Tag: wine

4 Jews Enter A Greek Temple

by doitalldadyear, posted in fiction, humor, writing

Gimmel, a high school wrestling star for Jerusalem High turned professional bookie for the Maccabees, stands in prayer, lip synching some horseshit prayer in honor of some half-horse, half-man freak centaur, who also happens to be hung like an Arabian.

            Shin, the local tailor, adjusts his fancy schmancy Tallis like a stressed-out Rodney bombing with new material at Dangerfield’s, and says, “Gimmel, have you ever been hellenized? Because, you know I have. How else do you explain my fear of getting electrocuted to death ever since Zeus jammed a thunderbolt up my wife’s snatch because she called the Goddess of Wisdom Athena ‘fake news deep’ compared to the Lord our God, not the God of Loud Rain.”

            Gimmel elbows Shin in stomach and says, “Stop making me laugh, Shin. You’ll arouse the wrath of Gelos, the personification of laughter, because, despite his Greek God status, he isn’t endowed with the funny Jew bone to bang out room-shaking laughter with either.”

            Nun, a Kosher winemaker, enters the Greek Temple after wining and dining a Greek senator who threatened to take over his family winery if he didn’t erect a marble sculptured fountain of Dionysus, connected to underground barrels of pricy Cabernet Sauvignon which spill out of his golden chalice cup every other two seconds.          Nun spots his friends Shin and Gimmel whispering to each other, lip synching up close near the holy side of the Greek Temple. This was where the Golden Menorah used to light up the 2nd Temple before Antiochus took over after Alexander The Great died and turned the Second Temple into a head shop for Greek Gods, where they now sell bundles of incense sticks for five shekels and a gram of hashish. What a country Judea had become!

            Nun lines up next to friends Shin and Gimmel, engaging in fake news Greek God prayer, and whispers to his old school Jerusalem High wrestling buds, “What are you two doing here again? You’ll get crucified if the Greek priests overhear you kvetching about you having zero interest in worshiping Pan the Goat Boy during the never-ending 2nd Temple period.

            “But you have to bitch, because we already paid our synagogue dues before King Antiochus turned our JCC gymnasium into a members-only gay bathhouse for Greek senators to bask in endless leisure, admiring each other’s flappy rounds of mound.”

            Hey, the Kosher Dairy Farmer, enters the Greek Temple with a chalef knife, whose incredibly sharp edge ensures a painless, Torah commanded, gentle-as-can-be death for cows later converted into brisket stew.

            The Negev Desert sun glares through the newly refurbished stained glass window designs of nymphs playing tug of war with Hercules cock.  But this blast of holy-powered light nearly blinds the Greek priest leading the service, as the Negev desert light bounces off Hey’s chalef butcher knife and refracts into his Greek God-loving eyes.     (Which, I’m sure, reminds the Greek priest of the time he wanted to poke his eyes out after getting blackout drunk from a three-day Theatre Festival in Athens, only to wake up next to Medusa’s sister, who rapes drunk Greek priests at will because in her presence, blackout drunk or not, you become automatically frozen stiff.)  

            As the Greek priest rubs his eyes in extreme agony, Hey, The Kosher Dairy Farmer, with his chalef knife held high in the air, yells, “Maccabees rule! We’re the chosen people for a reason, bitches.”

            Eight days later, the magnificent band of Maccabee warrior brothers reclaimed the Greek Temple and turned into the grand 2nd Temple of old without barely breaking a sweat because the Lord was on their side. I bet you eight million Shekels that Hermes ran for the hills away from Zion as fast as he could, refusing to give Zeus the message.

             Happy Hanukkah, Kayne excluded. Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Exit Interview Day

by doitalldadyear, posted in books, comedy, humor

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

Soliloquy Shredder

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, theatre, writing

In a Wine Shop 5 minutes from Mr. Groper’s house in Greenville, Delaware. Where he skinny dips in front of female Secret Service agents boasting, “Told you I was bigger than the boogie boarding Kenyan.” At the Wine Shop, I say, “Who would’ve predicted hard seltzer being a thing in our lifetime? Add Cannabis shops in Massachusetts or Democracy being dead.” Cute wine merchant laughed long time.  Everybody knows that the Icky Shuffle lost, even in his own hometown. Resist this, Bruce. I hope that inviting Obama on stage to Dancing in the Dark on Broadway to knock off his bucket list was worth lying about your New Jersey fan base being racist, that could afford your tickets because they have good paying union jobs despite you claiming everyone in the band was replaceable, including Clarence Clemmons, assuming, Michael Clarke Duncan was Ving Rhames understudy at Julliard when Billy Joel’s greatest hits were considered lullaby music for eighties Republicans. Soliloquy Shredder lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Be The Boss

by doitalldadyear, posted in family, humor, storytelling

Soy can be good, but sucky soy tastes like flaccid impotence in your mouth.

I pick my son up from martial arts class. Female teacher with a pretty face, and beautiful smile who pulls off the short hair look despite being a tad curvier than most says, “You’ve raised good eggs”, who’s taught all 3 of my kids so far. Later, in the car, I say to my son, “Arthur, can I marry your martial arts instructor?” He says, “Do what you want. Be the boss.” I said, “We need to go into the fortune cookie business ASAP, Kung Fu Lightening.” Challah, thank you very much.

Daughter got upset today because some of her math nerd friends at school got written up in the local newspaper. I try to calm her down and say, “1st, 2 people live in North Salem, so who gives a shit? 2nd, you’ve met one Quant Programmer, you’ve met them all. Plus, Economists are fake news odds makers with zero balls and aren’t getting comped for jack shit in Vegas. Last, my mother got a perfect score on her math SAT, but her judgment sucks because I told her to invest in Google before its IPO was offered to the deplorable masses pre fake news and she blew it. So, like Hillary Hammer Time Cankles says, “What difference does it make?” Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Monopoly on Introspection

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, faith, politics, writing

I post a bit on my WordPress blog about taking Adderall to Temple because organized religion in person makes me feel very disorganized. Some random, commentator’s commentary was, “I find it interesting that non-practicing and non-religious Jews are the most introspective about their annoying Jewy identify than any other sub-group, really, Catholics indulge a bit to, if you can make it through Dogma without longing for Brody to replace Damon as the arch angel of death if you can’t get past Matt playing the Jew hating WASP a tad too well in School Ties, without Kevin Smith moonlighting as a script doctor on the script this time around. I reply, “Jews have a monopoly on introspection now? Who knew? You’d think moderate Muslims were the ones who made a killing in the Psychotherapy business after all these years.”

The most comically annoying part of her pretend ironically detached assertion was that non-religious or non-practicing Jews today actually advertise any affiliation with their Jewish ancestry because they worship false idols like Dr. Gnocchi, pretend ANTIFA are Klan firefighters, accuse Israel of genocide on Twitter for refusing to be pushover putzy, support NFL kneelers kicking Nazi destroyers in the nuts and reduce Trump voters to Nazi’s despite Jimmy Fallon failing to rub of his hair on the Tonight Show, which turned his writers into haters because a real life skinhead never emerged. The same fake news good Jews who insist on sucking off Obama Be Good till their last dying breath despite him posting all of Israel’s nuclear hiding sites on Al Jazeera earth to give Sharia Law a greater chance because Muslim Extremist lives matter most, especially knowing what useful partners they were to Hitler in World 2, right Barry? So, cut the bullshit Obama, you love Hitler so much more than Trump. Financing the bioweapon of death made in Wuhan wasn’t your idea either Obama. That belongs to Gates and Fauci, this is the year of the 4 eyed snake remember? You only wish you were that organized. Although you did get close after giving 150 billion to Iran after they promised to take a time out from building nukes to destroy Israel, so the number one sponsor of terror worldwide could use the money to create overseas manufacturing jobs for Build a Bear to make their economy less reliant on the sale of chest removal cream for the Kardashians.

Son asks, “Daddy, who published the Bible first?” I say, “Moses self-published the Old Testament first but don’t call it a vanity press because that’s not kosher in God’s book. Later Moses handed out the Bible to the 12 tribes of Israel on a pro-bono basis while insisting they transcribe it by hand and have each leader write a Torah scroll themselves because Xerox sales reps from CT were too white, pasty and humorless to come across as believable chosen members of the tribe, who were capable of infiltrating that sales territory with any divine powered sales authority whatsoever.

Youngest son asks, “How big is God?” I say, “Bigger than Obama’s ego. Despite Kenya not printing any money in his likeness yet.” Obama’s so not money, and Kenyans know it, Challah. Jewish introspection lives, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Captain Fruitcake

by doitalldadyear, posted in books, poetry, writing

My honeymoon phase with my daughter is waning. It only took 11 years, which lasts longer than most. It died with my wife after a stream of milk squirted out of her nips on our honeymoon in Australia, especially, after I nibbled on them for old time’s sake while totally blanking on how they now tasted like a regrettable non-fate latte. Our plan was to get married in Australia on Mother’s Beach, where my wife grew up around, yet my mom.crashed that concept real fast. Mom calls, “Fuck Australia Scoops. Australia is a long flight from New York. And your father doesn’t love you that much. You’re the sloppy second son for a reason, remember?” I console my wife later and say, “Babe, assuming we have a boy, instead of hiring a Rabbi for the circumcision, will hire Crocodile Dundee. Just so we can hear a roomful of Jews say, “Now that’s a knife. You can chop it all off with that thing.”  Most honeymoon phases fade after their sweaty sex period anyway. Where the bed achieves blast off despite perpetual poundage downward, which defies all laws of gravity all together. 

So, I’m not sweating the prospect of my honeymoon phase coming to a deflated end with my daughter at 11 years old. She has breast buds now, so I know she can’t remain my little girl forever. It’s not as if I identify with Woody Allen in my late forties now either. Who pines for the days of keeping naked pics of a 9-year-old Soon-Yi in his top sock drawer to tap for future script ideas on scripts such as Crimes and Misdemeanors the Early Years or was it The Plowing Field? Shit, the only crusty pic missing from Woody Allen’s top sock drawer was Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine. Still, 11 years old feels early for breast buds, don’t you think? Wife says, “Matilda and Shannon are the last girls in their class to get breast buds.” And I said, “Then why haven’t yours sprouted yet?”

I’m cooling on my daughter because of her overuse of the word “Nice.” Had a pothead friend Cling in college cool dude, worked as chef in Nantucket during the summer to pay for his high-end hippie lifestyle. But he could also throw down like Leo and went to Berkshire, a boarding school that got printed up in the NY times in 96 after a student sold 90 doses of acid to a student population of 300, although I’ve been told nearly every student there was tripping balls, including some of the professors. Headmaster calls in the dealer. “You really thought you’d get away with this shit? Are you smoking coo-coo puffs or what? Who’s your supplier?” Student breaks out into the giggles and can barely muster, “You, said, coo-puffs.  That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.” Headmaster adds, “I knew that hiring that English teacher from Berkley was a bad idea. O Captain, my Captain Trips was his quote in his high school yearbook for Christ’s sake. He quoted that fruitcake Robet Frost to. I bet those woods were lovely, dark and deep on 5 hits of acid, when the Maple Tree morphed into Aunt Jemima ordering you to sodomize each other with your lacrosse sticks because the ghost of Jim Brown will shit on your dreams of breaking his scoring records at the University of Syracuse regardless.”

Yeah, so Cling, the same guy who rolled perfect joints, who’d blow smoke rings that shaped into the contours of the skeletal shape seen on Deadhead shirts, would use the word “nice”, if you said something he liked. For example, “Hey Kling, saw 311 live last night. They kicked total ass. I practically touched the rafters. For once I no longer felt whiter than White Man’s Disease.  And Kling says, “Nice”, despite it being way more momentous than nice.  And I didn’t have to compete with an I-Pad in front of him for his attention. So, when I say, “Matilda, Daddy’s final comedy record, Last Licks, will be my Siamese Dream, Too Fast for Love, Appetite for Destruction and American Idiot, all wrapped up into one.” Only to hear back in return, “Nice daddy.” In other words, “Sell some comedy records later summer whether it be Last Licks or Billionaire Brain in my honor, and I’ll give a bigger shit. I’m sure I can find you an emoji for that. Just let me get back to being a budding pre-teen already, who doesn’t have to suck off the totality of your ego every two seconds. Besides, isn’t that what mommy is for? I get it, making comedy records at home is like playing with yourself. You can only spend so much time jerking off your own material without wanting others to do it for you. Is that what Brian Wilson meant when he sang, Wouldn’t It Be Nice? Anyway, let me plan my 1st sleepover with Kendel at our house with the tent in our yard Daddy. Just be glad I’m not pushing for more horse riding lessons that you can’t afford because you’re so broke, your Hebrew name is under judicial review.  Just make enough money for a Bat Mitzvah trip in 2 years to France, so I can practice my French while ordering you some high-end Rose from Provence, Captain fruitcake. We can toast my official entry into fully budding womanhood, and you finally making it a semi-working artist writer comedian of some kind, so you can stop freaking out about not having enough new lovers of you yet. Nice enough Captain Fruitcake? Nice lives, Challah. Thanks for the stroll down memory lane Kling, very, very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Willy Loman Lives

by doitalldadyear, posted in entertainment, humor, writing

I’m interviewing for a franchise owner opportunity to sell neighborhood magazines that I’d sell ads for in addition to getting PTA moms to publish vanity articles about their wine tastings nights, because they know that Trader Joe’s sells more than just the cheap stuff. All this work is commission only and I’m told that I won’t be seeing any money in 4 months at least. So, as I’m contemplating getting the shot clot to put me out of my misery already, the Launch Manager says, “You’d be a part of a team that represents 520 area directors throughout the country. And I say, “So much for feeling singularly special.” Launch Director laughs long time. Then I add, “I’m too singularly special for this shit. Thanks, but no thanks.” Willy Loman lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth