Servicing Boring

A candidate recently emailed me, “I’ve never had such a fun conversation about work.”

And this was through LinkedIn Recruiter, which isn’t synonymous with fun.

The LL Bean Catalog is fun.

Buying Houses of The Holy on Vinyl at Newbury Comics on a Friday afternoon after work at the Westchester Mall for only 30 bucks, it’s a steal trust me, is fun.

Your son admitting in the bubble that Led Zeppelin is his new favorite band over Motley Crue at 5 years old is fun.

Son says, “Daddy, Shout At That Devil was my favorite, but my new favorite is the one with the naked mermaids on the cover.”

Helping your daughter overcome her sleeping issues at 11 years old is fun.

“Matilda, I’ve got the perfect solution for your sleeping troubles. Have you ever heard of a channel called the BBC? Ted Talks might get the job done too.”

Later my daughter says, “Daddy, I saw one of the Ted Talks. Did you know that more people die from falling asleep at the wheel than from drunk driving”?

I say, “But Vince Mcmahon who only averages 3 hours a night for the past 4 decades and counting doesn’t care. Because he can afford to take the company limo instead.”

Presenting my daughter, a Squish-Mallow that resembles a sleeping Unicorn pig from Newbury Comics is fun.

I say, “This is only the sleep aid you need Matilda, but nice try Ted tries.”

Tonight, I spoke with a candidate about his interest in competitive weightlifting.

He laughed when I said, “Ok, so you’re not oiling yourself down at work.”

My youngest son asked his older brother, Arthur, “Who’s your favorite YouTuber?”

I felt a combination of cringy embarrassment and sucks to be you pity for his generation. But he’s only 5.

Plus, he’s way funnier than I’ll ever be.

Also, despite my assertions of every YouTuber sounding like a spurned intern for Reddit.

They’re still stimulating my son’s imagination, and making him laugh, which is more than Saved By The Bell ever did for my Gen X Generation.

Your Favorite YouTuber Personality is like your favorite Recruiter.

Neither take themselves too seriously.

Plus, they entertain, enlighten, and sell with fun filled relish.

I don’t know any of these Youtuber Personalities by name.

I’d like to think I’m still cooler than my kids.

Maya Angelou says, “People will always remember the way you make them feel.”

So, service fun I say.

I’d rather be remembered that way.

Servicing boring has a time and place.

But even accountants laugh.

I make them laugh all the time in my office.

I rest my case.

Ted tries.

But flashing subtitles on LinkedIn don’t make you laugh or rattle your insides.

Service fun over boring.

Be gratefully different.

Be overwhelmingly fun.

Like Jim Morrison on Morrison Hotel amongst the scattered sun.

Servicing fun is money honey.

I’m a knockout artist like Gene Tunney.

I swear your honor.

My next swing is a goner.

Just stop telling me how Brian Cranston is must-see TV Boomer.

Your cred is shot.

I’d rather jerk off to Laura Loomer.

Michael Kornbluth

The Metal Edge

The mother responsible for her son’s developing a near crippling neck condition that required corrective surgery at age two, called Torticollis (where the neck muscles contract, causing the head to twist to one side, as a result of too much newborn plopping time alone in the crib), summoned the gall to ask her son, who’s about to turn 50 years old in his new Victorian mansion home outside of Saratoga, NY, lounging on a monied polo lounge green Adirondack chair overlooking Lake George, “Why would you push your son into fencing?”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “Because the sport of fencing needs a metal edge. And your grandson, ‘Headbangers Baller’, is just the kid to do it. Plus, Christian Knights slayed the Jews and Muslims for centuries because they didn’t wear crosses around their necks.

            “So, it’s time to rock those Limey bastards on their ass like they just got hit by an American made twister from Kansas City in the shape of Charlie Parker, with the colossus wind power to match.  

            “Bruce Dickenson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden, is a championship fencer, yet his nerdy-hued Dungeons and Dragons stylings are no match more for my son’s budding Headbanger Baller Edge.

            “I want my son to be the most famous American fencer who ever lived, who graces the cover of Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated all at the same time. I envision my son becoming the dreamy child offshoot of John Belushi, Charles Bukowski, and Slash, all wrapped into one.

            “He’ll shred every fencer record to pieces and will tear more than his share of hymens in the process. Assuming he identifies with highly addictive heterosexuality puss-plowing play.

