Pissy Life Hack Tips

Do It All Dad, a self-described Stay at Home She-Male Comedian performs another killerset in his bedroom office on his Do It All Dad Time Podcast, titled, Pissy Life Hack Tips.

“My quest is to make my son a shallow sleeper, so he won’t piss his bed anymore from being such a deep-thinking sleeper. I’ll stop talking to him like he’s a Talmudic scholar for hire. “Rabbi Samuel, is it better to be loved by your kids or by strangers on stage every night at the Comedy Cellar, getting your funny man freak on for a living?” Son says, “Get a life ancient moron and figure it out yourself already. I’m still only 5 years old, remember?”

“But seriously, is deprogramming deepness considered a legitimate pissy life hack tip that’s a shortcut to improved parental happiness if forcing your kid to wear a nappy to bed is no longer a drawn-out tug of free will anymore?  Reality is, my son only pisses his bed at night. So, my pissy life problems have to be a result of my son being too much of a deep sleeper.  You might think I’m being a tad melodramatic for yuck, yucks sake, but having to duck under your kids bunk bed to make his bed again after washing his soaked Star Wars sheets and bedcovers is enough to push any man to the dark side. So if I want to avoid stripping my son’s wet sheets off his bed again like he’s a young Corey Feldman who’s been the hitting bottle too hard with Sam Kinson backstage at the Comedy Store again, why don’t I shame bribe him, by insisting we can’t watch Spaceballs ever again unless he comes out as Farm Boy from Princess Bride for Halloween, except whenever a homeowner giving candy asks, “Who are you dressed as for Halloween?” Samuel must say, “Piss Bucket Boy from History of The World”, before flashing his plastic pumpkin candy holder that’s packed with PJ Mask nappies to the rim.

At first, I thought banning my wife from giving our son Melatonin gummies would prevent him from falling into deeper states of extended sleep while contemplating who would win in a street fight, Rudy or Rocky, if Bruce Lee trained Rudy first. My son’s still wetting himself like I did after waterboarding myself as a 12-year-old kid from trying to jerkoff but only succeeding in hosing myself down with a golden shower after Emanuel After Dark on Showtime because I hadn’t gotten into the puberty pool party yet.  So, to avoid becoming my son’s permanent wet nurse like Jill Biden on demand, I’m going to groom a shallow beauty, so he won’t get lost in deep enough focused thought on ways to bitch slap the future 5th grader who dares to spoil his sister with Starbucks gift cards on Valentine’s Day without taking the time for a midnight bathroom break who identifies with Fatal Attraction Astronauts from NASA.

Instead of watching documentaries on Andre the Giant, which focus on Andre’s excessive drinking problem to drown out the pain of being treated like a regrettable freak of nature in airports like the man who dresses like Meghan McCain in drag for Teacher Appreciation Month to read, “Divine Gives Bi-Curious Geroge a Banana in His Tail Pipe.” Will binge on Keeping Up with The Sloppy Third Kardashian Sister, since Kim backed out to focus full time on studying for her bar exam because Social Justice Lawyers are so hot right now.  

I’ll insist my son doesn’t flip on his hoodie to hide his chosen curls at the grocery store anymore to avoid more grown Italian MILFS hitting on him with lines like, “When you get older, you’ll have 3 girlfriends to juggle.” Only for me to say, “No offense lady, but if James Woods had this kid’s face, your estimates wouldn’t be so conservative.”

I can buy my son a Waterbed for his birthday to avoid more weighty deep thoughts. So instead of meditating on the rapidly encroachment of irreversible death like Hemingway does in Old Man and The Sea, my son can dream about the glory days of Boogie Nights Porn pre-VHS tape, before tatted up white girls cranked up on Crystal meth ruined the golden age of muff diving forever. Back when the mountain muff on the MILF from Scandal in the Mansion on the big screen looked like stacks of Brillo pads resting on top of a busted Slinky.

I could also deprogram deepness my forcing my son to sleep every night in a Tanning Bed. And instead of reading him poetry at night from Charles Bukowski about the serial bitterness and predictably dronish, small soul producing dullness swallowing up our empty, consumerist controlled lives, while sloppy drunk hookers come knocking down on his door in broken high heels at 2 o clock in the morning, will start rehearsing his Trump impersonation for Halloween. But not just any old impression of Trump, but an impression of Trumpy Poo after he tests HIV positive, after the Deep State pricked him with the same dirty needle used to take out Easy E to prevent him from running again. “Who are you for Halloween?” Son says, “Little Man Trump who just tested HIV positive because Melania slept with Magic to get me back for the Stormy Daniels fiasco. Do I have HIV?  Yes, but my t-cell count numbers, have never been stronger.”

But I like talking to my 5-year-old son like he’s my Talmudic joke whisperer manager. Son says, “Daddy, stop being an ancient moron. When are you going to record comedy record 96 already? After that, you’ll only have 4 more to reach 100. Rodney Dangerfield never did that. Even Papa would have to respect that. Johnny Cash told his daughter Roseanne Cash she had to learn to play 100 selected songs before she could set out to become a master working solo artist, remember moron son? I still like the title Genius on Tap for your next comedy record. Think good and will be good like Rebbe Schneerson said. You’re always a genius just Jack Kerouac told himself remember mega dumb son? Besides. I own you and you ain’t poop without me. So, finish strong like Stallone does in Over-the-Top Daddy, none of this meet halfway crap, go for it all the way. Fight the good fight, achieve perfect laughter with the Gods, loneliness is a gift, to test your will to prove how much you really want it. What, you’ve been reading me quotes from Bukowski on Goodreads since I was 2. So, get a lit agent to read your entire manuscript for Waste of Height, Really Short Stories already.  Then, we can afford that Comedy Gold Mobile and go on a book signing tour together, but never forget, more jokes for me, are more jokes for your comedy records, got it.  I can wear my Muscle Beach shirt when you do a book signing in Venice, despite you naming Arthur, Arthur Morrison Kornbluth. I’m still really pissed at you for that by the way. But I get all the Black Sabbath records and get to watch Fist of the North Star with you, do Mad Libs with you, play blackjack with my Freddy Kruger cards and watch Japanese death matches on YouTube with Terry Funk with at you home whenever we hang out, before I start Kindergarten next year, which evens out the suck. Hey Daddy, ever think I may pee in my bed because playing with Freddy Kruger cards would scare the piss out of any little dreamer at night whenever those images of a burnt serial killer come to life?” And I say, “Thank God somebody in this relationship is playing with a full deck.”

Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Righteous Maniac Lives

New favorite nickname for Mr. Groper in the White House, Icky Shuffle, Challah, thank you very much.

New favorite nickname for Michelle Obama, Michelle, What’s Talent Got To Do With It Obama.

Who cares who gets elected to the Supreme Court anymore? Election integrity in our country is deader than claims of Voter ID being racist among anybody with a functioning moral compas capable of introspective correction left. But Voter ID used in white supremacist ruled countries like El Salvador is racist. Does Pedro Martinez Junior have to pass a height requirement to vote in either country to vote? I don’t get it.

I get a DM on LinkedIn from a cute Asian girl in a business suit who implores me to expose myself to some crypto currency. The gal who claimed to come from Hong Kong calls herself Montez Downey on LinkedIn, her alter crypto ego I’m assuming. I reply, “Your real name is Montez Downey from Hong Kong. Yeah, and Montel Willam’s comes from the Virgin Mary’s penis.”

Without or without you, is about who again Bono? A cute Irish Lasie who swallows but grazes time after time. 

A true friend buys your book before asking, “How many copies have you sold so far?” “What’s your next step?” “I only do audio because I’m super busy making money and living a fun filled life over you.”  

I’d almost prefer, “Just because you mailed me a free copy, doesn’t mean I’m going to use my brain on your behalf and give your stupid fucking book a review, praise it at all or give it constructive feedback of any kind jerkoff.

Kayne West trolling Taylor Swift on Twitter for old timer sake.

I know we’ve had our differences pretzel sticks.

But you’re still hot enough to get Pete Davidson to stray from Kim’s Milky Way snatch.

Dress up like a Christmas Tree fairy on his birthday, looking like an overdose at the Limelight waiting to happen.

And urge Pete to fuck your brains out in the VIP room at the 40/40 club.

So, you won’t fuck Beyonce out of any more VMA awards, you dig.

Taylor Swift saying, “She sings country music.”

Is like Kayne West saying, “He never raps in the 3rd person.”

I’m purchasing a book by Jeff Tweedy called How To Write One Song and the cashier says, 25 bucks.

I said, “25 bucks for How To Write One Song.” Jeff Tweedy is really testing the limitations of my father daughter love.”

My daughter better write an album that outsells Stevie Nick’s Bella Donna before Taylor Swift got her 1st period on her Christmas Farm village, which inspired Lollipop Legs to pen her first cross over Church hit, “Planned Parenthood Bound Train.”

I add, “Fucking Jeff Tweedy, I didn’t even know he was the singer songwriter of Wilco until now. All I know about Wilco is Jim Rome making fun of Tiger Woods for attending a Wilco concert once, which made Tiger feel whiter than White Man’s disease on Saint Patrick’s Day,while attending a Chicago cover band tribute act in Minnesota because he lost a bet to Donald Trump, after Donald bet Lindsey Vonn would choke during the winter Olympics, if Tiger told Maximum she was “overrated”, in the sack, especially compared to Rachel Uchitel, known for her infamous, blow job ready lips, who can suck a golf ball through Taylor Swift’s Fallopian Tubes.

Is giving Paul McCartney’s book of lyrics a one star review on Amazon considered hate speech, anymore than allowing the sale of Mein Kampf on Kindle, which is 720 pages of hate speech in a row?

How would Michael Jackson defend himself against his Never Land accusers today? All the Beatles Royalty Points in the world, can’t buy me love?

At my son’s parent teacher conference, she proudly admitted how my son did a bio on Leef Erickson, which was displayed on the wall outside his 2nd grade classroom, so I was able to compare his bio report to other famous people chosen by his classmates. And I said, “I’m happy to know my son didn’t do his bio on Russell Westbrook.” Teacher laughs long time. I add, “At this point Russel Westbrook should be the next spokesperson for Tampax Tampons. Name another player in the NBA besides Carmelo Anthony that’s been responsible for stopping so much flowage.” Righteous Maniac lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Broken Record Hits

This is an impression of my 11-year-old daughter playing marriage counselor again.

“Pause daddy, mama got your point mid-breath.”

Deplorable is anyone who’s glad Jussie Smollett took a shot.

Has BLM taken the Rocky statue down yet, because it promotes white supremacy?

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

Trans is gay about lunging at Othello in tights.

How did Andrew, I won’t jump off my own bridge Cuomo become a sex symbol?

He looks like Mama Fratelli from the Goonies and The Thing had a baby.

DeBlasio’s wife used to be a full time Brooklyn Lesbian in Park Slope before they met.

Yet were supposed to believe Garlic Breath converted her?

Putz breath, Bird Brain eats pizza with a fork and knife.

Yet burying his beak into her Bean Pie without a mask on with such sloppy abandon is a plausible theory to digest.

I order a triple espresso because members of my Gen X, generation, like our comedy like our coffee. Dark and bitter, 2 recessions later, after 9/11, only for our precious media to suck off W non-stop since he started painting pictures of maimed vet’s he gave PTSD to and started palling around with Ellen at Cowboy games, which proves how the queen of daytime comedy is pro bush all the way.  

Today, we the people means less than In Dr. Gnocchi we trust.

Supreme Court Justice Amy Barret is Mia Farrow with better husband selection.

Nirvana didn’t kill Hair Metal.  Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.

Barista asks, “Is a triple espresso enough?”

I say, “Yes, anything less, would circumcise my happiness.”

Like seeing Bjork over the Shrieking Seals.

But yeah, one Triple Espresso is enough.

So, I can feel like a Marc Maron without the career, 92 comedy records later. Killer with A Cause being my latest and greatest, that’s fresh off the press, aren’t you blessed. Killer With A cause is going for broke. Because I’m so broke my Hebrew name is under judicial review.

Next album is Mega Dumb Daddy.

Daughter says, “Daddy, how many zeros are in a trillion?

I say, “Ask Alexa.”

Daughter replies, “Is that why you call yourself a degenerate Jew?

Because you still count with your fingers during Blackjack under the table for simple arithmetic?”

Mega Dumb Daddy always blanks on being the Tooth Fairy’s wing man.

Daughter says, “Daddy, no money from the Tooth Fairy again. Is the Tooth Fairy even real?

I say, “The Rock slept in a for change alright.”

Mega Dumb Daddy marries a wife with no chest thinking she’s bound to fill out on top eventually like her mother did.

Wife says, “Matilda is the last girl in her 5th grade class to get breast buds.”

Mega Dumb Daddy says, “Then why haven’t your buds sprouted yet.”

Mega Dumb Daddy insists on taking weed edibles 2 hours before his daughter goes to sleep already.

Daughter makes him feel dumber than ever and asks, “So Mega Dumb Daddy, if God created the Universe, then who created God?”

I say, “God went back in time in a Time Machine, made by Elon Musk.” Daughter says, “That’s really convincing Daddy. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.”

Mega Dumb Daddy always over sexualizes everything. Daughter asks, “Daddy, what do you do after tucking me at night?” Mega Dumb Daddy says, “I squeeze in some me to time, alright.”

Mega Dumb Daddy shames himself into giving up drinking beer because it’s humiliating spending so much time hunger over, recycling, endless reminders of your lushy littered past, as entire Rocky marathons on AMC pass you by.

Amazingly enough, I haven’t suffered from complete parental burnout yet.

Daughter asks, “Daddy, what’s parental burnout?”

I say, “Mommy pushing Melatonin gummies on you at a hard 7 every night or her friend having to micro dose to make playing Operation Gender Reassignment Edition with her kid and friends who bought Michelle Obama’s book Reach Higher great again.  

Yesterday, I saw Michelle Obama’s book Reach Higher in the dumpster bin and thought, “Bill Maher just got a stiffy.”

Lebron got the idea to sport cast during the NBA finals from Michelle Obama. After Michael threatened to jam her arm up Barrack’s ass if he ever offered Beyonce a glass of Paul Newman’s Lemonade over her homemade Kombucha again.

When Lebron loses in the NBA playoffs this year, do you think Obama will reach for his secret stash of Almond Joy’s hid behind a giant box of Duct Tape from Costco.

Imagine Thanksgiving at the Obama’s this year.

Obama says, “Malia, you barely touched your Tofurky?”

Malia says, “Why did you push me to intern for Miramax?

Obama says, “At the time, it looked on your resume. Plus, your mom added extra protection muscle on the set of Girls. And that fat Jew couldn’t pin down your mother if he tried.”

Michelle claims that anyone who flees the south side of Chicago is racist.

The south side of Chicago is only the lead maker of blood controlling kids in the county just like Hillary is the number selling voodoo doll in Haiti year after year, yet Michelle acts like the South Side of Chicago is only one crepe food truck away from Gentrification. You know liberal talk for bless black people and mouthy Cardi B’s who are louder than Busta Rhymes at a Midnight showing of Higher Learning.

If fleeing the south side of Chicago is racist, then Obama gave 1.5 billion to Iran in unmarked bills for overseas manufacturing jobs for Build a Bear, to make the Iranian economy less reliant on the sale of hair removal cream for the Kardashians.

Did you know Lena Dunham was Hillary’s Social Media Manager for her campaign?

Only Lena Dunham could make Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, less likeable and relatable in one blubbery swoop.

Hillary still claims she lost because of Russian collusion.

Wrong, Huma Licker Breath, you lost because you’re an unhuggable cunt.

Hillary forgot to delete that memo to.

Trump has ties to Russia, duh. What Mail Order Bride owner, doesn’t?

This is Trump handing out candy outside the White House with Melania.

You want to know what Melania tastes like? Try some Rock Candy kid.

The spirit of Halloween isn’t hanging up ISIS flags to scare away trick or treaters.

But weird, weak, woke Howard still insists Biden was the most popular US presential candidate of all time.

Because Perm Head doesn’t want to miss out on any more 2 bite chicken parm dinners at Jimmy Kimmel’s house.

Jimmy Fallon’s writer’s hate, because when he tussled Trumpy Poo’s hair on the Tonight Show, a real-life skinhead never emerged.

Personally, I miss Trump’s relentless enthusiasm and over-the-top salesmanship.

If Trump got HIV after Melania cheated on him with Magic on the rebound after the Stormy Daniels fiasco.

Trump would tweet on whatever hate speech platform he’s allowed to rumble on next, “Do I have HIV, yes? But my t-cell count numbers have never been stronger.”

Our state of the union like Colbert’s handle on funny these days, shaky.

Too bad Bill O’Reilly is no longer deemed threatening enough to impersonate for a living.

At least Bill O’Reilly gave Colbert gravitas.

Son says, “Daddy, why haven’t gone on the Pelton today?”

I say, “I got food poisoning from the Halal guys, thinking it was Kosher chicken, not realizing Muslim butchers give shout outs to Allah in Muhammed’s gangster paradise before killing Shariff the Chicken instead. Andy Dick gave me full blown Aids through Zoom.” Son replies, “Enough with the excuse’s daddy. You’re worse than Hillary.”  

And if Biden AKA, Mr. Groper. AKA, The Icky Shuffle, got more votes than even Obama Be Good ever did, despite his campaign rallies barely filling out the Little Mermaid’s clam shell bras. Then, Michelle Obama regrets pissing on the ceiling fan in the Lincoln Bedroom moments before Trump’s inauguration. Hours later Trump gets peed on for real and comments to Melania, “Is that what Michelle meant, when she-hulk said when the go low, we aim high.”  

And this is Jefferey Tambour yelling at his Trans-Costar for pissing on the toilet seat. Real lady like. Now get out of my trailer, you butchy bitch, Hey now. Larry Sanders lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Comedian Medium

Can too much goodness be a career impediment? My 5-Year-Old Son, Chosen Curls Was Bound to Woo thinks so. He says, “Daddy, your comedy records are too good like Over The Top Disorder, Blast Off Time and Flipper Bird Baby. I say, “So you think Indy records labels I’ve shared links with like the one Kevin Hart owns are intimidated by my over-the-top towering genius 90 records later compared to their miniscule, pathetically weak punchline offerings in return?” Chosen Curls replies, “Your comedy records are too good moron, got it. Maybe, you should make them half good, half suck, so you don’t come across as completely full of yourself if it half sucks. Rocky didn’t win every round against Apollo, remember?”

For the 1st night of Hanukkah, I got my son some old school WWF wrestling action figures including Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Fuji and Superfly Jimmy Snuka yet what provided him the most joy was the Rocky 1 soundtrack on vinyl. The moment the needle hit wax, Chosen Curls otherwise as known as Kung Fu Lightening and Hardcore Hunga Zone began to perform a series of one-armed pushups on the floor because it will “make him tougher.” The way I allow him to hit me in the face when I box him on my knees on our Rocky rug downstairs with his Everlast gloves as a form of flinch freeing treatment, so I don’t remain pushover putzy no more, no more. Aerosmith Rocks lives, Challah, thank you very much.

Growing up, I didn’t back way from any fist fights, but I did refrain from hurling insults whenever they were thrown my way like accusations of me eating my own jiz at the Nurse’s office, after I admitted to touching myself in there prior like a mongoloid moron, which later inspired an opening scene in my TV Pilot pitched to VH1 Classic Heavy Metal High, when my imaginary guiding star Andrew Dice Clay appears in the Nurse’s Office after I become the last member of my class to get into the puberty party. A puff of smoke clears, Dice flashes the bedazzled Dice Rules Leather jacket and starts clapping, before saying, “Congratulations, you finally achieved blastoff jerkoff.” Dice adds, “Jerking off doesn’t make you a man. It’s how you use your balls that matters most in this world kid.”

It’s hard to feel that you’re being super ballsy recording non-stop comedy records at home for 8 months in a row. Still, my wife threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn’t get a real job already and dared to write any more books before I doubled down on my imagination on her dime a bit and wrote The Koshertarian Comedian in addition to Waste Of Height, Really Short Stories. So, I can’t claim how I’m guilty of playing it safe either, especially after releasing comedy record titles such as Funny Enough Fagala, far from straight, I’m not.

But what’s nagging my psyche today on the Comedian Medium podcast, dead writer ghost talk, for you and me, is whether my excessive goodness is being used against me. I want to summon the ghost of William Blake to discuss concepts such as self-sacrifice in contrast to Ayn Rand’s ardent belief in only being able to achieve personal happiness and career fulfillment by not living out the expectations for the sake of others. Charles Bukowski says, “Writers are awful, selfish people, who save the best versions of themselves on the page.” Perhaps, I always viewed my writing as my idealized self, who’s funny, smart, brave, secure, energized, big hearted and borderline poetic as opposed to feeling like a floundering, touchy feely bitch in real life on Adderall or off.  I think most of my rage issues stem from allowing my younger brother, parents and old friends to ruin everything for me again and again. Why do they aggravate me so much? Because they’re not good enough for me anymore, which explains why I seek love from strangers for a living through my books, blogs, comedy records and podcast episodes involving dead writers who provide more varied company that I crave, who don’t pretend to be my biggest fan or loyalist supporter when they can’t even acknowledge a new comedy record posting on LinkedIn to shake up the stagnant, gun-shy boredom in the straight world. Courtney Love lives, Challah. Thank you very much. How can I honestly claim any enviable connection to old friends, a younger brother or parents when not once have they asked how’s the comedy career going over the past 5 years since my lucky number 3, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born?

Fuck their half ass insincerity. Fuck their glaring indifference to the greatest funny man hot streak known to mankind. Fuck their belief in thinking I should be grateful for their sloppy second treatment at all. Fuck their claims of good things happening to good people. Tell that to every family forced into bankruptcy after losing their jobs over forced mandates to prevent the common good from catching an itchy esophagus. Fuck my brother for blaming his opioid pill addition on his wife and for my parents buying that bullshit narrative like Big Tech being nothing more than freedom of speech killing bastards in bed with ANTIFA whose members resemble a bunch of Punisher vigilante wannabes in hoodies who never outgrew their pyromania phase. Fuck any friend who started ignoring my being because I went into the funny man show business on my own and used to support Trump on my old Do It All Dad Year Podcast for free. And fuck all woman who react with, “Ah”, anytime I write something, sweet and thoughtful in their honor on a LinkedIn messaging board for others to see. It makes me want to gag on a bag full of dicks for opening my beautiful heart soon after. I think my problem is that I’m too big hearted. How do I become less big hearted? Become a more enraged 1st responder whenever a friend takes his sweet ass time to reply with a “thanks bud”, after I text him Good Dad +Good Friend +Good Brother+ Good Husband + Good Jew=100 Percent Mensch proof. Are good people the most generous with their time pleasing others versus themselves? I also don’t buy into this horseshit premise about how were supposed to be content with old friends from our past reflecting our less sure, outmoded selves, when we outgrow their measured praise when we get older, especially, when they’ve shown no interest in your new and improved offspring after writing your well-reviewed book, Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, no less. At least, he writes really funny jokes. Go fuck yourself, I create a video with my daughter about your younger sister beating cancer and that’s the best you can do to pretend about actually giving a shit about me succeeding in this world with a family of 5 to provide for. It makes me sick to think I wasted any time caring about these friend’s opinions, when none of them haven taken any ballsy chances with their life whatsoever. And you’re going try to demean me and reduce me to some flailing desperate clown in need of your loving laughing approval after God came into my heart, blessing me with 3 Koshertarian comedian kids later as I proceed to plow forward with the greatest comedy record streak of all time, with comedy record 91 Too Much Goodness, coming out later tonight, yeah, you can go fuck yourself to. We weren’t that close to begin with. As usual, I romanticize all relationships way out of proportion and gave you blah brained fucks way too much benefit of the doubt. I’m the good life giver, not you asshole. Edgy energy star, you’re not. Over the top artist, not in your wildest dreams bud. So, let’s conjure William Blake already before I come across as too jaded bitter for Marc Maron’s taste before his podcast broke big.

“Yoh, William is anyone out there? What’s your favorite Door’s album? Did your pen pal Thomas Paine have enough common sense to wrap his tool before banging those busty broads in London town after Ben Franklin got 1st dibs on the house for inventing soothing bath salts for herpes? Wow, your ghost spirit looks mighty pissed off Blake. You’re redder in the face than other writer ghosts from podcast episodes past. I love your line, “Exuberance is beauty.” Because it makes my father look like an asshole whenever he tells me to calm down because if I don’t get giddy about my own brand hardcore hilarity, nobody else will. Plus, my wife freaks out if we’re out in public at a bar due to my tendency to perform in front of crowds like any self-respecting slut in a strait jacket would.” Ghost of Willaim Blake screams, “Shut up already. You’re an unholy father, who doesn’t accept Jesus Christ as his lord and savior, who wrote a blasphemous chapter called Jesus Killer Set in The Great American Jew Novel. Isn’t that correct?”

“I love being quoted by dead writer ghosts I admire almost as much as my son Chosen Curls quoting my comedy records like Not Kosher Baby, Challah, thank you very much. “

Ghost of William Blake says, “How does The Great American Jew Novel sell more copies than my self-published book of poetry, Songs Of Innocence & of Experience? Granted, my book only sold 33 copies but still. I made the Doors. Jim Morrison doesn’t exist without me. You named your son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth, whoopty freaking do.”

“You mean The Sun Butter King, AKA, Art Show USA. I almost gave Arthur the middle name Brooks, in honor of comedian Albert Brooks but I didn’t want to give my son the permission to become a Jewish pussy. So, I named him Arthur Morrison Kornbluth instead, which is only fitting because his builder artist mind mojo keeps on rising, rising. I’m not crafting stories in his honor such as The Wishing Well Architect for nothing.  Yeah, so come up with a better book title that’s less schizophrenic than Songs of Innocence & Experience Blake, and I’ll give a shit about your anemic books sales again. You’re not going to give Walt Whitman sustained stiffage with a horseshit title like Songs of Innocence & Experience is all I’m saying. Not that Leaves of Grass is anything to write home about either Blake. Then again, neither of you were blessed with the funny Jew bone. And mine is more well-endowed by my maker than most, Challah, Big Mouth Moses lives. Thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Hunting For Change

“What’s self-love? I think it’s not giving up on fighting for what you feel is right through the depth of your bones throughout the deep bowels of your anus hole. Whatever gets you off your ass to compete in the arena of life, keep it burning alive, or else you place your dignity within the hands of inferior, gun shy, smug laden pussies and you’ll hate yourself forever for it.

Self-love is not turning your back on your dreams yet, especially when those supposed to love you the most, love your remaining work life ambitions the least. I joke around on my Do It All Dad Time podcast, jokes Gen X Dads understand, how I prefer my comedy like my coffee, dark and bitter. Bitterness erupts in my slighted soul whenever others try to depreciate my capacity for gain like from my wife for instance. Nurse wife who works in Labor and Delivery says, “Won’t self-publishing a book cost money?” I say, “Walt Whitman self-published, yet he never banged out perfect laugh lines like this. This is my daughter playing in-house marriage counselor again. Pause daddy, mama got your point mid-breath.” Wife says, “I’m all out of patience, get a real job already, do headhunting again, tell your precious ego, vanity vagina, whatever you want to call it, to get a fucking life and provide for your family already. Your writing isn’t even that good. On NPR they say companies are struggling to fill roles more than ever before. I say, “You’re running out of patience babe. Whistling like Axl Rose helps, but thanks for making me feel like one in a million babe, my Nurse rising star.” Wife says, “I am a rising star, and have the certificate at work to prove it. How do you justify your star power exactly? Through nameless, faceless, followers on your WordPress blog or no-name downloaders of your Do It All Dad Time podcast who like your latest and greatest comedy record posts when you know deep down, they ignore the totality of your existence if they weren’t offered for free. I get it, you feel trapped to a life of shishy bitch daddy servitude, especially over the past 10 years, with no friends or family members to help out with the kids whatsoever, but I’ve had to make sacrifices to.” I say, “Sacrifices, you act like aspiring comedian in his thirties wanted to have kids ever.”

Famous Psychoanalyst Carl Jung says that “Jealously stems from lack of love.” Yet reality is I don’t have much to be jealous about since God graced this lucky old clown with my 3 unplanned favorites, that being by endlessly beautifying children, Matilda, Arthur and Samuel, the best Koshertarian Comedian home time imaginable. Tossing them into the pool up for another typhoon toss to celebrate another self-published comedy record release last summer at a local club, which we couldn’t afford, was what Do It All Dad Year dreams are made of. Punchout Poverty, splash. Too Funny To Fail, swoosh. Millionaire By 10, booya-tribe, plop. Billionaire Brain, it’s Hillary Hammer Time Cankles, wave pool time. Not Kosher Baby, woosh my troubles away.

As more shrieks of pure powered joy pierced the clouds through heaven on earth, it remained impossible to frown, for my children loving me all the way for bringing out the best from my inner clown.  But what do I want after getting to write for TV as a Hair Metal Comedian historian for America’s Hard 100 on VH1 Classic, hosted by WWE star Chris Jericho? Because he’s only wrestling leftover from the nineties that’s still rock hard, especially if Lars Ulrich from Metallica invites him over him for Norwegian brunch in his fuck paid in Bergan, Norway to catch the Northern Lights from his star powered telescope signed and designed by astrophysicist guitar God Brian May himself.

I want to avoid permanent nerve damage by never working up the nerve to finish my mission and become known as a joke truth killer made for these times. Losing out on a job after an interview is one thing but getting rejected by a unicorn tech start-up company forBudrranker.com sucks more than Meghan McCain’s husband being stuck on Cheeto retrieval detail inside her belly button again. In other words, “We’d rather go on a speed date with Snookie than interview you through Zoom. “So Snookie, is this coke good enough for Hunter to freebase with in the eighties when the shit was purer and not cut with as much Ajax, before he gave up blow for blow painting, allegedly, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall, while his tweaker biker buds from the Sons of Anarchy, yell, “Where’s Hunter, who else is going to pay for this shit?”

Carl Jung also says, “The greatest tragedy is our parents unlived lives.” On some level, I can see why my daughter doesn’t want to have kids when she gets older, because she’s seen 1st hand how I’ve been restricted in doing what I want to do the most in this world which is to produce laugh yanker love on stage and get hundreds of thousands of strangers at time off in person for a living. On stage, separates little boy blue from the Big John Stud. On stage, you get soul shine love. I want to love my big man fighter inside again and I can only achieve this by becoming a professional killer on stage for a living, especially when others constantly bemoan, “If it was going to happen, it would’ve happened already.” Fuck those towel thrower wishers. But it’s a young man’s game, man. Funny is funny asshole, that’s why your kid is a monotone mute compared to my 3, because funnier dad, happier baby, Challah, thank you very much.

I’ve reached the conclusion that the Lionshare of hostility issues in my life stem from being denied stage time to flex my stuff, regardless, if these restrictions are self-imposed or not, like getting my wife pregnant by accident again, because I never mastered the art of the pump fake or was too much a stoner to remember asking if she were on the pill or not.  

But if you’re going to ask me what I long for the most Balancing Rock Therapist, it’s to get a standing ovation again. Because getting one during my 1st IT recruiter agency job after making a 12-minute company-in pitch, where I pitch the hiring IT Manager to interview 3-4 qualified, pre-screened candidates in our office, so we can schedule 2nd round interviews soon after, doesn’t count because everyone in our sales office was already on their feet cold calling their brains out in the 1st place.

I’m running out of time to kill. My daughter has breast buds at 11 years old already, although my wife says, that her and friend Shannon were the last kids in her class to get them. So, I say, “Then, why haven’t your breast buds sprouted yet.” I know that Matilda’s younger brother, is the boy who raised himself, who literally taught himself to ride a bike without my guiding light influence, but future Harry Potter Lego sets don’t grow on trees and my youngest, Chosen Curls Was Bound Too is already requesting a waterbed set for his birthday. So perhaps, I form a man show locally at the local playhouse if I’m going to cause a ripple to spread worldwide in my material’s honor eventually.

Matilda Rose Kornbluth, Do It All Dad’s Bashert daughter now known as Ooh-La-La supreme says, “Daddy, are you done talking to your Balancing Rock Therapist yet?” I know that you’re longing for stage time away from us but this getting ridiculous.”  

Michael Kornbluth

Smackdown Satan

“You shall not misuse the name of the Lord by calling him “Fake News Mercy God”, Lucifer. Just because God won’t give WWF wrestler Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings, despite you having a soft spot for flaming bear wrestlers in tights.” Arch Angel of Heaven, Michael says. Lucifer fires back with, “Michael means “Who is like God.” You mean another micromanager control freak. I give humans the permission to exercise free will in the service of pleasing themselves. That makes me the good life giver, not God, Michael.” Michael says, “You don’t get to be the ears of Lucifer, I do.” Lucifer says, “Don’t think for a second, I want to trade winged tipped shoes with you Michael. Your name Michael means who is like God. You mean another micromanager square who won’t give Bam, Bam Bigelow his angel wings because he considers drug overdoses a form of subconscious suicide. Your name Michael means who is like God, but what it really means is sloppy second spokesperson after Moses. And if Moses really knew God face to face, then why didn’t he prophesize about the condemnation of goatees on metal rappers during Woodstock 94, before the entire shit show went up in flames?  But that’s what happens when Jewel is considered a seat stayer middling act before Limp Bizkit gave Carson Daily sustained stiffage until Kid Rock’s performance blew everyone away in college bliss paradise.” Michael says, “Why am I hearing a new rumor around Heaven about you being the voice behind the Burning Bush Lucifer? You’d literally piss on Moses’s grave if you knew where to find it. And you wonder why God makes you feel like the sloppy second son, brother.” Lucifer says, “I was the voice behind the Burning Bush. It was a prank I learned at Angel Magic Camp. I enjoy hearing Moses stutter like the kid in Billy Madison. But Moses didn’t shatter his teeth from stuttering after I spoke to him through the Burning Bush as expected. At the same time, Moses stumbling to articulate more excuses to turn down God’s job offer was hilarious. “Whiny Jews chosen to complain about not receiving immediate recognized sit-down service at restaurants in Del Ray Beach won’t take me seriously as your chosen your spokesperson Lord. It’s not as simple as Joan Rivers hocking jewelry to Midwest housewives she detested on the QVC. I project less than Kamala Harris in the lock jaw love position. The Jewish elders won’t believe we possess the power to wrestle our Jewish brothers and sisters away from the arms of slavery, despite our God given ability to hondle better than an Egyptian. Jews are slaves to poor taste in the form of bankrolling overrated musicals like Hamilton, which sounds more awkward forced than Don Lemon rapping to Obama on his birthday with a generic, hip flavored, Shakesperian accent.  Why would Pharoah release our people from Slavery? What form of leverage do we have to offer our Lord besides the threat of my cousin Schlonka boring Pharoh to death through her mustard making workshop seminar at local JCC?” Michael, says, “Remember when God said to Mosses, God’s favorite prophet on Ranker and on Quora, last I time I checked, “You shall have no other God’s before me”, little brother? Well, that includes your Olympian size ego that rivals Obama Be Good. Who I’m sure doesn’t pleasure himself in front of the mirror naked the way you do.” Lucifer says, “That’s because Obama isn’t circumcised. I can’t get aroused by the ant eater look either.” Michael says, “Future Talmudic scholars will amplify God’s commandments in relation to you little brow when stating, “You shall not suck off the totality of your own awesomeness and refrain from stroking off what elongated love you provide the universe without 1st giving shout out props to the all mighty for endowing you with such special equipment to become a star powered lighter upper with 1st.”  Lucifer says, “But similar to Jeffery Bruckheimer, God’s not the only big swinging dick in the producer business Michael. Tell that to Brian Grazer at Imagine Entertainment or to Mark Wahlberg, who’s the executive producer of Entourage for Christ’s sake.”

Michael says, “And you wonder why God never speaks directly to you anymore, just grumbling to his assistant Joshua in the background whenever you call on his birthday again or bother to text Shana Tova and wish him a happy Jewish new year.” Lucifer says, “Communication is a 2-way street brother. And if I do hear from our holy father, it’s because he’s dictating another business memo to his cherished assistant Joshua, the temp who could transcribe all the sketched in stone commandments without complaining about surging case of carpel tunnel syndrome development in the making. The last business memo Dad sent me was called, “Life Giver God”. The all mighty called me a bigger a plus narcissist than Kayne West for claiming I could come up with better logo designs for my own line of winged, high tops sneakers like the one with a space shuttle in the form of a dragon called Rarefied Air Lucifer’s.” Michael says, “We get it Lucifer, you want to feel like God’s gift to the universe 24/7 but forget angel wing promoting power, that’s far outside of your pay grade brother. Granted, Bam, Bam Bigelow was a phenomenal wrester for his size, who power slammed his opponents into the mat with forceful funk authority like a more feral Junk Yard Dog, cranked up on Crystal Meth despite swallowing a cauldron of Hooter’s hot wings. Still, you don’t get to draft your own team of archnemesis angels.  So, stop acting as if your Dr. Jerry Buss in Winning Time on HBO who was anointed with savior type status for the city of angles, with the deep pockets to match. At least Kayne made money enough money off his artistry to justify his ego enlargement therapy sessions on wax for Def Jam and Roc-A-Fella records. Have you even had a real job Lucifer?  And playing the role of a freelance fortune teller writer doesn’t count, especially when you couldn’t even sell your own brand of weed oil pens to a Chinese Restaurant weed dispensary in Oak town, Dragon Lungs Incorporated, despite Snoop Dog’s endorsement on it. Maybe, our father in Heaven decided it was time for divine intervention again and appeared in a puff of bong smoke when Cyprus Hills was in town refusing to socially distance from Mary Jane for more than 2 seconds at a time and freaked out the owner of Dragon Lungs Incorporated, the moment he started making damning Snoop Dog jokes. Have you tried Snoop Dog’s new wine yet? According to Wine Advocate, “It tastes like mouth wash used in porn hood hell.”  Lucifer says, “Enough talk. I challenge you to a Ladder match in Heaven to wrestle away your precious favored angel status from Dad.” Problem is you don’t know how to fight do you, Michael? Michael says, “Unlike you Lucifer, I have friends in high places, to end your endless smack talking about Big Mouth Moses for good.”

A winged, Macho Man Savage launches into his famed elbow drop from way up high in the Heavens on top of Lucifer’s head while God from above bellows, “Oh yeah”. God adds, “You want to be my ears now Lucifer you got it.” Next, a winged Super Fly Jimmy Snuka comes flying down off a golden ladder tall as the World Trade Center with a coconut in hand that smashes into 2 as it comes crashing down on Lucifer’s rapidly rupturing head.” Then, a winged Owen Hart, swoops in to unleash a dropkick that smacks Lucifer into Hell, to deliver justice for all, especially in honor of Moses, Abraham and David who earned the plethora of good man shout outs in the Torah for a reason. Michael gives a bunch of ariel high fives to his new angel brothers in arms, Macho Man, Super Fly and Owen Hart, all highflyers till the end of time and says, “Slim Jim’s on me” as Flying High by Ozzy Osbourne blares on God’s decked out gold plated surround sound speakers as guitar God Randy Rhodes puts on a one man show for all WWF angels including the female wrestler China in attendance despite Lucifer talking her into doing that sex tape Back Door To Chyna in addition to her subconscious suicide from pills and booze. Even God, is a softy for female body builders and gave her angel wings because she already shouldered the responsibility of being the 1st major WWE female wrestler star to break in the big, in the “attitude era”, while becoming the only female wrestler to win the Intercontinental Belt Championship, let alone beat Triple H and high flying, metal howler Chris Jericho. Besides, who else is going to break balls about Macho Man’s steroid size nuts in Heaven with such divine powered authority. “Hey, Randy, can I be your new Miss Elizbeth in heaven? I know, your balls filled a missing person report ages ago, but are they still big enough to take on the Chyna challenge, which is drilling my hole into China for shits and giggles for Big Trouble in Back Door Chyna Part 2.” Macho Man screams, “Hell yeah. Then again, power slams are more up Bam, Bam, Bigelow’s alley.”

Michael Kornbluth