Hot For Hummus

Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review.   Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.

Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahini flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for Hummus but only after I started making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese’s Pieces Peanut Butter Cups, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.

If you never tried Hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought Hummus or homemade Hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.  

Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing.  So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day.  At the very least, your kids will love you more putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Plus, your kids won’t become instantly tubby and resent your existence for it later. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.

Michael Kornbluth

Hot For Hummus

Hummus is Chickpeas are great in Arabic. It’s the most popular dish in the Middle East among Egyptians, Jordanians, and Israeli offshoots of the Zohan tribe, 7 degrees separated from the golden Jew Adam Sandler. Actual unity is getting your Hummus resistor Jewish father from the Bronx to follow your 3 Koshertarian diet embracing children by joining the party to try your homemade Hummus made in his Arizona estate home for a pre-nosh nibble snack on top of toasted pita triangles with some diced up cherry tomatoes, fresh scattered parsley and vibrant looking, just grated carrots on top. I’m not betting the farm on my father to try my workshopped, perfected homemade Hummus over Thanksgiving break but as my father likes to rightfully point out, I don’t own a farm let alone a John Deer lawnmower or the personal property big enough to justify the expense because I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under judicial review.   Everyone can unify behind the depressingly dreary premise of a degenerate Jew like myself not being financially secure in life yet, who uses his fingers for basic arithmetic like a retarded version Dustin Hoffman at the Blackjack table at Talking Stick Casino.

Growing up in elementary school, all my Loan Officer mother ever made me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, which didn’t help my blobby physique one bit at the time. Still, I never complained or requested anything different, urging my mother to make me Bento box lunches with Power Rangers stickers on the outside, with Cucumber and cream cheese Koshertarian rolls wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice within. Also, as a kid, I always preferred sesame bagels, for my egg and cheeses at the local Greek dinner, inhaling 2 in one sitting, after a night of drinking, with my old school high school buds, which is why my father called me the” human shovel” for a reason. So, I don’t need to be a math savant like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man to realize my love of nut based spreads like peanut butter would eventually lead to my developed steamy love for Tahani flavor in Hummus, which is where the oily, creamy, pulverized sesame seed spewing essence derives from. Hummus is basically, the more versatile, infinitely less tubby version of peanut butter, which also packs leaner blasts of less sticky mouth protein. So of course, I’m hot for hummus but only after I stared making my homemade versions to spice up my kid’s lunches, so I didn’t burn them out on peanut butter, ruining their capacity to ever savor a Reese Pieces Butter Cup, made at all the specialty chocolate chops like in Ridgefield CT again, which is an American shishy bitch rite as it gets.

If you never tried hummus, the famed sesame paste can be a turnoff, if you never sampled the primo goods before. On the surface, some store-bought hummus or homemade hummus can look like a sad plop mound of dried out earwax. That’s why you must add color and a dash of sophistication to your presentation. Pine nuts, who needs them. Chopped hardboiled eggs, gross, too overtly Israeli for my taste sorry. Pesto on top of hummus, is a blatantly unnecessary, awful idea, knowing Hummus when made right, requires no parm cheese garlic infusion to make it more swoon worthy than it already is. For me, I dress up my Hummus triangle creations with a menage a trois of radiant, lick it up color such as hot to trot, Little Red Corvette, cherry tomatoes and Arizona wild, desert bloom orange specked shredded carrots or some Polo Lounge conjuring green in the form of thick strands of Jalapeno on top to keep it extra steamy in the process.  

Just like it any relationship, you have to spice things up, incorporating needed color and variety to keep things interesting or you’ll lose sustained stiffage, which is the perpetual state of arousal necessary for any relationship to get excited for toppable tomorrows. The same rule applies to homemade loving infused creations versus the mass produced, manufactured kind, which lacks the length and depth of personalized pop compared to the real thing.  So invest in a Cuisinart to blend your Goya Chickpeas, add some store bought Tahini from your local Kosher butcher, add a garlic bulb or 2, throw in a generous heaping of sea, Himalayan, or Kosher salt, I don’t give a shit, before pouring in a steady steam of medium grade Olive oil, as the hummus magic swirls into scrumptious loving perfection before constructing your pita triangle pizzas with the steamy garnishes I mentioned prior and call it a day.  At the very least, your kids will love you more putting in the extra effort to tantalize and awaken their tastebuds to newer, fresher, yummier possibilities than ever before. Plus, your kids won’t become instantly tubby and resent your existence for it later. Last, your wife tasting like hummus won’t lure you into sucking face with her on the spot, but you’ll take whatever justified outs a 10-year marriage can give you.

Michael Kornbluth

Chicken Cutlet Hunters

The Chicken Cutlet from the Edgemont Deli on Central Avenue next to Danny’s Cycle in southern Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan was always the best.  My old school dear friend Ari, now a Kidney doctor who part owns his own practice in CT, a graduate of Washington University, no dummy, would agree with me, we became fixated on hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet sandwich ever since. I remember inhaling down this chicken cutlet thinking, I was in the presence of greatness, just based on the crispy enough, herbed spice breading on it alone. Back then, I didn’t know the difference between sage or rosemary. I wasn’t aware of how cilantro was used as an herb in salsa. Shit, an underclassman fooled me into buying oregano for weed senior year in high school, so I wasn’t obsessing over the herb installation componentry embedded in my bomb chicken cutlet from the Edgemont Deli at the time, that wasn’t Calista Flockhart skinny but more Jo plump like from Facts of Life, which gave you something more excitable to chomp into again and again. The perfectly shredded lettuce, semi-thin, actual fleshy red tomato on top,  nestled between the banging Kaiser roll, which was never drowning for dear life in an amorphous plop of mayo goo didn’t hurt the chicken cutlet sandwich’s overall appeal one bit either. Ah, those were the days, pre-Yelp, where you actually had to rely on your own intuition and New York bred sense of adventure to try and consume it all, like a less hyper articulate, perpetually suave, mini Anthony Bourdain in the making, minus the French royal rocker look working in your favor either.

Now, that I’m getting my 3 kids more courageous about trying different Kosher meat creations because they know I’m writing a book about it and unlike others, they still believe me in pounding my dreams of comedic superstardom into freaking reality already, especially when I involve them in the act of pulverizing the homemade Kosher chicken cutlets I made tonight with real deal Hebrew Hammer fury.  I told my son Arthur to choke up on the mighty mallet before pounding the chicken cutlets for round 2 with the intention of smooshing those cutlets into barely recognizable form like when Mitch Blood Green came up with the bright idea to start a street fight with Iron Mike in Harlem during his prime time domination years, where he knocked out legendary heavy weights by the time you banged another one out to Taste Of Amber again.  

My wife had to Nazify my dream chicken cutlet recreation tonight, using a combination of panko breadcrumbs and homemade ones while also using a mishmash of chopped parsley, sage and rosemary, by insisting on calling it the meal “Schnitzel”, saying, “I haven’t had Schnitzel since Oktoberfest in Germany.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Chances are you had pork schnitzel for starters, which is fine, but don’t lump my dish into your non-eating Kosher past in Germany before the open borders invite to invade and resist assimilation lead to no-go zones, proving too much for Angela Merkel’s hunched shoulders to bear alone. Where is W to give Angela Lansbury’s, more homely, less talented, dour dumpy clone to give an unsolicited back rub, when you need him?  Also, I didn’t  know what the hell Schnitzel was in high school, I just knew how to order a chicken cutlet at the deli, with shredded lettuce, tomato, mayo, Russian dressing or getting some melted provolone on it if I was feeling particularly eccentric for lunch, that day, that’s it. Granted, tonight, I did fry up gargantuan flatted breasts which looked like Pauly from Rocky passed out on Bridget Nielson’s tits. But I wouldn’t call a schnitzel dish using Panko breadcrumbs and Kosher certified chicken as a sterling example of keeping it real Arian like either.  Actually, for those food nerd historians at home, schnitzel was actually invented in Austria before famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal helped track down Adolf Eichman’s Nazi footsteps in Buenos Aries pleasuring himself to more Malbec and Nazi trading cards bound for the ashbins of truly deplorable history. Before shiny shoes got hanged in Israel for being Farrakhan’s dreamboat exterminator against you know who Gervais, and it wasn’t your mole infested British commoners working as Bank Tellers for Barclay’s Bank either.

I’m most impressed with my how kids continue to embrace and try any new meat creation I make for them, because they know it’s made with love and kids always love you back twice as much, when you make them like feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Last, your kids can’t help but look up to daddy a little bit in the kitchen knowing he’s doing his best to please God  and obey his dietary laws in exchange for blessing him with the greatest home team imaginable, which grows closer every day, yeah, yeah.

I’m about to put my 3-year old son Samuel in the car today on our way to pick up a couple of last minute, improvised inspired ingredients and he says with a wink and brightened smile, “I hate your jokes and your books to.” I laughed long time. The fact my 3-year-old son already understands the full spectrum of silly minded, sarcastic fueled ball busting while also comprehending what work I’ve been pounding away at since he was born is a sign that God really is looking after my back through this miracle wonderkid. Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo really is the pubescent, Total Package, Lex Luger after all.

Michael Kornbluth

Chicken Cutlet Hunters

The Chicken Cutlet from the Edgemont Deli on Central Avenue next to Danny’s Cycle in southern Westchester County, 30 minutes north of Manhattan was always the best.  My old school dear friend Ari, now a Kidney doctor who part owns his own practice in CT, a graduate of Washington University, no dummy, would agree with me, we became fixated on hunting down the perfect chicken cutlet sandwich ever since. I remember inhaling down this chicken cutlet thinking, I was in the presence of greatness, just based on the crispy enough, herbed spice breading on it alone. Back then, I didn’t know the difference between sage or rosemary. I wasn’t aware of how cilantro was used as an herb in salsa. Shit, an underclassman fooled me into buying oregano for weed senior year in high school, so I wasn’t obsessing over the herb installation componentry embedded in my bomb chicken cutlet from the Edgemont Deli at the time, that wasn’t Calista Flockhart skinny but more Jo plump like from Facts of Life, which gave you something more excitable to chomp into again and again. The perfectly shredded lettuce, semi-thin, actual fleshy red tomato on top,  nestled between the banging Kaiser roll, which was never drowning for dear life in an amorphous plop of mayo goo didn’t hurt the chicken cutlet sandwich’s overall appeal one bit either. Ah, those were the days, pre-Yelp, where you actually had to rely on your own intuition and New York bred sense of adventure to try and consume it all, like a less hyper articulate, perpetually suave, mini Anthony Bourdain in the making, minus the French royal rocker look working in your favor either.

Now, that I’m getting my 3 kids more courageous about trying different Kosher meat creations because they know I’m writing a book about it and unlike others, they still believe me in pounding my dreams of comedic superstardom into freaking reality already, especially when I involve them in the act of pulverizing the homemade Kosher chicken cutlets I made tonight with real deal Hebrew Hammer fury.  I told my son Arthur to choke up on the mighty mallet before pounding the chicken cutlets for round 2 with the intention of smooshing those cutlets into barely recognizable form like when Mitch Blood Green came up with the bright idea to start a street fight with Iron Mike in Harlem during his prime time domination years, where he knocked out legendary heavy weights by the time you banged another one out to Taste Of Amber again.  

My wife had to Nazify my dream chicken cutlet recreation tonight, using a combination of panko breadcrumbs and homemade ones while also using a mishmash of chopped parsley, sage and rosemary, by insisting on calling it the meal “Schnitzel”, saying, “I haven’t had Schnitzel since Oktoberfest in Germany.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Chances are you had pork schnitzel for starters, which is fine, but don’t lump my dish into your non-eating Kosher past in Germany before the open borders invite to invade and resist assimilation lead to no-go zones, proving too much for Angela Merkel’s hunched shoulders to bear alone. Where is W to give Angela Lansbury’s, more homely, less talented, dour dumpy clone to give an unsolicited back rub, when you need him?  Also, I didn’t  know what the hell Schnitzel was in high school, I just knew how to order a chicken cutlet at the deli, with shredded lettuce, tomato, mayo, Russian dressing or getting some melted provolone on it if I was feeling particularly eccentric for lunch, that day, that’s it. Granted, tonight, I did fry up gargantuan flatted breasts which looked like Pauly from Rocky passed out on Bridget Nielson’s tits. But I wouldn’t call a schnitzel dish using Panko breadcrumbs and Kosher certified chicken as a sterling example of keeping it real Arian like either.  Actually, for those food nerd historians at home, schnitzel was actually invented in Austria before famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal helped track down Adolf Eichman’s Nazi footsteps in Buenos Aries pleasuring himself to more Malbec and Nazi trading cards bound for the ashbins of truly deplorable history. Before shiny shoes got hanged in Israel for being Farrakhan’s dreamboat exterminator against you know who Gervais, and it wasn’t your mole infested British commoners working as Bank Tellers for Barclay’s Bank either.

I’m most impressed with my how kids continue to embrace and try any new meat creation I make for them, because they know it’s made with love and kids always love you back twice as much, when you make them like feel like the center of your universe instead of the reverse. Last, your kids can’t help but look up to daddy a little bit in the kitchen knowing he’s doing his best to please God  and obey his dietary laws in exchange for blessing him with the greatest home team imaginable, which grows closer every day, yeah, yeah.

I’m about to put my 3-year old son Samuel in the car today on our way to pick up a couple of last minute, improvised inspired ingredients and he says with a wink and brightened smile, “I hate your jokes and your books to.” I laughed long time. The fact my 3-year-old son already understands the full spectrum of silly minded, sarcastic fueled ball busting while also comprehending what work I’ve been pounding away at since he was born is a sign that God really is looking after my back through this miracle wonderkid. Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo really is the pubescent, Total Package, Lex Luger after all.

Michael Kornbluth

Death Of A Bose Salesman

Once upon a time there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease.  He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin   and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song Hells Bells. Michael Yeller always believed louder is better until now because he was longer ablet to sing Search and Destroy by Iggy Pop and Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss anymore.   

Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders throughout the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding, the steel guitar slaying, Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop CC Deville from Poison. Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah but he already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.

After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA but IT Directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and non-descript, low key bars on random, zero foot traffic streets, unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl once. Eventually, Michael moved back to NY and did digital ad sales for Citysearch and started to try open mike stand up comedy. When working for Citysearch he’d say on stage, “Citysearch is city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.” But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rock star on stage, because if his 1st joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggy back off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any new inspired direction of hilarity he choose.  

At the Christmas party for CitySearch Michael sang his best rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting black out drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to Oh What A Feeling.

Knowing Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of Fallen Angel in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job, where his loud man disease could be neutralized, where it wouldn’t become such a career hindering liability and got a job in suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY selling state of the art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system all together. Michael would be selling noise cancelation headphones, “Yenta Silencers”, is what he’d call them specifically before sampling new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know Google fired 25 software engineers for sexual harassment? But software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”  

But one day during a demo presentation for AC/DC Back In Black on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell Church bell clang to Hells Bells. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, losing all semblance of voice control now whatsoever?

Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most bad ass metal rock records of all time, which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally. Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse and Van Halen with divine powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard non-stop-all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kick ass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again. In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore but he was still able to sell his love of loud, metal music through his blogs, and also had the kick ass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Death Of A Bose Salesman

Once upon a time there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease.  He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin   and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song Hells Bells. Michael Yeller always believed louder is better until now because he was longer ablet to sing Search and Destroy by Iggy Pop and Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss anymore.   

Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders throughout the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding, the steel guitar slaying, Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop CC Deville from Poison. Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah but he already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.

After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA but IT Directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and non-descript, low key bars on random, zero foot traffic streets, unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl once. Eventually, Michael moved back to NY and did digital ad sales for Citysearch and started to try open mike stand up comedy. When working for Citysearch he’d say on stage, “Citysearch is city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.” But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rock star on stage, because if his 1st joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggy back off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any new inspired direction of hilarity he choose.  

At the Christmas party for CitySearch Michael sang his best rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting black out drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to Oh What A Feeling.

Knowing Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of Fallen Angel in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job, where his loud man disease could be neutralized, where it wouldn’t become such a career hindering liability and got a job in suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY selling state of the art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system all together. Michael would be selling noise cancelation headphones, “Yenta Silencers”, is what he’d call them specifically before sampling new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know Google fired 25 software engineers for sexual harassment? But software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”  

But one day during a demo presentation for AC/DC Back In Black on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell Church bell clang to Hells Bells. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, losing all semblance of voice control now whatsoever?

Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most bad ass metal rock records of all time, which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally. Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse and Van Halen with divine powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard non-stop-all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kick ass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again. In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore but he was still able to sell his love of loud, metal music through his blogs, and also had the kick ass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Resisting Synagogue Distancing

I don’t need to see Chelsea Handler topless to expose her disdain for an administration who champions the reopening of all houses of worship in another desperate attempt to downplay her tits sagging popularity again and again. And you can talk about the incessant, mandatory need for social distancing all you want, but it’s not as if the more wokeified reformed Jewish Rabbis in the US pre-Corona were playing to packed houses either.

But overt hostility directed at the Trump administration, his freedom loving supporters or toward Torah obeying Hasidic Jews isn’t New Testament new either. This morning, I tell my wife, “I identify with Chabad Hasidism because their members aren’t Holocaust trivializing, Nazi name calling supremacists, who love all Jews as much as NPR’s inflated sense of self-importance.” She says, “Well someone whose been in contact with plenty of Hasidic woman as a nurse in labor and delivery, I can tell you, Hasidic woman have less freedom than Orthodox Jewish woman do, who only exist to bang out more babies really.” I snap back with, “Just because you watched Unorthodox on Netflix, you’re a Social Worker now to? Plus, Hasidic woman can also use the Instant Pot today to, which reduces Brisket cooking cutting time in half. So, slaving away in the kitchen is no longer such a time sucking existence anymore either. But I’m supposed to demonize the entire Hasidic sect of Judaism because the NY Times post fake news claims working moms today spend more time today with their kids than stay at home moms did in the 1970’s? So, stay at home mom’s in the 1970’s slept on the job on too many Quaaludes, haunted by memories of Bill Cosby’s family friendly dentist drilling material of yesteryear? I don’t get it.

Last, what’s so wrong about Hasidic woman raising future generations of doctors and rabbi’s turned comedians like Jackie Mason, who help perfect the world through medicinal healing or comedic song?”

Giving lockdown orders on Synagogues throughout neighborhoods such as Borough Park and Midwood in New York because Mayor DeBlasio and Governor Cuomo are worried about fending off this new wave of Corona infections less than a month before election day, during the most festive, infectiously joyous weeklong holiday of Sukkot, felt forced magnanimous to me. Especially after our so called morally exalted leaders of New York allowed rioters and looters to shatter Macy’s windows on 34 Street unimpeded. The same feckless leaders who defunded the NYPD in the face of nonstop lawlessness in the form of looting, shooting and sucker punching of beloved actor Rick Moranis since this Thug Lives Matter Most horror show began, whether your black or white cloaked in black hoodies representing Pacific Northwest ANTIFA. Killing off the once endlessly vibrant life force of my beloved concrete jungle of yesteryear, one boarded up storefront at a time as the once unthinkable exodus from New York City began. Because looting Gucci ain’t a thing but a reparations thing knowing Beyonce didn’t stand for the National Anthem during the Super Bowl because Demi Lovato sounds like the white privileged version of Alabama Shakes.  

But at least liquor stores are still considered houses of worship in New York State in addition to 3rd trimester pushing abortion clinics. Because Planned Parenthood is an essential place of business to abort a fully formed fetus on demand, which is kosher in Cuomo’s eyes and in Bill Maher’s book. President Trump should nickname Governor Cuomo The Italian Reptilian inside, especially after he caused the death of 6000 plus elderly patients, by forcing elderly homes throughout NY to accept new COVID patients to fill out all the extra body bags they were ordered to take in with them to. Still, this thug in Armani who looks like the Thing and Mama Fratelli from the Goonies had a baby, has the chutzpah to write a book on leadership lessons based on his alleged stellar handling the of the Coronavirus pandemic, despite him blaming all those unnecessary nursing home deaths on Trump, the GOP and Fox News. Because the Italian Reptilian Inside Cuomo was just following the Department of Health’s marching orders like a good Soros, one world order licking solider, despite him writing the order in March demanding all elderly homes in NY accept COVID patients while the revamped Javits Center remained empty in addition to President Trump’s shipped in Hospital Ship, which got less touches than a Bible on board a Booze Cruise on its way to Provincetown.

Cuomo and DeBlasio aren’t concerned about minimizing the spread of Covid. All they care about is preserving their power through the very fear mongering they accuse President Trump of, through constantly pinning the entirety of this Chinese made virus aftermath on his administration despite POTUS canceling all incoming travel from China in March while DeBlasio fumbled with chopsticks during a photo op in Chinatown at the same time, urging naturally neurotic New Yorkers to get a grip.

I also don’t recall mosques in NYC being on the receiving end of such prayer distancing restrictions, despite Muslims praying more frequently in their houses of worship compared to Jews and Christians, which the loudspeaker call to prayer in Astoria, NY will remind you of, 5 times a day if you ever forgot prior because you used to have an office in Manhattan, that wasn’t at home, before the boss distancing remote work world began.  Yesterday, I asked my voice activated assistant Alexa speaker, “How many more days till Hannukah?” Alexa says, “I don’t know.” I reply with, “I bet you know the countdown till Ramadan because you wouldn’t want to be branded Islamophobic like President Trump if you dare question the staying power of Obama’s timeout nuke building deal with Iran, knowing Iran is only the biggest sponsor of worldwide terror since the construction of the last Death Star.”

Cuomo and DeBlasio derive sick, soulless pleasure from keeping true believing Christians out of Churches like Amy Barrett and strict rule following Jewish men of faith out of Synagogues because they also represent a significant size of Trump supporters who defend his stance against late term abortion especially in addition to his foreign policy stance responsible for creating peace through strength in the Middle East by normalizing relations between Israel and it’s Arab neighbors, who recognize Iran as being the true face of evil, which no amount of Shadowbanning by Big Tech can conceal.

America was founded on the basis of granting religious liberty without the fear of prosecution like being fined for breaking social distancing rules during Easter or the most recent Jewish holiday of Sukkot. All houses of worship in the US, mosques to, offer the most holy God loving bind around us that unites us all. And anyone who thinks Democrats in charge of NY care about pleasing God through polite prayer or punishing the real face of evil, responsible for rampant, enabled acts of widespread violence throughout the streets of NY, 8 million New Yorkers call home, my native home also, can go woke themselves to.

My most spine tingly memories of Synagogue revolve around my childhood congregation standing up in unison to sing the always rousing, unifying prayer, “She-ma yisrael, adonai, eloheinu, adonai, echad. Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, The Lord is one.” Hear that DeBlasio, the Lord is our God, not you or the Italian Reptilian Cuomo inside. All the fines, religious school shutdowns and mask shaming imposed hysteria, won’t keep God’s cosmic perfectionists from performing mitzvot such as teaching our children Torah at home and through prayer which doesn’t require walls to suppress the glorification of the almighty, while praising all that’s good in our hearts and souls forevermore. Even Kid Rock would gave that soul sermon serenade an Amen.  I say Amen.

And anyone who calls me a racist fringe conspiracist for hating how my 3 kids are forced to dress in masks now every day now like its Sharia Law Appreciation Day, can go woke themselves to.  While DeBlasio and Cuomo use our kids as pawns to wreck our economy, ruin their age of innocence and demolish patriots means to provide the American dream for our children because we have nobody to look after our kids from home for remote learning since Facebook has made baby boomers the laziest, most hands off grandparent generation of all time. Lifting a finger is liking a new picture on Facebook, assuming my kids aren’t posing in a fighter plane during a Blue Angels air show at Stewart Airport in a pro patriot Trumpian lead America, God forbid.   

Michael Kornbluth

Condemn Nazi Name Calling Supremacists

“Hate warps the mind, ravages the heart, and devours the soul.”

President Trump

I had it all planned out, especially after my speech bombed at my younger brother’s wedding resulting in my father instructing me to wrap it up after committing the unforgivable sin of blatantly mocking the Nazi this, Nazi that name calling east coast elitist crowd in attendance. I say, “Cam from Canada, make yourself at home and hit somebody. So, Jim Carrey can paint you as an alt-right goon for hire, looking more like an enraged, rejected extra from the Sears catalog in 86.” Knowing my father told me to wrap it up after that, I only wish I added, “Rock bad ass Courtney Love called Linda Sarsour a fake feminist because of her defense of clitoral removal under Sharia Law. Plus, she hates Israel more than Bernie Sanders hates his mother. So, if supporting Courtney Love over Linda Sarsour makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. For my son’s Hebrew naming ceremony, I decided to tell the congregation I chose the name Jeremiah because he’s a respected prophet in the Koran, which makes my son immune from any future charges of Islamophobia, assuming he decides to post a Tik Tok video of the Adam Sandler Hannukah song with the added verse, “Linda Sarsour, not a fan.”

I just had a piece published, Back To Hebrew School, in The Times Of Israel about assuming ownership of my kid’s Hebrew School education post Corona by relearning how to read Hebrew from home with them, while using comedy to engage their interest more. From creating mini short stories such as Gimmel Be Good about the Jewish boy who invented the Dreidel game to distract the Romans from their forbidden Torah studies, because at the time Romans wouldn’t consider another Jewish kid with a head for numbers and a developing gambling problem to be a radical departure from reality. A couple of days later, I get my father on the phone after needing sometime to process his lackluster voicemail acknowledging my Back To Hebrew School piece prior, which was low energy compared to Jeb Bush. On the phone with my Dad the following day, I say, “For the record, The Times of Israel isn’t considered an al-right dirt rag Dad.” Dad laughs because the joke propped up his alleged intellectual superiority over 64 million branded racists and growing. I add, “And can you believe The Times of Israel hasn’t told me to wrap it up it up yet?” But they did.

I got canceled by The Times Of Israel, meaning they terminated my guest blog column because they found my tone too unpleasing after I wrote piece about Hassidic Jews in Brooklyn resisting synagogue distancing while blaming the DeBlasio administration for blatant anti-Semitic bias, knowing his participation in much larger BLM protests and proven aversion for MAGA hat supporters of President Trump in general, regardless if they’re wearing Hasidic black hats or not.

But then the conversation with my dad took a depressingly annoying turn after he refused to condemn my younger brother for calling me a Nazi after I started criticizing the BLM movement and ANTIFA to his favorite son via text recently, saying, “All lives matter is the new n word. Guaranteed money in the NBA is oppressive. Nike should change their social righting justice slogan to Just Don’t Resist Arrest. All the wannabe Punisher vigilantes in black ANTIFA hoodies, who never outgrew their pyro phase in elementary school are the renegade activist arm of the media, who are fake news fascist fighting moralists like Unibrow Maddow. And if you believe the Proud Boys are a bigger threat to freedom of speech than ANTIFA or the hate speech police moderators at Facebook, Google and Twitter, then you can go woke yourself to.”

Snoop Dog shoots a Trump clown character in a rap video because his brain hovers below porn hood hell. Eminem calls President Trump Hitler. Take a chill pill Slim, sequels never live up to the original. Also, when The Donald bought Mar-A- Lago, he immediately removed the ban on Jewish membership, Slim On Facts Shady. Never forget the Nazi smears and who the real self-serving, scruple free, hate speech spewing, violence endorsing, terrorist siding, jealous ridden leading figures littered throughout our precious media, music biz, Hollywood, Big Tech and in post woke Corporate America actually are.

I wish they had a vaccine to cure my father’s sore loser’s disease for thinking Hilary Hammer Time Cankles was going to win because baby boomer arrogance never dies. Plus, Baby Boomer Mom doesn’t know best. Hillary must have deleted that memo to. And believing Obama is the most divisive, colluding ex-President of all time who let ISIS run wild while ushering in 2.9 GDP growth, doesn’t mean you a racist. Thinking you’re intellectually and morally superior to all Trump supporters like Keith Olbermann, who wants all of us expunged from the universe does.

Well two can play at the Nazi name calling highlighting game. Obama is the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he we was that organized. Exterminating all his pestering, hook nosed critics, who criticized his timeout nuke building deal with the number one sponsor of terror in the Middle East would be a gas. That’s right, Obama gave Iran 150 billion dollars in unmarked bills for an overseas manufacturing facility for Build A Bear, to make their economy less reliant on the sale of face hair removal cream for the Kardashians. Joan lives.

I still can’t believe my dad refused to condemn my younger brother for branding me a Nazi after I just wrote The Great American Jew Novel, which just scored a four-star review on Amazon no less. I haven’t felt this betrayed sine Sylvester Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3

Michael Kornbluth