            “Force=Mass x Acceleration and becoming a world class championship shredder will make my son an indomitable force within the business world when he opens his own hair metal shredder fencing line (which will be recession-proof, because we’re all going to be stuck wearing nappies on our face in a post-COVID universe gone wild ’till our last dying breaths, anyway).”

            The Torticollis Survivor Son adds, “Fencing will be more popular in the US than basketball and baseball combined after Headbanger Baller Kornbluth adds windmill celebration dances with his fencing sword, throwing all that old-school fencing decorum bullshit out the window.

            “Plus, he’ll be loaded from commercial endorsements from the Guitar Store, Bose, Spandex R Us, and you name it, so he could afford to pay any fines for inappropriate, hotdogging behavior whenever the flamboyant showboating moods strikes again.  

            “Dana White will be inspired to go into the fencing business and make Headbanger Baller Kornbluth the face behind his new billion-dollar behemoth franchise, transforming Octagon rings into enormous steel cage fencing matches instead.            “Instead of having Michael Buffer in a tux before fencing matches, booming “Let’s get ready to rumble,” Dana White will find the new Cherry Pie girl to announce, “Let the shredding begin” while ‘Kickstart My Heart’ by Motely Crue blares on the state-of-the-art surroundsound speaker system that gives the steel cage tremors of impending despair.

            “I’d push my son into becoming a WWE Wrestler for a living, yet there will never be another Andrew the Giant; nor is he third-generation wrestling royalty like the Rock, nor has a Canadian hockey player dad like Chris Jericho.

            “So, why not become a big fish in far smaller pond, while making the most humongous splash possible?

            “He also plays with collection of lightsabers now, more than he does with his cherished wrestling figures, and he owns the original rubber dog toy-size Hulk Hogan and Ricky The Dragon Steamboat (among many others the with vintage WWF wrestling ring I got off Ebay, to match).        “Kayne West is worth six billion, mostly from his fashion line of sneakers that sell for one grand and upwards; yet there’s no limited, in-demand fashion line for the flamboyant hair metal shredder in us all.

            “I envision a flashing middle F-You finger logo that sports the inscription of a Kosher Chalef butcher knife on it that says, “Live To Shred,” to slap on his own line of silver spaceman sneakers and ripped jeans and shorts (obviously in every color imaginable except Slayer Reign In Blood Red).  

            “He’ll have his own line of studded belts, necklaces, metal cowboy hats, and tank tops to show off to his legions of groupies and adoring young male fans how his own line of core exercise workout videos involving jumping off box jumps through rings of fire as ‘Moth Into Flame’ by Metallica plays at full blast is responsible for his shredded physique, once he steps into something more comfortable for post-fencing fight interviews.          “I want to feed my son’s love for speed. I want my son to maximize his inherent shredding edge like Buckethead, Randy Rhodes, and Steve Vai for love-of-God, kickass metal guitar solos and for his metal-loving American Dad, who pushed him to shred for bread.

            “On a less poetic, baser level, I want my son to be an all-American athlete who gets a fencing scholarship for being the most rollicking, flamboyant, fencing front man of all time while making the sport less overtly nerdy in the process.    “I want him to be loved and feared like Sonny in the Bronx Tale’s mom. I want colleges to recruit him in junior high for fencing scholarships so he can become a Headbanger Baller in life, instead of being a desperate flailing hounder. That’s why I’m pushing my son into fencing, Mom.”

            Mom says, “Your father thinks a team sport would be better for our grandson; like football, for instance.

            The Torticollis Survivor Son says, “We’ll be sticking with Nerf football in yard, Ma. I also don’t like to take advice from fake news hippies like Dad, Mom—no offense. You’ve lived in Arizona for nine years and haven’t visited the Grand Canyon once, yet. Case closed.

            “AlsoDad pushing eventual Pee Wee Football on his grandson is another example of him trying to make me bow down to his authoritative opinion, which makes me think he’s the one with brain trauma from feeding his head with too much acid at Woodstock.

            “Because, if I bowed down to this belabored, weak-ass pitch command request, I would’ve shied away from doing political material during my speech at my younger brother’s wedding, when I said to his old pal from boarding school, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody so Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt-right goon on the loose in Charlottesville, with a tiki torch in hand, looking like an angry rejected extra from the Sears Catalog in ’89.

            “And that material killed at the Montreal Comedy Festival in 2022, which got me the agent who got me my movie deal for Back To Hebrew School, which bought this Victorian mansion, wave runners for all three of my kids, and my speedboat, Slashing Thunder.”

            Mom says, “Why do you hate me so much?”            Son says, “Mom, I just hated how you always tried to shred my ego to pieces and cut me down to size in my divine-powered pursuit to become a world-famous comedian author/light spreader shredder, who lives to bang out more sheets of electric-fueled comedy gold.

            “I hate your arrogance for thinking you get to tell me how to raise my kids; because they’re my kids, not yours. Especially after your lack of physical play with me as an infant resulted in my Torticollis-correcting surgery, from being left to smoosh my face into the crib out of place for serially unhealthy, prolonged periods of time.

            “I hated the way you always tried to make me feel like I was a crazy moron for trusting my instincts and for pursuing the work I was good at, which made me feel the most kickass, happy, and alive.”

            Mom says, “I still think fencing is a dumb idea. I bet they only offer two fencing scholarships a year, max.”  

            Headbanger Baller won the Olympic Gold in Fencing three times in a row, shredding every fencing record of the past. Dana White expanded his business empire to include MMA with fencing swords, now, in steel cage Octagons with no protective gear required, although Headbanger Baller preferred to show off his shredding edge in the ring, sporting various items from his billion-dollar fashion line of ripped jean shorts, tank tops, and speed metal belts with his signature middle finger logo that sported a ring with a Kosher Chalef butcher knife inscription on it that says, “Live To Shred.”

            Shredding rocks, especially when you shred perceptions of what you’re capable of achieving in this world, whether it’s through individual accomplishment or through coaching your speed-addicted seed or not. Shredders soar. Shredders fly high with the angels like ‘Three Guitar Attack’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd on Free Bird.

            Shredders makes us feel most alive, for doing the rocking out for us. Shredders inspire us to unleash our own solo edge. Shredders make us feel most alive because they put us in touch with our Sunset Strip-strutting, Headbanger Baller inside.

Michael Kornbluth

The Dishonorable Front

Best way for Obama’s half-brother to downplay his Terrorist ties to the Muslim Brotherhood. Ditch the Islamic head cap for a MAGA hat during a Facebook livestream on the 4th of July, while blasting the Kayne West portion of Black Republicans in the background. Before wishing Soccer Mom Nation, a Happy 4th, immune from low-income housing from radicalized Sunni refuges from Somalia like Minnesota did for congressional rep Baby Face Omar gonna work it out. Then, Malik, no I wasn’t the swing forward star from St. Johns, Obama, says, “Kenyan lives don’t matter, unless you’re Barack Obama, Christians decapitated by ISIS excluded. But you got to give Barack props for rebranding ISIS, ISIL, so they’d sound more startup friendly in the NY Times during March Madness. That’s an Obama accomplishment for you Tucker, that boasts thousands of likes under the Muslim Brotherhood fan page on LinkedIn. And if my half-brother is such a baller at basketball Tucker, then why did Barack ride the bench at an all-Asian private school in Hawaii?”

You ever get a LinkedIn connection request from an impossible to annunciate Arabic name which you’re only uncomfortable with because their profile shot is a headless one?

You don’t want to be accused of Islamophobia, so you’re forced to feel like an asshole for questioning whether this a warning shot from the Muslim Brotherhood for spreading disinformation on your WordPress comedy blog about Public Enemy and The Bomb Squad being bigger Elvis haters than lovers of Farrakhan’s use of poetry slam intended rhyme.

“I’m not an anti-Semite. I’m anti-Termite”, is an ok turn of phrase to try out at an oxygen bar open mike in the valley within the stench laden bowls of North Hollywood. But it’s no, “Emancipate our minds from mental slavery.” Or the demonic Jew in charge of CNN will praise ANTIFA for their unheralded bravery. Farrakhan isn’t my number one pick for prophets above Bob Marley on Ranker is all I’m saying.  Although I’m positive Snoop Dog would disagree, despite Wine Spectator claiming, “Snoops’ Cabernet tastes like mouth wash used in porn hood hell.”

Did you know Hitler was born on the pot smoking holiday 4/20? I haven’t felt this duped by the satanic Jews in charge of green lighting Cheech and Chong films since they allowed Sly Stallone to sneak Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.

Has Don Lemon interviewed Ziggy Marley on 420 yet to discuss the plunging birthrates in NYC because of Lena Dunham’s encouraged arm fat flapper look on Instagram? Don Lemon asks, “How did your dad have so many kids Ziggy? Doesn’t ganja drain your ball sack dry? Ziggy Marley says with an extra lit powered grin, “Fake News Man.”

Michael Kornbluth

Grinding Out Greatness

In the Woody Allen movie celebrity Anthony Mason grinds Charlize Theron on the dance floor at some swanky club in Manhattan. Woody decided to make the pic a black and white one after the test screenings to subdue Anthony’s Mason’s penetrating blackness. Because just waxed socialites from the Upper East Side would soak their stadium size seating whole, clutch their pearls off and scream rape me already, before fnger popping themselves with their Cartier plated rape whistles as the most obscenely wealthy non-essential socialite yells, “Fuck Spike Lee. Mason can stop and frisk my billionaire row box for Hermes silk lining anytime.”

Michael Kornbluth

Short Lived Nirvana

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to sloppy seconds hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Kurt Loder, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his smoking hot second wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H, so I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle.”

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Stain Of Shame

Signs your gay.

When you’re a married man who feels competitive with Suzanne Somers.

You buy her old Playboy spread for Hanukkah primarily to pump for comedic gold material for all it’s worth.

Someone on YouTube makes a comment about her looking like a haggard looking tranny, which gives you a mildly surging stiffy in the process.

You take a virtual tour of her former fuck pad palace shared with her manager husband of 50 years in Palm Springs and think, “It’s all gaudy, heavy, animal print clutter like Trump Tower on Safari.”

The moment you learn Suzanne Somers left Threes Company to become a nightclub entertainer in Vegas, you become a bitchy Twitter twat, feeling like a wannabe Rockette with bunions.

Once you learn how Suzanne Somers is in talks to star in a reality show with her husband about their amazing sex life 50 years later. All can you think is, “Who’s the target audience? Baby Boomers taking a load off after soaking up Uni Brow Maddow’s spewing’s about money shot tax return reveals? Which give blue balled diehard Democrats left a S&M branded name.

You contemplate buying a Thigh Master but don’t feel completely gay in the process while briefly indulging in the fantasy of burying your head between her stretchy, moisty snatch in between reps.  Then, you think, “I wouldn’t mind eating through Suzanne Somers spandex sweats to suck up a mouthful of sweaty, scrumptious snatch pie eight days a week.”

You obsess over Suzanne Somers bitching about how hurt Suzanne Sommers was from her 1st Playboy shoot. How did the photographer screw over Suzanne so bad? After declining his advances, did the Photographer get Suzanne back by photoshopping the moles of his English mother-in-law’s neck on to her previously gold ray spewing clit?

You fixate on the Playboy journalist for never questioning Suzanne’s alleged discomfort around her son discovering naked pictures of Mommy 10 years later? Positive Suzanne lost sleep over it like wanting to change places with John Ritter after Threes Company and beyond. I’d ask, “Who gives a shit about what your son thinks? According to Freud, if your son wanted to titty blast your eyes wide shut, you would’ve caught him licking your Thigh Masters clean already. And cut the bullshit Suzanne. Claiming Suzanne Somers cares about her son’s feelings about being raised by the most inhalable mom in Palm Springs is like Larry from Threes Company claiming to care if your replacement was still fuckable enough to cum in with a condom on by Quagmire’s standards during the latest summertime air show at Stewart Airport.”

You remain competitive with Suzanne Somers and start brainstorming products you can become a spokesperson for that will outsell the Thigh Master after you become a famous comedian one day like hot yoga naked classes for recent divorces called Spread Eagles.  

Suzanne Somers calling her husband the Johnny Carson of Canada for 2 years get’s your panties in a bunch, despite that claim not meaning much, considering the fact he never competed against Tom Green for Dice’s funny man respect on the Apprentice.

Suzanne Somers didn’t think the pictures of her 1st Playboy spread were very flattering. Get over yourself Suzanne. Lois Lane’s skeletal shape after Superman blasts through her bust with his X-Ray Vision you’re not.

How did Suzanne Somers nightclub act in Vegas break all attendance records, second only to Elvis? By singing Raining Men while prancing around on stage to an umbrella resembling her stretched out snatch? I’d schlep that umbrella to work every day. It would be a good way to create breathing room on the subway stop at Christopher Street down the block from the famed gay bar known throughout the underground gay world as the Cubby Bar Inn.

I’m not gay about those blown-up lips on Suzzane Somers. I wouldn’t mind her mouth to be my permanent resting place before my rocket launch blasts eventually flat lined to death.

I can’t be too gay if I’m pro pepperoni size nips. You can also argue, once a size queen, always a size queen.

Would a straight gay contemplate show names for Suzanne Somers pool side reality show in the works, co-hosted by her leering, older than Yiddish husband? Who’s constantly seen in pictures trying to squeeze the tits out of her chest as his Canadian Canuck cock rages against the dying of his light?  Similar to any other reality show showcasing highly bangable MILFS who boast tits that have withstood the erosions of time better than most, they might as well rename all these reality showoff shows, “Good luck keeping up with my orgasm count bitch.”

Suzanne Somers was embarrassed by her 1st Playboy spread. Try scrubbing off the stench of degenerate drunkenness off your soul after you wake up in your daughter’s bed after the 1st night of Hanukkah drenched in your own pee, fully clothed thank God. Been off the beer, wine and bourbon ever since. Don’t knock the stain of shame bitch. It helps us rise to the occasion to avoid more lushy powered playtime consideration.

Michael Kornbluth

Female Maccabe Power

Amazon sucks. You can’t find the Hebrew Hammer on Amazon Prime, but Mein Kamph is available on your Kindle, which is 725 pages of hate speech in a row.

Practicing kindness at Banana Republic.

Do you know where that sweater was made?

It says on the tag.

You’re making it hard for me to practice kindness babe.

Do you sell ball gags made in China to?

I want my daughter to run for class president under the new Burning Mask Party.

Name a kinder act to usher in more smile rich tomorrows besides the FCC pulling the broadcast license for The View?

As your next class president, I will host our school’s 1st ever Burning Mask Party.

Pinko baby boomers burned bras, we burn masks.

You support masks mandates at school baby boomer grandma.

Too bad they don’t provide immunity from Mr. Groper sniffing your granddaughter like ground up Ritalin.

Boomer grandparents think the CDC, the WHO and Dr. Gnocchi know best.

What’s new? Baby Boomer Arrogance never dies.

Meanwhile, more kids died in South Central this year from Vape Pens than those who who called out sick from an itchy esophagus.

You want to talk child safety? Then, why are drug cartels allowed to push fentanyl through our southern border freely? Which has killed more crackers in this country than Taylor Swift kicking with Lena Dunham on Instagram.

And the FBI can’t accuse us of being domestic terrorists.

Because we don’t pledge our allegiance to ANTIFA.

Ok, bad example.

I forgot.

ANTIFA are burn victims, who never outgrew their pyro phase in elementary school.

Plastic masks will take 450 years to decompose and completely disappear from our environment? Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi continues to defy the odds unfortunately.

We shouldn’t be forced to wear these masks anymore like Michael’s Jackson’s kids on holiday in Baharain.

Kindness is believing someone gives a shit about putting an end to this never-ending shit show.

And that person is me.

No more masks.

They’ll budge.

Our teacher’s cushy pensions are riding on it.

Joan of Arc wouldn’t put up this shit.

And neither should you.

I’m your Maccabee.

Matilda Rose Kornbluth.

The mask burning party revolution starts today.

Happy Hanukkah Challah Day!

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Triple Crown Winners

Nothing Rotten

Giving up Adderall is a return to energy independence.

Calling Zelensky a Jew is like calling Annie Leibowitz a mensch.

Also, why is Annie Leibowitz taking pictures of Zelensky and his wife for Vouge magazine?

Was the Vanity Fair Hollywood issue too vain for Zelensky’s tastes?

Posing in the same magazine with Wes Anderson’s pocket watch collection from Louis Vuitton is where I draw the line Annie, no offense. Tell your sister Judy Gold, she’s a no talent hack for me, thanks.

Zelensky takes orders from Azov Nazi’s. He’s like George Soros with a better barber.

Trump’s the Anti-Christ, not your dad, Liz Cheney?

But you unlike your deathly dickish American Dad, you aim to please?

Also, doesn’t Jesus’ return from heaven to defeat the Anti-Christ in the Bible part 2?

So have some faith in the Jesus comeback story, won’t you, people.

Imagine Jesus returning and his only request is that we give up social media for a whole year.

Trump tweets on Truth Social.

Don’t worship false idols.

Sorry, I didn’t realize that former Trump supporters were tweeting that about Trump on Truth Social before giving up social media for Lent. In other words, fuck off already Trump, you left us for dead and push operation death speed with the same verve as Trump Vodka laced with killer doses of Fentanyl. Condemn the kill shot and post our bail already motherfucker or you’re rotten to the core like the rest. What’s the point in passing prison reform if you can’t even bail out your supporters who didn’t kill anything but the veneer of Q being your alter ego in the form of JFK Junior who you were destined to team up with to take out the Deep state which took his father out, who wanted to share our alien DNA stool staples of Gore Vidal with the Russians. Let Blow Hard One Mark Levin let you off nice and easy. And if Ronan Farrow is really Frank Sinatra’s kid, then why hasn’t Woody Allen woken up next to the head of Secretariat yet? The Great American Songbook lives, now eat my butt carrots Amy Barrett. You’re Mia Farrow with better husband selection, Challah. Thank you very much.

Supply Chain Solved

You want to solve our supply chain crisis? Require every dreamer crossing our border to work as a delivery driver for UPS for one year. It’s good paying union job, you get to wear shorts all day and in New York state they’re already given a license to vote anyway. Plus, UPS drivers similar to illegals are exempt from getting the clot shot, so they’ll be healthy enough to do more ballot stuffing for UPS during the mid-term election season. Plus, did you know that in New York State, you can be fined 250,000 dollars for using hate speech on illegal aliens? Such as, No Speak English? Whose translating these insults for Juan exactly? Now illegal immigrants flown into the New York on Jet Blue courtesy of the Democratic party, get a License to vote and a hate speech translator to bankrupt Apu at a bodega in Flushing. What a country, Yakov Smirnov lives, Challah. Thank you very much.  

Recess Passes Matter

Instead of giving criminals an endless supply of get out of jail free cards, which is what no bail laws are. We should institute a recess pass system that our teachers used to punish our bad behavior in elementary school growing up. Speak out in class, Recess Pass gets taken away. Place dog food on Beth’s desk. Take a Recess Pass away. Choke a cop on the subway because you feel like it. Take away a Recess Pass away. You get 5 per week from the state, which can be scanned from your phone. So, every time you can get a Recess Pass taken away it means, you get a point on your license. 5 points results in your medicinal weed card being permanently revoked in New York state. You want to talk buzz kill fellas. New Yorkers have been waiting for weed dispensaries since the dawn of time. But now you can’t access it because Latrel Sprewell’s kid choked out a cop’s white privilege despite him deserving it according to Thugs Lives Matter Most. Thugs start having panic attacks on the Subway, I can’t breathe motherfucker. I can’t go back to smoking that shit skunk weed on the street. Gummy Edibles don’t stink up my breath. I don’t want to share no blunt with your ass just out of the slammer, you monkey pox packing motherfucker.” Recess Passes Matter, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Animated Daddy

You think my son sounds like a cartoon because of his high-pitched voice? I bet he’s still prettier to look at than your daughter if she takes after you. Then again, should I really be upset at your charge of my son not sounding Trans baritone enough for your liking? The kid’s only 7. At least, he has a beautiful mind to convey, you get tense at Lena Dunham jokes because your excessive preponderance of gums takes up your entire face when you talk, which would make anyone feel like an undesirable fatty inside. But if you’re trying to imply that my son sounds like a fairy pin up girl for Disney Kids in the making, I’m glad. At least, he’ll never feel that his free will is being guilted or shamed into pumping your wench laden box on your birthday again. Instead, he’ll be building resorts in Key West to avoid fag hag turning wenches like yourself with divine powered authority as he continues build new towers of love, way up high, high, into the sky, sky. Because the Sun Butter King will be free of nagging, blast off time inhibiting energy as his mo money minting mojo keeps on rising, rising. Arthur Morrison Kornbluth shines again. Suck on it on longtime hacky hag, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth