Spoiled Dumb Son

Do I believe in Climate Change?

I believe in never warming up to my asshole father.

Especially, after my son asks.

How much do you like Papa?

I say.

He openly questions how were related.

How much would you like him then?

Son says.

Does that mean you want to be an asshole too?

You’re not making any sense again, Moron Jewish Son.

Maybe he questions why your brain is so dumb compared to John Fetterman.

At least John Fetterman had a stroke.

What’s your excuse?

You’re spoiled dumb or just a medium suck son?

Who prepares more mock meat sandwiches that your dad would never eat like your Impossible To Top Cheesesteak.

What’s Impossible Burger meat made from again moron Jewish son?

Pea protein and synthetic enuchry?

Just busting your balls, I mean Nutsy Russells Daddy.

I’m just trying to make you tough because your father never did.

I loved the Sloppy Second Joes you made yesterday with Impossible Burger meat.

That’s named after Hair Plugs Sniffer, who resides in the fake news White House set, right Daddy?

Now write some more jokes for your last comedy record special from home, Spoiled Stupid Son.

At this point, you couldn’t write rotten dumb jokes if you tried.

Spoiled Dumb Son gets spoiled with more blood-on-blood love.

Bon Jovi, New Jersey lives, the beautifully good one, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Year Without Beer

“If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

                        –Toni Morrison

            Do It All Dad, a 45-year-old divorced father of three, was burnt out on feeling like a waste of height, already.  He longed to fly high like MJ and DR J or Chocolate Thunder before him; yet what would Do It All Dad’s next destination be?  Do It All Dad had a gorgeous-looking jump shot; yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league, knowing that his ball handle was weak, and he could only dunk out with a mini-basketball on a regulation at hoop at 6’4 in a non-game situation with an extreme running start and only with one hand, while still fretting about awkwardly falling in his ass in the process.  

            One summer, when Do It All Dad was a lonely college student still heartbroken over his summer romance with Katie on the Cape, which stayed in Kennedy Country and within the deep pits of his pain-punctured heart, he worked as a waiter at the NY Yacht Club in Rye, NY, and became friendly with all the busboys and other waiters there.

            They mostly came from the boogie-down Bronx, versus his more snuggle-soft secure upbringing along the Tudor-housed streets, with crisp cut grass you can eat a knocked-over Hebrew National Dog from (assuming your uncontrollable, putzy DNA held your semi-surging self-esteem hostage again, or you’d just dropped and spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer-pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed being puffed at an increasingly rapid rate.

            One time, on their downtime at work, Do It All Dad (then known as simply Josh) was at local basketball court with a Latino busy boy who was half his size, boasting calf muscles thicker than the Yellow Pages phone book, and launched high, with zero hesitation, for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority.

             He was the lost twenty-year-old college senior without a passion to latch a career onto yet; miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating from the top communications schools in the country (that being Ithaca College, which he’d call ‘Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor’ in his eventual open mike stand-up act years later).

            He thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So I scored ten points against an all-Japanese private school team on our home floor.

            “It’s hard to feel empowered about my sudden offensive power surge, then, which consisted mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi-forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint. I knew that whoever my defender was next had a tendency to run away, scared, from me when I drove to the hoop like they were auditioning as scurrying movie extras in a scorched city scene from Godzilla.

            Then, after Julio’s raise-the-roof, in-your-face, I’m-the-man dunk, he encouraged Josh to get physical and try dunking himself, saying, “Your turn, Josh. I’m half your size. Dunk it home for me. You can do it, player.”

            Josh was very touched by this motivated nudge to assert his latent manhood by at least trying to dunk a ball without fear of failure or embarrassment from falling on his ass or cracking his head on the concrete for trying to launch toward the hoop with more fickle feet apprehension, knowing that his less-than-lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his varsity-playing basketball days, when he used to run on his tippy toes instead of high tops, made him look like he was auditioning for America’s Top Model, instead.

            If only LaVar Ball was his sub coach! He’d make sure he lost his virginity before his younger brother did. He’d joked about this in an act, when he auditioned for amateur night at the Apollo Theater, once, adding, “LaVar Ball as my sub coach dad in high school would’ve been the greatest.

            “He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck-up Jenny from down the block. Two minutes into the party, he’d get in stuck-up Jenny’s ear and bark, “The Yoo-Hoo bottle doesn’t spin itself, bitch.”

            Now Josh takes a final glance at Julio on the sideline, who gives an encouraging fist pump,  signaling, You can do this, champ.

            Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he starts running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff. This stripped him of all forward momentous lift, resulting in him barely grazing the ball on the rim.

            It was impossible for Josh to conceal his dejected embarrassment, knowing that fear prevented him from flying high again.

            Julio approaches Josh as his head hangs low in an excessively worrisome, ‘I’m such a worthless putz’, deflated state, and says, “You slowed down. You can’t be afraid to fly, B.”

            Now, at 45, what was keeping Do It All Dad from flying high with the angels?  Assuming ownership of his original birth name, Michael, instead of his middle name Joshua (knowing that Michael was considered partially Godlike, in the sense that he packed enough firepower to kick Lucifer’s ass out of heaven) wasn’t adding any extra flying lift to his anemic vertical jump.

            Do It All Dad loved his IPAs, yet, after getting divorced for cheating on his wife with a kid’s salon hairdresser who worked on his son’s cut (which most would say was done in extreme poor taste), he began to question the intrinsic value his cherished IPAs had to offer his rapidly-depleting, voided world without his three beamish wonder kids in his life, anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay-at-home comedian for years, writing one more self-published book with even more anemic sales to match, after the next.  

            Do It All Dad always liked to read quotes on Goodreads to get his brain going when writing about a new topic, to see what fresh point of view hadn’t been expressed yet, because his definition of failure was giving up on being your most unapologetic, genuine, original self in the service of showing blatant disregard for so-called ideals of appropriate, pre-determined labeling behavior.

            One quote which always weighed heavily on his guilt-plagued consciousness was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that weighs you down.”

            Now Josh was divorced from what had descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love or the patriarch of the family, so he was free of that constant negative nagging energy in his life; yet that wasn’t enough to free him to fly.

            On a less psychic mumbo jumbo level, if Josh was brutally honest with himself, it was the mini-beer belly which prevented him from reaching sustained dunking-out glory where he had life in a perpetual ball death grip for good.

            The shit Josh needed to give up was the ironically named hop juice.  

            Now, Josh needed a change of location where alcohol wasn’t in your face and such a dominant aspect of nightlife like at two-drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC, for starters.

             After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or two, to enjoy the post-kill rush among a sea of new touchy-feely female fans?

            Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now that the comedy clubs were closed indefinitely in a post-COVID-controlled universe gone wild.

            If he was going to give up beer and actually write his new book concept into an actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle by giving up his precious espresso pods and IPAs. He needed to focus on shedding the extra twenty pounds holding him back from flying with rock-powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks of amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself that he was capable of being a better man, after all, who can snag a smoking hot babe similar to Pearl Jam’s front man’s wife. Chances are, he didn’t meet her at a Seattle coffee shop.
            But what would Josh do for money, to pay child support and avoid jail time for failure to contribute?

            Nobody picked up the phone anymore, so working as an IT recruiter was out, and would only lead to him drinking again to take the edge off from feeling like such a predictable, ineffectual, powerless, indentured servant jerkoff again and again.

            No, Josh had to move outside his comfort zone, more so than going on a permanent detoxification, this time. He needed to put his handsome mug to good use, especially once he started dropping weight at an accelerated rate again, which would make him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years.

            Josh was blessed with a booming motor mouth, too, and was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his second oldest in swimming, and his third into volleyball; all on the verge of scoring respective sports scholarships for each.

            So, how could Josh use his power to motivate, stimulate, and entertain while making enough to bread to keep those child support payments up?  Because getting another 50K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at age 45 wasn’t going to get the job done, either.

            Finally, one night after Josh was done pulverizing the vagina of his new kid stylist girlfriend, Julia, a striking, tall, muscular, stacked, 50-year-old divorced blonde mom in tight ripped jeans (normally, who was caught staring at his swollen package the first time he gave her the green light to give him his spikey-haired, lean, mean machine makeover, an idea emerged.

            Josh says to the chesty, sweat-drenched, perfect-feet-manicured Julie, in bed, “I can’t make a living as a working comedian or as an author, yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time-suck on my life (which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore, as my Do It All Dad schtick is wearing thin if I don’t start earning for my family tomorrow).

            “So I’m going to throw my ball sack on the line and audition to become the next star Peloton riding instructor, because they all bore me to freaking death.

            “I don’t care how tan, ripped, and solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leader board every time, without completely coughing out a lung, either.

            “Plus, my motivation is to avoid getting anal AIDS in prison, in addition to becoming a star provider for my family (after all, this is what I pray to God for every morning, anyway).

            “The most popular Peloton instructors make 300K a year. No wonder they smiling so fucking much, because it’s not their witty asides on the bike that’s making their cheeks hurt from extended grinning.

            “Also, I’m gay enough to be a male instructor who can look stylish and be cheeky and bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch, while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Peloton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home, too.

            “Plus, I wrote the entire script for VHL Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kickass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time.

            “And, I know enough about hard rock to know that Foreigner kicks way more ass than the fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could. Hey, why don’t we move to Utah together?”

            Julia says, “What the fuck is in Utah?”

            Josh says, “Mormon moms. They’ll love me. In Utah, they have the most amount of plastic surgeon offices per square foot in the US—even more than Beverly Hills.

            “I’ll be flush with primo new fantasy bang material, assuming that I get tired of bursting with joy between your gorgeous lobes of perfection on top, come rain or shine.”

            Julia says, “Look, Josh, I like you plenty. You make me laugh constantly and dent my pussy for weeks (which I’m not complaining about one iota, either), but let’s be honest. I’m your divorce rebound lay—nothing more, nothing less.

            “Although, sometimes, a divorce rebound lay can help arouse what you’re most passionate about doing next.”

            Josh says, “My son Arthur keeps asking me if he’s going to take a picture of me dunking a basketball while slamming an empty IPA, for the back cover pic.

            “I think I finally found a way to do it—on top of some basketball court overlooking Zion National Park. The Lion Of Judah will conquer his white man’s disease after all, like a true Duppy Conqueror. Bob Marely lives, holla; thank you very much.

            “Do It All Dad Does Mormonism can be sold as a self-help, midlife crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides that the best way to fly is to give up the shit that weighs him down—that being beer and a nagging ex-wife who always insisted I was more of a writer than a performer (which is bullshit all the way).

            “This would prove her wrong, and I could become the star provider for my family after all.”          Julia says, “Yeah, but are you really going to give up everything for this part, like way Rodney’s character does for Easy Money?”

            Joshua says, “I could get a medical prescription for some stink-free edibles, claiming PTSD after learning that my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my three kids behind my back.

            “The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello-wresting wife night.    “I’ll make up some line about me converting to Mormonism because you can achieve salvation through good works similar to the act of Mitzvah in the Jewish faith, doing good for the sake doing it.

            “I could throw in a line about how becoming a Jew for Jesus is tempting, yet I could never get past the rule allowing entry into heaven if you’re a sanctuary city mayor who asks for forgiveness before his final judgment, despite being guilty of using their power to block the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the first place.

            “Ban ICE because homeland security was so weapons-of-mass-destruction-years, my chest.”        Julia laughs and says, “When you become a big-time, Peloton instructor, maybe I’ll fly to visit you.”

            Joshua leans closer to his divorce rebound lay, career-revitalizing muse, of sorts, with steamy, inhalatory glee and says, “But the book isn’t called Do It All Dad Does Italian Hairdressers From Yonkers, NY.

            “Still, I need to get into tip top shape for this audition.

            “So, how about I pump up your box one more time for the road, instead.”

            Julia grabs Joshua’s throbbing man meat underneath the sheets and he says, “I’ll take that as a hard yes.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Headless Headhunter

Once upon a time, there was a journeyman headhunter, Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, who wasn’t much of a rainmaker. He was more of a trickler. He placed copywriters with major ad agencies along Madison Avenue with middling success, only for Don Draper to qualify these candidates even further if they got the past the initial phone screen with zero bullshit, cold-as-ice gentile inquiries such as, “Tell me, again, why you haven’t been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot, because your portfolio shows less promise than Jimmy Carter’s solar panel-powered weed plant in the White House’s new greenhouse garden.”

            It was 1976. Boston broke big with ‘More Than A Feeling’, and Peter Frampton jammed with Jimi Hendrix’s trippy, metal-type finesse on Frampton Comes Alive in your daughter, again, (assuming she looks like a less-big-backed Brooke Shields, with eyebrows that don’t take up her entire face, either).  

            Zevon was married only a year, yet his relationship with Mellissa wasn’t filling him with ‘She’s The One’ crooning vibes anymore, especially since blowing her hubby became a once in a lifetime event, like Haley’s Comet or Joe Namath seeking a shrink for depression, or Reggie Jackson sweating the dry-cleaning bill for his mink coat (assuming that George Steinbrenner refused to pay for it out of sheer winning, dependent spite alone).

            Every day, Michael would cold call creative directors in Manhattan to get them interested in copywriters who grew tired of working as freelance writers for Esquire because Norman Mailer had a monopoly on all the good Ali articles—or they grew tired of more short story rejection letters from the New Yorker, who sucked off John Updike’s short stories because he made their editors come across as less boring and annoying than usual. (If only Gore Vidal’s personality and erudite edge could’ve rubbed off on John Updike through sheer osmosis).

            But, one day, Zevon was running late for work after one too many bourbons at a strip club in Times Square called Honeysuckle Divines. He lit a cigarette on the subway path, totally oblivious to his surroundings, and before he knew it, a Metro cop smacked the cigarette out of his mouth with such force, he accidentally knocked him over and down to the subway track before the Lex line knocked his head right off from his perpetually tense, growl-heavy internalized neck.

            The problem is, The Headless Headhunter was really looking forward to his best friend Ari’s bachelor party at Honeysuckle Divine’s in Times Square the following night, which is why he was there in the first place, to scout some local stripper talent he could recruit to talk his best friend out of marrying his finance, knowing he could do better and was settling for the meh new thing.  

            More importantly, The Headless Headhunter knew what a sigh-heavy, living hell his life had descended into once he allowed his parents to push life-ruining decisions on his behalf, such as who to marry, what job to take, and when to make up with his younger brother again, thereby losing all enviable sense of righteous, self-assured, pissed-off rage (whenever he felt duly entitled to feel that way without any guilt-imbibed, parental interference to make him second guess his innermost guttural instincts again and again.

            For example, Zevon was a struggling recruiter who normally didn’t hit his monthly quota and was always coming from behind, so he didn’t have enough money to buy his future wife an engagement ring, and only got one after his mom pressured him to do so, assuring her he could pay her back after the wedding. This felt more forced for him than the time he’d tried taking it up the ass with a strap-on from his girlfriend (later, wife), only for him to question whether something extra was missing from this relationship, if this added stimulation was necessary for him to get excited about going through the motion of pulverizing her slippery snatch on her birthday again.

            Now the bachelor party is in motion, yet Ari isn’t in the most festive mood, since his best friend Zevon (now known as The Headless Headhunter) was just decapitated by New York’s closest version of a bullet train. The Headless Headhunter is in the bathroom but doesn’t know how he ended up there; and in front of the mirror, he realizes he has no head as he overhears some dudes in the nearby bathroom stall talk about seeing Kiss at MSG as ‘King Of Nighttime World’ blares in the background.

            One of the Kiss fans in the bathroom stall whips out some coke and says, “Dude, you got to take off your Gene mask if you want to do some of this blow.” The guy with the Gene mask on flings it over the bathroom stall, landing it smack in the middle of the sink, which The Headless Headhunter grabs with zero hesitation and throws over his headless head to see if sticks (and it does).  

            The Headless Headhunter bolts from the bathroom and bumps into a stripper with tits which are so humungous, they almost knock him on his ass from their sheer force of jiggly might alone.    Stripper says, “Watch where you’re going, Gene. I thought you had a show at MSG tonight. Is it true, what they say about your tongue?”

            The Headless Headhunter decides to play along in his Gene Simmons character and says, “Yes, I can tongue my own balls if I were into that sort of thing, but I’m only into licking up Playmates and groupies who I can bang standing up, with my chosen people blessed, circumcised love gun.

            “To blast with gunky-filled fun all night and every day, too, is pushing it.”

            Stripper says, “I’m only working tonight, for a bachelor party. It’s normally my night off. I had to scalp my tickets to see your band at the Garden tonight, Gene. Can I call you Gene?”

            The Headless Headhunter says, “Let’s stick to Love Gun Master, for now. But do me a favor—give the bachelor Ari more than a lap dance. Give him every reason why getting married to his fiancé is the worst idea than Neil Young starting shit with Lynyrd Skynyrd.

            “She wants him to abandon his dreams of becoming the Jewish Bob Newhart, and he’s blessed with the funny Jew bone, too. Also, she’s already moaning about having to constantly walk on eggshells around him, acting as if she’s the helpless Olympic athlete during the Iran hostage crisis.

            “His finance is a gentile, too, so there’s no way she’s going be Kosher with raising their kids Jewish, either (which he’ll bang out by mistake because he got stoned again to Lenny Bruce records, forgetting to ask her if she were on the pill).

            “Plus, I met his future English mother-in-law, and she’s less original than a Kiss cover band with a Gene Simmons character, who Crazy Glued on a prosthetic tongue because he thought it was a bright idea. He was on too much acid, one night, despite me never doing any drugs, ever.

            “Last, his fiancé has zero tits, which offers Ari zero sustained stiffage one year into the relationship, already. I just hate the idea of Ari losing his edge to become another ordinary sales rep selling pharmaceuticals for a living because his future CFO father-in-law can make a phone call at Johnson and Johnson on his behalf.”

            The stripper says, “I’ll ride his joystick off for you, no problem, Love Gun Master. By the time I’m done with this fiancé, he’ll be drained dry ’till Yom Kippur.”

             The Headless Headhunter says, “That’s funny. Only through you can I finally call myself a rainmaker.”

Michael Kornbluth

Regaining That Cuddling Feeling

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”

            Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”            The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

            At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.”             Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”  

            Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.

            Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.

            Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.  

            Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.

            So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).

            Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.

            Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.  

            Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.

            “Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”

            ” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever. 

            “Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”

            Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.

            Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.

            Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.

            Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.

            “It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”

            Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

            Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”

            Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.

            American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.

            “Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?

            Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”

            Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).”      Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  

            Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”

            Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.

            “Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

            Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.”          Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Mozzarella Man

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 five weeks of a paid vacation and have nothing better to do than try the new gastropub in town, Crackers and Brews, which offers state-of-the-art mini pizzas on in-housemade crackers, to leave more room inside for the 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. It’s 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. Mark’s Place, especially knowing you can practice your routine at a plethora of open mikes throughout the East Village and Brooklyn, and that ANTIFA hasn’t planned to take over, yet.

            “In your own spare, non-billable time, you can continue to make jack shit, spewing semi-coherent streams of thought that never amount to as much hilarity on mountaintops as you might 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.

            “This 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 their scrappy and skinny, yet muscular, metal white boys from Queens, the former breeding ground for Dee Sider from Twisted Sister, Nasty Nas, Black Sheep, and Third Bass.

            “I know the list is a greatest hits one that keeps you guessing who’s 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 and 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 shoutout in honor of showrunner and comedic writer, ball-busting great Doug Ellen behind Entourage. He 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, you know that John Favreau directed Elf, all the Iron Mans, 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

Tofu The Terrible

Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in no singing mood today. Every day, she’d wake up singing, ‘Good Day Sunshine’ by the Beatles even if she had gotten up at the crack of dawn again, or decided to work in Norway away from her mom and dad throughout an entire darkened five-month winter as a 9-year ski model for Northface; knowing that in a post-Corona universe, she was used to doing remote learning away from school, anyway.

            But this drab Thanksgiving morning was different, because she had to act thankful for eating Tofurky Roast again (despite the spirit of Tofu The Terrible terrorizing her dreams since she’d described soy dogs, in her school lunch cafeteria blog, as “Rubber dog link nosh toys.”

            But how could Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth act grateful for eating a Tofurky Roast since her fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Right, made it clear how the Native American indians weren’t responsible for teaching the Pilgrims how to turn soy milk into white blocks of semi-firm bricks of soy, with higher levels of estrogen to feminize John Smith’s sturdy stock of sailors.

            Also, Thanksgiving this year, post-Corona, wasn’t feeling particularly festive, knowing that Matilda was suffering from PTSD from wearing all of those Corona masks to death. Matilda was now having nightmares of being terrorized by the masked man Tofu The Terrible, who ruined every favorite meal she’d dreamed of.

            For example, if Matilda had just won the gold medal in the Hardcore X Games for Equestrian Riders within the Under 10 Years age bracket, having to complete jumps through rings of fire with an occasional baby dragon on her tail, she’d normally celebrate with her best friend Shannon (in her dreams) over their favorite treat of jellybeans at a sleepover party, soon after.

            But now, all that appeared in her dreams were pasty, slimy soybeans in the place of jellybeans, because Tofu The Terrible was punishing her for calling soy dogs, on her cafeteria food blog, “Not good enough to pass for rubber dog toys.” And Matilda hated pet dogs because they ate dog food with minced horsemeat inside.

            Matilda had always been a hardcore vegetarian loyalist, yet she’d greatly offended the spirt of Tofu The Terrible, a ferocious Chinese vegetarian warrior from the Ming Dynasty who even got Genghis Khan into Mapo Tofu over jasmine rice, a fiery dish loaded with super-scary Sichuan spice.

            The smell from the ground-up Sichuan peppercorns would make most grown men cry, making their lips tremble in fear at the prospect of having to try one more bite, knowing that Genghis Khan would be hoarding all the Sake rice wine for any temporary relief for themselves, soon afterwards.

            Matilda was convinced that she’d never enjoy the food she loved in real life again (such as her Dad’s fried Icelandic cod in a barbeque aioli) without tasting anything but mushy dog drool, instead.  

            Now it was time for everyone at the table to give thanks for Thanksgiving. Matilda had been dreading this from the start. She was consumed with nightmarish visions of Tofu The Terrible ruining all her favorite foods in her dreams and in real life, such as her Dad’s star side dish creation, Caramelized Cauliflower Potato Gratin, combining cave-aged gruyere and raclette cheese from the Swiss Alps, which injected the dish with an extra scrumptious, creamy, fresh finish.

            Matilda’s dad, a Stay-At-Home Comedian Author, podcast host, and self-taught semi-gourmand chef, can tell that his daughter was dreading her turn to participate, and says, “Matilda, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is Tofu The Terrible ruining the taste of your jellybeans again?” Matilda perks up, shaken out of her petrified, frozen comatose state, and says, “How did you know about Tofu The Terrible, Daddy?”

             Matilda’s dad says, “I helped you launch your own lunch cafeteria blog on WordPress, remember? Your last piece, Tofu Brownie Blues, was about how Tofu The Terrible threatened to shred everyone’s masks at school, unless the Brownie Girls started selling his special batch of Tofu Brownies at the next school book fair, instead.”

            Matilda says, “Do we have to eat the Tofurky Roast this year?”

            Dad says, “No, try this veggie Barbeque Pita, instead.” Matilda takes a reluctant bite, but is moved by her Dad’s gesture of goodwill. She says, “Yummy, Daddy.”

             Her dad says, “I fried up cubes of semi-firm soy inside that bad boy. The sautéed onions and peppers keep the memories of mushy dog toy food at bay.”

             Tofu The Terrible was dead, in Matilda’s head, and she started singing again while giving thanks and praises at Thanksgiving, singing, “Soy Dogs still suck, Tofu The Terrible too; but you’re no longer so bad, since my Daddy came to my rescue.”

Michael Kornbluth

The Sun Butter King

North Dakota was only the state in the country which enjoyed full employment, and Do It All Dad wanted in. North Dakota was also the least visited state in the nation, yet Do It All Dad was used to seeing his parents only twice a year, and also was accustomed to not seeing any of his former friends since his three fuss-free children were born, failing the friendship litmus test every time.

            So, the isolating nature of North Dakota didn’t bother him one bit; especially knowing how much Do It All Dad hated to navigate around lost-in-time tourist hicks in Times Square pre-Covid, on his way to work, when he used take the subway there for his IT Recruiter job in Midtown East for a living. 

            But the majority of the jobs in North Dakota were within the farming and energy industry, which Do It All Dad had no experience with, whatsoever. Granted, his mom grew up in Kentucky and had an Uncle Jim, who owned a farm and who even wore overalls to his Grandpa’s funeral, because that’s how he rolled.

            And Do It All Dad would have a bit in his old act about how Kentucky gal Ashley Judd wasn’t an actual victim of rape. He’d say, “Ooh, she refused to watch Harvey Weinstein shower himself down at his five-star suite in the Four Seasons. At the same time, Ashley Judd had plenty of experience judging fat pigs at the county fair.”

            Still, Do It All Dad wasn’t expecting to be a working headliner comedian at the non-existent comedy clubs in downtown Fargo, North Dakota. Microsoft had 100,000 employees based in North Dakota, yet Do It All Dad was no fan of Bill Gates’s dad being the head of Planned Parenthood, either. Its founder was intent on carrying out Hitler’s eugenics solution one fetus flicker (mostly of color) at a time.

            North Dakota was also voted the least female-friendly environment because it had less abortion clinics than oxygen bars for the Persian Iranians to act urban sheik smug in. They were like tanner, humorless Whitney Cumming clones in those Hollywood Hills, and were too uptight for Do It All Dad’s tastes, whose blah-brained personality offered him nil.

            Do It All Dad had an old headhunter boss who hailed from a prestigious farming family in North Dakota, who drilled into his cranium the do-or-die mantra “innovate or die.”

            Innovate, he must, because Do It All Dad had to invent a new job title besides Stay At Home Comedian. Do It All Dad just wanted to write more books from home and cook more yummy dance meals for his family, but needed a paying job of some sort to finance finishing his next book in progress, The Koshertarian Diet, so his wife wouldn’t bust his balls about it.

            Plus, Do It All Dad had no desire to uproot his family and move closer to his in-laws in Delaware, whose state motto should be changed to, “Your Nazi Gold Is Safe With Us.”

            Do It All Dad was also working on a new short story collection, Waste Of Height, which forced him to be tad less political and overtly sexual in his writing, for a change. Still, as famous English novelist Virginia Woolf once said, “A woman must have a room of her own, and money to write fiction.”

            Now, Do It All Dad, being a stay-at-home shemale rocker mom, of sorts, could identify with this stone cold sober truism, even more than being a shishy bitch who would get dressed up on Shabbat Friday nights to stay in with his three kids while his wife went back to work at the hospital in the NICU to check on the vital signs of blue-faced babies.

            This made Do It All Dad feel like an insufferable narcissist, at times, because all he checked for was for retweets, before he got banned from Twitter from calling Governor Cuomo a Blanch-killing, cold-blooded, Italian Reptilian inside.

            Now Do It All Dad couldn’t even justify his IPA intake after a Peloton ride anymore, because his family was barely affording the monthly payments on their mortgage, and nothing had changed too much since he’d started chasing down open mikes throughout Southern California fifteen years ago after getting the laugh chaser bug, which no amount of widespread bombing or marital bliss disintegration or threat of complete financial ruin could cure.

            Also, Do It All Dad’s office was in his bedroom, which a recent jilted audiobook reviewer derided as “tiny and cramped” (based on the lack of reverberating echo in his chapter reading for “The Last Temptation of Adderall,” I assume).                   Do It All Dad had given up hope on securing a lit agent to take a chance on an eccentric Jewish comedian satirist/reinvented literary novelist who used his books for extra-long stand-up comedy monologues. He couldn’t afford to do open mikes throughout Manhattan, because he couldn’t justify the 40-dollar Metronorth train fare to wail with his arms on stage for the pleasure of trying to entertain the two millennial musketeers in the audience with such a jade-free, joyous, giving heart anymore.

            Now Do It All Dad didn’t desperately seek strangers’ funny/many approval as much on stage, since he launched his successful podcast and blog three years ago (which, for him ,was the greatest open mike on earth). But it pained Do It All Dad to still not be in a position to buy his son, Art Show USA, the GI Joe SS Flagg Aircraft Carrier for his son’s seventh birthday, snowboard lessons, a vintage pair of Freezie Freakies on eBay with the Thundercats on it, or anything but more copies of his impossible-to-find books on Amazon. 

            Reality is, Art Show USA provided book cover color consultation on all four of Do It All Dad’s books.  Art Show USA adored his Do It All Dad books so much, he took a screensaver picture for his remote learning school-issued computer, holding all four of his dear dada’s books closely to his heart, exuding a beamish prideful spark which shined inside and out.

            Seven years on this earth after Art Show USA was born, Do It All Dad needed to fight harder than ever to keep his elusive dreams of comedic literary superstardom alive. Do It All Dad’s son loved his Dad’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast, too, and he didn’t want his dear dad to perform more sheets of comedy gold on it without having to worry about Mom threatening to kick him out the house again because of his lack of money-generating power (for the past five years and counting).

            So, Do It All Dad got an idea while making lunch for his son one day—The Sun Butter Challenge. What if Do It All Dad went into business with his gorgeous son, who could smile on cue without breaking into hives in the process, and Daddy became his agent, booking him as the new face for Sun Butter Gold Foods, located in Sunflower Country, Bismarck, North Dakota? This could lead to Do It All Dad snagging enough loot to buy his family the Porsche Comedy Gold Mobile; a new lake house summer home in Lake George, NY for his son’s GJ Joe SS Flagg; and enough money to finance writing more books without ever having to bite his tongue while being offered a career consultation email from LinkedIn, considering the gaps of wrath on his resume, ever again.

            Do It All Dad’s son, Art Show USA, possessed the sunbeam smile. Few other kids could match with such a star-powered gleaming light. So, if Do It All Dad couldn’t get a job interview for a junior copywriter position at, let’s say, Sun Gold Foods in Bismarck, North Dakota, then Do It All Dad could create a job for himself as his son’s personal manager, calling himself on LinkedIn the Sun Gold Hunter. He can finally capitalize in a big way, cashing in all of his new business development, cold calling-centric, IT headhunter background in both in LA and Manhattan (where he slaved weekends away when he wasn’t trying to write new scripts or jokes, researching new IT Directors or Chief Marketing Officers to cold call the following week, again and again).

            Do It All Dad was old school and had no problem coldcalling men and woman in places of authority who controlled staffing budgets, in a NY minute. Plus, Do It All Dad took perverse pleasure working around HR, who tended to ruin the love connection potential between a hurting hiring manager and a staffing solution specialist Headhunter to the rescue, like Do IT All Dad always fashioned himself to be. 

            Do It All Dad also learned, from his headhunting days, how passion is always picked up over the phone. So, Do It All Dad would have no problem conveying to the head of Sun Butter Gold Products in Bismarck, North Dakota, what a gross disservice to mankind they’d be doing by refraining from making his American-made beautiful boy, Art Show USA, the permanent franchise face of Sun Gold Food Products moving forward, which would double their annual sales from 4 million to 8 million in the first week alone, guaranteed.

            Now Do It All Dad is pitching his son as the new face for Sun Butter with the Chief Marketing Officer through Zoom. Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, looks confused.

            Do It All Dad says, “You look confused, Cheryl. I want my son to star in The Sun Butter Challenge Campaign across America, similar to what they did with the Pepsi Challenge, back in the day, when kids had stronger immunities to bullying (Kurt Cobain excluded. Kurt Cobain longed to retreat into his pre-fame bubble without having to rummage through his grandma’s closet for another ugly lime sweater to wear at the MTV Music Awards—I get it).”

            Cheryl, the CMO for Sun Butter Gold Products, says, “So, where’s Art Show USA? How do you expect me to hire you two as a package deal to do the creative performing in these Sun Butter Challenge campaigns, without me seeing, the sun butter smile to light up a thousand suns? The same smile which will double our sales in a year, according to your fuzzy math estimates. I know you still have to count with your fingers for simple arithmetic (which I read in one of your blog posts, in case you think we just ignored the totality of your digital fingerprint on the Internet all together because your son is the star smile attraction we’re really after, if you really need to know.”

            Do It All Dad says, “Art Show, come into Dada’s office for a minute.”

            Art Show says, “You mean, your bedroom, Dada?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Thanks for reminding me, and for destroying what little sales leverage I have left, without you flashing your smile through Zoom for the Sun King Maker to see.”

            Art Show hops onto his dear dada’s lap, and smiles. Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, says, “Wow, your Dada isn’t another full-of-shit New Yorker, after all. Are you ready to be a star, kiddo?”

            Art Show USA says, “Just give my Dada ten percent of everything I make, for a finder’s fee, and give him final cut approval on all commercials and print campaigns starring my Sun Butter Smile, and you got yourself a deal. Can I go back to building my Harry Potter Astronomy Tower, now?”   Dear Dada starts singing with an extra rollicking, jubilant heart, “Sun Butter King’s stock is rising, rising.” Next, Do It All Dad adds, “King Arthur—my kid eclipses his star power, which is limited to Disney fable books that nobody reads anymore—oh, I can’t take no more.”

            Cheryl, the Chief Marketing Officer, says, “Would you mind if we put sunflowers in your son’s hair? The LBGT community will lick it up, lick it up, oh, oh, oh! Do you think you’re the only Kiss fan who resents how Nirvana’s ‘Nevermind’ was the death blow shot heard around the world’ that killed off carefree hair metal pop rock forever?”

Michael Kornbluth

Waste Of Height

Once upon a time, there was a Giant who lived in a tiny village called Humungous Falls in Northern Westchester County who never really fit in, despite owning a popular deli called Foot Long The Giant (which is what all the local lumberjack giants frequented every day, before chopping down more trees, later used for bookshelves for their hobbit hipster southern neighbors in Bushwick, Brooklyn).             Every day, the Lumberjacks would taunt Foot Long The Giant, calling him a waste of height for wasting his life making sandwiches for his fellow giants, when he could’ve just hired a bunch of Hipster Hobbits to perform the job, instead. Every day, they’d accuse him of being soft for shying away from more hardcore forms of manual labor involving chopping down trees from dawn to sunset.

            One day, an eight-year-old aspiring professional food writer hobbit from Bushwick, known as Hardcore Hunga, wanted to do a profile for The Bushwick Post on Footlong The Giant, considering his legacy for making the best footlong heroes in New York (which were totally worth the schlep from Bushwick, assuming you didn’t get too freaked out about getting stomped to death by a Giant Lumberjack by mistake, on his lunch break).    So, one day, Hardcore Hunga faked a tummy ache, ditched out on school, and flew his pet dragon to Humungous Falls to meet Foot Long The Giant face to face, praying that none of the local giant lumberjacks sneezed in his general direction, which could send him flying all the way to Stink A Lot Jersey, where all the shitty-smelling swamp creatures roamed.

            Footlong The Giant was descended from a land of giants who grew up to their full height out of Mother Giant’s womb. They expected to get working from day one, being denied any sustained age of sheltered innocence from the real world of a grinding worker existence ’till their last dying breath.

            Mother Giant finally banged out her last giant, and with no female giants to procreate with, this made these remaining giants the last of their kind. They normally started dropping like flies at a hard age forty.

            So, these lumberjack giants barely slept, and dedicated their walking lives to chopping more wood and tearing Foot Long The Giant down to size for thinking he was better than them by being an artisan sandwich maker instead. (This was when they weren’t getting wasted off Stouts, Porters, and Barley Wine, which they were paid in from their Hobbit Hipster clients in Bushwick, while competing in humungous cannonball contents throughout Humungous Falls after work, to blow off some much-needed steam.  

            They also sold wood for precious gems to local waterfall-dwelling Nymphs who made enormous bed structures (which always broke down and needed repairing) for Sleeping Giants Are Us.   

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

            Footlong The Giant gets ready to blow out forty lit candles that go down in a straight line along his longest, star hero creation yet, a 40-foot hero that rests on a giant bench table that reaches from one side of the deli to the other. Footlong The Giant turns off the lights in the store and braces himself to take a depressingly long deep breath to make a fortieth birthday wish, thinking that this might just be his last, and says, “Just for once, I don’t want to feel like a waste of height anymore.”

            Then, as Footlong Giant opens his mouth to blow out the entire row of candles on his 40-foot-long cheesesteak sub (topped with Italian cherry peppers and lined with mayo and semi-sharp provolone), he hears a knock on the door.

            This startles him a tad, because it was already way past lunch hour and he was normally used to spending this time in the store getting the chicken parm stains off the wall after the standard lunch hour rush from the sloppiest-eating lumberjacks who ever lived.

            Hardcore Hunga knocks on the door again, but peaks inside the window this time, to see if anyone is inside, noticing a gorgeous flickering lighting of candles and thinking that he’s walked into a Death Memorial Giant Service (knowing that the giants of Humungous Falls are a dying breed and are dropping like termite-infested totem poles, these days).

            Footlong The Giant opens the door, not noticing Hardcore Hunga, who’s a solid 4 foot 2. Footlong The Giant says to himself, “I must be hearing things in my old age.” Hardcore Hunga, still holding his baby dragon on a leash, instructs Dragon Lungs to blow a fire ball that nearly hits Footlong The Giant’s head. Footlong The Giant looks down and finally notices Hardcore Hunga and his trusted, always-reliable companion, Dragon Lungs.

            Hardcore Hunga starts pitching. “Footlong The Giant, I’m Hardcore Hunga. I came all the way from Bushwick to interview a living heromaker legend.” Footlong The Giant laughs hard and long, blowing Hardcore Hunga Hobbit off his feet, yet Dragon Lungs puts on the brakes to make sure he doesn’t get blown away into the wilderness, by wrapping his leash around Hard Hunga in mid-flight before slamming him to the ground and wrapping him up as if he were roping a calf at a Texas rodeo.

            Footlong The Giant feels bad and invites Hardcore Hunga Hobbit and his pet dragon, Iron Lungs, into his store; yet totally forgets about never blowing out his row of forty candles. Hardcore Hunga was smarter than your average bear, so he realizes almost immediately that he’s just crashed Footlong The Giant’s lonelyheart birthday celebration (if you want to call it that).

            Hardcore Hunga Hobbit does his best to cheer up the sad-hearted giant and says, “Happy birthday, Footlong The Giant. This looks like your greatest hero creation yet. You really are a living legend; for a good reason.”

            As Hardcore Hunga examines the scrumptious cheesesteak hero, which is bursting with over-the-top dynamite flavor, draped in glistening creamy white provolone that’s hugging onto the sesame-loaded Italian loaf from one end to the other for dear life, and counts forty candles in total, in the process, his hobbit heart is filled with extreme sadness, knowing that forty is normally a death sentence for all giants who hail from Humungous Falls.  

            Hardcore Hunga encourages Footlong The Giant to blow out his candles and make a wish, already, and says, “Make a wish and blow out the candles, Footlong The Giant. Wait a minute—one of the candles went out already. Dragon Lungs, do you mind?”

             Dragon lungs blasts a stream of fire, which lights the unlit candle on the end with laser-sharp precision, which puts a big smile on Footlong The Giant’s face. Footlong The Giant wants to return the good, favored cheer from his kind, loving guests and give them a birthday surprise to remember.

            Footlong The Giant turns his bum toward the forty-foot hero, lifts up his right leg, and rips a humungous fart, which blows a gusty jet steam of sweaty, leg-flapping, foul mist which blows out all forty candles in one swoop. Hardcore Hunga and Dragon Lungs fall down, this time from laughing uncontrollably while holding their noses in the process.  Footlong The Giant shoots off a smile that could light up a youth hostel with no wi-fi during the next Chinese rat-planted plague.

            Footlong The Giant turns on the light in his deli and says, “Let’s eat.”  Footlong The Giant cuts off a four-foot-two hero and serves it to his new friend Hardcore Hunga, who conducts a lengthy interview ’till they all finish the forty-foot hero together, Dragon Lungs included.

            After the story about Footlong The Giant was published in the Bushwick Post, New York State declared the Footlong The Giant Deli a cherished historical site (especially now that all his lumberjack clientele dropped dead the next day, after turning forty themselves).

            Footlong The Giant no longer felt like a waste of height since his glorious friendship with Hardcore Hunga Hobbit began. Hunga made him feel like the biggest star in the universe.

            After all the lumberjack giants drooped dead throughout Humungous Falls, Footlong The Giant moved to Bushwick with Hardcore Hunga Hobbit and opened a local deli (specializing in much smaller portions, of course, when they weren’t building snow cones as big as skyscrapers every year for Hardcore Hunga’s birthday in February, the day before Valentine’s Day, which the entire village of hobbits licked up ’till they all became mostly brain-freeze dead, proving how the biggest hearts come in all sizes and packages).

Michael Kornbluth

Exit Interview Day

Int. Bedroom-Day

Do It All Dad

Matilda, what do angels taste like according to Hillary Hammertime Cankles?

Blood Orange Mimosas or Sponge Cake?

Matilda

Blood Orange Mimosas.

Do It All Dad

What’s the big payoff from following the Koshertarian Diet?

Matilda

Growing closer to God and getting a dynamite book out of it.

Do It All Dad

What does the Koshertarian Diet mean to you?

Matilda

Being serious about pleasing God and following some of his laws for a change.

Do It All Dad

Would you be happier if Daddy became a part-time Pescatarian Comedian instead?

Matilda

Yes, because meat is murder and most meat is meh, unless it’s your Kosher chicken in your Walnut, Pecan pesto.

Do It All Dad

Would you ever take your girlfriends out to a Kosher style deli like Epstein’s when you get older?

Matilda

We’d rather go out for Sushi.

Do It All Dad

Why do think the top literary agent in Israel told me he didn’t see a market for my book, The Koshertarian Comedians, despite praising the wildly funny writing inside?

Matilda

He was lying, it’s too good for him Daddy. It’s unique because of the rare point of view expressed inside. I mean who else compares getting laughs and yummy dances to getting closer to God and your 3 children in the same breath?

Do It All Dad

I’ve raised a hot pitch monster folks. No wonder why you played by the self-appointed 9 year agent in The Great American Jew Novel.

Matilda

I’m 11 now Daddy.

Do It All Dad

I’m aware, resist this child services. What celebrity would you take out for lunch?

Matilda

Martha Stewart, because she has good taste and could tell me the best stuff to order.

Do It All Dad

What special ingredients make a great cook?

Matilda

Love and variety, making things with love and showcasing plenty of a variety like you do in the kitchen and with your all your comedy records Daddy, even less the hardcore hilarious ones.

Do It All Dad

Does eating fried shrimp from Stew Leonard’s make your heart less pure?

Matilda

No, kids shouldn’t be tortured and denied happiness on tap like that.

Do It All Dad

Do you consider cooking a major time suck not worth pursuing?

Matilda

No, I consider it a form of creativity that makes you less dependent.

Do It All Dad

Do Shrimps have souls? Would a shrimp sell it’s a soul to play the guitar like Paul Simon?

Matilda

I don’t know who Paul Simon is. Is he the guitar player for White Lion? But no, I don’t think shrimp have souls like the adorable goat we saw at Stew Leanord’s munching on grass this weekend Daddy.

Do It All Dad

The guitar player for White Lion is Vito Bratta. He inspired my flash fiction story, When the Shredder Frets, about a reclusive hair metal guitar God who used to kiss his guitar more than his ex-wife, forget it. What do your friends at school know about the Koshertarian Diet?

Matilda

Pork is off the list, or should I say a no-go zone in Germany these days Daddy?

Do It All Dad

I’ll write the jokes thanks.

Do It All Dad

Do I resist becoming a part time pescatarian comedian after being a full-time Koshertarian comedian out of fear of being labeled a poser?

Matilda

Yes, but you shouldn’t feel like a poser Daddy. Consider it the second act in your comedic evolution Daddy. And God wants us to be happy, assuming we refrain from eating Kosher slaughtered animals unless you’re feeling completely famished. God wants us to be happy, remember?

Do It All Dad

What sacrificial lamb, meaning, what’s one big thing you’d sacrifice eating by ditching the traditional Koshertarian diet for the Pescatarian one?

Matilda

Brownies, for you, it should be the other kind, Daddy. I’ve heard the jokes on your comedy records. Ziggy Marely, your dad had 7 kids, but I thought ganja drained your ball sack dry. Ziggy says, “Fake news-man.”

Do It All Dad

Are you saying that holiest, most idealized diet is the Pescatarian one after Daddy’s ate strictly Kosher for the past 2 years while writing my book?

Matilda

Yes Daddy, the Pescatarian Diet is the sweet spot in the middle.

Do It All Dad

Looks like we just conducted our exit interview from the Koshertarian diet then.

Matilda

Your blockbuster sequel to The Koshertarian Comedians, will be the The Pescatarian Comedians. Who could resist?

Do It All Dad

Even Hillary can get on board. But I don’t think it’s Kosher to have your spirit cooking dinners and your sponge cake too. Pescatarian Comedians live for now, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Dumb Drunk Daddy

I say, “Matilda, tell me about the Bath Bomb mama got you last night for
Hanukkah. She says, “It’s almond winter mint.” I say, “Sounds like a coffee drink
Michelle Obama strong armed Starbucks to make for Kwanza.”

I support defunding the United Nations. They only exist to give Hamas a veneer
of diplomatic stature like Kamala Harris in a Burka made from Ann Taylor.

The Left today has less use for proud practicing Jews than abortion on
demand because nobody would get smoochy with Booger Face Behar disciples without
a nappy mask on to puke up their pro-Antifa innards 1st.

Leftist Jews today reject everything today Jewish. Why else would they rush to
tat up their arms to rock the Lena Dunham arm flapper look for all it’s worth?
And you wonder why New York birth rates have sunk into China rat ruining
earth.

Mocking full of themselves, fully vaccinated dicks from my Generation X, who got an itchy esophagus from COVID, who still think Mr. Groper won by a hair, who had no problem with the Democrats using mail in voting to jack an election to hide their crimes
against humanity is more than kosher in my book.

They moan, “I can’t believe I got COVID. I’m vaccinated for Christ’s sake.
But you’re still the Mongoloid Moron for trusting your natural immunity over
Dr. Gnocchi, Obama Be Good and Nancy Denture Breath Pelos, who have less use
for lockdown-imposed rules than consciousness clearing confession.”

More pretentious moans of despair continue.

“How could I get COVID after being fully vaccinated?”

“Because you’re a glamorized lab rat, immune to self-corrective inspection like
your baby boomer resister parents, because insufferable, wholly destructive, baby
boomer arrogance never dies. And you’re the delusional, a plus narcissist who
thinks the real America kicked off Twitter already, gives a flying shit about your opinion’s inflated sense of self-worth since you’ve done dick to speak out against censorship and
silencing of any pro-self-defense sentiment since your jerkoff media pretended, they acted in good faith by calling a child rapist released from the loony bin in Kenosha as a peaceful, victimized protestor who only punctured his victim’s age of innocence with guided meditation music on Amazon music, indefensible pricks.”

Kurt Vonnegut was right; the US media is the one to blame for dividing everyone
into either a liberal or a conservative. Why can’t someone just launch a Burning
Mask Party already? That’s right, black men have been wearing a masks for
years according to Dave Chappelle. Yeah, Kamala, the Ugandan Giant wore one in character from 84 to 86, but that’s it. We all know Kamala Harris was a useless cackling
whore before she was assigned border visitation duty to see if the Donkey show is
keeping the dreamer alive in us all. Unmasking Kayne as an opportunistic showboat
fame whore didn’t require a tremendous leap of faith either.  So, Drake accused the infallible Kayne West of writing strictly secular rap music these days. Fucking own it Kayne. Don’t sling me shit like how Bound 2 You, was secular music, when you banged Kim on the sink, while getting some gunk on her mink. Unless you’re framing Kim Kardashian in
your eyes as top of the Porcupine Persian Puss chain, who could turn
your prick into wine to pour over Taylor Swift’s country ass white dress at the
MTV music awards because only Beyonce can get away with wearing ray of light white
after Labor Day in St. Barts.

I can’t wait to give up all forms of overpriced wine and IPAs for the year.
So, I could feel like a less bloated, blowhard hobbit hipster straining to
give any bangable woman sustained stiffage based on their Grateful Dead and Company
shirts and Dancing Bear masks since everyday became mask up Sharia Law appreciation
day.  Without those freedom loving deplorable Dead Heads making a peep about the fascist Democrats hacks in charge of these draconian policies otherwise. What a depressingly dreary, fake news patriots unmasking it’s been. But Hillary doesn’t have evil energy like Trump, Carlos Santana? But Hillary is the best-selling voodoo doll in Haiti, year after year. Plus, I don’t need to drop acid in this instance, to see who’s full of shit Carlos.

Did you know you can reverse all form of brain damage impairment by refraining from alcohol for one whole year? You experience improved memory and better
executive reasoning for a degenerate Jew like myself, with a long, shameful
history of alcoholic bumps into furniture in the middle of the night after
pissing himself while passed out in his daughter’s bedroom prior because he
possesses no feel for measured pounding pace of Kentucky bourbon on the 1st night of Hanukkah, that he’s only been planning for all year, whatsoever.

87,000 people die each year from Alcohol overdosing. I must have 87,000
lives then. Because I’ve drank enough bourbon one winter in my parent’s attic
with my wife to make Charles Bukowski feel like a lightweight pussy poet,
guilty of excessive hyperbole like Hitler’s claim to be Marc Chagall in the
making despite never leaving you with a magical dreamy, impressionistic
impression.

Hanukkah Challah Day Joke:

A Cardinal’s finishing line on altar boys next in line.

“It’s all holy meat juice to you kid.”

Lenny Bruce Lives.

Hannukah Challah Day, Challah.

My brother’s response to this joke was a plug for an old school Public Enemy
video. He says, “Despite your political affiliation. I know you can still appreciate
some old school hip hop.” I say, “Why, because Public Enemy predates the
Thugs Lives Matters Most protests during last year’s Summer of Love? I should still
love Public Enemy because the Jewish Forward insists on framing Professor Griff
as a “victim”, whose career was gunned down by the Jewish Mafia over his comments
about all the Jews controlling the slave trade at the height of Public Enemy’s
popularity despite Jews heading up the Holocaust being banned from land ownership
in Europe while being stripped of any incentive to love thyself as thy neighbor,
when you’re surrounded by nations of mini-Hitler’s mouseketeers.  Why would I listen to Public Enemy after my best friend’s mother claimed I looked like Elvis growing up as a kid? It feels good to be compared to rock royalty while your best friend’s mom drools at the prospect of unleashing your hound dog side inside of her for some totally worth it rib rattling, jail house bound rock of her own. Professor Griff is a fucking moron. Calling Jill
Biden, Dr. Biden, doesn’t make her any less of a lying, trashy, small-town ho, who
never met a brush she liked for Scarecrow Appreciation Month. Professor Griff
accused the Jews of controlling the entire drug trade to Rolling Stone. I’m positive
Frank Lucas would have an issue with that white supremacist blanketed assertion.
If you saw the movie American Gangster, you know Denzel’s character believes, “Whatever those dumb mooks can do to poison my community, I can do better. Just wait until the Saints of Newark comes out motherfucker.”

How does Farrakhan celebrate Holocaust Remembrance Day? Spray Jard Kushner’s
Twitter feed with nothing but termite emoji’s, from dawn till night, but throw
in the hashtag, but Natalie Portman is alright.

New theory behind my compressed nerve: Losing my nerve to offend LinkedIn by
posting more comedy records bound to keep me out of Corporate America forever.

Future father wisdom 1st time Dads can look forward to on text conversation threads from their friends in the same boat already.

Increased wiggle room can be a deflating experience.

Unlike Glue Guns, your sweaty sex period won’t stick.

No looking back once mama’s semi-tight snatch of yesteryear tears apart at
the seams.

You won’t know whether you’re floating in space or landing on an aircraft carrier
museum strip in Chelsea Piers, unable to achieve blast off without fantasizing about
new Bermuda Triangle’s to have your super soaker disappear in.

Give hell hole sex a chance, for a tighter topping experience all around.

2 kids later, Goose would rather spike Wilson half naked around other sweaty
slick Top Gun gunners, instead of taking another nosedive headfirst into Meg Ryan’s
sunny shine snatch. Because sex with Meg Ryan after 2 kids resembles playing musical
triangles in the high school band as you flail your metal rod stick against Tom
Hank’s romantic movie library collection stuffed inside.

Before you know it, your 10-year-old daughter gets breast buds. And you get
mad at your wife yelling, “Why haven’t yours sprouted yet.”

But you can’t get mad at your wife for converting a gingerbread house into
a tricked -out Hanukkah blue one with a Star of David out front for the 3rd
night of Hanukkah. The only thing missing on front door was a sign that said, “No
Liberal Jews allowed, who think Farrakhan’s admirers in Public Enemy are held back
from demonizing Jews any more than Deshawn Jackson only needing to be properly reeducated on Hitler.  You know, Obama’s most admired leader according to the Source Magazine. Obama would give Hitler 5 mics if he could. I’m not even exaggerating. Obama’s the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Mass extermination, of all his nosy pestering journalist critics, who dared to criticize his billion-dollar nuke time out deal with Iran would be a gas. Dumb Drunk Daddy, no more, no more. Aerosmith lives, Hanukah Challah Day, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth