know, the same Chaz Bono who doesn’t eat wings at the bar, wishing he was at The MGM Grand in Vegas instead, to hear Cher belt out If I Can Turn Back Time to relieve his severe case of blue balls paralysis already.

Paul finally cuts off his dear debating bud and goes in for the retaliatory attack and says, “Is this a debate team trial run or Joe’s personalized open mike to test out more groan generating trans material for the Montreal Comedy Festival? I get it, Little Boy Blue in the 4th grade at 9 years old isn’t expected to declare his major in Gender Studies at Oberlin College just yet. So why should we expect him to make a life changing decision such as sexual realignment surgery any sooner than when he turns 19? 19 is the new 15 because that’s when most kids are losing their virginity these days anyway, especially since swiping for dick picks became the death of small talk on both sides of the glory hole cubby divide. I don’t think the government should be allowed to intervene on their parent’s behalf though, if they start feeding their 9-year-old effeminate son enough testosterone blockers to turn him into Mayor Pete’s dumpier, side up half. I bet it was Mayor Pete’s idea to parade his hubby around triple masked in a Winnie The Poo coat, as if catching the China made virus from a stiff breeze is a bigger concern for him than barebacking in the shower at the local health club on KY jelly street without flip flops on for gay pride swinger week. Wait a minute, now I’m doing Trans schtick to. Look, how can I be transphobic if I’d rather suck off Bruce Jenner with no makeup on and suck up every last demon drop, than go to the Lego Store with my nephews again, after the coast was clear, with all our masks secure on, feeling like Michael Jackson on holiday in Bahrain, before Magic made HIV disappear? I’m actually turned on immensely  by she males myself, knowing they typically possess tighter bods than most girls willing to date me. You also know, they know have no problem swallowing because they have no other use for my love juice. Also, most girls today have blown up looking snatches by 16, so I’m not complaining about a tighter hole to not get her pregnant in either. I’d even go the movies again, assuming they ever reopen to see a trans remake of Weird Science, except this time they’d create their dream Shemale vision come true all over their shattered visions of rock-solid heterosexuality ever again. Still, I’m a talking about a made up movie, Perverted Science, where the doll who comes to life is played by a real life, grown Trans woman, who made an informed, evolved decision because he she wanted to come in closer contact with her feminine side, and realized along the way how she made a better-looking chick. And if you got it, flaunt it baby. I tried putting a pink wig on once and make up after my girlfriend got a strap on for us to play with one night and never in a million years, did I think I’d look like such an ugly, homely looking bitch. Granted, when I played basketball in junior high, I used to run on my tippy toes, looking like I was running in high heels instead of high tops. But this still doesn’t mean, I was a gentle high stepper of any kind. If LaVar Ball was my substitute coach dad, he’d still bark on the sidelines, yelling, “Were trying to sell Ballerwear son, not Jimmy Choo’s. I think Paul and I should start selling Trans jokes to Dave Chappelle because he can afford to not give a shit, we can’t. Who wants to have that debate next? White comics can’t get away this material tóday ever. Even Aerosmith is getting grief these days for their song Dude Looks Like A Lady, which is ridiculous because in the song Steven Tyler takes more than a peak, proclaiming with surging, mounting, lust, “Oh, what a funky lady. And I like it, like it, like it yeah.” So did Richard Pryor, he said it was the best piece of pussy he ever had, so get over it already. Hate speech, not. Maybe, I won’t give up on wining a debating scholarship if Chris Rock finances a new college serving as a safe space for politically incorrect material, God forbid.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Shell Shocked Snappy

Wine Coolers, Jello Shots and reluctant repeat sips from your 1st can of Budweiser help melt teen shyness away. But pet Snapping Turtles aren’t 9th graders in junior high, who haven’t got into the puberty party yet either. At this point, Matilda a 12-year-old entrepreneur and inventor of a suction sticking party ball strobe light machine called Party Magic, was willing to blow some of her Kickstarter startup money on a Past Life Regression consultation with an Animal Communicator at a nearby Crystal Shop in Ridgefield, CT to get her new pet Snapping Turtle Snappy to come out of his shell already because changing his name from Waxy to Snappy wasn’t helping. More than anything, Matilda wanted to boogie board in Australia, her mama’s home country, along Mother’s Beach, 30 minutes north of Melbourne for her parents 10 year anniversary yet she didn’t feel safe in those Jelly Fish infested waters without a trustworthy, Snapping Turtle to ward off attacks by her side, knowing their preference for scarfing up electric, purple haze stingers.

The 70 something, bushy haired, frumpy, shawl strangled, Sedona sun wrinkled transplant, Animal Communicator, Talks With Toads, lounged out in her cubby size room office within a crystal shop in nearby Ridgefield, CT, and takes of her bi focal glasses to examine Snappy The Turtle more closely. Who Matilda reveals hiding in her old beat up backpack, knowing his tendency to fart uncontrollably, especially around strangers, which she considered a reason for why Snappy The Turtle’s head was hid in perpetual shame so often.  Talks With Toads says, “Matilda, over the phone you said, Snappy won’t come out of his shell around strangers.” Matilda says, “I’ve offered him Lobster Rolls from Stew Leonard’s, smoked Nova from Russ and Daughters, bought him the Tony Robbins audiobook boxset, which wasn’t cheap either, so I’m running out of options hêre. Our first Kornbluth family vacation to Australia is tomorrow and I don’t know what to do, because Snappy is my 2nd line of defense against all those Jelly Fish in Australia after the Jelly Fish nets which aren’t even available in the beaches in Bondi, and that’s where all the serious boogie board action happens anyway. My parents wanted to get married in Australia, where my mom is from originally yet my Grandma shot it down. She calls my dad and says, “Australia is a long trip from New York Scoops and your dad doesn’t love you that much.” Then, my dad made a compromise with my mom and says, “If we have boy one day, will hire Crocodile Dundee for the circumcision, just to hear a room of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”

Talks With Toads spits out a deep, weighty laugh, opening up her throat chakra more than any downward dog pose ever could and says, “Does Snappy ever come out of his shell around your daddy or does he get intimidated by larger-than-life comedians to? I saw his performance at the Montreal Comedy Festival on YouTube and coughed up a lung in he process. He made such a strong, funny man impression the last time your family dropped by the crystal shop. And I don’t care for most stand-up comedy these days. Plus, how creepy is the comic Anthony Jeselnik, knowing that he considers psychic surveys on how many missing children they’ve seen through their Carrot Cards as being the height of God loving hilarity today?” Matilda says, “In Anthony Jeselnik’s defense, God commands his chosen people to forsake the counsel of psychics in Deuteronomy, but my dad told me is was Kosher to make an exception in Snappy The Turtle’s defense.”

Talks With Toads does her best to shrug off a smart-ass Jewess rubbing God’s law in her face with such effortless fluency and decides to plow forward with her Past Life Regression reading for Snappy The Turtle, so she can get back to watching some bestiality horse on man porn on her lunch break, which now can’t come soon enough. Talks With Toads grabs a sapphire crystal from a cramped, unorganized drawer, representing the entire kitchen sink of healing, past life reading gemstones known to mankind and places it on Snappy The Turtle’s shell. Talks With Toads says, “I see a Deadhead at Giant Stadium in a Soup Truck RV called Terrapin Soup, blowing high grade, 75 dollar an eighth weed into Snappy The Turtle’s face again and again as the live version of Scarlet Begonia’s from Cornell 77 blasts on the tape deck in the background. I stopped going to shows after I stopped smoking weed myself.”

Matilda says, “After my 2nd birthday, my Dad took me to a Dead Show in Bethel Woods, in upstate New York. I pointed at a dinged up looking Deadhead sucking down a Nitrous balloon and said, “Birthday.” And my dad says, “No, Burn Out Day.” Talks With Toads unleashes another full throaty laugh again and says, “Wait a minute. No, he can’t be.” Matilda’s interest in Talks With Toad’s Past Life Regression Reading has reached peak interest and says, “What do you see now? Is the Deadhead owner feeding Snappy The Turtle’s head with a sheet of acid or what?” Talks With Toads takes a deep breath, doing her best to conceal her startled state as she pulls back her long, tangly grey hair and utters in a whispery, barely audible tone, “The Deadhead owner is serving Snappy The Turtle’s family for dinner.”

Matilda jumps out of her chair in a bewildered state of dígust and yells, “I thought Deadheads ate Grilleđ Cheese Sandwiches after Dead shows when they got the munchies.” Talks With Toads says, “Munchies don’t happen when you’re on 4 tabs of acid dear. Hold on, I see a line of Deadheads around the parking lot in Giant Stadium waiting for this Terrapin Turtle Soup Truck to serve bowls of Turtle Soup to cure more endless bad trips on Hêrculean amounts of acid. The Merry Pranksters used to spike garbage cans full of fruit punch with Acid during 3-hour Dead jam sessions back in the day before you tripped over shit throughout the Cable Car lined streets of San Francisco. Eventually, the college dropout hippies who weren’t banking on replacing Santana anytime soon, became howling, starved lunatics, left with no other choice but to eat stray cats behind the dumpster at Mu Shu York’s. Soon after, a famed chef from New Orleans, Gumbo Greg, who went on to become the executive chef at the Philly Club for years before opening his own restaurant in North Beach, Chowder Panisse, gave Jerry Garcia the idea of serving one of his freaked out tripping groupies some Turtle Soup in their house on Haight Ashbury to cure her bad trip, after doing the same for Dr. John during Jazz Fest once after he crawled himself up into ball on stage, thinking, he’d turned into psychedelic, night tripping crawfish. Crawfish, you know Shrimp with more personality, similar to John Mayer teaming up with Grateful Dead and Company, injecting scruffy smooth with a dose of much needed personality.” Snappy The Turtle finally snaps out of his shell and yells, “Thanks for the flashback bitch.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Beyond Hermosa Skies

My old school summer wind Summer Lam rivaled the beauty of any soul piercing sunset draped over those pinkish, orange, scattered skies of Hermosa Beach. Still, my go-to-in-house date night dish, angel hair in a white clam sauce, because I could never afford to dine out for dates, adorned with slivers of neon Greek gold sweet peppers on top, offered plenty of twinkly, ultra-aroused interest to.  Those Greek gold sweet peppers known as Pepperoncini’s, are sold at all Italian Delis, and can be enjoyed at your local Greek restaurant with some olive oil bathed cubes of feta by your little Greek landlord, on top of a tringle, torn off piece of warm pita bread, assuming he’s in a more festive, less dour dumpy mood than usual.  

I got the idea of using angel hair from a weathered, grandma age, Italian executive assistant who worked for my company’s owner Terry Thor, an IT staffing legend, who founded the IT staffing firm, The Thor Group, headquartered in Manhattan Beach next to defense contractor behemoths such as Raytheon, who I placed an IT security analyst with, after insisting my friend JT give me the org chart to exploit for all its billable, employment extending worth. Actually, became buds with Shakes, the IT security analyst I placed at Raytheon, who I let crash on my couch before the interview he flew in from back east for, who possessed dreams of penning dialogue for Tinseltown to.  Come to think of it, there was an IT network security engineer, who I went bar hopping with in nearby El Segundo one night, resulting in me coming in contact with the always majestic, effortlessly beautiful, always pitch perfect, laugh-tastic Summer Lam.  If I didn’t get fired from Thor for failing to do more placements with Raytheon and for being caught on the job looking for new jobs such as selling helicopters for a living, I could’ve befriended another IT candidate who knew a TV Writer agent at CAA. No agent ảt CAA in Beverly Hills or one based in his rental Woodland Hills studio stucco apartment, would’ve singed me based on my ok Friends spec alone, despite me reimagining the Nike swoosh as Gene Simmons tongue, which impressed Summer enough for her to pitch, “Let’s move to Santa Barbara so I can day trade and you give up IT recruiting and write novels instead.” Boy, did I fuck that one up.  

Before meeting Summer, I became a master at making my angel hair clam delight for my various date nights at home, using my secret killer addition ingredient of Pepperoncini’s, available in pre-cut slivers at my local Italian Deli in Hermosa for 2 bucks a pop, who also sold bits of prosciutto ends for 2 bucks a top. “What a country”, I’d croon during those Hermosa loving nights, with unmatched, heaven on earth blasting glee.

I’d also relish taking my 5-minute pre-date trips along the always misty, majestic pacific off the pier to a local fish shack in nearby Redondo Beach for the clams, which I could actually afford for 10 bucks a pound compared to having to sell a highly punctured liver already from the even closer shishy bitch supermarket chain Bristol Farms located in Manhattan Beach instead. I can still picture the smoothed over lines on those clam shells, begging to be steamed open, so I could pour the sweaty, underbelly residue of the succulent sweet clams into the angel hair soon after, responsible for imbibing it’s one a kind, fishy delight flavor.

But now 3 kids later, I’m a Stay-At-Home Koshterian Comedian, so how can I replicate some summer loving love, having a blast with my wife and 3 kids on a damp, February night instead? Easy, I substituted my killer Pepperoncini’s add on ingredient with my tweaked, heavily workshopped twice roasted, mini me cubes of peeled Italian eggplant instead, which I sauté in bomb cold press Italian olive oil first, sprinkled with bits of fresh rosemary and peeled off pieces of garlic before shoving into the oven at 350 for 20 more minutes to add a deepened, roasted, smokier, more elastic, slivery slurpy, eggplant puss flavor, minus the funky fish overtones of course but you get the gist.

Next, you add more specs of leftover rosemary to your buttered, olive oil base to fry up bits of shallots and peeled over slivers of shaved garlic before bam, plop some pre-made Emeril’s vodka sauce on top for only 4 bucks a pop at your local Stop and Shop and you’re made in the shade.  Before eventually dropping the angel hair nestles of perfection into the pinkish, bubbly, fresh scented rosemary specked sauce along with the svelte shards of twice cooked eggplant to extrapolate the most banging, inhalable, pristine sweet flavor imaginable, capable of unearthing multiple lip moistening ums, again and again.

You know you’ve succeeded in recreating some summer loving angel hair love, when your wife goes back for second slurping’s on her own, without any repeated push in that direction either. You also know your date night in your twenties at your old school Hermosa Beach pad is going too domesticated good, when your cute blond date from down south says in the most innocuous way possible, “This is really good. Can I take some home with me? I shrugged off her innocent inquiry, kept the leftovers for myself and sent her home soon after. She didn’t taste that good. She was no Summer Lam alright. Nor could she ever replicate memories of lounging on the beach with my dear Summer Lam, getting carried away to heaven and back, beyond those Hermosa skies.

Michael Kornbluth

The Maiden Bartender

You met one Iron Maiden fan, you met them all right? Iron Maiden fans wear out those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets, even into their late thirties to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge such diehard fanatic fans are incapable of generating on their own.  Granted, Bruce Dickenson the more exalted, replacement lead singer star of Iron Maiden, otherwise known as the human air raid siren, boasts a supernatural voice, which pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal heaven. Still, it’s impossible to not grow tired of his rapid fire, Spinal Tap conjuring caricature of what an English heavy metal howler should like in Samuel Johnson’s speed metal phonics dictionary under Game Of Thrones horse charging music. At least, that’s’ what the Cruise Comedian, Michael Rocker thought, as he entered a colonial constructed, seaside, shipbuilding town of Mystic, CT, where Julia Roberts shot the movie Mystic Pizza, and entertained the grips on the set by fisting her mouth in between takes to ensure they made it her look the most flattering in the face of such frigid, east coast winter light.  

Now, Michael Rocker, a tall, athletic looking, preppy casual comic orders a drink and says, “Hey, what local IPA’s do you recommend? The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline statuesque dirty blond, sporting an Iron Maiden tattoo on her defined, yet not overtly chiseled deltoid replies, “I don’t know, that all depends, on how much hardcore bitter bite you can take. I mean, are you interested in merely quenching your thirst with a session filler beer? Or would you prefer  to get your hardcore freak on for Karaoke night with something boozier and more funktastic like a Fat Orange Cat’s Trippel IPA, stud.” The Cruise Comic says, “I’ll take the Trippel IPA, hot stuff,” as he tries hard not to lick his lips, wanting to inhale her on the spot.

Sitting next to the Cruise Comic at the bar, is a hunched, tired, lanky, dirty blond, long-haired guy in his late thirties, sporting bad acne spots, from a poor diet full of too much beef Jerky and cheap vodka tonics, reeking of stale, Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody appeal after the 1st drag whatsoever.  The Cruise Comic get’s the impression, the Newport cigarette guy who’s sporting a black Iron Maiden shirt under his faded, torn jean jacket, is here solo as usual, so he decides to sample some new jokes on him in preparation for his upcoming cruise tour heading to Jamaica for spring break the following morning. Cruise Comic makes eye contact with the Iron Maiden fan and says, “Nice Maiden shirt. You must know the wrestler and Fozzy front man Chris Jericho then? Maiden dude replies, “Duh, who doesn’t? Immediately, the Cruise Comic becomes engulfed with extreme annoyance, regretting his attempt to bond with this local in his attempt to play it cool with the hot bad ass bartender and snaps back with, “Be honest, don’t you think Iron Maiden is a poor man’s Judas Priest, with far less sing along, radio friendly hits, being forced to rely on catchy, merchandising gimmickry to radiate a cooler, far less Dungeons and Dragons nerdy veneer instead? And who is the Eddie mascot on Iron Maiden shirts supposed to be anyway? He looks like a cyborg mummy and a virile Crypt Keeper in his prime had a baby?  Run For The Hills is a good running song, for Daniel Day Lewis to crank up when he trained for his role in the Last of the Mohicans.”

The bartender can’t help but chuckle, doing her best to not let Cruise Comedian know it. Still, she decides to interject, knowing fighting words were just thrown down in this normally peaceful waterfront town and says, “Hey, Eddie, don’t listen to him. He’s not sophisticated enough to understand the intricacies and sweeping historical, majestic sweep that went to Power Slave and the other 40 records of English speed metal mastery at it’s finest. Next vodka and tonic is on me babe, don’t sweat it.” Cruise Comedian is turned on by the bartender’s friendly infused fiery cheer, especially knowing this was her way of pleasing a local and flirting with him big time and says, “She’s right Eddie, that’s your name Eddie just like the Iron Maiden mascot, wow. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just putting Iron Maiden down to feel better about myself. That’s what hack cruise comics do.  I think Poison, Motely Crew and Cinderella rock out just as hard and boast infinitely catchier, kick as metal pop anthems, which ooze forceful, heartfelt personality versus sounding like systematic howling knights on horseback but what do I know Eddie. Didn’t mean to offend your hardcore fanatical Maiden sensibilities bud.”  Eddy’s face become ensnarled in acne scar shades of red as he clenches his callous hardened, burn laden hands and says, “Dude, I’m a dishwasher on a cruise ship, I don’t need to take this shit.” The Cruise Comedian says, “I’m a lowly Cruise Comedian hack comedian, so it’s a wash mate. Looking forward to docking in Jamaica though. This is my impression of Ziggy Marley being interviewed by High Times Magazine for their annual 4/20 issue.  “Ziggy, your dad had 11 kids, but I thought ganja drained your life blaster dry. Ziggy replies, “Fake news man.” Cruise comic finally scores a tension diffusing laugh. Eddie says, “That was a good one. Perhaps, I take my obsession with Iron Maiden a tad too seriously at times. Thing is, you get pretty cagy as a cruise ship dishwasher, all alone with Iron Maiden tunes of wanton destruction stuck in your head.” Cruise Comic says, “No problem dude, I was being a big dick prior, sometimes my riffing veers into full fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer to. Do you smoke your mind with the crystal specked bud? Eddie the dishwasher says, “Yeah, I mean, what loner burnout Maiden head in high school didn’t. You never outgrow the soothing lift the green gives a loner burnout at heart.  Cruise comic says, “Did you know 4/20 was Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” Eddie the Dishwasher says, “Oh, so you’re Jewish. That’s why you’re so annoying and pushy with your material. Well, nobody’s perfect except Beth the bartender.”

Beth the bartender commands the stage and clenches the mike to belt out Run for the Hills on the Karaoke stage with incredible, hardcore edge feeling to make a jaded, English metal resisting, cruise comic willing to give British speed metal another shot. All that was missing was a hardcore female touch and some added funktastic feeling with some sexy metal sass to match.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Maiden Bartender

You met one Iron Maiden fan, you met them all right? Iron Maiden fans wear out those mummy metal patches on their faded, torn jean jackets, even into their late thirties to inject a dark, mysterious, complex, weighty edge such diehard fanatic fans are incapable of generating on their own.  Granted, Bruce Dickenson the more exalted, replacement lead singer star of Iron Maiden, otherwise known as the human air raid siren, boasts a supernatural voice, which pierces through the clouds of Heavy Metal heaven. Still, it’s impossible to not grow tired of his rapid fire, Spinal Tap conjuring caricature of what an English heavy metal howler should like in Samuel Johnson’s speed metal phonics dictionary under Game Of Thrones horse charging music. At least, that’s’ what the Cruise Comedian, Michael Rocker thought, as he entered a colonial constructed, seaside, shipbuilding town of Mystic, CT, where Julia Roberts shot the movie Mystic Pizza, and entertained the grips on the set by fisting her mouth in between takes to ensure they made it her look the most flattering in the face of such frigid, east coast winter light.  

Now, Michael Rocker, a tall, athletic looking, preppy casual comic orders a drink and says, “Hey, what local IPA’s do you recommend? The bartender, a tall, striking, borderline statuesque dirty blond, sporting an Iron Maiden tattoo on her defined, yet not overtly chiseled deltoid replies, “I don’t know, that all depends, on how much hardcore bitter bite you can take. I mean, are you interested in merely quenching your thirst with a session filler beer? Or would you prefer  to get your hardcore freak on for Karaoke night with something boozier and more funktastic like a Fat Orange Cat’s Trippel IPA, stud.” The Cruise Comic says, “I’ll take the Trippel IPA, hot stuff,” as he tries hard not to lick his lips, wanting to inhale her on the spot.

Sitting next to the Cruise Comic at the bar, is a hunched, tired, lanky, dirty blond, long-haired guy in his late thirties, sporting bad acne spots, from a poor diet full of too much beef Jerky and cheap vodka tonics, reeking of stale, Newport cigarettes, stripping the minty cool flavor of any high schooler hoody appeal after the 1st drag whatsoever.  The Cruise Comic get’s the impression, the Newport cigarette guy who’s sporting a black Iron Maiden shirt under his faded, torn jean jacket, is here solo as usual, so he decides to sample some new jokes on him in preparation for his upcoming cruise tour heading to Jamaica for spring break the following morning. Cruise Comic makes eye contact with the Iron Maiden fan and says, “Nice Maiden shirt. You must know the wrestler and Fozzy front man Chris Jericho then? Maiden dude replies, “Duh, who doesn’t? Immediately, the Cruise Comic becomes engulfed with extreme annoyance, regretting his attempt to bond with this local in his attempt to play it cool with the hot bad ass bartender and snaps back with, “Be honest, don’t you think Iron Maiden is a poor man’s Judas Priest, with far less sing along, radio friendly hits, being forced to rely on catchy, merchandising gimmickry to radiate a cooler, far less Dungeons and Dragons nerdy veneer instead? And who is the Eddie mascot on Iron Maiden shirts supposed to be anyway? He looks like a cyborg mummy and a virile Crypt Keeper in his prime had a baby?  Run For The Hills is a good running song, for Daniel Day Lewis to crank up when he trained for his role in the Last of the Mohicans.”

The bartender can’t help but chuckle, doing her best to not let Cruise Comedian know it. Still, she decides to interject, knowing fighting words were just thrown down in this normally peaceful waterfront town and says, “Hey, Eddie, don’t listen to him. He’s not sophisticated enough to understand the intricacies and sweeping historical, majestic sweep that went to Power Slave and the other 40 records of English speed metal mastery at it’s finest. Next vodka and tonic is on me babe, don’t sweat it.” Cruise Comedian is turned on by the bartender’s friendly infused fiery cheer, especially knowing this was her way of pleasing a local and flirting with him big time and says, “She’s right Eddie, that’s your name Eddie just like the Iron Maiden mascot, wow. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just putting Iron Maiden down to feel better about myself. That’s what hack cruise comics do.  I think Poison, Motely Crew and Cinderella rock out just as hard and boast infinitely catchier, kick as metal pop anthems, which ooze forceful, heartfelt personality versus sounding like systematic howling knights on horseback but what do I know Eddie. Didn’t mean to offend your hardcore fanatical Maiden sensibilities bud.”  Eddy’s face become ensnarled in acne scar shades of red as he clenches his callous hardened, burn laden hands and says, “Dude, I’m a dishwasher on a cruise ship, I don’t need to take this shit.” The Cruise Comedian says, “I’m a lowly Cruise Comedian hack comedian, so it’s a wash mate. Looking forward to docking in Jamaica though. This is my impression of Ziggy Marley being interviewed by High Times Magazine for their annual 4/20 issue.  “Ziggy, your dad had 11 kids, but I thought ganja drained your life blaster dry. Ziggy replies, “Fake news man.” Cruise comic finally scores a tension diffusing laugh. Eddie says, “That was a good one. Perhaps, I take my obsession with Iron Maiden a tad too seriously at times. Thing is, you get pretty cagy as a cruise ship dishwasher, all alone with Iron Maiden tunes of wanton destruction stuck in your head.” Cruise Comic says, “No problem dude, I was being a big dick prior, sometimes my riffing veers into full fledged asshole land faster than I’d prefer to. Do you smoke your mind with the crystal specked bud? Eddie the dishwasher says, “Yeah, I mean, what loner burnout Maiden head in high school didn’t. You never outgrow the soothing lift the green gives a loner burnout at heart.  Cruise comic says, “Did you know 4/20 was Hitler’s birthday? I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” Eddie the Dishwasher says, “Oh, so you’re Jewish. That’s why you’re so annoying and pushy with your material. Well, nobody’s perfect except Beth the bartender.”

Beth the bartender commands the stage and clenches the mike to belt out Run for the Hills on the Karaoke stage with incredible, hardcore edge feeling to make a jaded, English metal resisting, cruise comic willing to give British speed metal another shot. All that was missing was a hardcore female touch and some added funktastic feeling with some sexy metal sass to match.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The F You Pizza Bagel Supreme

I’ve never outgrown my love of hair metal or temptation to try any pizza bagel; regardless of it conjuring memories of icky frost burn or blue balls on the slow dance floor at Bar Mitzvah parties back in the day before dick picks became the death of small talk. I strongly recommend making your own Pizza Bagels, assuming you live in New York and have access to bomb sesame bagels, flush with endless crackle crunch and doughy lightness greatness within, versus the cardboard coated, Einstein Bagels, which suffer from extreme shrinkage problems, tasting like synthetic, mass produced, carbs for older than dirt Jews in Florida who are more fixated with getting their cream cheese fix by any means necessary, assuming they have fuck up kids, who can’t even handle airmailing them smoked salmon and bagels from Russ and Daughter’s for special occasions instead. 

Bagels are a source of pride for native New Yorkers like 24-hour Greek diners, 4 am last calls or the old school Yankee Stadium, before the new one was built, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. I still don’t understand why other states outside of NY and New Jersey suck at making bagels so much. The other day, I’m in a riffing mood, so nothing new, and go on a mini rant about a new double IPA offering by Stone Brewing from San Diego with my local beer guy at Decicco’s nearby is Sommers, NY and say, ” That new double IPA tall boy from Stone, for 3 bucks a pop is an incredible deal for a double IPA, which tastes so damn mineral fresh rich. I’m convinced San Diego has access to some special reserve water stream, that gives the f you to New York state’s highly hailed natural tap water reservoirs, which cascade all the way down from the Catskills Mountains and gorges from Ithaca, NY, my old school stomping ground when I attended Ithaca College, otherwise known as Cornell’s, retarded next door neighbor. But I was in the much-hyped Roy H. Park School Of Communications, so I could take a couple of bingers back in the day and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.”  

It’s especially hard to bite your tongue whenever your English mother-in-law from Manchester, relocated to Greenville, Delaware in Biden country, who had to share a bucket growing up for number 2’s, goes off, on the alleged superior, more compact bagels of England. Sure, the brits make better bagels than Italians, Jews and illegal Mexicans in NY, who will mostly likely die on the job, in fucking triple masked masks, uttering, “No more whole wheat everything bagels. Choke on a calzone Cuomo, you Punta bitch,” the end.

Now every town doesn’t have access to cured, delectable, fishy free neutralizing, deep orange hued sliced slivers of nova salmon made to be paired with a toasted sesame bagel on top of a fairly medium, homemade cream cheese smear, the way constellations of moles belong on uppity, English wenches residing in Chelsea and beyond. So, what can you do to spice up a bagel to outshine a homemade pizza bagel using your own homemade spiced up Rao’s tomato sauce, interspersed with loads of sliced off garlic and pulverized, always juicy fresh, cooked down San Marzano tomatoes, which make you proud to be on a friendly 1st name basis with most pizza maker Italian Americans? Easy, make your homemade salsa, with cherry tomatoes, 3 substantial Jalapenos, a mini me handful of fresh cilantro leaves, a crescent moon size of red onion, a bulb of garlic, thrown into the Cuisinart mixer for 4 swirl rips or more, and you’re already more than halfway there to the promised F You Pizza Bagel Supreme Land.

The last step is shredding some cheddar, New York made is fine to, which adds assertive, musky heft while pairing beautifully with the sweet yet warming, springy fresh salsa, prompting your kids to murmur while still chewing with mouths half full, “This is a delicious daddy, but give me more salsa next time and be funnier than Weird Al before my birthday or I’ll kill you with our sharpest knife for real this time.”  

The Mexican Jew Boy Bagel Supreme is so good, even ANTIFA would cater a Shiva with them for a killed ICE agent on Presidents Day, in Boca Raton, with you know who in town, passing through.

Michael Kornbluth

The Talking Mozzarella Stick

“Pizza isn’t everybody’s favorite food because the universe loves melted Gouda. Nobody today, is waiting online to inhale entire pizza pies drenched in smoked cheeses like gouda, unless you’re a hardcore Dutch dude from Amsterdam in lower Manhattan on holiday, because working Europeans get 5 weeks of a paid vacation and have nothing better to do than try the new Gastro pub in town, Crackers and Brews, which offers state of the art mini pizza’s on in-house made crackers, to leave more room inside for perpetual IPA poundage soon after. Mozzarella will always be the most popular cheese in New York, because you’re not melting sharp Vermont cheddar cheese on a Veal Parm hero in NOHO either. Mozzarella is the king of NY cool dominance like Laurence Fishburne and Westley Snipes in New Jack all wrapped up into one. Am I being too talky, again boss?” Boss says, “There’s no practicing schtick in the dressed-up Mozzarella hawking game off St. Marks place, especially knowing you can practice your routine at a plethora of open mikes throughout the east village and Brooklyn, that ANTIFA hasn’t planned to take over yet in your own spare, non-billable time, where you can continue to make jack shit, spewing semi-coherent streams of thought, that never amount to as much hilarity mountaintops as you think.” Talking Mozzarella Stick says, “Alright boss, I’ll stick to the script and only ask girls who pass me by, “Have you ever been sticked by Big Buster before? Because you know I have but his name was Dave from Long Island, not Big Buster, which reminds me of a fat white rapper who had no role models to emulate really. Beastie Boys always rocked skinny, jeans dragging off their ankles and shit. Vanilla Ice always opted for the flaptastic, fly guy silk sweats. Anthrax was the backup thrash metal band for Public Enemy on Bring The Noise and they’re scrappy skinny yet muscular metal white boys from Queens, the former breeding ground for Dee Sider from Twisted Sister, Nasty Nas, Black Sheep, 3rd Bass. I know the list is a greatest hits one that keeps you guessing whose even bigger on the list next. Art Garfunkel, the angelic sounding Jew and Paul Simon both hail from Queens, which stings the Republican gentile who’s jealous of creatively successful Jews, who didn’t take the Bernie Madoff route, I totally get it. But to round out the list of all-time great artists from Queens, you also have to include the consistently funny and transcendent Cyndy Lauper while also giving a loving, gushing shout out in honor of  showrunner and comedic writer, ball busting great, Doug Ellen behind Entourage, who made the legendary show on HBO infinitely cooler than Wahlberg’s producer name credits it on it. Doug Ellen is the funnier, cooler, version of John Favreau, until he started to produce, direct and write every episode it seems for the first season of Mandalorian, asshole. Look, I think John Favreau deserves a shot to reimagine Boba Fett’s backstory for Disney just for teaming up with Vince again on Made alone, even more than Richard Linklater for making Dazed and Confused the pitch perfect film to come out my senior year in high school among my old school pinko brethren buds of old. But still, asshole, if you’re creatively competitive at all, knowing John Favreau directed Elf, all the Iron Man’s and wasn’t too shabby in Rudy or PCU either. ” The big boss in charge of founding and running Mozzarella Man, says to his mouthy, unknown, unrepresented wannabe standup comedy star, “If you love John Favreau so much, then write your screenplay about being Vince Vaughn’s non-successful twin brother, because you look like him in a pre-good living, insomniac fashion and leave me out of it already.” Michael Kornbluth