Tag: Weed

Burning Burnouts

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, writing

I stopped taking weed edibles because I got tired of feeling like a moron while trying to answer my daughter’s questions that were keeping her up, after I thought she was asleep already. Edibles kick in, Daughter asks, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? I say, “God went back in time, in a Time Machine, made by Elon Musk. Daughter says, “Keep on doing edibles daddy. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.”

Pothead dad texts, “You got to see Jurassic Park 3, Jeff Goldblum.” I text back, “Why, because your wife told you to follow fake news scientists on Twitter like Dr. Gnocchi. After you gave your kid clot shots to prevent them from catching an itchy esophagus. Let me guess, you got your wife pregnant because you got stoned and forgot to ask her if she was on the morning after pill? Join the club. Actually, had a pothead friend in college who had a Production Assistant job on the Universal lot. So, we’d sneak into Universal Studios through the parking lot into the Jurassic Park ride all the time. At the same time, this was before California became a giant tent city sponsored by REI. We didn’t have to show ID or a wrist band to enter the park once we snuck in through the Jurassic Park ride through the parking lot. Today, we wouldn’t have to show proof of vaccination if we had a good tan holmes. It’s not as if Universal Studio’s was giving away free parking passes so anybody under the sun could enjoy all the rides for free. California Democrats didn’t have to steal elections and woo new voters in broad daylight just yet, those were the days. When Spielberg’s daughter didn’t do porn to keep up with Kim Kardashian. I know, she’s studying to become a social justice lawyer now. Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now. Hot enough to snag Pete Davidson in his prime who looks like Annie Leibowitz and Barney from the Simpsons had a baby. The voice of Generation Z, the boy toy king of Staten Island shouldn’t get burnt out on pimping for Big Pharma by shaming clot shot resistors on SNL for a living. So, what difference does burning burnouts make? Burning Burnouts, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Flinch Flight Flicker

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, psychology, writing

Would you pay the cost of cleaning your weed dealer’s carpet if you puked on it? Especially, after he charged you 50 bucks for a 10 pack of edible gummies and proceeded to spray disinfectant on the floor every 2 seconds knowing most of the puke stayed on the carpet in the 1st place.

I gave up on being an alcoholic to prove I didn’t need AA to take up cigar smoking instead. I was already bad at smoking weed with no feel for hit moderation without coughing up a lung in the process, especially from my metal bat made in Wuhan or from one of those new age Vape Pens that get you bong high by the time you’re done pressing down on the pot oil blast off button past 5 Mississippi, which makes me feel like a retarded Brett Favre who gags on dip instead of spitting it on his Gap Jean Jacket. Nobody wants to pass the blunt my way after I moisten the end of it with my blow job ready clown clips like a broke, closeted Dave Chappelle in white face. Personally, I’m into weed edibles now because Stink Free + Ash Free+ Cough Noise Free=Zero Regrets whenever I’m at home with my 3 kids, living out the sheltered bum existence that I do.

Still, in the past, I liked the taste of good weed from Northern Cal that’s not the sprayed dirt kind from the Bronx that tastes like Windex. So, cigars have never offered me any form of sustainable stiffage because I’d rather inhale whole than blow. Plus, cigars take forever to burn, and I don’t have that many deep thoughts to contemplate for 30 minutes at a time while staring at the moon thinking, “There’s no way Jeff Bezos tastes good, Ben Shapiro included.”

Orthodontist says, “Your daughter will need to be fitted for a new retainer.” I say, “Doc, today I just learned how my daughter is already having conversations with her friends about what age they think they’ll have their first kiss. So, I’m very pro muzzle mask on my daughter all of a sudden, despite recording the comedy record Burning Mask Party Record in July, which didn’t catch on like wildfire the way I envisioned. So do whatever you can to keep her mouth numb with Novocain with an implanted drip on demand that I can control through my smartphone doc. Throw Chelsea Clinton’s retainer on my daughter’s face from 92 for all I care. Making fun of Chelsea is sexist, but she’s not even ugly anymore. Plus, I think Chelsea Handler is a divisive twitter twat to, who claims to be a social justice warrior now to downplay her tit’s rapidly sinking popularity. The worst part about this conversation doc was that her other friends were predicting how they’d kiss a boy for the first time at 16, 17, but predicted my daughter would start kissing boy’s at a hard 12, one year before her Bat Mitzvah through Zoom. I shouldn’t freak out too much, if parents insist kids wear gender fluid, puss face Hello Kitty masks for games of Spin The Bottle. Then, I learn how her best friend already kissed a boy in the 1st grade that was hitting on her constantly prior. Where the fuck does this kid get the confidence to make the 1st move on anything at 6 years old? When I was in the 2nd Grade, I could tell that my second-grade teacher Mrs. Pariso was all over my dick when she’d tell me how much I looked like Elvis, but I didn’t do dick about it either doc. I know my DNA is all over my daughter’s face and I tend to oversexualize everything in my pulsating path. Once, my daughter found a bunch of colored index cards including compliments her mama wrote in my honor for Valentine’s Day once, which included winners such as “I love how you kiss Blondie.” Daughter asks, “Whose Blondie?” I say, “The opening act for the Ramones, next question.” Now, I’m longing for the good old days, when my daughter asked, “Daddy, why didn’t the Tooth Fairy hook me up under my pillow? Doesn’t the Tooth Fairy have Waze? I said, “The Rock slept in for a change, alright.”

The Rock selling his own brand of tequila is a poser move don’t you think doc? You’re from Hawaii first of all, which is known for mixed rum drinks last time I checked. Plus, Turtle bankrolled Avion 15 years ago already. Lebron James culturally appropriated the shit out of a wigger like Turtle and started hocking his own line of Tequila last year. And Sammy Haggar’s been slinging his own brand for years. I hear it tastes Van Halen light, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Pitchwoman Of The Year

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, fiction

Aliens are capable of formulating and defending their own critical race theory to. Although a bunch of Think Tank Alien Eggheads from Planet Scrambled Over Easy declared the American Dream dead and it’s entire race plain stupid for thinking otherwise, on both sides of the political divide during it’s annual Brunch Expo address at their annual Northern Lights retreat on Planet Verde, known for its enormous Avocados trees, tricked out converted farmhouse party palaces, enveloped by Hop Farms galore and beautifully manicured baseball diamonds and fields of highly stimulating, brain tickling weed. Even Think Tank Alien Eggheads need to cool off their hyperactive brains with some baseball, buds and brews from time to time.

The Think Tank Alien Eggheads observed how unhinged and excessively biased the US media and Big Tech had become since the New Yorker from Queens exposed them for the feckless, misleading, self-serving, fear mongering, deliberately divisive, commie sell out bastards they’d become.  Close Encounters Of The 3rd Kind”, was voted the number one ranked Sci Fi film for 44 years in a row and counting, according to Egghead Alien Film Review Magazine, which still boasts an incredible print ad sales revenue, because on Planet Scrambled Easy, print is king and considered the most prestigious medium, attracting the universe’s most talented writers knowing they’re willing to pay up to 3 US Dollars per word. Plus, there’s no TV shows made on Planet Scrambled Over Easy except a hugely popular father son alien cooking show, called, Better Than Boobie. On this show, we learn the alien baby is a result of a mixed marriage between an alien and a busty, full lipped, tan Sicilian blooded Italian Barbera Bustiasti, originally hailing from Rochester, NY. On the show, our Stay-At-Home Alien Dad Host, Fried Brains Bourdain, a self-anointed in-house gourmand for the entire Planet Scrambled Over Easy, will ask his part human part alien baby, Chef Samuels what he thinks of his latest and greatest LEO scramble supreme, including, smoked salmon lox, scrambled eggs and sweet, not too bitter caramelized red onions. Normally, Chef Samuels will take a taste and pronounce the dish creation a double fister instead of a yuck yucker. But if baby Chef Samuels is totally enthralled with the dish, he’ll ask his cherished Dada Fried Brains Bourdain, to make the dish for him every day before he whizzes around the rings of Planet Scrambled Over Easy faster than Flash, in a high calorie burning blaze of glory.  

So, the reason Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy was smitten with the movie Close Encounters Of The Third Kind stemmed from the aliens portrayed in it, being musical savant mutes of sorts like Holly Hunter in The Piano. The problem on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, is how their recent open borders policy resulted in a gazillion different languages spoken at once on any given Farmer’s Market enough to make C3po’s language transmitter chip to melt down from an intergalactic mere auditory sensory processing overload. So, the clamor in the streets had reached a fevered pitch, with no universal language in place, capable of instilling a more melodic cadence. And none of the star magazine writers on Planet Scrambled Over Easy were capable of banging out musical showtunes such as West Side Think Tank Alien Stories, because Broadway tunesmith legend Stephen Sondheim declined the invitation to procreate with the alien civilization because he was gayer about the prospect of lunging at Othello backstage in tights, whenever asked to do his best Kevin Spacy impersonation by his cast and crew at Sardis for wrap up show celebrations after hours. Stephen Sondheim gave the anal probe a shot after the Alien Think Tank Leader Gershwin Goo, convinced him they were doing it the name of stool DNA sampling science, in their long, hard, in depth exploration of pinpointing the exact genetic makeup roots responsible for sprouting such mature musical genius out the womb. At 6 Mozart was touring Europe, entertaining French nobles with the nimble quickness of a French Prostitute, who got 2 customers to spew with joy in 1 minute flat each, so she could squeeze in her favorite customer, famed American Jewish writer Henry Miller in one more before closing hours for the road.  

So not only was the roaring decibel of noise on the streets of Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, consisting of every guttural, gross Alien language imaginable, that collectively heard together sounded like the antithesis of French pillow talk in Eric Rohmer films such as Busted Burgundy Girls and Paris Dicks Are Burning. Thereby, making their home planet a highly grating, excessively annoying place to be, but there was also not a singe lone, beautifying voice to even sing their new planet anthem, in an attempt to promote, celebrate and unify the country behind a star beautiful voice in their own native tongue, Hebrew. What, you think the Pyramids and the 1st great temple were built by the Israelites alone? I’ve known Jews who are allergic to Home Depot, who suffer from immediate panic attacks upon entry.

On retreat, The Think Tank Aliens, sucking down endless IPA’s and puffing non-stop high grade green over a killer double header of baseball surrounding the Field Of Dreams Funhouse, a young, rising star egghead about to pitch his famous speedball splinter known to make most fellow Aliens whiff more than Charlie Sheen at an AVN after hours party these days, an idea emerged, “Hey, fellas, instead of blowing up the Planet Earth for our annual 4 of the July Celebration to celebrate our freedom banning the Internet in 2000, because we knew Y2K would serve as a slow acting bomb to blow up earth’s any last remaining capacity for critically thinking, mass produced independent thought ever again, we convince Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth to become our permanent-in-house Planetary Anthem singer. Granted, we have incredible leverage knowing if she refuses, will go head and blow-up Earth for the best fireworks show, we’ve ever seen. Bulldozing a casino is child’s play compared to Planet blasting. Plus, I think the universe is ready for a new earth to emerge again, assuming God’s in the mood o give the human race another shot at redemption or not.”

The Think Tank Aliens of Scrambled Over Easy Planet actually thought of Singing Rose Kornbluth immediately, the moment they coined the idea of establishing a Planetary Anthem in Hebrew, from eavesdropping from space whenever she’d recite the Shabbat prayers over the candles, Challah and wine. To them, Singing Rose Kornbluth was blessed with the most angelic laced, beautifying, spiritually rich, jade free voice of all time, which sounded ten times more soul tantalizing pretty sung in Hebrew, which she’d do in Synagogue, shining through most, whenever the Torah was taken out of the arc for the infamous Shema prayer, “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.” Think Tank Aliens from Scrambled Over Easy Planet are able to eavesdrop into different galaxy systems due to their alien race, being crossbred with Alien Hybrid Elephants reared by Alexander The Great. Alexander The Great would use those elephants to eavesdrop on his enemies or on Cleopatra next time she plotted to roofie him, tie him up and jam some precious gemstone beads up his ass for shits and giggles to see if they came out looser since the last gender neutral interkingdom orgy at her Luxor party palace.

Now, Singing Rose Kornbluth is at home in her bedroom within the hamlet of Croton Falls, NY, 50 minutes north of Manhattan, brushing the mane on her new American Girl horse doll Lavender Love, singing her own made-up tune “Lavender Love has beautiful hair, my brother Arthur better not threaten to turn him into fake news dog chow, if baby Samuel double dares.” Then, the Palomino American Girl Doll horse Lavender Love comes to life and speaks to her from the baseball diamond on the Field Of Dreams Funhouse and says, “Singing Rose Kornbluth, don’t be alarmed. For starters, my voice can’t be any freakier than when you confuse your American Girl Doll Horse for an actual little person on occasion.” Singing Rose Kornbluth say, “Keep talking.”  Think Tank Alien says, “We think your singing voice, especially in Hebrew is the most beautiful, God loving, effortlessly sweet signing voice, we’ve ever heard, without any deep vibrato rumblings which ruin Adele and Demi Lovato’s chances as potential picks for us if you really need to know.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “And who is we exactly.” Think Tank Alien says, “Were Think Tank Aliens from Planet Scrambled Over Easy. Our natural tongue is Hebrew, and we just came up with our 1st ever Planetary Anthem and it needs work, because our alien civilization isn’t musically inclined whatsoever.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “Do all aliens talk through American Girl Horses? I know Aliens were real. Think Tank Alien says, “Singing Rose, we love your voice. God made your supernatural voice for a reason. Still, will be left with no choice but to blow up your planet, if you don’t let us use your gift of creation and singing love songs which touch the inner most sanctum part of the Divine.” Singing Rose Kornbluth says, “I’ll only help you out if you agree to take over control of our Internet, unleash virus worms to corrode all the software code for Twitter, Facebook and Google and fill in that gaping voice of Internet bandwidth with my father’s Do It All Dad Year Podcast every Friday for another Meandering Shabbat Shalom Special. My daddy is hilarious. He said, Beyonce sat out the national anthem because Demi Lovato sounds like white priveledge version of Alabama Shakes.” Think Tank Alien laughs long time and replies, “We don’t have the Internet on our planet.” Matilda says, “I’ll be your new best friend. And you’ll get one sleepover invite a year, deal? Think Taken Alien says, “Deal.”

1 year later, Singing Rose Kornbluth graced the cover of Time Magazine. On the top, the headline read, Pitchwoman Of The Year, who saved her country’s planet from being wiped off the Solar System for selling the Think Tank Aliens on making her Do It All Dad the most popular, downloadable, highly quotable Podcaster in the universe. So, he could afford the opportunity to shine like the brightest, rising comedy star in the galaxy and drive his family back from the hospital in his new Comedy Gold Porsche SUV with a new baby sister addition in the back, Lavender Love Kornbluth to make his Do It All Dad year mission complete. Now Singing Rose Kornbluth could sing duets with her new baby sister Lavender Love Kornbluth for a double dose of beautiful wonderfulness on Planet Scrambled Eggs Over Easy, so she’d never have to feel homesick again.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Not Kosher Baby

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, entertainment, faith

Ratting out hairdressers, DJ’s, and underground standup comedy club organizers in Manhattan to the cops or Department Of Health in a post COVID controlled universe gone wild isn’t Kosher. My 4-year-old son whipping out his schmekel in the kitchen before I suck down my 1st Nespresso shot in the morning is, “Not Kosher baby.” At the same time, the same son busting my balls as I bonded with mommy over watching an old episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations in Burgundy later this morning after our 2 other ones got on the bus is Kosher, especially when he delivers hilarious lines such as, “Daddy your head has a moron inside”, or when he referenced the oyster dish Tony was eating on his show with a bunch of French chefs from Burgundy when he says, “Not Kosher Daddy”. In other words, don’t even think about it because nobody likes a fake news Koshertarian Comedian.

Reality is, all my favorite food memories before my Koshetarian Comedian book journey began didn’t involve Kosher food at all, sorry mom. Do I have pleasant memories of eating mom’s brisket for Passover? Sure, but those memories with family don’t compare with eating a grass-fed rib eye with an old dear high school bud at Smith and Wollensky’s in Manhattan, after almost not getting out of LA alive. The fact my Larry Sanders loving, lifetime basketball bud Jesse paid for everything on his FX expense account helped my enjoyment factor tremendously to. Growing up, if we went out for a Kosher meal as a family, we’d go to Epstein’s on the derelict, shabby downer section of Central Ave close to White Plains, NY, which failed to give me sustained stiffage ever. How can you compare the climax free experience of more obligatory, rubbery blubbery nosh size bites of Kosher certified Pastrami at Epstein’s, on borderline depressed, flavorless rye to more howl rich, late night drunken gorge feasts at the local Mont Greek dinner on Central Ave with your entire high school crew there in attendance, for your standard order of not one but 2 bacon and egg and cheese on bagels, which required zero nudging to inhale whole?  

Was the always crackling crispy, always well-seasoned, clean tasting rotisserie chicken at the zero frills Kosher butcher on Yonkers side of Central Avenue a respectable, borderline enjoyable Sunday afternoon nosh treat? Yes, but it didn’t compare to more late-night drunken revelry with my meathead friends at local legend bar tavern haunt the Candlelight Inn, for more delectable beef gyros, American Cheese laden, grilled stringy onion topped, hot sauce drabbed cheesesteaks, fries in cheese and gravy, on top of those steaming, extra meat piles of hot wings whose fame extended all the way to hill free suburbs of yenta country in Long Island.

Did my dad manage to fire up tolerable edible Hebrew National dogs on the grill, devoid of blistering burnt marks as a whole during the summer for the 2 days I was home before they shipped me off to sleepaway camp for 3 months a summer for a decade straight, so I could feel smug superior about being the second worst athlete there compared to the sheik’s son from Great Neck but not really? Yes, but memories of my Dad’s Kosher grilled dogs on semi-stale buns suffering from severe shrinkage problems off the barbeque will never match the warm-hearted memories of grabbing those scrumptious, airy light, always bomb fresh, Cheese Dogs at the Left Bank in the town of Lake Forest, Illinois with my college freshman roommate Kowal as a couple of pot smoking, long haired hippies in the making.  

My fondest dining memories growing up with my mom, dad and younger brother was at red and white checkered tableclothed draped Italian joint off the Grand Concourse where Italian cooking love is made. We’d load up on New Zealand style mussels, the size of fucking canoes, garlic crispy, breaded backed clams and the most slurp worthy linguini in white clam sauce ever concocted. Before I’d go in for the kill and manage to eat at least 75 percent of my pounded think veal scallopini stuffed with prosciutto in a white wine mushroom, cream sauce, mama Mia, what a country. My high school buds were in awe of the place, especially my friend Ari, who was a 50 percent Heeb like myself, who literally looks and sounds like Harvey Keitel with a far, better proportioned head.  

When I reflect on the good old days with my Pinko crew of buds of yesteryear, I become smile rich inside, when I think of our dear Korean American friend Clark, who would whip up us batches of fried rice with Kimchee before it became a thing, at his parent’s apartment after we all collectively lost our shit from watching Dazed and Confused at Phil’s apartment next door prior over some sprayed weed form the Bronx that tasted like Windex.  

How can I forget my end of summer goodbye date at the fanciest restaurant in Chatham, Cape Cod with my dear fabled Katie King? Until then, I had no idea 3o bucks could score you one whole, lumpalcious crab cake to share.  I’ll always cherish these Kosher free memories with old school brothers in arms and past summer loves before social media or even smart phones existed, when face to face quality hangout time with our favorite people in the universe couldn’t be beat. Back when everybody wasn’t consumed with the propulsive compulsion to document every parcel pixel of their fucking social lives. Checking beer scores for more obscenely overpriced 4 packs of hazy, New England brews on Beer Advocate was the farthest thing from my mind in 94. The predominant governing thought on my mind in 94 was what time my friends were going to pick me up for more bar crawling adventures along North Avenue in New Rochelle or throughout the never asked for ID bars such as Kelly’s Corner in the Upper East Side instead because they were all far better drunk drivers than me. Hazy IPAs weren’t a thing a yet either, nor was there a Beer Advocate website, let alone a barely functional Internet back then, equipped with an AOL modem, which took longer to load than Sammy Hagger after running of out of gunk from banging endless groupies after shows after the release of 5150 but you get the gist.

I don’t care that these bonding memories with decades old friends were alcohol fueled or not. We were hanging out more for each other’s company and accessibility to available, less annoying girls from our senior class, more so than obsessing over social bragging props about where we partied the following day. Although a good sign of a night out in the city, is not recalling the name of every place you danced to rum shaker either. The thrill of drinking all night till daylight started to break with your high school brothers in arms, when birds got up, chirping sweet, soul music throughout, our leafy suburban wonderland, helped our mutual enjoyment factor long time to.

Hitting up Papaya King on our way back from the city was far from Kosher baby yet at the time, blaring 36 chambers by the Wu Tang on the FDR Drive home back to Westchester with a sports playing, fun loving, tight crew of buds was all we needed to get through the night with ravishing over the top glee. Oh Lord, I love upholding your Kosher law to make you happy and feel like a less all over the place Jew. But boy or boy, those were magical, bonding cementing days to.

Michael Kornbluth

Fussy About Fungi

by doitalldadyear, posted in culture, entertainment, family

Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.

For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.

But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”

No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”

The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight.  Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.

The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.

Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like the fucking help.  Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake,  I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”

Michael Kornbluth

Lay More Cheese On Me

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, beauty, cooking

Nachos should be fuck up stoner proof. Then again, so was Seth Rogan’s acting career, holla, thank you very much. Seth Rogan defending Minnesota rep Baby Face Omar’s Anti-Semitism on Twitter is adorable though. He says, “Give me one spec of evidence that proves House Of Representatives Rep Illhan Omar hates Jewish New Yorkers, besides comparing 9/11 to Amy Winehouse’s death as “something happened”, to a beehive sporting, horn hiding, parasitical Jewess, who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.”

If I’m totally honest, most nachos at bars suck, besides this one batch I had at Top Golf in Vegas before I saw Aerosmith live with an old school bud from LA, when hearing Steven Tyler belt out Chip Away At The Stone live was a top priority of the summer versus our eventual Burning Mask Party back east instead. But at the time, I was too stoned off legal Vegas weed to recall the specifics on why this batch of nachos was so much more amazing than the rest. Chances are, the nachos weren’t saggy gross like cottage cheese conjuring thighs on wives who have to gross you out further by declaring they’re on Weight Watchers, counting calories now, because if you’re a true feminist, it isn’t fair for just overweight dads on most CBS sitcoms to stop giving a shit about how they look naked in bed after marrying their lifetime partners in love for the time being.

Shitty nachos have weird, unasked for additions like sliced canned black olives, flavorless cheese or heat stripped Jalapenos, which is equivalent to a no touch lap dance policy and twice as deflating.  If your homemade nachos aren’t inviting a non-stop barrage of rock steady blissed out bites then you probably dialed back the cheese factor like Jon Bon Jovi trading in his luscious locks for the grizzled, shortened, gender neutral Roger Waters grey plop on top look. But there’s no reason to tone down the cheese, when making Nachos because you’re not trying to reinvent yourself as the more mature, career stable Axl Rose in the process. I’ve made my kids various homemade batches of nachos yet my after-school nosh batch I made yesterday, rocked them all, because I wasn’t afraid to go overboard with the heart warming, good kind of cheese like eighties Journey, Chicago, REO Speedwagon had a baby.  Specifically, I used an entire zipper packet of Trader Joe’s Mexican combo cheese, showcasing Monterey, Queso, Pepper Jack and Mozzarella, which is all your primo batch of nachos need. Other cheeses to melt on your bomb after school nachos such as cheddar don’t work nearly as good because they exude a less compatible musky heft like the Italian six string gunslinger Richie Sambora refusing to shave his chest hair for once in the presence of baby-faced Jon during the Wanted Dead Alive scrapped music video outtakes.

You can’t just splatter a bunch of pre-shredded cheese on top of a pile of pre-made Tortilla chips and think you’re made in the shade like after Slippery When Wet went triple platinum before Kip Winger contemplated asking for his groupie’s ID backstage again.  Bon Jovi followed up Slippery When Wet with the equally masterful, superior in parts, double album New Jersey by doubling down on their nah, nah, nah, nah, cheesy magic on such rocking, dramatic leering songs such as Born To Be My Baby and I’ll Be There For You. At the same time, Bon Jovi rounded out their wall of cheesy sound with subtler, more varied, tingly flavor on songs such as Living In Sin. So, you shouldn’t shy away from injecting a deeper injection of personalized pop to your homemade nachos either by taking the time to caramelize drained, washed black beans, sweet cut up yellow onions, blasts of lime on top while adding olive oil fried up leaves of baby spinach before going for the all-out assault of shredded cheese before broiling the cheesy, veggie laced, greased up tortilla chips in the oven at high 400 for ten minutes max in a blaze of glory.  Also, add a plop of whole milk yogurt for a dipping sauce in the middle of your nacho tray, which is significantly less cheesy than using your standard always too sour, sour cream.

Digging into the mouthwatering pile of afterschool nachos with my 3 kids. bumping our elbows together in the process, made me feel so brand-new young. Blood on blood nosh attacks on this level of kick ass magnitude give all forms of deeply flavorful, insanely joyous, chant worthy hair metal conjuring cheesiness a good name.

Michael Kornbluth

Pause Daddy

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, books, culture

     

“Welcome to the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, What Gen X Dads understand, Dad friendly entertainment for you and me. I’m your host Michael Kornbluth. Controlling our kids with comedy, can make our kids great again. My 3 fuss free kids most of the time, are living proof of it. I’ve been a Stay-At-Home Comedian on and off for a decade now, although my dad is more old school and prefers expression Sheltered Bum. Whenever, I’m out with my 3 kids without mommy, I hear, “You’ve got your hands full.” I’ll say, “If any of my books ever become best sellers and my wife agrees to open marriage with Susan Sarandon, then, my hands will be full.” I stopped smoking weed until I thought my daughter was asleep already because I felt like a moron answering her super deep questions on it the sticky icky stuff after I thought she was asleep already. She’d ask, “Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? “I said, God went back in time in a Time Machine made by Elon Musk.” Daughter says “Real convincing Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.”

Michael Kornbluth, host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast and proud father of the 3 most hilariously, sweet, snuggle shine bundles of sunshine known to mankind adds, “Today, on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, we have a guest, which is a rare occasion since the launch of my podcast 4 years ago, in my pursuit to become the paid star voice behind remote work revolution, before China could hog up all the credit for forcing Corporate America to adjust to a remote work way of life to please our commie controlled corporate masters till our last dying breath. During my pilot episode, I interviewed a UX Designer who worked for Apple. I know you’re bored out of your mind already, unless he was the guy Steve Job pumped for the casual Grandma jean look for all it was worth. My standup performer instinct constantly interjected, the moment I sensed my guest lose the audience, which happened automatically, whenever I allowed him drone out another colorless, brain reaching a screeching halt reply, so I swore off every doing another interview on the Do It All Dad Year Podcast ever again, especially knowing Do It All Dads who want to work from home based on free will alone, in the impassioned pursuit to make their kids the center of the universe instead of the reverse, don’t grow on freaking Bonsai trees either. But I decided to make an exception for our guest Richard Lankfear from Plano, Texas, who is a retired Drug Counselor and author of a new book, called, Addiction, a mind-expanding warning drug abuse symptoms guide, so parents can see if their kids are a frantic, manifestation of their crazy hick degenerate gene, with zero concept of moderation in real time or not. Raising drug free children is important to me because being a druggy dependent is the opposite of feeling free. Cream lives; holla thank you very much. Plus, how can our kids get excited about the pursuit of happiness at home or at school if getting high off their loved ones or from a job well done isn’t enough at least until their mid-twenties? Richard enacts tremendous good from his lifetime service as a Drug Counselor by making a drug abuse warning guide for parents today unaware of what constitutes drug forming behavior under their alleged, emotionally present watch. The chilling, sobering stats in the book such as fentanyl being 100 times more powerful than morphine, speak for themselves and need to be illuminated with unflinching detail knowing either blissful ignorance, dismissive sugarcoating or mere whitewashing of the opioid epidemic throughout the US as being a mere “white trash ” problem, can become the worst fatal mistake a parent today can make, especially knowing how Chinese made fentanyl snuck in through our Mexican border to NPR, has killed more crackers in this country than Lena Dunham kicking it with Taylor Swift on Instagram. The recurring theme in Richard’s books, The Addicted Child, is parents becoming reactive fire fighters, multiple rehab stints later, versus the ideal of becoming proactive troubleshooters before such residual damage has been done, which some families never truly recover from. This book will help more families spot drug habit forming warning signs by offering actionable insight to prevent their kids from facing such a life crippling fate. More importantly, the vast breakdown of all types of drug abuse included in the book, will give parents the confidence and sense of surging urgency to have the drugs will kill your braincells talk with their kids on their still developing minds, before those rapidly deepening drug forming habits become that much harder to break. Richard on the side of the Skype podcast interview is red and flustered in the face, flabbergasted over how Do It All Dad Year Podcast, has made zero effort to give his guest a smidgen of breathing room to promote his book 7 minutes into the broadcast already. If only had Richard knew of Do It All Dad’s code work trick, his 3 kids used whenever he went on one of his impassioned rants in one seamless endless breath, with zero auditory relief in sight as his kids long forgot what cool interesting idea, or question to express already, which was this, “Pause Daddy”, as they pointed an imaginary remote directly at him and say, “Pause Daddy”, with warm hearted smiled stretchy cheer because it was funny and it actually shut their dad the fuck up for change on Adderall or off.  

Stay At Home Comedian rolls on adding, “Let’s focus on our guest now Richard, who didn’t spend any quality time emoting about the all-star book review I just read for you on Amazon about his book The Addicted Child, which was more than generous considering what a snooze the book was as a whole. So, Richard, I just read another book by Lou Gramm, the former leader signer howler legend from Foreigner, known for co-writing and belting out endless classic rock staple hits such as Juke Box Hero, Double Vision, Long, Long, Long Way From Home, being my personal favorites among the pack. In his highly readable book in comparison to your one, he talks about getting sober and the growing frustration of not even being able to partake in lighting a doobie after killing at freaking Solider Field on the tour party bus soon afterwards, when everybody else from the band now in their early forties still is. Like the roadie guy says in the movie Rockstar with Mark Wahlberg, “Don’t be half ass about it, live out the Rock Star dream for those who can’t or something close to that.  Also, there’s a standup comedian whose no longer with us, the late great, Greg Geraldo, who said drug use should be encouraged when in your forties more so than your twenties especially when you learn during a parent teacher conference, “That your son is a half a tard.” So, my question for Richard, is “What’s an acceptable form of addiction in your book?” “Richard says, I wish I had stage light to shine on you, 1000 run on sentences ago.”  Do It All Dad Year Podcast host fires back with, “So, all the Irish thugs who used to beat up nice Jewish kids in the Bronx, calling them Christ Killers blah, blah.  Are they what you’d call a special kid of drunk prick later in life or do you think the concept of a so called happy drunk, doesn’t apply to any Irish alcoholics, because their rosy noses give off the impression, they’re really just more superficial cheery on the surface than the rest? And if the Irish are the best drunk poets, then whatever happened from the Irish Beastie Boys in the Jump Around Video? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t thinking being a drunk prick is a strictly an Irish disease. For me, I think a fellow member of my tribe, Michel Rappaport, still sounds like he’s auditioning for the role of Wigger Number 3 asshole In the Jump Around Video.  Richard says, “Are you going to ask any of the questions I gave you?” Do It All Dad Year Podcast Host Michael replies, “Why are parents so afraid to have honest conversations about drugs through their record collections with their kids Richard? What makes these parents so apprehensive to point out the dangers of doing shitty Chinese made coke, with Hunter Biden, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall? Do you feel sketchy degenerate behavior is born, enabled, or all the above? In the movie, Requiem, for a Dream, Jared Leto is missing a freaking arm at the end, which is a powerful cautionary message to nail home on par with reading your kids Allen Ginsburg’s Howl next time, they claim to not scary easily, describing all the beautiful angels of light’s mind, ravaged by drugs, reducing to eating stray cats throughout the streets of San Francisco. Why didn’t you share such hardcore scare tactics tips in your book, for parents to use on their kids, so they wouldn’t have to spend a mini fortune, and take out a new home equity loan on the house to afford your overrated counseling services? “

Now, all of Michael’s 3 kids come bursting in the room to give their Dear Dada a hug after coming back from school, anxious to tell him about their day. In unison, they all point an imaginary remote at their Stay-At-Home Comedian Dad and say, “Pause Daddy.” Richard throws up his hands in defeated disgust on the Skype Window screen and yells, “That’s it Pause Daddy, is the magic word to shut this loudmouth, obnoxious Jew up already.” Stay At Home Comedian Dad replies, “When your opinions are deemed worthy enough to interrupt my killer flow, I’ll let you know, jerkoff. Never forget, controlling our kids with comedy, can make our kids great again. My 3 fuss free kids most of the time are living proof of it.”

The End

The Reference Check Girl

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, beauty, books

Once upon a time there was a high energy, constantly red in the face, yet easily excitable IT agency recruiter in his early twenties from Long Island, Patrick Dublin, who worked for a small staffing agency above Madison Square Garden called Unicorn Staffers. Unicorn Staffers specialized in recruiting and placing Unicorn UX Designers, who also did the nitty gritty, back and front-end coding, who made billion-dollar apps and various new age tech startups come to life, blessed with visionary founders brilliant enough to avoid sexual harassment charges at work, by creating in-office innovations such as designing a panic free, jerk off safe space bathroom. So, security never had to escort you from the building, legs first from the bathroom stall, only to knock your head against the mildew lined walls one more time, before hearing the Security Guard croon in his best Tom Petty voice, “You don’t come around here no more.”  

Since the era of #METO began, Unicorn Staffing would have to conduct more rigorous background checks with ex-girlfriends for Unicorn star studs they represented, who couldn’t control their urges to whip it out during a Zoom Call, despite the Head of Application Development from South Wales, Australia trying to manage an unwanted sexual harassment claims at work in a post virtual meeting COVID controlled universe gone cagy nuts, by addressing his team of developers and designers with, “Welcome all. Now if everyone is going to feel safe during this Zoom meeting, let’s raise all our hands high, where I can see them. Please, don’t be such a knee jerk reactionary cunt about it, you Jefferey Toobin wannabes at the New Yorker, thanks.”  Sexual harassment was a dirty secret infesting the tech startup world today, even among, the biggest tech company in the world Google, despite most of the employees being too busy banging out to code, to actually hit on girls at work while sporting their yenta noise cancelation headphones in the 1st place. Plus, your typical software command script at Google or elsewhere, wasn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel, ho.”

Now, Patrick, the IT Recruiter is conducting a background check with a 25-year-old, chesty Digital Marketing Manager Lisa, based on her LinkedIn Profile picture, who used to date his star candidate awaiting a verbal offer of 145K for a new permanent Creative Technologist Director position with a cannabis lifestyle startup Budranker.com, from Oakland, CA, looking to expand its online digital magazine division here in NYC, targeted toward working, functional pothead millennial mousketeers. Patrick, takes a deep breath, loosens his tie a tad and gets ready to call,  Lisa, the Digital Marketing Manager for Hip Hops, a new multi-level old-school hip hop gastropub club in the East Village about the extent of her past relationship with his star candidate, which he’s very proud of connecting with, after LinkedIn banned him from the site for sending too many failed connection requests, before enrolling in a Spam A Lot Less Sales Seminar, offered by a former power ballad songwriter for hire turned Life Career Coach, Michael Rocker. Patrick calls and says, “Hi Lisa, this is Patrick Dublin. I’m an IT Recruiter for Unicorn Staffers, calling you about Max Diesel, whose being considered for a top Creative Technologist Director position for a cannabis startup, Budranker.com. Can I ask you a couple of quick questions about your relationship with Max in the past?”

Lisa says, “Yeah, we only hooked up once after meeting at the Windows Expo in downtown LA. it was right around the time Microsoft and had bought LinkedIn. I was working as a bartender hostess at the event, before I met the CEO of Sierra Nevada at same event, before becoming their Digital Marketing Manager after I started riffing while making some drinks, insisting, Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA blows all other IPA’s out of the water. Then, I crafted their sentimental laced campaign for the 30-year anniversary of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, calling it the pale ale that get’s stale. I conceptualized the guerilla marketing campaign for printing a bunch of bar napkins with love poems on them in honor of 1st loves, my personal favorite being, “I fell in love with you from the start. You’re my favorite valentine etched on my heart. You made love spill out of me like overflowing treasure. The idea of pounding you again, gives me non-stop pleasure. You were my 1st love, when I didn’t know what that meant. All I knew is that were heaven sent. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, You Never Got Over US Did You. So, Max starts flirting with me after I snagged the business card for the CEO of Sierra Nevada and says, “This is my impersonation of merger talk between Dr. Dre and Eminem after Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn, “Hey slim, Microsoft paid 4.5 billion for LinkedIn. Eminem says, “Worrdddddddddd. Linked in lamer than ever yoh.” Personally, Max had me at Hey Slim, because he dropped his voice low enough to pull off a semi-decent Dr. impersonation. Hey, did you know Hitler’s birthday is on 420? Puffing the bong to more Tuff Gong never felt so wrong. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3.” So, to answer your question, I hooked up with Max on the dance floor sky bar in West Hollywood later that night on the dance floor, but then, Frans Drescher from the Nanny, caught his interest and I never heard from him again. He left me a busines card and said, we should stay in touch through LinkedIn, which I’ve never got over completely, especially knowing how I got interested in hooking up with Max only after he dumped on LinkedIn in the 1st place.”

Patrick finally interrupts Lisa, trying to be diplomatic as possible, afraid of blowing his potential 9 grand commission rip in the making and says, “Well, Max thought enough you to list you as reference for ex-girlfriends to a conduct a background check to assess his sexual harassment factor risk at Budranker.com. Did Max ever touch you on the dance floor too aggressively at the Sky Bar?

Lisa says, “Hell no. I’m the one who shoved his hand up my skirt. I told him my panties were packed in my purse and we could go skinny dipping at this house in the hills, my friend was housesitting for, next to Roman Polanski’s old house, who’s a serially underrated rapist compared to Cosby in my book. I still don’t understand how they pulled the Roseanne show off the air yet have no problem showing adds for Ambien between replays of the Cosby show on syndication on Nick at Night.”

Patrick says, “You’re really funny. What are you doing wasting your time doing Digital Content Marketing for a living?” Lisa says, “I’m too sexy for stand-up Patrick. Sara Silverman and Chelsea Handler 20 years ago were never in my league of looks. Also, I don’t see myself posting endless naked pics of myself like Chelsea Handler with another book in hand to showcase my social justice warrior reading cred to downplay the world from my tit’s sagging popularity in the process either.” Patrick says, “So, if Budranker.com called you tomorrow to ask you if Max was a sexual assault liability in the making, what would your response be exactly? Lisa says, “That all depends on you Patrick. Do you like old school hip hop like most old school wigger Irish dudes from Long Island?” Patrick says, “How do you know I’m from Long Island.” Lisa says, “I already looked you up on LinkedIn. You’re cute. Why don’t we wrap this interview up at Hip Hops later tonight? I crafted the playlist, playing only old school rap myself. It’s flush with songs by Biggie, Nas, even Snoop. Who cares if Snoops brain hovers a notch below Porn Hood Hell?”  My exact measurements are 36d, my pic on the LinkedIn doesn’t give my balling beauties justice.” Patrick thinks to himself, “I better learn how to code because that safe space room to get my whack on can’t come soon enough.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does Mormonism

by doitalldadyear, posted in comedy, family, humor

“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 3 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 gorgeous looking jump shot yet he wasn’t going to try out for the European basketball league knowing, his ball handle was weak and 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 in 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, who 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 just dropped spilled a plate at a barbeque because you have no sense of beer pounding pace whatsoever, especially with high octane weed puffed at 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 Phonebook and launched high with zero hesitation for a thunderous dunk with reverberating authority as the lost 20 year old college senior, without a passion to latch a career on to yet, miserably clueless about what type of white collar job he’d pursue after graduating on 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, thinks to himself, “Look at Julio fly. My dad is right. I really am a waste of height. So, I scored 10 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, consisting mostly of jumpers and some occasional semi forceful layups that drew some contact in the paint, knowing 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 out 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 his less than lackluster ups, which he had done nothing to accentuate since his Varsity playing basketball days, when he used to run on this tippy toes instead of high tops, looking 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 joke about his in 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 great. He’d throw me house parties at home and only invite stuck up Jenny from the block. 2 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 raising, signaling, you can do this champ. Josh does his best to run fast toward the hoop before blastoff, yet he started running faster than he was accustomed to, which was far outside of his comfort zone, before slowing down a tad before liftoff, which 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 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 holding 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 Michael was considered partially God like in the sense he packed enough fire power 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 IPA’s, 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 IPA’s had to offer his rapidly depleting, voided world, without his 3 beamish, wonder kids in his life anymore, after being so immersed in their lives as a podcast stay at home comedian 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 weighted heavily on guilty plagued conscious was the one from famed novelist Toni Morrison, stating, “If you wanna fly, you got to give up shit that’s way you down.” Now, Josh was divorced from what descended into a loveless marriage of convenience, where he was treated like hired help more so than a true lifetime partner in love 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 2 drink minimum comedy clubs in NYC for starters. After a killer set at The Comedy Cellar, who doesn’t want a beer or 2, to enjoy the post kill rush among a sea of new touch feely female fans? Josh was tired of hiding behind a computer from the real world, now 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 actual novel already, Do It All Dad Does Mormonism, he needed to embrace the Mormon lifestyle, by giving up his precious espresso pods, IPA’s and focus on shedding the extra 20 pounds holding him back from flying with rock powered authority like Eddie Vedder off the stacks at amps at the Rock and Roll Music Hall of Fame Induction ceremony, so he could prove to himself, he was a capable of being better a 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 he 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 made him look like Vince Vaughn during his pubescent prime pre-insomniac years. Josh was blessed with a booming, motor mouth to, who was a Do It All Dad Coach Dad who got his youngest into fencing, his 2nd oldest in swimming and his 3rd 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 supports up?  Because getting another 50 K sales rep job for a media software sales monitoring company at 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 blond mom in tight ripped jeans, normally, who was caught staring at his swelled package, the 1st time he gave her the greenlight to give him his spikey haired, lean mean, machine makeover, an idea emerged. Josh says to the chesty, sweat drenched, chesty, perfect feet manicured, Julie in bed,  “I can’t make a living a working comedian or as an author yet, but I could say fuck writing for the time being, which is a major time suck in my life, which I don’t have the luxury to blow through anymore in life, 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 Pelton riding instructor because they all bore me to freaking death. I don’t care how tan ripped solid they look. I’m also ranking high on the leaderboard 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, which is what I pray to God for every morning anyway. The most popular Peloton Instructors make 300 K a year. No wonder why their 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 to look stylish and be cheeky, bitchy without sounding like a permanent bottom bitch while also possessing enough manly, grizzly chest hair to arouse all the Pelton moms and younger millennial mousketeers getting their efficient remote work groove from home to. Plus, I wrote the entire script for Vhl Classic’s America’s Hard 100, so I’m more than capable of crafting more kick ass riding playlists than playing the same generic GNR songs all the time. Plus, I know enough about hard rock to know Foreigner kicks way more ass than fucking Black Keys or Kings of Leon ever could, my chest. 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 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 self-help, mid-life crisis reinvention novel about a divorced dad who decides 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 for claiming PTSD after learning my mother-in-law forced Eucharist on my 3 kids behind my back. The Church of Later Day of Saints will eat up that shit like polygamy Jello wresting wife night. Plus, 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 thrown in a line 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 blocks the deportation of child rapists who don’t belong in our country in the 1st place. Ban ICE, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destructions 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 says, “I’ll take that has a hard yes.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth  

Shell Shocked Snappy

by doitalldadyear, posted in art, books, humor

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

Michael Kornbluth