Chapter 29 The Path of Most Resistance

 

 

Chapter 29

The Path Of Most Resistance

 

Joshua never underwent Psychoanalysis.  Still, it didn’t take some fake news deep shrink who majored in Psychology at Tufts, to realize Joshua pursued the comedic pursuit of making strangers laugh for a living because being shipped off to sleep away camp in Kent, CT 3 months a year every summer, without any burning desire to attend, never gave him the impression of being the center of his parents universe.  It’s not as if Joshua was such a perpetual drag on his parent’s time after they came home from work. He’d hear them talk about their workdays over dinner and then retreat to his room to play with his blocks, bang his GI Joe toys together way past the appropriate age to do so, as he used to Gung Ho to turn Cobra Commander into his personal gimpy, bitch in his own innocuous, pubescent form of Pulp Fiction. When Joshua got a bit older, he’d organize his Basketball card collection, consisting of almost every rookie who played for the original USA Dream Team, MJ an the Bird, MJ combo rookie card excluded, because together they cost more than ounce of Maui Wowie. That’s so good, you take only one hit of delicious, crystal flecked green, watch the entirety of Pink Floyd Wall Sophomore Year in college and think you comprehended all the symbolic nuances from start finish, back when Roger Waters was more pro wall but no so much in Israel’s case to prevent more blatantly unnecessary death. Later, after Joshua in Junior High, he’d decorate the walls of his bedroom with an unoccupied top bunk, with cut out pictures of all his Hair Metal Gods from Circus Magazine, which included non-pretty boy faces such as the Freddy Kruger of shredding Mick Mars from Motely Crew. But sometime in the early 1990’s, Joshua’s parents decided to repaint his lost in fantasy island room. The Italian painter took one look at Joshua’s wailing wall of metal and says, “There’s a lot of dolled up men on your wall.” In Joshua’s Heavy Metal High pilot trilogy, which he pitched to the EVP of VH1 Classic in Manhattan, his character replies to the Italian painter with, “I’m sorry are blush covered cheeked Bret Michaels from Poison not manly enough for you Dominick I Ain’t No Fag Scholanti.”

Joshua would never forgive himself for letting his father bully him into inviting his friend Ari to see Motley Crew in the 6th grade at the Nassau Coliseum, during their revitalized, hit heavy Dr. Feelgood tour, with Warrant as the opening act, after promising his closer friend Coop, with his far deeper ties at the time.  Coop didn’t talk to Joshua for a solid 5 years afterwards and they hung out plenty in Elementary School, going to movies at Movieland in Yonkers all the time because Coop was an only child, whose parents were both Lawyers, at the same law firm, the father owned, so the could afford a pair of smoking hot, au pairs from Switzerland who tasted good inside and out guaranteed.  Coop was a mensch. Before he became a top realtor in Manhattan, he was the Nino Brown of weed dealing at Hartford University and would let Joshua’s younger brother, sell major weight for him back home and let him off the hook no problem if he was ever light 500 here, 800 bones there. Plus, when Joshua had his stand-up comedy bringer show at the New York Comedy Club, Coop’s presence among his high school class of 99 caused the biggest stir. Coop also delivered the most touching, emotive praise after Joshua’s friend Ari, who was still a mensch in his own right, simply stating in a stupefied, teetering on awe inspired state, “Awesome.” Coop approached Joshua outside the New York Comedy Club and said, “Great show, very funny stuff bro” with all knowing stony Buda assurance. Joshua replied, “Thanks Coop, but I’m still so broke my Hebrew name is under Judicial review.” Coop refused to give into Joshua’s feeble attempt at self-deprecation, which never captured his true funny man essence entirely and says, “Stick with it, you’re funny.”

Understand, this is more emotive encouragement Joshua ever received from his own flesh and blood, being his younger brother and 2 parents. But as they says, the 1st hilarious Bat Men Lego movie, you get to chose your friends, not your family and Coop’s push for Joshua to continue down the pursuit of getting Lady Laugh off long time was a noble pursuit worth fighting for with all this funny Jew bone, God blessed might.  Joshua developed a later in life, cast iron dense strong friendship with adopted valley brother Jay from Southern California, who knew the real him inside and out and gave him an even more rousing, inspirational, Mick type pep push from Rocky when he said, “Never lose your edge JK.”

 

Now, Joshua was 43 turning on 44, still pursuing the path of most resistance. His parents wouldn’t acknowledge his debut comedy record nor would his younger brother. Joshua’s wife claims to overhear portions of his Do It All Dad Year Podcast from downstairs because he’s such a loudmouthed, crazy man Jew, but 150 episodes in, had never listened to one from start to finish.   When Joshua had moved back from LA after living out there for 6 years, in West Hollywood, Hermosa Beach and Sherman Oaks in the valley, another old school high bud saw him do an open mike set at some shit hole bar east of Madison Square Garden in Midtown east, total no man’s land and he said with stupefied bewilderment, “You’d be ok with dying alone. You’re really in no rush to be in a relationship again ever.” The reality is, ever since Joshua fell in love with making Lady Laugh, laugh, he never felt alone again.  God didn’t give Joshua 3 unplanned kids to have panic attack over it. If Joshua was out with his 3 kids by themselves, which was often, a stranger would say, “You got three.” And he’d say, “All 3 were unplanned. Obviously, I never planned the art of the pump fake.” Then, Joshua would hear the same random stranger comment on how pretty his lucky number 3 Samuel is and he’d reply in a relaxed manner because he was accustomed to the unsolicited praise so often by now, “He’s a very pretty he. I envision a future where he’ll be fronting a Poison cover band no problem” These lines would generate streams of laughter every time. Joshua wasn’t ready to relinquish his God given edge just yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 26 The Non-Religious Hipster

Chapter 26

The Non-Religious Hipster

The only time Joshua ever got into real trouble with his parents was during a family trip to Montreal, when he insisted on sending his younger brother back to the hotel in a cab, so he could pass out on top of a Canadian girl’s mountain of muff, unable to get it up for some boom, boom because of all the strip club day drinking prior, before those high octane Canadian Labatt Blues came back to knock him on his ass, after maintaining the same rock steady, pounding pace at the dance club soon after. Joshua had attended Ithaca College in upstate NY, otherwise known as Cornell’s retarded next door neighbor, located only a 4 hour drive from the Canadian border. So, he spent many weekend getaways in Montreal with his college buds to wreck more brain cells and feel more retarded than usual, tearing through an eighth of outdoor Tompkins Country weed every other 3 days wasn’t helping. If Joshua could do it all over again, he’d bribe the DJ at the strip club in Montreal with a 50 spot, so he could play the 20 minute version of the Allman’s Brother’s Whipping Post from the their famed Filmore East show, so he could maximize his erect, arousal, one lap dance per song moment for all it was worth like any good, shrewd, predatory Jewish New Yorker, not bright enough to pass the Series 7 to become a Investment Banker would. Joshua was never obsessed with getting lap dances from strippers, but clear memories of blowing off his homework in the 9th grade to watch the Cherry Pie video on MTV, the VHS Kiss doc Exposed with lead singer and songwriter Paul Stanley philosophizing on the art of being a playmate bedding rock star on a bed flush with nothing but perfect busty tens. In addition to endless repeat showings of the equally titillating, Motley Crue doc, Uncensored, including plenty of clips from the their slickest, most arousing, rock star affirming video, Girls, Girls, Girls, which takes place in the actual strip club on the Sunset Strip, where Joshua used to live down the street among the more homoerotic, rent controlled land of boys town in West Hollywood. So Joshua never got discouraged from pursuing the glittery, stripper’s embrace, before he got married, if he had the money burn, one bit.

But Montreal wasn’t all about the icy, cracked out looking, vixen, strippers for Joshua. Because he loved his out of nowhere, fluffy, thick, succulent, locally sourced, in retrospect, Canadian ham loaded Omelette at some random greasy spoon diner 10 times more. This omelette in particular gave Joshua more long lasting joy than any fleeting, blue balls destined lap dance, assuming he was wearing jeans and not sweat pants. Joshua also learned during a trip to Montreal hungover the next morning again, how the French Canadian’s just don’t serve you a regular egg and cheese sandwich there. Instead, they’ll throw in some tasty baby spinach greens, on top a mayo slathered Croissant, if you weren’t eating pork again, which Joshua wasn’t because some psychic in LA prior told him his Chakras were more clogged than his freshman one hitter. The same psychic who Joshua paid in what felt like the entirety of his inherited Pfizer stock from his Jewish Grandmother on his dad’s side, insisted Joshua abstain from pork and beer for a 30 day purification period. Joshua wasn’t complaining about the final results, looking slim and trim doing something more constructive with his time than binge, like DMX before he got into character at the recording studio that day, to rap, “I m slipping, falling and can’t get up.” At the same time, Joshua will never forget about how he relished his In and Out Burgers in LA, animal style, which is twice the cheese, twice the patties, on top of their specialty, never burnt or syrupy sweet, fried onions nestled between their buttered, specialty sauce slathered buns. Actually, Joshua had an old high school bud, another groomsmen at his wedding who visited him in LA during a work week, so he just drove Joshua to and from work, while smoking plenty of primo icky, sticky, California loving weed, from his contact in the valley, when he wasn’t revisiting In and Out, on back to back to back days, winning the tubby bitch, trifecta, New York style. Also, Joshua will never forget how delectable scrumptious his behemoth of a triple cheesed burger was from Fuddruckers in Palo Alto to celebrate the completion of his 1st purification feast, as he inhaled one yummy bloody bite after another.

When living in stroller mom central in Park Slope, with his girlfriend now wife, Anna, he couldn’t resist the idolized worship of thick cut, Applewood country, smoked crisp Bacon served at all the various, overpriced, never sexy enough for his standards brunch spots, sprinkled throughout the Brooklyn enclave, referred to famed novelist turned boxing Journalist Norman Mailer, “as the most secure place” for a Jew to live on our planet earth. Still, Joshua growing up in a Kosher household always felt a tad uncomfortable frying up any piggy in their apartment. Which still didn’t stop him from throwing a 12 inch Kielbasa on the grill in their garden outback, from the drab, bare bones, stuck in 1940, utterly colorless and humorless Ukrainian meat shop on 4th avenue, only a 2 avenue stroll down the hill one bit either. And when Joshua went on the Kornbluth European vacation in college with his parents and younger brother to Italy, which included stops along the Amalfi Coast in Italy, right off the mighty Mediterranean coast, he wasn’t kvetching about breaking God’s commanded law to not eat pork, as he suckled down one more mound of svelte, Prosciutto di Parma with more fresh, crackling sesame loaded, Italian bread with bits of semi-hard, mind blowing fresh, put hair on your chest provolone either.

But now Joshua was 43 going on 44, eating kosher and getting closer to God every day, yeah, yeah. So giving 2 shits about projecting any cool man foodie, over the hill Park Slope hipster cred among other piggling sucking, bearded hobbits, to conceal their drooping neck fat, in their best Paul Bunion gear, held out less appeal for him than liking and encouraging more pics of Lena’s Dunham’s frumpy, let it all hang look on Instagram. These were the type of thoughts swirling in Joshua’s head, as he took in the dinning scene at Mile End in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, waiting to meet with the Rabbi’s much touted brew master genius Schmendel any minute. Losing patience with Schmendel, Joshua decides to start ordering at the counter but has some questions first. “Hi, the smoked meat Montreal Pastrami sandwich on Jewish rye is Kosher, right? The lady behind the counter with decked out tattoos hanging on for dear life off her droopy, too cool for school flabby arms says with immediate repulsive, disgust, “No, we don’t serve Dr. Browns cream soda or offer complimentary Kosher spear dill pickles either.” Joshua barks back with menacing, pissed off, slightly disproportionate in return fury, “But you’re a Sunday Morning Bacon Jew, who believes only wolfing down more locally soured bacon on top of your fucking fries and poutine, makes you the more progressive, evolved, Jew. Who watched the Daily Show with religious devotion throughout your time at McGill, so you’re too sophisticated to ever identify yourself as a mere religious, old school, easily duped, observant, proud Jew, got it, FLAPS.” The cashier burns a death stare through Joshua’s swelling noggin and screams, “Get the fuck out of our store. You’re banned permanently, no smoked Canadian meat for you.” Joshua begins to leave and fires back one last time with, “I was already leaving. Good luck finding a reformed Jewish cemetery plot big enough to wheel barrel your fat ass into the ground, FRUMPS. Fucking Canadian Hipster Jews are so, off the list.”

Chap. 25 Persian Puss Fever (New End)

 

Chapter 25

Persian Puss Fever

Joshua had a very successful friend from Edgemont High School, who now lived in SOHO on West Broadway, clearing almost 400K from doing ad sales for companies at the ideal time in their maturation such as FX, when they became the new air apparent to HBO with smash, genre bending hits such as the Shield and It’s Always Sunny, which he revered as the most dynamic comedy to advance the art form post Curb without having to be overtly Jewy one iota in the process. His friend, also a groomsmen at his wedding, was the superior basketball player in high school, who he’d battle hard in games of one on one basketball and in legendary games of HORSE made a splashy move to the city of angels and worked for Hulu, selling advertising to all the dream factories in Century City and Burbank, before Harvey Weinstein’s wife finally divorced him to focus on her lifetime battle with amnesia. 3 kids later, Joshua
didn’t get out much to see his old school high school bud, but if they did connect over the phone, making his wife jealous at how much rollicking, laugh producing fun he was having without her, he’d always end the conversation the same way every time with his old school basketball bud in arms, “Bang a Persian girl for me already, because I can’t.”

The 1st time Joshua got sexually charged around a mountainous chesty, pursed lipped, dark tan, olive smooth skinned, slightly broad shouldered, bootylicious Persian minx was during interoffice meetings with one his IT recruiter agency colleagues who worked in Westwood, California on Wilshire down a couple of blocks for the nearby Boylston Group. She had graduated Georgetown University and was the brightest, bustiest yet classiest, highest biller in her team who placed mostly Oracle DBA’s among various Internet startups through Southern California by far. Joshua learned not to place too much value on someone’s undergrad college education but he was a tad more east coast elitist back then, and knew Georgetown wasn’t accepting any dummies, so him being a tad of a college snob, touting the Bachelor pedigree degree of his past summer wind love Katy who graduated Duke in 3 years as a double major, so this Persian beauty in his eyes, who wasn’t petite by any stretch of the imagination, who was a brainy busty sweetheart rainmaker on top, turned him on longtime. If Joshua had any major balls back in the day, he would’ve made a move on her, but upper management told their naive, cultish minions getting jiggy with it with their fellow coworkers was a fireable offense, and Joshua was finally enjoying being off his parents nip of dependence, so he never did. It was only after he got fired, did Joshua learn the rule was fake news bullshit, and managers were banging co-workers at will left and right, but at least he developed a modicum of character building self-discipline in the process. The Bhagavad Gita lists the 3 portals to hell being lust, greed and anger and at the time Joshua wasn’t even aware of being fooled into passing on such a prime opportunity to pounce on his 1st Persian bombshell beauty, so he didn’t have too much to be enraged about in the process either. Still, Joshua had one month on the job at nearby Remington International, where he did deals with Coke O Cola, Zenith National Insurance and some obscure Internet startup Creative Planet, placing a gazillion Unix Administrators, earning his firm almost 100K in placement fees and a seat at the all-stars dinner at the Sunset Room. Which made Joshua feel like a hot shit for the 2nd time in his life after his 1st sales raise dinner at Morton’s on Beverly Hills, inhaling a porter house for 2 and shrimp wrapped in Bacon, thinking, life doesn’t get better than this on top of what the fuck what was my dad thinking, denying me exposure to what scrumptious heavenly sales promotion dinners awaited as a result of sheer hard work and self-possessed determination, despite at the time being the only schmuck in a headset to graduate from a top communication school in the country with a career crippling stutter. Which Joshua eventually overcame, through relentless, repetitious, around the clock cold calling heavy, exposure therapy.

Joshua’s escalating, all consuming, fixated desire to mount the scrumptious, highly inhalable, star Persian IT agency recruiter reached peak interest on their drive to work together the morning after their All Star Sales award dinner at the Sunset Room, that she attended of course. Because today, he wasn’t driving to work in his used yet cherished hunter green Honda Accord but in her BMW,l but she was still only 22 max, so this means she came from money also, schwing. Never before had any sexy gal Joshua fantasized about titty blasting had offered a leather interior BMV to drive, so he knew the sexually charged interest was mutual. But as Robert Dinero says in the movie Copland, starring the holy trinity of actors Harvey Keitel, Ray Liotta and Sly Stallone, “I gave you a chance and you blew it.”

It was impossible not think of hot to trot love, at the Polo Lounge Restaurant on 5th Ave, as Joshua was surrounded by a myriad of oil paintings of mo-money making star race horses like Man O War and other Arabian race horse beauties, as Joshua also took in the tall, slender, sculpted, high cheek bone pronounced, Persian beauty, Ester has he continued to scroll, through the menu, trying to decide what limited Kosher items to choose from on the menu during their 1st power lunch together. Joshua get’s his Kosher inspired rant underway, “Ralph Lauren, baby, I love your overpriced Polo shirts because they’re sturdy, classier alternatives to schmatta Tommy Hilfiger wigger polos, weird sized numbered, instantly shrinkable, Lacoste shirts and Vineyard Vine shirts because I’d rather dress for old school, scrappier, Bronx bred, pre-smart phone success. Still, what the fuck were you thinking, making your marquee sandwich, a corned beef sandwich with swiss on marbled rye, knowing pastrami rubbed brisket is ten times more soul tantalizing scrumptious 8 days a week? Also, marble rye, are you freaking kidding me? Was pure rye too overtly Jewy for your country club, Gentile loving tastes?” Esther, the star executive search owner of Silicon Alley replies, “You’re too funny Joshua. How are you not working?” Joshua replies, “Because God has a wicked, sense of humor. But I appreciate the invite here, to be surrounded in such a posh, clubby, wannabe be a rich gentile setting.” Esther says, “I feel like an unwanted outsider in here also, for what it’s worth. I don’t care that Giselle is sitting next to Tom Brady one table over.” Joshua says, “Eli Manning is a bigger pimp daddy than Tom Brady for ruining his shot at perfection. So, Tom Brady is married to Giselle, big deal, she’s 80 in model years. Also, why isn’t Terry Bradshaw even mentioned among the best quarterbacks ever? He won 4 rings and never lost in the Super Bowl once. Plus, he was also known for airing it out. Fine, that much he shares in common with Brady. I read some article recently about how Tom Brady did some comedy sketch on Netflix about Patriots owner Bob Kraft’s fondness for happy endings, denying the jokes were about him. Because his ex-owner could never be guilty of exploiting underage sex trafficking, because he only insists on using older happy enders who weren’t yanked off the boat yesterday.” Esther finishes spitting out more mouthfuls of laughter and says, “I’m an LA girl, born and raised, so I’m a Raiders fan myself, but I don’t care for Tom Brady’s personality all too much either. He also dumped his pregnant ex actress wife, the moment he fell in love with Giselle’s uppity, lispy snatch, just saying.” Joshua says, “I’m glad you found my contact info on LinkedIn like any Executive Recruiter with a brain would. I love the fact how you became a consummate rainmaker in the startup tech recruitment agency game, I was much more of a trickeler.” Esther says, “I envision mucho dinero money shots in your future Joshua.” Joshua says, “Well, I do have this idea for a food truck. Would you know of any super angel investors you can get me a meeting with? My vision is to create a food truck, which sells the Do It All Dad Hero, which is a Kosher rib eye, cheese steak, with a mock cheese wiz substitute. And I’d launch a viral bash campaign against the Hallall guys, about who would you rather submit your cheese steak urges to, all mighty God or all the blood thirsty, rape happy, throw gays off roof tops preaching Allah? I read on Chowhound.com, Hallall guys have to pray to Allah, before their ritual slaughtering, versus Kosher slaughtered cows, who don’t use the stun gun, who unlike the Hallall guys, aren’t required by law to give any praise worthy shout outs to a God who instructs his true believers to treat woman like disposable bee keeper punching bags.” Esther says, “I agree with everything you’re saying and would recommend softening your viral attack campaign against the Hallall guys just a bit. Still, I love your fierce, fiery, fighting style. You’re more Bronx bred scrappy than you think big boy.”

Joshua spots Spike Lee waiving his hand up in the air causing a scene in front of his white privilege waiter, clearing 400 a day before 2 easy and excuses himself from the table. “I’ll be right back Ester. I want to pay homage to the Knicks jilted mascot Spike Lee.”  Joshua hovers tall over Spike Lee’s table, only learn he’s dining with Chris Rock. “Hey, Spike, sorry to hear about the Garden not letting you into employee entrance way. I’m positive it had nothing to do with your Resist This shirt, or your portrayal of all Jews in your films not being such fine people in the face of your insistence of sucking off Jew demonizing Farrakhan for all his signed bow tie collection is worth.  How does it feel knowing, still your President, Donald Trump directed the construction of Wollman Rink under budget and ahead of schedule, knowing you couldn’t do the same for Malcolm X? Malcolm X was bisexual but why didn’t you portray that in your film Spike? I thought you were all about celebrating the beautiful, strong, totality of the black man inside and out? And thanks for giving your impressionable brothers the encouraged permission to riot and burn a second generation pizza joint to the ground because they didn’t care for fake news, underprivileged Chuck D from yenta breath country in Long Island, rapping about how Elvis was no role model of yours, but Chuck Berry installing a secret female bathroom cam in his Missouri restaurant was Kosher in your book because they were just stupid white bitches, who you should’ve know better, right Spike?” Chris Rock says, “You’re move Spike. I don’t know who this crazy ass cracker is but is shit talking game is tight.” Joshua adds, “Huge fan Chris, I stopped watching the Knicks after they traded KP for a box of Cotton Candy.” But the garden faithful like yourself know deep down Uni will fly high again. And tell your boy Stephen A his take on his why they traded KP was lame. KP’s brother agent made Dolan uncomfortable because he reminded him too much of the Russian gangsters in 25th hour? Now, that was a great film you directed Spike. Positive it had nothing to do with you not writing the screenplay, the book was based on. Last, Chris, you don’t believe KP raped a neighbor in his Manhattan apartment building, the day he tore his ACL, do you? Do you see Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein trying to rape Wonder Woman played by Gal Gadot only one good leg?” Chris Rock replies, “Who are you again? And why have I never seen you the Cellar before ever?” Spike interjects, “Rock, I love your like a brother from another mother, but if you suck off his big headed Jew’s ego for one more second, our friendship is over, you dig?”  Joshua throws down his Do It All Dad Year Podcast business card for Rock on the table and says “Call me some time Chris. I’d love to write a movie or create a new TV show with you some time. Oh, and congrats on your 40 million stand up deal with Netflix because the white man, can no longer get away with paying the great Chris Rock with only one rib.” Joshua heads back to his table with Esther triumphant, after showcasing his Bronx bred scrappy, fighter instincts, back, back in a New York groove once more.

Chapter 8 The Beshert Talent Agent

                                                        Chapter 8

The Beshert Talent Agent 

 

Joshua’s, Beshert, daughter agent wasn’t done selling The Jewy Manhattan Book Club on why her do it all dad would prove to be an MVP addition to their book club in no time. “Look, I understand, all you are you high powered, big city woman, who formed a book club, you don’t have to hear the opinions of know it all blah breaths who still read op-eds in the NY Times, expecting any type of deepness enlargement in the process. Does my Dad suffer from loud man’s disease? Yes, what interesting New Yorker worth spending any quality of time with, isn’t? Does my dad have a temper? I wouldn’t compare to Tony Soprano, considering the fact he grew up the rough section of Scarsdale, NY, Edgemont to be exact. Actually, his parents raised him in Forrest Queens before buying a colonial in the Edgemont, NY school district because now, he’d have a room to cry himself to sleep upstairs, which always makes the moans of despair easier to bear. My dad looks like Hugh Grant on stilts, minus the horse teeth, have I mentioned that yet? He actually gets confused for being English plenty because he dresses, dapper, business casual British, rocking Ted Baker button downs, both short and long sleeves better than duh face Orlando Bloom ever could. Plus, my dad thinks Yiddish but delivers, not just hilarious, but hysterical trains of thought in nothing in perfect annunciated English, minus the nasal, dronage prominent in Paul Reiser and yenta breaths like Jerry Seinfeld or even weird, weak Howard these days for that matter. The summer before I started Kindergarten in North Salem, NY, where we live now, daddy enrolled me in comedy camp at home because summer camp wasn’t an option because Daddy was still so broke, his Hebrew name was under Judicial Review. We made a bunch of commercials together for his creative tech staffing firm, Standup Staffer, Been Talent Hooking Since Y2K and all them are hilarious from start to finish. He made a great director and my all-star performance in F The PC Police, Say Goodbye To Palo Alto and Blond Power were all big hits. I only required 2 takes max, for each, one in case you’re wondering. You’ll love this bit. What’s a mentor Daddy? Someone who points out your flaws to work on to help you become the best version of you.  Does that mean mommy is your mentor? Because she’s always pointing out your flaws? Like, how you’re so selfish, loud and annoying. I got it kid. I don’t need a mini clone of mommy in my life right, thanks.  The Rev Bob Levy, even completed the comedy work we did together, who used to be a head writer for the Howard Stern show, before Howard fired him because he didn’t like the Rev plugging his stand up comedy shows on the air despite him paying him a paltry salary to make Howard come off as punchier, edgier and less blah brained, fake news deep in real life. You throw Hillary softball questions on your show because his ghoulish, tranny conjuring wife, would dump him to the curb, if he stopped getting invited to Jimmy Kimmel’s house for more 2 bite Chicken Parm dinners. The exact compliment from the Rev Bob Levy, always the funniest and most vicious roaster on the Howard Stern Show, outside of Nick Dipaolo, who also sucked my Dad’s Louie spec script, was, “You got it kid. Funny, relaxed.” And Nick Dipaolo, you know smarter, smoother, just as hilarious Dice, who only drops f bombs for occasional emphasis like my Do It All Dad, doesn’t go out his way to stroke funny man Hebrew descendants of Abraham either.”

Ester, the gorgeous, exotic, long black haired, black leather panted fitted, bootylicious recruitment owner of Silicon Alley Staffers, dares to break up Matilda’s killer flow. “So, Matilda, do you need a job? You’d be animal on the phone and even more impressive in face to face meetings with CTO’s in Manhattan, who couldn’t resist your irresistible mix of punchy, Punk Brewster panache and zero bullshit directness, via Tatum O’Neal in the Bad News Bears. Granted, we’d have to work on the taking breaths between your long-winded pitches, to assess whether the other side is still listening or hasn’t been overwhelmed by sheer force of personality overload yet. Matilda replies. “I appreciate the offer Ester but the only talent I represent is my daddy. I have zero interest in selling the billable brain of power of coders for a living, even though I like to code, during computer lab at school because I’m also wired like that. Once, my grandfather on my mom’s side, big referral for my dad when worked for Robert Half in Manhattan, was an ABAP developer who needed subtitles in order be understood. My father would’ve had an easier time penning a Bollywood Musical than making a placement fee on this guy.”  Also, Big Tech firms like Google make it impossible to be a patriotic, loving American these days who support Israel’s right to defend itself against radical Islam’s non stop kidnapping of Jewish Children in UN funded tunnels and nonstop rocket attacks in their backyard, whenever the whim washes over their demented, twisted souls again.  Also, enough with Israeli aggression, if you shoot 700 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an edible gift basket in return, with a thank you note written in Farsi.  Alte, the comedy club owner interjects.  “Have you considered doing stand up comedy for a living kid? Your timing is impeccable, and your material is A grade all the way.” Matilda replies. Thanks for the offer, but my killer comedic timing is direct result of spending so much time with stay at home dad for the past 9 years and counting. Plus, he’s always sampling material on strangers at the post office, deli, bookshop, anywhere outside of the house away from Mama really. Dada always says the world is your stage like Shakespeare says, so there’s no reason to limit your gem joke dissemination to Park Slope lesbo coffee shops or at some townie Irish bar among a bunch of burn out, hicks in Northern Westchester either. Did you know the mayor of New York City is married to a woman who used to be hard core Park Slope lesbo? Yet we’re supposed to believe garlic breath converted her? Golda, the woke, libertarian radio host interjects. “Matilda, your voice projects so well. Would you be interested in being my intern this summer? I hate the mayor of NY more than Jim Acosta wannabes at CNN. Does CNN just shove a mike in front of anyone with good hair? Who doesn’t look too Tommy Lee alt-rightish?  Matilda replies. “I plan on getting a sports scholarship and dunking out in school by the 6th grade, so I’ll have to pass because all that time on my bum will take away from basketball camp and my rigorous box jump schedule my dad plans on doing me with this summer, to help conquer his white man’s disease once and for all.”  Freida, the star Soul Cycle Instructor of SOHO Equinox, interjects. “Matilda, you’re core physique is fantastic and I don’t think you’re capable of running out of breath. Would you consider teaching a Soul Cycle Class for our older baby boomer clientele, so they’re not easily intimated by much younger instructors, with already filled out hard bodies? But before you answer I wanted to thank for emailing me your proposal to meet with you on the behalf of your father. In all honesty, prior, we never considered adding another member to our Jewy Manhattan Reading Club, but we don’t get cold emails from 9-year-old requesting a face to face meeting with our club, ever either.” Matilda replies. “Teaching Soul Cycling sounds fun but not if I’m just teaching baby boomers on how to feel better about being out of state, virtual grandparents, who refuse to identify with even the part time occupation of Grandmother, because it infringes upon their spacious lifestyle away from Uni Brow Maddow on MSNBC.  My dad always blames Facebook for making Baby Boomers, the laziest grandparent generation of all time. Lifting a finger is liking a picture.   My dad also just another piece published on the Good Men Project, The Last Self-Loving Jewish New Yorker, securing his good guy non-divisive status but not really. The piece is a letter to God about my dad apologizing for breaking his spiritually elevated, Kosher diet as of late, because mommy, a gentile, pushed the issue and he didn’t want it to become one, ruining their date to see Cheap Trick at the Capital Theatre on Valentines’ Day.  Can I borrow someone’s phone? I’ll read the piece to you right now.  4 phones come flying at Matilda and she manages to catch every single one. Matilda says. Just one is fine, here we go. And don’t worry about my Dad, he got a great spot. He’s with my two younger brothers now at the Lego store by 30 Rock.  He wrote a 30 Rock script that made him a Recommended Writer on TV Writer ages ago, back when he used to live in Brooklyn with mommy, then girlfriend, when Lena Dunham had much skinnier arms and wasn’t so full of herself.

Not To Marry Gentiles (Deuteronomy 7:3-11)

3 unplanned kids later with my gentile wife, it’s a little late for that God, sorry. I never mastered the art of the pump fake. I did marry the mother of my 3 kids under a Chuppah, built by my hippie bud Marshall from Ithaca College. You know Cornell’s mentally challenged, next door neighbor. I even had Jewish naming ceremonies for three of my kids, my last one being for my lucky number 3, Samuel Teddy, Yitzhak Kornbluth. Because I love the story of a hundred-year-old Sarah getting knocked up well past her eggs’ expiration date, like Sarah Silverman 10 years ago. And unlike other, so-called brilliant comedians like Sarah Silverman, I at least outgrew, my truly tasteless jokes phase at sleepaway camp in Kent, CT. Despite me needing the comedic relief, knowing I was the 2nd worst athlete after the Sheik’s son from Great Neck and to had endure the insufferable elitism of the blah breath kid from Dalton on the Upper East Side, who thought reading a book on Jim Morrison at 15 was the height of deep probing thought. Compared to portly, freckle faced Stork, who read op-eds by Peggy Noonan on how Regan wouldn’t be anybody without her writing his aw-shucks, smile inducing witticisms because he was just an over the hill pretty face, yokel from Northern Cal, who looked good on a horse. If stand up great Bill Hicks wasn’t impressed with Regan’s speaking prowess, then Regan must have been a zero-talent dope, with or without Peggy Noonan pushing for him to name our space missile defense system Star Wars over Space Force instead.

I’ll get to the point now God. I broke my Kosher diet streak of 4 months at a gastro pub in Portchester, NY 1 hour before seeing the legendary pop rock band Cheap Trick with my wife for Valentine’s Day and I feel awful about it, sick to my stomach really. I don’t care how scrumptious my wife’s Shrimp and Grits were or the Duck Roll wrapped and fried in paper thin won ton paper, stuffed with the most non-sour pungent, highly delectable shreds of Sauerkraut nestled inside each bite from Gentile heaven.

It all started with my gentile wife, originally hailing from Brisbane Australia, urging me to try one bite of her Shrimp and Grits, knowing full well, I’ve been a proud beneficiary of my spiritually elevated, Kosher diet regulated meals as of late. We wanted to get married in Australia on Mother’s Beach, yet my mom shot down that dream. On the phone she says to me, “Son, Australia is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.:”

But back to my Gentile wife pushing me to take a bite out of her Shrimp and Grits. I wouldn’t say it felt like she was trying to hard sell me on still giving the Passion a shot after all these years, knowing my younger Jewish brother broke his Mel Gibson movie strike and rushed to see Apocalypto opening weekend. Now, I wouldn’t say my wife’s repeated attempts to make me try her succulent forbidden, Gulf Shrimp felt like total overkill. But her big, bulging eyes became more enraged, the more I resisted a bite out of her deveined, broth rich, fleshy, chunky cooked morsel of southern love accentuated Shrimp.

I know you’re the one and only true God, who I worship with all my fighting, loving, funny man heart. Still, the Capital Theatre has been a tremendous source of joy for me, starting with seeing the final Grateful Dead show via simulcast from Soldier Filed there with an old school bud from High School, making me feel like I was at the actual concert in Chicago along with every other over the hill baby boomer, who loves to name drop celebrities they bump into at Dead Shows like the famed Bill Walton, to feel cooler by association. Truth is, Cheap Trick rocks out way harder than the Grateful Dead, they’re twice as melodic on most songs, explaining why they’re called the American Beatles for a reason. Plus, being a big Dead Head set list guy, I searched online for some recent Cheap Trick set lists, giving me the distinct impression they were going to replicate almost the entire set of Cheap Trick at Budokan, which is a legendary live album, that will transform the most hardened Gen X adult today into a true believer of the kick ass restorative powers behind hearing live, rambunctious, soul man blasting rock and roll.

So, while my wife just urged me to try one bite of her shrimp. Implying, it’s Valentine’s Day and we’re out on a date, while my mother was in town to babysit our 3 kids, which is a biannual production, so I should feel morally obligated to relish my Gentile blessed, Jesus approved Shrimp and Grits, more than growing closer to God through sticking with my Kosher diet, knowing I don’t have to do any of the slaughtering or blooding draining of cows myself. Still, all I heard in my stoned, semi paranoid head at the time was, come on, come on, try the Shrimp and Grits already, you uppity, fake news believing Jew. Then, I started to justify why taking a bite wouldn’t be the end of the world, stating, some married couples in Miami Beach go to swinging clubs on Valentine’s Day, so our thing can be my wife force feeding me shrimp and andouille sausage but having me act like I love it. For all the talk of us chosen people being the pushy ones Lord, I don’t feel gentiles get enough credit for being just as guilty of this charge if not worse. And I’ll take the Crusades for 500 Alex.

So knowing my mom was in town to babysit our 3 bundles of sunshine and my wife had gotten us the tickets to see Cheap Trick in the 1st place, I relented and tried her super scrumptious Shrimp and Grits because I feared it becoming an issue. Ruining our time together to see Cheap Trick at the famed Capital Theatre, where Janis Joplin performed her last show, which I wanted to avoid at all costs. This issue being my wife branding me as the obstinate, all knowing, morally exalted, big headed Jew. So I divorced myself from my ego, thinking, one bite of shrimp away from the house wasn’t indicative of me turning my back on you Lord because of my commitment to resume my Kosher diet the following morning, with dreams of duck rolls becoming a glorious remnant reminder, of the thrill offered by being a bad boy non-conformist, living to rock out to Cheap Trick without a worry in the world, living for the killer opener of Hello There and Come, Come On while not sweating the loss of my chosen, funny man father status just yet.

Still, when we got the Capital Theatre on the main floor, to see Cheap Trick blow the roof off the building, I lost my airy, spiritually elevated lift as of late. Granted, the fries, duck roll and vanilla bean porter, followed by an Anchor Steam on tap for old times sake before they assumed the stage didn’t help. But we had a great time together at the show Lord and I grew closer to my wife as a result, despite her nudge, playing a slight role in me veering me away from your Moses transmitted commandments. And deep down I know your main concern for us chosen people marrying Gentiles, is them driving ourselves away from you Lord, because of the odds of raising our children Jewish, falls dramatically in half, especially when our wives refuse to convert to Judaism, because they don’t believe your Jewish putz embedded DNA is the end all to the be all either.

But again, my gentile Australian wife was cool with the Jewish naming ceremonies for all three of four kids, which not every Gentile would. So, I’m not going to freak out over this gentile terror alert moment just yet. Still, my beautiful, super funny, ultra-chill wife from the land down under, also made me potato latkes from scratch for Hanukah with parmesan, which does wonders in addition to making me a Kosher Matzoh ball soup, using a real-life Kosher chicken for the stock, despite her being a veggie loving, practicing pescatarian 99 percent of the year. Thereby, proving my Gentile wife is capable of seeing through loving Kosher eyes. Even Kid Rock will give my wife an Amen on that one. More importantly, the night where I said goodnight to my Kosher diet and hello to intermarriage peer pressure at 43 years old, was more of a direct result of me not respecting your law for the night, versus fearing my wife’s semi- pushy wrath, which I didn’t want to ruin Cheap Trick, 42 years after they caused a tsunami of teenage shriekish joy at Budokan back in the day, which I wanted to experience on my own live in person, without rocking the Hello Kitty purse in the process.

Abandoning my Kosher diet for a night for Cheap Trick was a shame. It still taught me how much I need your love Lord, which requires me to make you the center of my universe, instead of the reverse. I should’ve shown your dietary laws as much love as my love of not wanting my wife to ruin Cheap Trick for me on Valentine’s Day. Surrender Shrimp and Grits, I must because I want you to love me back twice as much for making you feel like the center of my universe instead of Cheap Trick, as much as they rocked out with such divine powered authority.

The Jewy Manhattan Book Club is left enraptured in head spinning awe and incredibly moved in the process after hearing such a fresh, assertive, original, funny Jewish, disruptive, literary voice, that got them off from start to finish and Joshua’s 9-year-old Bashert agent feels incredible sense of calm and intense prideful satisfaction in knowing her reading of her dad’s piece helped seal the deal.

Matilda adds. “But the real reason my dad wants to join The Jewy Manhattan Club is to find a potential Jewish Godmother for my and 2 adorable, hilarious younger brothers and if anyone can appreciate my dad being the last funny man self-loving Jewish New Yorker in this age hysterical, resistor, kiss ass resistance, it’s you fab 4.”

Ester speaks on The Jewy Manhattan Book Club’s behalf.  “We’d be honored to have your dad join The Jewy Manhattan Book Club. But I actually like boozy, highly alcoholic, overpriced cabs from Napa. I’m pretty petite so they go straight to my head, but they also take forever to breath, so I like the anticipatory self-discipline it gives me. We just cracked open a delectable Polly Fume from France. Would you like to take a sip?”

Matilda says. “But it’s not spring break yet.” The entire room cracks up. Alte the comedy club owner replies. That’s hilarious Matilda, Ivanka Trump’s daughter would’ve just said something boring in Mandarin.”

 

 

Do It All Dad Does Pleasantville

According to LinkedIn, the Ellen show is looking for a Digital Marketing Manager. What are the must have requirements for this job, besides being pro Bush?

Is it me or does Robert Dinero on the View look like Betsy Ross, falling apart at the seams?

If Google doesn’t manipulate search results, then why is it harder to find positive mentions of Trump on Google, than finding a film blogger on Rotten Tomatoes, who called the Irishman underrated?

Imagine Greta Thunberg debating President Trump on climate change on Pay Per View.

Trump says. Fracking reduces our carbon emissions Greta.

Greta freaks out. So, Neil Young is full of shit now?

Trump says. Neil Young doesn’t take showers to reduce his carbon footprint. That much you share in common babe.

Did you know can you be fined 250 thousand dollars for using dehumanizing language on an Illegal Alien in New York City, like no speak English? Whose translating these insults for Juan exactly? Now, an illegal immigrant in New York City gets a driver license to vote and a hate speech translator to bankrupt Apu, at a Bodega in Flushing.

Do blind men get the beer goggles? Assuming they do, does the seeing eye dog offer a second opinion? We better pass on this one Stevie. You can feel her face, but I can smell her snatch, woof, woof.

This is Ziggy Marley interviewed by High Times Magazine. How did your Dad Bob have 7 kids? Doesn’t ganja drain your life blaster dry? Fake news man.

I have 3 kids now. I’ve aged well I know. Despite my wife bemoaning, I’ve sacrificed. She acts like an aspiring stand-up comedian in his twenties while living in Queens wanted kids ever.

And can we stop calling Queens hot, it’s not. Compared to Manhattan and Brooklyn, Queens is the sloppy 3rd Kardashian sister. You know the extra greasy one, who’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning, like a lamb gyro in Astoria.

My daughter believes in God but she’s always looking for ways to disprove his existence: Daddy, if God created the universe, then who created God? God went back in time in a time machine made by Elon Musk. Real convincing Dad. Thanks for making me an atheist at 4.

My mom asked me if my daughter watched the Woman’s March on Washington, around the time my daughter was learning how to read. Daughter tries to make out one of the protest signs, “Daddy, what’s, pa, pa, Pussy Power? Is that a new show on Amazon Prime?

My wife works at night in the NICU revitalizing blue faced newborn babies for a living. This makes me feel like a total narcissist because all I check for is for retweets.

1 kid only, means your diaphragm is for walls after all.

Actress Rosario Dawson flirting with one-time presidential hopeful, Corey Booker:

Would you run into a burning building for me Corey?

Was it you or Chloe Sevigny who got Aids in the movie Kids? Just kidding. In the end, that white bitch, didn’t feel so privileged after all.

Have they taken the Rocky statue down yet in Philly? Because it promotes white supremacy.

Fuck China. Chinese made Fentanyl has killed more crackers in this country, than Lena Dunham kicking it with Taylor Swift on Instagram.

The NY Times, says mothers who juggle jobs outside the home today, spend as much time with their kids than stay at home mom’s in the seventies. So, all the stay at home moms from the seventies slept on job on one 2 many Quaaludes, haunted by images of Cosby’s family friendly sweaters. I don’t get it.

Wish I subbed my no show, whiny Jewish Grandma for a wise black Grandma for my wedding. Post an ad on Craig’s List. Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome. Must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only.

I don’t believe ex Knicks all-star Kristaps Porzingis tried to rape a girl in his apartment building the day he tore his ACL. First, going strong to the hole was never KP’s forte. Last, do you see Harvey Hair Clumps Weinstein trying to rape Wonder Woman played by Gal Gadot on only one good leg?

Deplorable is anyone glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.

48 people have been fired at Google for sexual harassment. But Software Engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls. Plus, I don’t think their typical Perl script command is, “Massage my Carpal Tunnel, ho.”

Whenever my son whose 3, get’s fussy around mama. Mama says. “Baby gets bored whenever he spends too much time with me.” Always knew he was a quick learner.

Quotes about Mother’s Day aren’t the best sales pitches to use on Millennial Mouseketeers relishing their non-mom status.

It’s difficult but rewarding.

Being a mom has made me so tired yet happy.

Tina Fey doesn’t smirk anymore.

Enough with Israeli aggression. If Hamas fires 700 rockets into Israel’s backyard, don’t expect an Edible Arrangement gift basket in return, with a thank a note written in Farsi

Hillary giving a speech on Cybersecurity is like Kevin Durant giving a Ted Talk on how to ignore cyber-bullying.

Hate is good because it motivates you to seek out places where you feel more valued and appreciated like at a Trump rally behind your wife’s back, to make your sex life above average again. Put my man meat in Indiana MILF, I’m ready to play, play.

John Snow from Game of Thrones, going to rehab in Connecticut for 75 grand a week ruins everything. John Snow was supposed to be the more alpha dog Orlando Bloom in a beard, yet now you get the impression he’d startle easily from a cutting stare by Gordon Ramsey on an episode of Master Chef, celebrity edition for his take on Dothraki Lamb burgers.

Chef Ramsey yells:

This burger tastes like burnt villagers John Snow. And what the fuck were you thinking making Dothraki Lamb Burgers with a rosemary, roasted garlic aioli John Snow? Dothraki’s are never confused for shishy bitches like yourself John, no offense.

What I love about President Trump, still your President, is his relentless optimism and over the top salesmanship. If Trump was diagnosed with HIV today, he’d tweet the next morning. Do I have HIV yes? But my T Cell Count Numbers have never been stronger.

Michael Kornbluth

The Last Self-Loving Jewish New Yorker

Not To Marry Gentiles (Deuteronomy 7:3-11)

3 unplanned kids later with my gentile wife, it’s a little late for that God, sorry. I never mastered the art of the pump fake. I did marry the mother of my 3 kids under a Chuppah, built by my hippie bud Marshall from Ithaca College. You know Cornell’s mentally challenged, next door neighbor. I even had Jewish naming ceremonies for three of my kids, my last one being for my lucky number 3, Samuel Teddy, Yitzhak Kornbluth. Because I love the story of a hundred-year-old Sarah getting knocked up well past her eggs’ expiration date, like Sarah Silverman 10 years ago. And unlike other, so-called brilliant comedians like Sarah Silverman, I at least outgrew, my truly tasteless jokes phase at sleepaway camp in Kent, CT. Despite me needing the comedic relief, knowing I was the 2nd worst athlete after the Sheik’s son from Great Neck and to had endure the insufferable elitism of the blah breath kid from Dalton on the Upper East Side, who thought reading a book on Jim Morrison at 15 was the height of deep probing thought. Compared to portly, freckle faced Stork, who read op-eds by Peggy Noonan on how Regan wouldn’t be anybody without her writing his aw-shucks, smile inducing witticisms because he was just an over the hill pretty face, yokel from Northern Cal, who looked good on a horse. If stand up great Bill Hicks wasn’t impressed with Regan’s speaking prowess, then Regan must have been a zero-talent dope, with or without Peggy Noonan pushing for him to name our space missile defense system Star Wars over Space Force instead.

I’ll get to the point now God. I broke my Kosher diet streak of 4 months at a gastro pub in Portchester, NY 1 hour before seeing the legendary pop rock band Cheap Trick with my wife for Valentines Day and I feel awful about it, sick to my stomach really. I don’t care how scrumptious my wife’s Shrimp and Grits were or the Duck Roll wrapped and fried in paper thin won ton paper, stuffed with the most non-sour pungent, highly delectable shreds of Sauerkraut nestled inside each bite from Gentile heaven.

It all started with my gentile wife, originally hailing from Brisbane Australia, urging me to try one bite of her Shrimp and Grits, knowing full well, I’ve been a proud beneficiary of my spiritually elevated, Kosher diet regulated meals as of late. We wanted to get married in Australia on Mother’s Beach, yet my mom shot down that dream. On the phone she says to me, “Son, Australia is a long flight from New York and your father doesn’t love you that much.:”

But back to my Gentile wife pushing me to take a bite out of her Shrimp and Grits. I wouldn’t say it felt like she was trying to hard sell me on still giving the Passion a shot after all these years, knowing my younger Jewish brother broke his Mel Gibson movie strike and rushed to see Apocalypto opening weekend. Now, I wouldn’t say my wife’s repeated attempts to make me try her succulent forbidden, Gulf Shrimp felt like total overkill. But her big, bulging eyes became more enraged, the more I resisted a bite out of her deveined, broth rich, fleshy, chunky cooked morsel of southern love accentuated Shrimp.

I know you’re the one and only true God, who I worship with all my fighting, loving, funny man heart. Still, the Capital Theatre has been a tremendous source of joy for me, starting with seeing the final Grateful Dead show via simulcast from Soldier Filed there with an old school bud from High School, making me feel like I was at the actual concert in Chicago along with every other over the hill baby boomer, who loves to name drop celebrities they bump into at Dead Shows like the famed Bill Walton, to feel cooler by association. Truth is, Cheap Trick rocks out way harder than the Grateful Dead, they’re twice as melodic on most songs, explaining why they’re called the American Beatles for a reason. Plus, being a big Dead Head set list guy, I searched online for some recent Cheap Trick set lists, giving me the distinct impression they were going to replicate almost the entire set of Cheap Trick at Budokan, which is a legendary live album, that will transform the most hardened Gen X adult today into a true believer of the kick ass restorative powers behind hearing live, rambunctious, soul man blasting rock and roll.

So, while my wife just urged me to try one bite of her shrimp. Implying, it’s Valentine’s Day and we’re out on a date, while my mother was in town to babysit our 3 kids, which is a biannual production, so I should feel morally obligated to relish my Gentile blessed, Jesus approved Shrimp and Grits, more than growing closer to God through sticking with my Kosher diet, knowing I don’t have to do any of the slaughtering or blooding draining of cows myself. Still, all I heard in my stoned, semi paranoid head at the time was, come on, come on, try the Shrimp and Grits already, you uppity, fake news believing Jew. Then, I started to justify why taking a bite wouldn’t be the end of the world, stating, some married couples in Miami Beach go to swinging clubs on Valentines Day, so our thing can be my wife force feeding me shrimp and andouille sausage but having me act like I love it. For all the talk of us chosen people being the pushy ones Lord, I don’t feel gentiles get enough credit for being just as guilty of this charge if not worse. And I’ll take the Crusades for 500 Alex.

So knowing my mom was in town to babysit our 3 bundles of sunshine and my wife had gotten us the tickets to see Cheap Trick in the 1st place, I relented and tried her super scrumptious Shrimp and Grits because I feared it becoming an issue. Ruining our time together to see Cheap Trick at the famed Capital Theatre, where Janis Joplin performed her last show, which I wanted to avoid at all costs. This issue being my wife branding me as the obstinate, all knowing, morally exalted, big headed Jew. So I divorced myself from my ego, thinking, one bite of shrimp away from the house wasn’t indicative of me turning my back on you Lord because of my commitment to resume my Kosher diet the following morning, with dreams of duck rolls becoming a glorious remnant reminder, of the thrill offered by being a bad boy non-conformist, living to rock out to Cheap Trick without a worry in the world, living for the killer opener of Hello There and Come, Come On while not sweating the loss of my chosen, funny man father status just yet.

Still, when we got the Capital Theatre on the main floor, to see Cheap Trick blow the roof off the building, I lost my airy, spiritually elevated lift as of late. Granted, the fries, duck roll and vanilla bean porter, followed by an Anchor Steam on tap for old times sake before they assumed the stage didn’t help. But we had a great time together at the show Lord and I grew closer to my wife as a result, despite her nudge, playing a slight role in me veering me away from your Moses transmitted commandments. And deep down I know your main concern for us chosen people marrying Gentiles, is them driving ourselves away from you Lord, because of the odds of raising our children Jewish, falls dramatically in half, especially when our wives refuse to convert to Judaism, because they don’t believe your Jewish putz embedded DNA is the end all to the be all either.

But again, my gentile Australian wife was cool with the Jewish naming ceremonies for all three of four kids, which not every Gentile would. So, I’m not going to freak out over this gentile terror alert moment just yet. Still, my beautiful, super funny, ultra-chill wife from the land down under, also made me potato latkes from scratch for Hanukah with parmesan, which does wonders in addition to making me a Kosher Matzoh ball soup, using a real-life Kosher chicken for the stock, despite her being a veggie loving, practicing pescatarian 99 percent of the year. Thereby, proving my Gentile wife is capable of seeing through loving Kosher eyes. Even Kid Rock will give my wife an Amen on that one. More importantly, the night where I said goodnight to my Kosher diet and hello to intermarriage peer pressure at 43 years old, was more of a direct result of me not respecting your law for the night, versus fearing my wife’s semi- pushy wrath, which I didn’t want to ruin Cheap Trick, 42 years after they caused a tsunami of teenage shriekish joy at Budokan back in the day, which I wanted to experience on my own live in person, without rocking the Hello Kitty purse in the process.

Abandoning my Kosher diet for a night for Cheap Trick was a shame. It still taught me how much I need your love Lord, which requires me to make you the center of my universe, instead of the reverse. I should’ve shown your dietary laws as much love as my love of not wanting my wife to ruin Cheap Trick for me on Valentine’s Day. Surrender Shrimp and Grits I must because I want you to love me back twice as much for making you feel like the center of my universe instead of Cheap Trick, as much as they rocked out with such divine powered authority.

Michael Kornbluth