Hot For Funnier Teachers

Anyone in your life who refuses to encourage your gift, which makes you feel most special, offering your greatest opportunity for greatness, is a miserable, jealous prick inside, whose the actual one suffering from delusions of grandeur.

If you don’t set high standards of success for yourself, nobody else will, unless you’re able to be blessed by some guiding stars in your life, who make an extra effort to show a personalized interest in your previous latent gifts, come to life. My original guiding star was Judy Cook, who ran an Alternative School I was in for junior and senior year in high school, focusing on academic freedom, intellectual curiosity, classroom participation and not the mere recitation of boring facts to repeat on Jeopardy to feel more sophisticated and deeper than you actually are in real life.

Kids are motivated to please funnier teachers. I know I have. My first funny teacher with Mr. Button in the 9th grade who used to make fun of a girl in our class from Albania about her pet goat back in Albania or how his martial art skills developed in Vietnam could kill anyone in our class with the side of his hand. I wasn’t magically smarter in the 9th grade, but I started to ace all of my World History tests for Mr. Button because his humor humanized him and made him sound more conversational and come off more interesting with real life experience in the jungles of Vietnam, dodging falling trees and passed around peace pipes spiked with PCP. The only AP class I ever took was for 10th grade history thanks to the humorous, personalized styling’s of Mr. Button. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one smitten with Mr. Button’s matter of fact, earthy infused, off the cuff asides of his time in the shit, over in Vietnam, knowing he bedded a couple of his students back in the day, which I learned way after the fact, after bumping into an high school alum way older than me on a bar on Melrose, in 2002, the Snake Pit to be exact. The only place in LA where actual foot traffic exists, at least back then before tent cities emerged even within the deeper confines of Woodland Hills, but I digress.

I had a PR Teacher in college, who was a sassy, chesty, southern gal, who reminded me of a more mountable, dolled up Kathy Bates, before revealing her mountain of muff on About Schmidt. Blanking on the the teacher’s name, but she was cool in my book and was refreshingly honest, which is a necessary element for anybody to be considered funny, instead of a drone bore like the rest. In class, she said in so many words, those who excel in PR, are master bullshit artists or something like that. This teacher mailed me my final paper for PR 101, with an A Plus on it, my 2nd ever, only after getting one for my Sociology of Deviance Paper, based on the book Outsiders, stating all Jazz musicians were stoners because it brought them joy. I interspersed this truism by interviewing everyone in my dorm about why they smoke pot or don’t. Granted, having a budding interest in the subject matter itself strengthens your desire to know the subject cold, but I had scored some A’s in the Sociology of Deviance class, prior, so I’m convinced I performed stronger than usual for that professor, because he motivated me to set a higher bar of accomplishment for myself and I didn’t want to let him down for making feel like a semi-smart winner on the rise for a change. He also showed us a Clint Eastwood’s film about Charlie Parker, Bird in class, which was also super cool in my book, similar to when my old IT staffing agency recruiter boss Michael Burns from Greenwich, CT had the entire boiler room team skip the morning meeting involving how to overcome dreaded HR push obstacles in favor of watching the movie Rudy from start to finish. Burns was the best. He’d literally force me to stand up and kick my chair to the side whenever I sounded deader than dirt on the phone. Burns would also pepper morning meetings with classic lines like, “Just because I’m direct, doesn’t mean I’ m a bad guy. I used to follow the Grateful Dead on tour for Christ sake.” He also shamed my immediate nerd boss for admitting to like Hugh Grant romantic comedies. Plus, he rocked a Canali suit well, but it was Burn’s conversational, humorous laced, outside the box personality, who I made laugh also, which I appreciated the most. It killed me when I stopped doing deals after the crash and I was no longer a superstar in his eyes anymore.

I took a stand up comedy class through the Gotham Comedy Club in Manhattan. My teacher Jim Mendrinos, a comic who used to open for Bill Hicks and Sam Kinison, let me open our class show, which was a tremendous vote of confidence, knowing he thought I was talented enough to get the laugh party started. The only substantial laugh I got was from an ad lib, making fun of how I was acting scared of the mike wire like it was a snake come to life. Still, I was relaxed on stage and delivered my punchlines with confidence and style. Famous writer Gore Vidal said, “Style is knowing what you want to say, and saying without giving a damn.” So if I was to summarize what’s made me hot for teachers of my past, who helped inform my style of teaching my children today, it wasn’t only their use of humor in the form of brutal honesty, which I loved so much, but also, them being just plain cool for never being robotic, never boring me to death with same old same old and for inspiring me to please teachers I’d want to have actual beer with unlike 99 percent of the bartenders or teachers I’ve ever met. We especially love those in our lives who make the extra effort to connect with us, although being a bawdy, chesty accentuated, southern stylish woman bad ass PR spinster turned college professor doesn’t hurt their powers of engagement either.

Michael Kornbluth

The Joy Of Killing

Roseanne Barr was ballsy enough to admit, killing on Carson, brought her more joy than the birth of her own children. Those balls were nowhere to be seen when she blamed Ambien for tweets about Obama’s live in Arabian horse whisperer Valerie Jarrett, the pusher and main author of Iran’s nuke gifting deal, but nobody’s perfect. Everybody in the room laughing from something you meant to be funny is perfect, especially on stage, because the more laughs, the merrier. When you get a laugh on stage it fills the room whole, as the walls pulsate with life, like it does during the midnight hour, when the totality of groupie love your way comes tumbling down. Finally, the struggling open mike comedian on stage feels like he possesses a fighter’s chance at being an American Comedian Hero, whose got stars in his eyes. But when you’re a father of three and host the Do It All Dad Year Podcast from home, dad friendly entertainment for you and me, entertaining a bunch of millennial mouseketeers in the lower east side for old time sake, is no longer such a doable situation, when you’re a fifty minute train ride from the city, which costs 40 dollars alone before paying subway fare and the one drink minimum to preform, which still isn’t chump change and I’m still so broke, my Hebrew name is under Judicial Review. So you take your act on the road to local haunts with your almost 3-year-old baby Chosen Curls while your other 2 kid are in school and sample your material at the local deli, farm and wine shop instead.

Shakespeare says the, “World is your stage.” So don’t let your limited social circumstances dictate when you can practice and perform your elevator pitch, commercial audition lines or new jokes fresh off the press, aren’t you blessed, on the world at large.

The Internet is a giant open mike to test out your ideas. After the birth of my 1st daughter, I developed my storytelling ability using Yelp, calling myself Michael the Emotor Kornbluth for a reason. Because being just another whiny, critic, would’ve made me just another ordinary, gun shy, non-creative, unwilling to create something for the world of lasting value to be criticized or celebrated, but something special enough to be put into the world, you thought would be deprived without.

Since I’ve become a father of 3 and went into business for myself, hellbent on becoming a best selling book author and stay at home comedian with a CD flush with my greatest hits from my Do It All Dad Year Podcast, my 3 pitch perfect kids, have been the audience I’ve had the most experience impressing with my comedic mojo on the rise and I wouldn’t have it any other way, because they’ve gotten to see Dad kill outside the house at Stop and Shop, or in a diner in Vermont on summer vacation, the green state, more like CBD Oil only, without fail, proving, Do It All Dad is bound for comedic glory. Refusing to wallow in pity, for not being a big time earner from becoming such a monster punchline machine yet.

Still, my 3 kids see the joy I derive and give from killing complete strangers by yanking out laughs long time, out in the real world, not hiding behind some computer screen or within the snuggle safe spaces confines of some anonymous message board at home.

My kids know what makes me feel alive so well, my daughter will say, “Daddy, we love it when you kill at the deli, but no jokes this time because I’m starving to death. And you tend to get carried away and slow the flow of commerce there, especially at TD Bank. Can I borrow your phone and give you the light next time you go over your grace period allowed for new jokes at places of business as usual, so you don’t get banished from the Comedy Cellar again for going over your allotted time by 5 hours again?”

My main parenting philosophy is raise leaders instead of followers, creators instead of critics, doers instead of talkers, culture makers instead of passive, cloud surfing consumers. The best way to ensure this dynamic is to show your children how nothing beats self-determination and your resolution to succeed on your terms, not defined by your quota issuing parasitical Recruitment Manager at Robert Half. Because true joy, emanates from doing what you’re passionate about, and that’s getting laughs for me, intentional or not. They say. But dude, they were laughing at you, not with you. Yeah, I think I’d know the difference asshole. But I appreciate your feeble attempt at tripping up my surging Mojo again dude. I’ve very fond of the word MOJO obviously and you wonder why I named my son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. I considered Brooks as a middle name after Albert Brooks, but I didn’t want to give my son the permission to be a Jewish pussy either.

Killing with audiences at TD Bank or on stage in front of a smattering of starter comics at the Eastville Comedy Club screams touchdown. You do your best to ride the wave of laughter, from producing more roof raising laughs next, again and again, because laughs are the wind beneath a comedian’s wings, who makes no conquest feel out of sight, making you feel a tad tougher, funnier and more hardcore than the rest. Who triple downed on your unique brand of you, so you can buy a dream upgrade home in Ridgefield, CT and build your field of dreams in the form of a NY flavored, Larry Bird, inspired, basketball court, in your backyard because you’ve got 4 acres to spare. Never wanting your kids to ever leave home and have the party come to our house. And have their friends sleep outside among the stars, excluding Do It All Dad, because he finally can afford a king size bed inside to bang out another killer addition to the Kornbluth family. Because pure joy for me are new child additions to our family, knowing they’ve all become automatic fans of me because I make them feel like the center of my universe, instead of the reverse. And when I say I love you to my kids, it doesn’t sound manufactured hoarse or forced like I’m trying to salvage a loveless relationship to avoid a divorce.

Michael Kornbluth

You’re Funnier Than Your Kid’s Kindle

My 2-year-old daughter bites my wife’s nipple hard. Then, my wife engages in a lengthy wind up that feels like 10 Mississippi, before giving our daughter, a gentle yet firm enough slap on the cheek, to ensure she never dares to chomp off her nipple again with such booby milk ravished fury. It worked, my wind-up slap on her younger brother’s bum once because he was ranting and raving about going to day care for Pre-K after he hits his baby brother away for trying to console him, didn’t. Maybe, I’m just making up the part about his baby brother trying to console him, so Child Services doesn’t come knocking on my door before I complete this post. Regardless, the cold wall of isolation erected between my 4- year-old son, during our car ride to Pre-K that day, chilled to me the core, especially after my pitch perfect boy, proclaims, “I’m never talking to you ever again.” My future happiness started to escape me like the leaf in American Beauty. Then, my old school Improv acting skills, honed from UCB and Second City 101 kicked into high gear, after the sensation of repelling the room’s interest in caring about whether I’m funny for one more second, before I started to hit my own bum while driving my son to Pre-K school. I blurt, “Hey, Arthur, next time I get angry, I’ll start hitting my own bum.” At this point, I’m hitting my bum with real menacing fury and I won my son’s love back. Thank God, so it’s not too late for you either.

Here are some other pearls of comedic wisdom to control your kids better with comedy. You’re welcome.

Comedy Control Rules

Do Mad Libs because you invent new expressions like dead weight conversationalists to describe Turtle from Entourage next time, he opens his trimmed mouth about the perpetually cursed Knicks on First Take.

15 words to encapsulate my story about how controlling our kids with comedy can make our kids great again.

Relaxed, loose, tingly, silly, high, bombastic, hilarious, alive, excitement, pride, respect, electric, love, God, family, blood, bonding, laughter.

Darker the Better

Read your kids Shel Silverstein poems plenty and they won’t become such easily triggered, nervous wrecks at the sight of a MAGA hat, I promise you.

Other Comedy Control Rules

Kids like it your when you urge them to stop trying to smash your family jewels into Fuji Dust.

Baby loves it when I play Baby Back Harmonia Rib on his rib, because it makes him laugh out loud, with spastic delight long time.

Use nicknames to cultivate a culture of fun at home without any malicious, self-esteem hindering overtones like Waste of Height.

Own the Kiddy Table and make up silly words when you can. Dr. Seuss peaked early. You don’t have to.

God loveth a cheerful giver, who hits their kids with over the top act out buffoonery. Mimicking their ridiculous behavior works like a charm every time as a reflection of how cray, cray, they’re behaving, works like a charm every time.

Never Underestimate the Laugh Power of Surprise

Falling putzy apple tree, two, no four, no infinity times three. Before dropping your head into your kid’s midsection will yank laughs out long time.

You’re funnier than your kids Kindle, start acting like it.

At home with our kids, prize funny over money.

And always remember, funnier Dad, happier baby. You want a photo off old man? I didn’t think so.

Michael Kornbluth