Book Authors Are Fire Proof

Whenever I’m out with my 3 kids, I’ll always hear. You’ve got your hands full. I reply. If my wife allowed an open marriage with Katy Perry, assuming I became a bestselling author, I’d have my hands full, day and night, night and day.
Trying to start your staffing business from ground zero and provide for your wife and 2 kids as an IT Headhunter while sucking up your ego because you finally got your TV writing break at VH1 Classic 2 months prior is a handful. Especially, when you just traded in your Gene Simmons zip drive used to save your scripts, consisting of Heavy Metal video intros for Chris Jericho to use on America’s Hard 100 for new suits from Men’s Warehouse, which you can’t afford and have to ask your parents money for. Thereby further deepening your parent’s resentment at your prolonged, degenerate dependence on their forced upon financial generosity at 39 with 2 kids under your belt now, paying them the maintenance rental costs on a one-bedroom apartment. Which used to belong to your grandmother before your parents shipped her off to a home in Arizona, dying in her sleep with nothing  but a peaceful gaze according to my father.

Excuse me for questioning the sincerity of my father’s pronouncement. Knowing his self-serving, controlling, bullying approach to my wedding by letting my grandma off the hook by not insisting she attend her own grandson’s wedding. She wasn’t Stephen Hawkins people. Was she bi-polar? Yes, did my dad insist she stop taking her medication because her manic highs became too annoying and inconvenient for him to handle? Yes, so knowing my dad played a domineering, ownership role of his own mother’s emotional well-being despite never earning a PHD in Pharmacology, selling Acid in college doesn’t count. Only to emerge from the experience with your brain intact because you were “smarter” than all the lesser gentile, mush brain counterparts in your fraternity, allegedly.

So, what was my dad’s excuse for not demanding my own grandmother hop in the car for a 2 hour ride up to Woodstock to see her eldest grandson get married? She would’ve been a handful and I’d have to look after her. But according to my younger brother, my father isn’t a narcissist despite his best excuse for not insisting my grandma attend my wedding was because her assumed, mope maligned existence would’ve been a perpetual drag on his own good time. Assuming he’d be hanging out with her at the wedding, reminiscing about how nice it would be if Murray, his dead father, and her 1st husband could be there also because he always loved my friend Newton, who was the Baptized Minister that got us married in the 1st place.

I became close with my dad’s friend from college Newtown Finn when I attended Lake Forest College for my freshman and sophomore year on the North Shore of Illinois. I’d meet him for an occasional beer to discuss a philosophy paper I was working on. For my paper on how the Grateful Dead parking lot scene encapsulated a self-sustaining, yet community driven, capitalist economy at its finest, minus the taxes on what you made by being able to sell grill cheese sandwiches and or glass bowls of your own making. Allowing Dead Head lovers to live out their hippie working dream to the fullest by making money from their own creations and using those profits to follow the Dead-on tour, make new friends, create colorful memories and be liberated from the cubicle chained existence their parents were slaves to because such an option didn’t exist before really. I still haven’t read of any 50’s kids selling their mom’s Betty Crocker cookies outside of Giant Stadium, so they could follow Jan and Dean on the road.

Not once did I think my dad took my feelings under consideration by not insisting my grandma attend my wedding. Did her grandmotherly sense tell her I was out of work again? In the end, did my Grandma blow off my wedding because she thought it was pathetic for a suburban beneficiary of white privilege to be fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot at 34 years old on God green’s earth? In retrospect, my dad letting my grandma off the hook infuriated me more than my grandma not attending my wedding because he possessed the power to make Grandma do the right thing. But instead chose the path of zero hassle for himself, let’s make this weeding all about my wife and I by wearing creamy white at his wedding, insisting we walk him down the aisle, just because we’re cutting them a big, fat wedding check.

I should’ve burned that wedding check on the spot. It would’ve saved plenty of aggravation for all of us in the end. But I didn’t get married to receive a big check from my parents. I got married because I fell in love with a pretty, sweet girl from Australia who became the best friend I never had. Although chances are, I don’t pop the question ever, if my mother doesn’t insist on letting her give me money to buy my live-in girlfriend in Park Slope, Brooklyn at the time, an engagement ring, a pink Safire engagement ring to be exact.

I wanted my own earned staffing commission money from my stint at Adam Jacob Associates to pay for that ring. Never happened that way. The only time I made a commission check big enough for an engagement ring was with the IT staffing firm I worked for next from a big rip, I did with JP Morgan Hedge Fund Services. I asked my mom for the org chart for JP Morgan Hedge Fund Services. Cold called the VP of Technology. Scheduled a face to face meeting in Greenwich, CT. Recruited a .NET Architect off an ad I wrote and posted on Monster.com. Placed him at 135K salary, ripped a 7000-dollar commission check after taxes. And used that money on top of my unemployment checks because I got fired from that recruitment job also to throw myself into my writing, banged out my 30 Rock spec, script, The Kings of Comedy, placed 3 in a national TV writing contest called the Spec Scriptacular and no longer felt like a poser fake news funny jerkoff performing standup comedy at open mikes throughout stroller mom country in Park Slope no more.

But understand, this was 12 years ago, which feels like light years ago 3 kids later. Think about it. Back then, Lena Dunham had much skinnier arms and wasn’t nearly as full of herself. I don’t know about you. But after Trump won. Lena Dunham said she’d move to Canada. So, I prayed for them to build a wall around the strip clubs in Montreal, so Lena Dunham wouldn’t scare away all the clientele. Also, most people don’t know this. But Lena Dunham was Hillary Hammer Time Cankle’s Social Media Community Manager for her 2-time loser campaign for the presidency of the United States of America. Only Lena Dunham could make Hillary less likeable and relatable in one blubbery swoop, but I digress.
To make matters worse at my wedding, my dad insisted on telling all my friends how much my wedding shoes cost, treating me like his faggy, bridezilla underling. Which wasn’t a fair representation of what makes me flaming gay such as my propensity to jerk off my old high school bud to Taste of Amber and Scandal and the Mansion because a friend at camp introduced him to the harmless practice, of mutual tickle jerks under the covers, together. Still, the obvious low point at my wedding was when my Dad told our wedding DJ to turn down the Star Fucking Spangled Banner by Jimi Hendrix from Woodstock. The very Woodstock he attended and bragged about non-stop about attending. Although, he never saw Jimi perform because apparently at that the time, all the hippies starving to death, out of cats to eat with tushy rash rott in addition to images of unreported, drug induced rapes and  toddlers tripping on acid became too much bear. Even for Hunter S. Thompson’s hopped up Gonzo pieces on Nixon and his generations brains being ripped off by a 2 bit, hack con men like CIA Acid stash proliferating Dr. Timothy Leary. Jimi Hendrix had actually unleashed his guitar, carpet bombing, anti-war anthem piece of electric guitar mastery at the Hollywood Bowl before his scene stealing performance at Woodstock post Joe Cocker having performed a stroke in slow motion for Little Help from My Friends. What was my father’s excuse for telling our wedding DJ to turn off Jimi? Because Jimi’s aerial guitar Vietcong bomb drop renditions were too intense for all of his non-serving Jewish friends in attendance to bear. It would be one thing if his Jewish friend Sil from the Bronx served with Ron Kovac or was held captive like McCain and was trigged to jump behind the wet bar for cover. I took personal offense to this asshole, controlling gesture on my dad’s behalf because I controlled the wedding playlist. This was my creation, not his. In case you’re wondering, we closed out the wedding, with Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York and closed with Jay Z’s Empire State of Mind, which just hit. Sorry, Frank, we chose to close our wedding with a more resounding, modern day feeling bang.
If I could do it all over again for my wedding, I would’ve have posted an ad on Craig’s List for a substitute Wise Black Grandma to replace my absentee whiney, Jewish Grandma. The Craig’s List ad would read, “Wise Black Grandma needed for wedding in Woodstock, NY, full expenses paid, Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome. Just understand, we only have 1 black friend attending, so you must be comfortable performing in front of primarily white audiences only.”
So, what does my dad being a controlling, arrogant, baby boomer dick have to do with how book authors are fire proof? They’re related because I tried really hard to make a living in sales similar to my father and it never materialized for me. My dad for very well but his career in packaging sales didn’t take off until his early forties. In fact, my mom saw an ad in the paper for a sales manager job which he applied for and got. In actuality, my dad lied about so-called management experience to get the job and the gamble payed huge dividends for himself in the end. Now, his wife, my mother who worked at JP Morgan Chase as a Loan Officer. Who always made more money than him, was no longer in an exalted, leveraged position to belittle or talk down to her lifetime partner in love like her faggy, you only exist because of me underling any longer.

Knowing my father took a gamble to achieve what success he did as a VP of Sales. Who turned a fledging packaging company into the 90 million in sales machine under his direction. It’s not a complete shock to know my Dad isn’t 100% against me writing a book about working from home and falling for Fatherhood as a stay at home, aspirational do it all dad comedian book author. My dad never articulated what his vision was if he decided to launch his own business. Still, his default response for not following through for whatever vision he possessed was because it was too risky and he had my brother and I to support. On top of having to earn enough money to pay for $20,000 a year property taxes in Westchester Country, only 30 minutes from Manhattan by Metro North I get it.

But I know what I want now more than ever before. I can articulate my dream for myself which serves my own personal ambition and the betterment of my wife and 3 children. And that’s not to just become a published, parenting book author. Fuck that. My dream is to write the funniest, most readable, most moving, Jewish suburban tale of modern-day fatherhood ever made. I’ll be a big fish in my own pond. Who’s my competition, Philp Roth’s son if he has one? Did Saul Bellow bang out any promising upstart, literary off spring capable of producing laugh yankers on the page and off that I don’t know about? The thing is I tried to make it as an IT headhunter yet never became the Rain Maker like my father did. Me, I was much more a trickler.

Still, headhunting made me the man I am today. There’s no way I could endure the heartbreaking isolation and rejection from old school fake news friends and my own parents as a stay at home comedian author/ Podcast Host/Dad Friendly Entertainment Blogger. Without the congealed inner toughness such a thankless, advance attack forward on mentality the new business development form of IT staffing engenders within in you.

I love all my ex-headhunter brethren because they pushed me to become a better version of me. They respected my fearlessness, my developing comedic writing inventiveness. In short, they couldn’t knock my hustle. My old boss Larry, god bless him, would let me take breaks from cold calling IT directors at UBS and beyond to sample new material on my old school band of recruiter brothers in the afternoon to help break up the day. Even my old boss Dan at Robert Half allowed the same after our morning meetings, yet Robert Half is public traded company so that new morning routine got shut down real fast and it wasn’t because I was producing dead air either.

Nobel Prize for Literature winner George Bernard Shaw said, “hell is to drift, and heaven is to steer.” The key for me is picking my 1st big race to win and not being an all over the place Jew for once in my life. I got into standup because an alum from Ithaca told me it would make me a better writer. But I only got into the dream of writing TV scripts for TV after my ex-girlfriend in LA pushed me to start writing specs for Curb which made me fall in the love with the idea of a creative, fun filled alternative to make a living that didn’t require my compulsory need to use my day of atonement for Yom Kippur in Los Angeles. My 1st year as an IT Headhunter, paying my own way in the word, only to focus on reading the Long Beach Business Journal for new company info to sollcit business from before LinkedIn and smart phones emerged. Eliminating the need to stay at work past 7 every night to get more numbers from 411 to cold call the next morning all over again.

Eventually, I wrote for TV, not the way I intended. I thought I’d be writing Family Guy scripts. Instead, I was writing music video intro reads for Iron Maiden for the host of Americas Hard 100, WWE great, Chris Jericho. I’ll take it. My old producer boss Jay Moran introducing me as the Head Writer for the America’s Hard special he was in charge of producing 100 at Viacom corporate in Manhattan, “my city” as Walt Whitman said back in the day was a heavy metal high moment, I’ll cherish forever. But the stakes are way higher now. Now, I have 3 kids compared to only Singing Rose Matilda. And it’d true, “pressure does create diamonds.” Which explains the comedy tear I’ve been on now since getting fired from Robert Half 3 years ago. Every retweet or blog like has been a win, knowing my aim as has always been laugh generation. But now my goals have expanded past mere laugh generation but into more expressive, beauty terrain. Describing how your baby boy’s hand clench against yours makes up for almost 99% of the poor, poor, pitiful pain in your heart. By describing the shrieks of joy my 20-month-old son makes when I give him playful, falling putzy apple tree head butts into his midsection or roll him into a pink Cubano with our overpriced towels from our wedding I get to reconnect with what I want more of in this new big dream of mine. And that’s to be the Golly Blue Giant dream maker at home as a stay at home dad comedian shooting star author on the rise.

Bought my kids a telescope from Goodwill for 28 bucks for the 1st night of Chanukah. And just learned about Blue Giant stars. Basically, they shine brightest because they’re condensed with the most loaded, compact material. And that’s what I’ve poured into my book that you’re reading right now, Stay at Home Comedian. I wouldn’t have been capable of producing this book 4 years ago because I didn’t know what I wanted out of life outside of sticking with my goal of writing for TV and proving to myself I could do it.

As a bestselling author, I become the functional Dead Head I’ve always wanted to become. Making money off my own creations, Assuming ownership of my own ideas.  Profiting off my own self-driven hustle, not out of fear from getting fired for some job I’m just doing to provide breathing room to write jokes to do on stage on the side. That chapter in my life is finished.

God didn’t give me 3 kids to have a panic attack over it. As a book author, I’m fire proof because I’ll never act like an entitled dick the majority of the time. As a book author, I’m fire proof because I don’t have the luxury or time to be an aspirational, functional pothead on the side with 3 kids to co-raise and house to co-manage either. As a book author, I’m fire proof because any quotas I set for myself, I’ll exceed because the only thing limiting me from writing my way out of poverty into literary glory is mere time to sit my ass on the chair. I also bought from that 7000-dollar commission check to bang out more free flowing prose on my pleasure machine.

The meaning of Hanukah is dedication. And no miracle of light can happen without the combination of dedication and unwavering faith in your hard work materializing by the grace of divine powered blessing when the all mighty makes the timing right. I just learned about getting 19 blogged chapters of the Stay at Home Comedian republished on the Good Men Project. It’s my time to shine.

Book Author are fire proof unless, my book Stay at Home Comedian doesn’t sell and my wife kicks me out of the house for good. But I’m in the driver seat of a life of my choosing now. I’m writing a bestselling book, Stay at Home Comedian and already have my next 2 follow up books planned. I’m in it to win it as a bestselling parenting book author and face of the new remote good men, dad, remote work revolution. Because at home on the page, I rule my destiny.

My old sales boss at a recruitment agency in Manhattan Beach, said to me. “Michael, you’re very eclectic. I see you as a thoroughbred but in order to become a winner, you have to pick your race. I finally have Terry. Thanks for the words of wisdom and sorry about acting like an entitled, arrogant, NY dick  Doing 0.0 to reverse the perception of my people as a whole, meaning New Yorkers in general, not s much my other people Jews otherwise. Your killer farmer’s son work ethic rubbed on me Terry. Not that I was slacker working for you. Still, you always said. “What do you want your tombstone to say when your time on this earth is complete?”

Finally got the answer Terry. Michael Kornbluth, Author, although knock kneed putz turned Pulitzer prize winner has a nice ring to it also. I know Terry. Focus on winning one race at a time. But I must dream bigger like my daughter says. Most can write a best seller, but it’s the ones who never gave up. Whose will to win reigned supreme such as Charles Bukowski, Rodney Dangerfield and Secretariat, the horse, who became living legends in their time. Just because my ego got tripped up at the starting gate, from being a prematurly branded, learning-disabled slow poke brain student in the 5th grade. Doesn’t mean I can’t launch a comeback around the bend, kick up dirt into my dream detractor faces now behind me with enraged delight and fly past that finish line as a successful, bestselling book author winner. Then, getting my wife a new set of boobs for my birthday will be the most selfless gift ever. Because if my wife forgets to buy me something special after my book Stay At Home Comedian becomes a best seller. She’ll be off the hook. And Katy Perry will have to wait.
By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

I Have To Become An Author

I have to become an author because despite all his success Rodney Dangerfield was still miserable.

I have to become an author because similar to Rodney at 42, I’ve got a duffle bag full of funny to capitalize on already.

I have to become an author because I really wanted name my 1st son Charles Bukowski Kornbluth.

I have to become an author because I ended up naming my 1st son Arthur Morrison Kornbluth.  Plus, I’m  15% Welshian according to Ancestry.com.

I have to become an author because it will score me a female lit agent I can flirt with over shrimp cocktail at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central guilt free because my wife will have her Black Range Rover already.

I have to become an author because my 7 year told daughter believes I’ll get a million dollar advance because putz face Christian Lander who wrote Stuff White People Like got 350 thousand for his white priveldege snooze feast.

I have to become an author because I’m too sensitive to become a road comic.

I have to become an author because my asexual Bruce Jenner material wouldn’t play well at Berkley and I can’t afford the security detail.

I have to become an author because Ann Coulter is one and she exudes 0.0 personality off the page.

I have to become an author because I survived 2 near accidental overdoses from Crystal Meth and lived to tell the world Crystal Meth can also look exactly like Cocaine.

I have to become an author because I cold called through my twenties and thirties as an IT Headhunter and only have my 2562 superficial connections to show for it.

I have to become an author because I live to create and feel like an ineffectual jerkoff when I’m not.

I have to become an author because my MATH SAT scores leave me no choice.

I have to become an author because Tom Papa wrote a book on fatherhood from on the road I’m assuming because his kids got minimal emotive mention.

I have to become an author because my chapter Birth of Pescatarian Comedian is funnier than Jim Gaffigan’s bug meat fish spiel.

I have to become an author because Bill Hicks was a comedy poet at heart and so am I.

I have to become an author so I can ask my mom next time she visits us from Arizona, “Too ambitious? Good thing, I took your advice and became a garbage man though.”

I have to become an author because I’ll have something to show for 10,000 jokes produced during my stay at home dad gap years.

I have to become an author because I’ve been working on my autograph signature since my 7 year old daughter started drawing more complete o’s than me.

I have to become an author because it will provide me with paid speech opportunities as the new face of the remote work revolution.

I have to become an author because Anthony Bourdain would demand it after I got my piece of flash fiction Anthony Bourdain Rips My Frozen Lunch Apart published in Fire and Knives in his honor.

I have to become an author because outside of Cameron Crowe, name another writer who has a picture of Hollywood screenwriter director legend Bill Wilder in their home office? Hoisting a cane high in air talking out dialogue with his Harvard grad writing partner on a coach in the Paramount Lot, hanging onto maestro’s every words back in the day.

I have to become an author because nobody ever became rich from being a salary man. Wyatt Earp said that East Coast elitist.

I have to become an author because it’s my fight for self-respect and I’m winning.

I have to become an author because I don’t have to obsess over delivering stand-up funny every 2.2 seconds.

I have to become an author because Paul Mooney told me, “I hear you’re funny.”

I have to become an author because I’ve lost all desire to write another TV Pilot and work in Rape Wood.

I have to become an author because I’ve got God and my 3 kids to keep my heart company inside.

I have to become an author because writing heartfelt funny makes me most high.

I have to become an author because it’s a decision that wasn’t made for me by my fucking parents.

I have to become an author because my daughter’s teacher thinks I should be hosting my own kids TV show already.

I have to become an author because David Letterman and Johnny Carson were such overrated personalities.

I have to become an author because Gary Shandling told me. “To keep writing and you’ll look like me.”

I have to become an author because I’m not a tough guy Jew from Brooklyn like Dice.

I have to become an author because in my writing I’ll prove how much funnier my kids are than Judd Apatow’s.

I have to become an author because Louie CK is just going to steal my spot at the Comedy Cellar anyway.

I have to become an author because it would impress Kevin Smith.

I have to become an author because I used to make up my own lines for national commercial auditions in LA before a real monster ego emerged.

I have to become an author because all I got out of my appearance on Blind Date in LA was a free meal and herpes.

I have to become an author so Charlie Daniels can kiss my Stay At Home Dad ass.

I have to  become an author because I blew off Canteen mixers at sleep away camp for more readings of Cracked Magazine.

I have to become an author so I can get my son, Art Show USA his own electric guitar and lessons so he can play Siamese Dream at his his Bar Mitzvah Party.

I have to become an author so I can go ice skating with my Daughter at Wollman Rink in Central Park and afford to splurge on tea and scones at Tavern on the Green.

I have to become an author so I can buy my family a new home with enough farmland for my Larry Bird size basketball court.

I have to become an author because my relationship with my mother couldn’t get any worse.

I have to become an author because Shel Silverstein would recommend me to his agent.

I have to become an author because Dr. Seuss peaked early.

I have to become an author because Gen X kids like myself are moody, alternative obsessed creators.

I have to become an author because it sounds a whole lot sexier than IT recruiter.

I have to become an author because I’m bored with just rereading my jokes on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast.

I have to become an author so my Obama jokes can get my book banned from Brooklyn bookstores like Henry Miller back in the day.

I have to become an author so I can see my kids wait on line at my books signings for my autograph.

I have to become an author because my gorgeous kids will score sports modeling and endorsement deals from Lulu Lemon and college won’t be necessary any longer.

I have to become an author so I can love my kids better with a more ravenous, joy spewing heart.

I have to become an author so I can drive my wife back from the hospital with our new baby in the back of our new Range Rover because 4 kids would really piss my parents off. And then, I earn a free pass from ever having to visit my in-laws in Delaware again because chances are, I’ll be too busy promoting my next best seller.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But Walt Whitman Self-Published

 

What’s Latin Daddy? And don’t tell me Bob Dylan was in the Latin Club again.

He’s the only songwriter to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

 

I want to punch you in the face so bad right now. And for the record, Warren Zevon sounds like The Last Unicorn.
But seriously daddy, why do I have to take Latin again? My Colombian friend Shannon told me Latin is old school white privilege English. I say. You try seducing Cleopatra with limericks in Yiddish. And see how that materializes for you.

New Intro for Do It All Dad Year Podcast EP54 “My Cubicle Resistance”
I’m a Spiritual Medium Comedian for voiceless, dead man dads. Today, I’m visited by Lenny Bruce, doing my act, because I passed his hack free seal of approval.

INT. HOME
Wife
Won’t self-publishing a book cost money?
Stay At Home Comedian
Hush, let me finish.
Wife
I’ve been patient for 10 years.
Stay At Home Comedian
Whistling like Axl Rose helps.

Rocky 3 proves flailing blocked hay-makers, compared to improved, balletic, ducking and weaving in ring ain’t nothing.

Me
I was ready for our sex date after tucking in the kids. But you went to sleep on me on the couch before they did.
Wife
You seemed angry with me.
Me
Your soggy sage pesto didn’t help. And I’m so horny. I’d French Kiss Julia Child.

Crazy Good Dada
School Lunches Deconstructed
Cafeteria ban is in full effect. Thank God. Don’t these moms have anything else better to do than hang out with their boring kids for lunch? I guess mommy blogger meetups have limited appeal after all.

INT. HOME
Wife
Won’t self-publishing a book cost money?
Stay At Home Comedian
Walt Whitman self-published Leaves of Grass.
Your faith left in your husband making a star studded dent in this universe is less than blue ball season on Neptune.

Crazy Good Dada Lunch Continued
Today, I learned Brooke’s name is actually Brooklyn. She’s like a mini Lena Dunham. Brooke’s parents just signed her up for horse riding lessons. Now Brooke breath, identifies herself as a self-involved, know it all twat.

I’d rather hear the Muslim call to prayer in my own home than hear my stuck up English mother in law say Christmas on our Alexa speakers at full blast. Because at least the Muslim call to prayer never sounds gratingly generic.

Daddy, what does Zen mean? It’s a school of Buddhism that teaches you to use meditation for enlightenment. What’s enlightenment? The opposite of being an all over the place Jew. You’re not very good at meditation yet, are you Dada?

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

My Cubicle Resistance

My boy screams. Mom says. “If you won’t brush your teeth, I will.” I say. “Or you’ll turn get ready for bed into a wall of cacophony sound. Like when Lana Clarkson told Phil Spector the Ronettes were high maintenance whiny Jews in weaves.”

Opening line for my personal essay about my old school cubicle resistance.
I want to work from home as a stay at home comedian paid writer because I’m better at empowering and entertaining than my wife is. And my kids take pride in who I am.

What’s the secret to keeping my marriage together? Making fearless, non-negotiable demands like insisting my wife deal with lumpy, batter tits until she finds a replacement for her Handmaid’s Tale bra giveaways on Amazon Prime.

Wife
This is the 1st year your parents didn’t send me a birthday card.
Me
My mom was busy planning Jonathan’s 2nd engagement in 2 years for his big year, big year.

Pedo Jeffrey Epstein invited Bill Clinton to visit his virgin Island 20 more times than my parents invited my family to visit them in Scottsdale, Arizona. When they pay for you to visit on demand once a year, it doesn’t quantify as an invite does it?

EXT. SON’S PRE-K-MORNING
Drop off my son with his teacher.
Me
I knew it was going to snow. So much for mama being a nature love child in tune with the Rainforest.

Son’s teacher laughs long time.

Me turning my daughter on to Ecstasy unintentionally.
Ecstasy is ingenious marketing actually because your friends will say. Are you an anti-joy Republican? Ecstasy feels like a fairy tingles your spine with a feather from Pocahontas’s Head Dress.

New Chapter Title Ideas about the birth of my 3 kids.
Birth of an another American Beauty
F You Dad Baby
Birth of a God Loving Humanist

Personal essay title options about re-raising myself as a classical baby schooled in classic American literature and white European composer music.

The Latin Club
Reincarnating Myself as a Classical Baby
From Hendrix to Mahler

Friend
What’s Shadow Banning?
Me
Big Tech suppressing pro-American content by banning your words or blocking their visibility because the fake news moralist nerd overlords of Silicon Valley sold their souls to communist controlled China and the Kennedy Killers.

Enough with investigations into Facebook’s knowledge of Russian election interference. Get answers on why they haven’t banned ANTIFA, or hate speech incarnate Farrakhan from the site yet insist on Diamond and Silk being the real menace to society. Nino Brown from New Jack City was a menace to society. Diamond and Silk are De La Soul in comparison Zit Face Zuck.

Luck eludes me like hangtime, no matter how I hard I try to move on up, to the stars.  I meet a former CIO of Nokia. He wants to do an interview on my Podcast yet he doesn’t know if he has Skype. So much for pumping Dino for an open job to fill and putting my old school IT recruiter hat on to feed my family, unbelievable.

Don Draper genius on display at Stop and Shop with my son. I pick up foot fungus cream before taking in the condom section to feel like a total scumbag inside and out. Jealous rage swims within me when I see. Skyn Condom, “Feel Everything.” If this isn’t the Devil tempting you to cheat on your girlfriend or wife to ensure the least collateral damage, I don’t know what is.

Personal essay title about getting a reluctant Vascetomy.
Sperm Implanter or Sperm Terminator?
Pulling the Plug on My Life Shooter
But 4 Kids Would Really Piss My Parents Off

How do I control my kids with my comedy? I tell them if they don’t let daddy get work done, I’ll get a sales job in the city, do open mikes after work and they’ll never see me again. Works every time because they’re in love with my company naturally.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

The Productive Stoner

I always wanted to be a functional pothead. But I had to stop trying 3 kids later.  I gave it my best shot. Don’t think I’m quitter.

7 years ago, my wife barges into our 1 bedroom apartment bathroom on a Friday night in a whirlwind of presumptive disgust because I was enjoying myself a tad too much as our 3 year old splashed in the bubble. And sang with me as we crooned with soul stirring,  shimmering glee to Bob Marley’s evil spirit conquering Duppy Conqueror. Understand, I puffed a one hitter in the bathroom with the window open before I got my daughter situated in there which got me feeling extra loose. Now, my wife barges through the bathroom door unannounced. Shoots off a final judgement hate stare in my direction and says with frothy, damnation dispiritedness. “You’re such a stoner.” Before slamming the bathroom door coming off the hinges.  Next my 4 year old daughter, Matilda, Singing Rose Kornbluth says. “Daddy, you’re not a stoner. You’re a rock star.” I say. “You’re right, Matilda. Because stoners aren’t doers and daddy is a doer. Granted, I haven’t done mommy since her birthday last year but that’s besides the point.”

So do I still smoke some weed? Squeeze in a puff of Florida Crippy’s for old times sake to celebrate writing the 1st draft of a new TV pilot like I did for my past creations including Don’t Laugh I Live Newark, Mr. Right and Mike Mates? I’m strong at banging out headline hookers I know. But no, I haven’t smoked the scrumptious, crystal specked green supreme goodness in 4 months now I think. Could be longer. So much for my short-term memory bouncing back with palpable, reverberating vengeance since my past podcast goodbye to my pothead plagued past in Episode 43 My Weed Exit Interview, on my Do It All Dad Year Podcast. I had my daughter do the intro for it. “Funnier, dad, happier baby, and I’m living proof of it. Can I get a Challah for some Challah?”

Ok, so back to the million dollar question, what drove me to take a permanent vacation from what I perceived as my best bud till my daughter Matilda was born? For starters, 3 kids later, I could no longer afford to feel like a bigger moron than I already feel around my comedic genius daughter. She’s a math nerd also which is a tad annoying. It got to the point, where I was disgusted at my belabored, ad lib replies to her super deep, out of nowhere questions about God.  My daughter asks. “So 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. “Real convincing Dada. Thanks for making me an Atheist at 4.” The joke doesn’t work as good if she says 6.

When you stop smoking weed after you’ve been a Stoner for 2 decades in a row, you start remembering your dreams because they’re so vivid crazy homes. You think you’ve been blackout drunk your entire waking life prior. What I’ve noticed in these dreams is old buds resurface. Who I’d either get stoned with or drunk with. But any semblance of a sturdier, brotherly bond past getting fucked up together, disintegrates under the unflinching, murky, glare of my dream undertow. Where old buds appear emotionless within the shadowy corners of my subconscious, REM catching up mind man.

I also compared my joke retweet stats on Twitter when I took an extended break on weed prior to my podcast Weed Exit Interview episode and was disgusted at the sobering statistical illumination revelation. I banged out almost ten times as many jokes off the weed than on it. Plus, my jokes on weed in comparison sounded like the dull minded, dim witted, dead brained drippings of a mentally strained douche-bag.

 

Trump has produced around 38,000 tweets compared to my 40,000 plus from my past. Proving native New Yorker’s hailing from Queens don’t have a hard time expressing themselves or ever run out of colorful things to say. At the same time, this doesn’t mean I’ve had burnout induced moments in my 20’s and 30’s when I was an awful communicative stoner, which haunt me till this day.

Once, I was cold calling a VP of Engineering as an IT Recruiter, doing new business development in Manhattan for a staffing company in One Penn Plaza right above MSG. And I could barely state my own full name clearly and at this point I only had 36 years of practice. “Hi, my name is Michael Kornbababluth, from Adam Jacobs & Associates. “Struggling with your own name I see” the VP of Engineering said with relished glee.

My own father stopped smoking weed after he met my mom in college. It was a deal breaker for her. Once, I recall watching the Knicks my Senior Year in High School when I started smoking plenty of weed after school from the Bronx, the cheap, sprayed kind that tastes like Windex. So I’m watching the game with my dad and out of nowhere my dad says with all knowing, dour disdain, “You’re not speaking well.” Translation, you’re smoking too much weed and you’re a learning disabled kid who didn’t crack a 1000 on his SAT’s. You’re not Bob Dylan, moron.

I always wanted to be a functional pothead. Getting my TV writing gig at VH1 Classic for Americas Hard 100, which was 12 years in the making felt great. Especially after I rose to the occasion and proved to myself I could get a high stakes writing job done well with all eyez on me pressure. I got stoned solo to celebrate in Manhattan off my prized one hitter and took a soulful, money, money, cocksure stroll from Times Square to my favorite craft brew bar in Manhattan on 10th Avenue to extend my feel good party in my honor. But then, I’m at the bar, being non-predatory flirty, feeling like a married slut in a straight jacket. Acting nervous around woman at the bar because I feel guilty about being free of my 3 year old girl for once and that was before my other 2 kids were born.

I continued to get high off the extra good green after becoming a dad because it still brought me pleasure and it helped my brain chill at night when I’d squeeze in a hit away from kids after dinner around 7. I’d love listening to the Grateful Dead, Europe 72 on it or Hair Metal ballads by Warrant, especially while reading new jokes of mine which come alive off the page a bit more on it. Plus, my evening reading performances for my kids in bed were more spontaneous fun for both the kids and me. Reality is though, weed is a poor man’s substitute for the American Hustler search and destroy, kill um all mentality  I needed to embody to become a major comedy success in this universe and continued weed use burns out my full throttle flame of creativity before I can take it even higher. I justified my weed use for long because I’d use the weed as a reward for getting a new script or blog done, but that’s a limited way of thinking, especially knowing, how I’m scheduling myself to be less productive the day after I get blazed.

My wife’s worse nightmare was me being stoned at night once she was in labor with our 3 child Samuel Teddy.  The birth of Samuel pushed me past my obsession with fulfilling all my self-serving needs. 14 months later I became determined to love myself better and be the healthier, wiser, friskier, funnier Dad provider my family of 5 needed me to be. Now, I’m pushing myself to maximize my time on this earth to make it as a writer on the rise after all. One my 3 kids can be proud of past their adoration of dad because they’re not teenagers in love with anyone else but me yet.

My book Stay At Home Comedian is a love letter about how my 3 kids finally got my act together. It’s a self-improvement story about how my 3 kids inspired me to replace bad habits with good habits. It’s a humor book about parenting, modern fatherhood and controlling my kids through comedy as a stay at home comedian podcast host blogger who works from home  It’s a memoir about my unusual artist family and how my kids have made me a better friend, husband, patriot, writer, leader and comedian.  Last night, my daughter asks. “Are you getting close to finishing your humor book on fatherhood, Stay At Home Comedian yet daddy? When you start selling copies of it through Amazon Kindle and at Barnes and Noble, I can call you a real artist because real art sells, right Dada?” I say. “I liked it better when you called me a rock star instead. Richard Belzer called all comedians frustrated rock stars at heart.”

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

Best Bud Sarah Silverman Never Had

You know God loves you when your kids play with your fungus covered feet. Seeing past your impurities. My 2 boys know to wear new flip flops every time they step foot in the men’s showers at LA Fitness in West Hollywood.

My 1st dad moment was yelling at my wife for tramp stamping my 5 year old daughter with fake tattoos seconds before our 1st Winter Ball Dance together. I yell. Take them off. My daughters adds. Yeah, now I can’t be buried in a fake Jewish Cemetery.

My 2nd dad moment was saying no fairy wings on Matilda after my wife’s best friend gave them to her for Christmas. Matilda looks like an overdose at the Lime Light waiting to happen. Especially, at the rate she pounds seltzer at home these days.

Dads are stronger cheerleaders than moms. My wife says it’s because we live in a Patriarchal society. I say. I thought it was because our kids cared more about my opinions. Plus, growing up don’t act like you cared more about impressing your knife chucking mother babe.

I still struggle with saying patriarchal society without stuttering it out. I’m convinced Virginia Wolf willed the word into popular culture so men would sound dumber Jersey like than usual.

Sarah Silverman doesn’t think the President is mature yet still takes bong hits in a hoodie way past 40. Plus, I don’t recall Sarah Silverman outgrowing her truly tasteless, alternative jokes phase either.

Life Is Worth Losing is worth revisiting for hard core George Carlin fans. Carlin is sober and sharper than ever. Plus, darker is funnier and George Carlin achieves stand-up nirvana on this HBO special with The Suicide Guy. He really was the best. Plus, George Carlin’s rape jokes were vastly superior to Sarah and felt far less forced rapey.

Opening line for my new book chapter “Puff, Puff, Pass”, about passing on being a pothead, only 3 kids later. I always wanted to be a functional pothead.

Option 2 for an opening line for my new book chapter “Puff, Puff, Pass”, about passing on being a pothead, only 3 kids later. Weed was my best bud till I had Matilda.

My 7-Year-Old Daughter on Adam Levine. He sounds like he stole Michael Jackson’s voice. In case you’re wondering, we were listening to the song Gotten on Slash’s debut album, Slash. You’re welcome. Fergie, Chris Cornell, Kid Rock all shine on it.

George Soros calling Roger Waters.

George Soros
Can you supply the caravan with free I Phones with 1 song on it each?
Roger Waters
Tear down the wall, got it.
I’m only doing this because you know how awful Israelis are to Palestinians.

Dad
Day 5, free from beer Matilda. It will sound weird when I say day 28.

Daughter

I know.  You’ve never even made it to double digits.

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

My New American Dream

INT. HOME
4 Year Old Son
Is God happy?
Mom
God can be a she.
Dad
Mama’s feminist teen spirit post Meto eclipses any shot of Nirvana for God kid.

I got misty from the palpable love “The Fiz Kids” showered coach Fizdale with last night. And I’m still convulsing with roarish glee from Emmanuel Mudiay’s out of nowhere in your face, Mike Conley’s contract slam for the ages.

Eddie Vedder’s voice fluctuates between hushed, garbling, constipated tones and cathartic, overacted overtones like a darker, more masculine sounding Dave Mathews on better weed.

Lena Dunham is profiled by the Cut? But she got her own pad in the West Village without having to depend on her daddy for a handout. Lena cuts off her dad, not the other way around. Oh, I thought Cut was an indie glamour mag about suicide, my bad.

Did you know Lena Dunham was Hillary’s Social Media Community Manager? Only Lena Dunham could make Hillary Hammer Time Cankles less likable and relatable in 1 blubbery swoop.

When Trump won 2 years ago. I prayed for the Wall to be built around the strip clubs in Montreal. So Lena Dunham, wouldn’t scare away all the clientele. Amy Schumer is having a baby. Lena Dunham and Sarah Silverman are losing.

I hate stories about seeing Bruce live more than stories about seeing the Grateful Dead pre-Aids before Magic made HIV disappear. When you could bang any chesty Italian gal from Jersey in the parking lot at Giants for drum solo filler in between.

Wife
You haven’t given me any smiles today.
Husband
Stroke my ego and you know what else more. Then, talk dirty to me.
Because I want action tonight, satisfaction alright. And your PJ look with no make up on isn’t enough to make Thor go higher. I call my mighty pounder mallet Thor.

Foot Doctor Assistant
You didn’t show for your last appointment.
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I have 3 kids and been blessed with useless, bare minimum, Facebook grandparents on both sides of the virtual fence babe. So don’t bust my balls babe.

INT. ZERO GRAVITY OFFICE
Elon Musk talks to his AI powered life coach computer.
Standing desks were so 2017 Tron Robbins.
If I move to Mars, I’ll be single longer because maintaining long distance relationships from mars are always a stretch.

INT. KITCHEN
Wife
I’m going to ask for work off Monday.
Husband
It’s your life.
Wife
That’s the meanest thing you can say.
Husband
You really think I’m a slacker, don’t you?

Shameless recycle of my gift letter opener for my part Turkish friend from college for Kwazna. He doesn’t celebrate Kwanza but some Turks must. Dear Dave,
Happy to hear about your path to sober, healthier, less destructive living.

Everything in Greenwich, CT is greener, brighter and prettier. My new dream is to buy a home there for my family as a well off writer performer entertainer. Westchester Country is like brownish, regular commercial weed in comparison. I can pass a drug test. I swear. My Weed Exit Interview Podcast was 3 months ago at least.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

My Move From Hermosa Hell

7:30 PM WST and my parents haven’t called yet to wish me a happy 28th birthday. I play a voicemail. My mom sings me happy birthday. And I cry out every ounce of beaten down in life sadness, my always ate alone in Junior High at Burger King clogged heart could bear. Apparently, my new diet of double cheese Turkey Burgers from Astro Burger didn’t do much to unclog the heavy heartedness of ineffectual loser-dom in my heart. Knowing at 28, I was an unemployed wannabe standup comedian in the Valley, porn capital of the world next to Warner Brother Studios, otherwise known as the land of dirty, money shot powered dreams.

 

My wife now and mother of my 3 kids hates me bringing up my lost year in Sherman Oaks. Where the crystal meth was still working its way out of my system. The unemployment checks were coming to an end. And at 28, I still didn’t have a best friend to call to emote to, ask for advice or pick me up when times were blue. Which depressed me more than having little to no money then. I was so broke, my Hebrew name was under Judicial Review at 28 years old.  Back then, I couldn’t even stare at an extra Actress with a SAG card on Melrose without being fined for insufficient funds.  Ok, so I had some decent material my 1st year of stand-up during my “lost year” in Sherman Oaks.  But I almost never made it to Sherman Oaks alive at all.

I lived in Hermosa Beach, for 9 months prior. It was my favorite beach in Southern California by far. The sand is pebble free and the waves for body surfing were consistently the best. My apartment was on Monteray Ave, overlooking the Pier and Brian Wilson’s favorite, money making muse, the misty, always majestic, mighty Pacific. Screw you Mark Twain it’s my story time now. Female hardbody volleyball players abounded. Specs of sand scattered within my shower always put me at Summer loving having a blast ease.

 

I stared to run by the water after working as an IT recruiter in Manhattan Beach nearby. I was no longer in a suffocating, sexless relationship with my ex. The only rich Irish girl of private Catholic school upbringing in Westwood, John Wooden country. Who couldn’t hold her liquor. But her father had a keg of Sierra Nevada Pale on tap always. So I wasn’t complaining. It’s the pale ale that never gets stale. Recycling lines from my advertising portfolio and 1st year of stand up has to materialize for me eventually.  I even had buds to hang out with down for happy hour at the Poop Deck before I hit on everything that moved. Had my recruiter bud Jay take some inspired trips to Tijuana with me. Growing up during Regan, before Magic had made HIV disappear. I had enough good sense so I thought not to bang any hookers there. Was called a faggot for it which was nice. Walked out of a brothel when they were all lined up also. I couldn’t have been a more indecisive Jew unless I had the munchies at the Bellagio buffet in Vegas for my last meal on earth but was only allotted 1 plate to fill.

I was paying rent on my own. Had to ask mom and dad for deposit, 1st month rent. It was my only way out my relationship with my ex. In retrospect, I should’ve kicked her out of our apartment in West Hollywood. Which I was living in prior. It was ten times cheaper and walking distance to the Improv on Melrose and the Comedy Store on Sunset. So much for thinking that move through.

Across the street from where I lived in Hermosa was a wine shop that sold beer. The owner there was young like me who used to live in NYC, so he was pretty cool in my book, so I thought. We start hanging out late night at this wine shop. He lures me with free wine samples and bottles of beer when I don’t have a bottle to piss in literally. Pretty soon, this leads to us doing bumps of what I thought were cocaine which were actually bumps of Crystal Meth. It looked the same, dripped at the back of my throat the same and snorted up my nostril the same. The only discernable difference after my 1st tiny snort, lasting what seemed like all summer.  Was me kissing this delicious blond gal at a dark, scarlet red hued lounge bar by the Strand moments later. Feeling like a coked out Tony the Tiger.  Thinking, telling myself, this is shit is great. It wasn’t.

The crash was in fact the opposite of great. Especially 24 hours later, when I found myself peeing on myself. Walking outside my apartment. Feeling my eyes roll toward the back of head. Never feeling more empty or devoid of hope in such a depressed, bleaked out state in my life. Staring at the Pacific Ocean from my 2nd story walk up apartment in Hermosa Beach, not seeing pure beauty or universal connectivity or boundless potential inside me. Not seeing me prancing on the sand with my ex girlfriend Summer Lam to summer loving having a blast after drinking Pyramid Peach Apricot beers on the beach or making Veal Marsala from Bristol Farms after watching a Sopranos together in our apartment, based on a recipe from the Sopranos cook book no less.

 

No, all I felt was imminent death coming to claim me if God didn’t throw me a lifeline of any kind. As I walked out of my apartment in a Crystal Meth mind, spirit meltdown stupor, no longer doing wine sales on commission only after I got fired from my IT recruiter job for not billing enough and looking for other jobs on the job. Forward thinking has never been my forte.

Already, using what money I had left on my new apartment deposit in Sherman Oaks in the Valley. From my stocks and 401K, nice to meet you Capital Gains. I had no security blanket left. But thank God my old recruiter bud Jay called me out of the blue to see if I wanted to be roommates. I consider it divine intervention. Because if Jay didn’t call me I would’ve stayed in southern California long enough to try writing another Curb spec again but on my own this time without my ex, Erica’s assistance. I wrote it in 3 days flat. I was clean now. Was attending bartending school in North Hollywood. Spent a fortune on a psychic in West Hollywood to clear my Chakras. Apparently, my Chakras were more clogged than my freshman college one hitter.

In Sherman Oaks, I was trying to write standalone jokes and get laughs from doing stand-up. Till this day, I don’t know what demon drove me to do it. Outside of my roommate Jay, Cedric, another old recruiter bud and Shakes, an IT security analyst who I placed with Raytheon in El Segundo, California, I had no Mikey pep talks from T in Swingers to rely on.

So I’m staring down the cold, unforgiving, gaze of the Pacific Ocean from the balcony of my apartment with pee drenched pants. Having no accomplishment of distinction under my belt yet. Which I can truly claim as my own. Billing almost 100K as an IT Recruiter in Westwood prior doesn’t really count because my Recruiting Manger would spoon feed me lines to negotiate fee and close candidates on salary with.  I can’t get over the vacant chill inside me starring out daybreak over Hermosa Beach with scattered, greyish overcast for a change. Thinking, my younger brother who went to boarding school for his cocaine troubles. He’s the one with hard drug issues, not me.

I worked my ass off from 22-28 years old cold calling my brains out as an IT recruiter in Westwood, Century City and now Manhattan Beach. From 7-7 I was at work. And I’d work on TV spec scripts with my ex at night when we lived in West Hollywood together for Curb, Malcolm, even did a Six Feet Under, got really strong encouragement from lit agents and professional readers to.

But since getting fired from my IT Recruiter job and making no money from wine sales and no longer having my ex-girlfriend help anchor me to bang out spec scripts after cold calling off  all index cards pre-LinkedIn, I was truly lost at sea. Now, I was no longer a mere Shmuck in a headset. Or even an aspiring TV scribe on the rise, just a spoiled, degenerate, mush brained, borderline friendless, borderline disowned 1st born with a useless Communication degree about to drop dead at 28 years old, 1 year after Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. But my magic 27 didn’t consist of banging out Bobby McGee on Pearl or shredding the Filmore East’s amps to pieces with Machine Gun on Band of Gypsies either. Shit, I wasn’t even a bloated Jim Morrison, who still squeezed out the majestic Indian Summer before my impending, not important enough to be tragic, dying of my light.

I make it across the street to Ming Dynasty’s wine shop. Which he needs to open so I can get some Alka Seltzer and water. Then, when I thought my dark thoughts couldn’t get any trying to sleep off Acid to Beethoven freshman year in college scarier worse. Ming Dynasty cryptically states in the most chillingly, been around a lot of overdoes man, says. Don’t OD in front of my store. I end up shaking it off at his parents place. And all I have to keep me going is forced sunny images of my summer in love with Katie in the Cape, holding hands, walking to town, no images of my pothead friends from high school, no images of dad bonding with me, nothing.

The worst part is me having to move out of my apartment in Hermosa to Sherman Oaks the day after I saw my non-glorious life fade out in front me. My move from Hermosa Hell to the valley is the move that almost killed me, literally.  I was so winded, the next day, I had to take 20 minute naps on the coach from merely, carrying boxed books down a single flight of stairs.  I had no medical insurance. How I made it to Sherman Oaks without dying from Dark angel’s crystal meth attack on what spark of divinity remained in my sad shrouded soul and borderline brain dead head is purely a direct result of God’s grace, nothing more, nothing less. God must have known ahead of time, what great kids I’d bang out once I got my act together.

Again, I didn’t even know I was doing Crystal Meth.  I only learned it was Crystal Meth months later, when Ming Dynasty rang. I said dude, I don’t know what was in that coke but I thought I was doing die in my own arms that night. Ming Dynasty replies. It wasn’t coke, it was Crystal Meth. I thought you knew the difference. But powdered coke looks like powdered Meth. So much for passing the Pepsi fucking challenge.

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BE FUNNIER THAN WEIRD AL BY CHRISTMAS

Daddy, what’s confidence? Telling doubt, see ya, wouldn’t want to be yah. Or as Axl Rose sings in Mr. Brownstone, Worryin’s a waste of my time. And I’m not Heavy Metal’s answer to Richard Lewis.

Nationalist is a loaded word. The N bomb is a load word. ANTFA lives matter is an oxymoron.
Starting shit with my mother in law part 1
Enough with grace in our home Rosa.
None of my children including myself believe Jesus was the real Messiah. If so God would’ve started a Kickstarter campaign to pay for our moving costs to Israel already.

Starting shit with my mother in law part 2
Don’t force my kids to say Grace unless black Jesus Haile Selassie is included. He’s God incarnate, direct descent of David. His body disappeared to, just saying. You better recognize.

Starting shit with my mother in law part 3
Don’t force my kids to say Grace.
I love me some Jesus but don’t believe he’s the Messiah. Fake news Nazi smears, ANTIFA & CNN suing the White House doesn’t feel like the age of messianic peace within me.

Motley Crue ranks as the best brawling band ever because of the long reach of Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx alone. The Allman Brothers had black bassist Berry Oakley but Dwayne Allman is getting his ass whipped easy and looked like he was dying to begin with.

Yelling at my daughter is like yelling at the Grateful Dead for opening up with St. Stephen because Jon Mayer looks prettier than Trey playing it obviously.

How do you hate the movie Rudy? Dare I quote Ike on Veterans Day? “It’s not size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” F the underdog Rudy. Spoken like the last Jeb Bush fan on earth.

But really how do you hate the movie Rudy? That’s like hating Eric Stoltz for hooking up with Laura Dern in Mask or hating Lupus for snagging a grab in Bad News Bears.
Or hating Daniel Day’s Lewis’ club left foot.

Louie CK is right. Most kids can be annoying assholes. Mine are fuss free. But hipster husband talk of white nationalists turning America into an Aryan nation despite no Edward Norton, American History X knockoffs gracing the Oval Office is so tolerable.

Met Stan Lee in Beverly Hills. Told him, I loved him in Mallrats. Jagger and me, we had a running contest, last time I looked I was way ahead. What an inspired writer life he lived. Goodbye sweet prince of boyhood wonder and creatively jacked good guy delight.

Int. Home
Wife
You went to the new Stop & Shop in Mahopac?
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
I’ve seen more sure footed tourists in Times Square.
I hear. Can you direct me to the canned goods and frozen food sections please? Yikes!

Racist Case Against Trump
He called the White Nationalist Protesters in Charlottesville, nice people. Did Trump name names & give shouts out to Schillinger from OZ and his kids Screaming Nazi and Hail Jager Goldschlager?

#FacebookDown was down on Monday but Farrakhan’s page was still up. Zit Face Zuck must label his anti-Jew tirades as fake news hate speech or inspired filler for Spike Lee’s new joint.

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. Like Melania planned on rocking the Kwanza themed decorations for Christmas. Or had to rely on Michelle for Fashion tips once Fashion Police got terminated.

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. I’m sure her perpetual, bitchy scowl during Trump’s inauguration had nothing to do with it. Or how Michelle didn’t bother doing her hair according to my barber.

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. Or inquire about Beyonce’s secret Lemonade recipe. Produce a documentary on yourself for Netflix already called “Ungracious 1st Lady.”

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. Last time I checked, Barron isn’t the one passing out at Lollapalooza on more than just Fun Dip. Nor is he interning for Miramax either.

Michelle Obama says Melania never reached out to ask her advice on being 1st lady. On what, how to strip the Oval Office of all high class prestige but letting it all hang out on Ellen? In white slacks after Labor Day to top it off.

Bud
How about Melo?
Stay At Home Comedian Dad
Contrary to popular belief, I think he’s a poor excuse for a leader.
Who failed to live up to hype like Obama on Cheeseburgers.

Long Island City is so hot now because Amazon’s coming to town. No, it’s not. It’s still Queens. Compared to Manhattan and Brooklyn, Queens is still the sloppy 3rd Kardashian sister. Whose easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a lamb gyro in Astoria.

With Amazon moving to town, the 7 line will be tighter than Nas Ilmatic, represent, represent, represent.

INT. Car
Son
Be funnier than Weird AL by Christmas Dada. Or I’m killing you with our sharpest knife for real.
Stay At Home Dad
I better get sharper by writing funnier jokes then.

INT. Car
Son
Be funnier than Weird AL by Christmas Dada. Or I’m killing you with our sharpest knife for real.
Stay At Home Dad
How did you get so tough?
Son
My daddy’s a killer comedian.

INT. Car
Son
Be funnier than Weird AL by Christmas Dada. Or I’m killing you with our sharpest knife for real.
Stay At Home Dad
I’ll go for the jugular kid.
Forward force all the way.

INT. Car
Son
Be funnier than Weird AL by Christmas Dada. Or I’m killing you with our sharpest knife for real.
Daughter
Kill or be killed by political correctness Dada.
Don’t make Obama’s legacy the death of comedy to.

THE END

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

God Gives Kids To Only The Lonely

God Gives Kids to Only The Lonely.
Turtle from Entourage never got stoned solo last time I checked. Or had issues talking Knicks on MSG like a man with big time connects despite being a dead weight conversationalist in real life.
God Gives Kids to Only The Lonely
So you should be done complaining now Shelia.
Are you too good for divine intervention now on your behalf?
God gives kids to only the lonely.
Of course God is thinking. So what’s the problem again Sandra?
Your band wasn’t Arcade Fire in the making. But I’m sure your back shoulder tattoo will age well. Tattoos are a big no, no in my book, you know?
God gives kids to the only the lonely.
So they don’t have to apply for IT headhunting jobs again knowing stay at home comedian dads command way more respect. On top of the lowly salary barely covering the cost of daycare alone.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
Especially, when his Loan Officer mother at JP Morgan Chase denies his connection request on LinkedIn. Because she doesn’t care to be associated with her IT headhunter, loudmouth “artist” son.
God gives kids to only the lonely
Especially to 1st born sons who have distant dads whose shoulders collapse when you go in for an obligatory, annual hug on your birthday.
son.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
Again, help me out here Liz. You wanted a kid to love you more than your fake friends and c word mom ever did? God bemoans from a burning bush on Mars. Watching MMA with Aries the God of War on Satellite.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
So stop complaining about how lonely you are Sharon? Now you have 1 more lunch buddy than you did in high school. Who likes Madonna’s earlier work also cry baby girl.

God gives kids to only the lonely.
So what are you bitching about now? God bemoans.
I know a Stay At Home Comedian Dad who doesn’t have a mommy meetup group for emotional support. Organized and led by his RN nurse wife no less.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
But you’re so lonely because your stuck with your 1 kid all day when your husband has to commute, endure pointless meetings and become a permanent hunchback. Have you ever made a cold call ever?
God does give kids to only the lonely.
So stop bitching about how lonely you are ladies.
With your kids in front of you. Filling your home with emotionally present love.
Your husbands business meetings aren’t too riveting. Get over it.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
Especially, when your 3 kids don’t know where their 2 so busy childless uncles live actually. Facebook Face-Time would be beyond weird at this point and excessively insufficient.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
Especially, any woman married into the Kennedy family. Which is more curse than gift, obviously.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
So stop playing the repressed victim of lonely motherhood. Also, your parents help out 3 times a week. Mine live in permanent vacation in their Arizona estate shrine to themselves forevermore.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
So stop complaining about the isolating pain of motherhood.
God’s thinking. How about talking to your kid in front of you to make you feel less lonely for a change. Read your kid Art of the Deal. Think bigger than you are right now. Do something.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
It’s a God given opportunity to mold an improved you. So stop bitching about how ungrateful your kid is. Get off your my life was so much better before. And be a better role model of pleasantness Franny.

God gives kids to only the lonely.
So stop whining over much you miss your producer career at CNN, Sharon. You can’t handle losing out on every night as date night for 3 months? Try 7 years and 3 kids in a row and get back to me.
God gives kid to only the lonely.
So stop bitching about how lonely you are ladies.
With your kids in front of you. Filling your home with emotionally present love.
Your husbands business meetings aren’t too riveting. Get over it.
God gives kids to only the lonely.
Or to the flaky, melodramatic diva. To make her realize how shitty it was to abandon her so called best friend after the birth of her daughter during her Postpartum blues. But, what do I know? Only God knows why!
The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth