Cuntish Continent Country

An IT Receuiter enters a record shop in Williamsburg.

And says.

Have the Kayne records graduated to the bargain bin yet?

Or is that on hold until he campaigns to kick Alex Jones off his Patreon page?

Got any New York Doll records?

I’m also in the market for a Trans Sitter with balls.

Because our current sitter is already dosing on the job.

And if I took estrogen shots, I’d at least dress up in some sexy undergarments before letting it hang loose on our couch with the lights turned down low if you know what I mean.

Here take my business card. Call me Stand Up Staffer, I’ve teen talent hooking pain in the ass IT workers since Y2K.

I’m like a divorce lawyer for techies who make sure they fairly compensated for this previous amorphous, lame love littered, time suck existence.

Or if you’re an uppity Software Engineer who codes for a living for the Daily Kos, I’m a trespassing coolness impaired, parasitical putz breath, incapable of deep probing, impactful oomph in life in her scurrying sketchy eyes. How do I know this software Engineer is one of the sketchy ones? Easy, she only has her 1st name listed on her LinkedIn profile like Ye would. And I get paid to screen for sketchy trash and throw garbage personalities away.

Hick shaming my Aussie wife for thinking she’s deeper than country music songs by Johnny Cash, let’s do it. Because growing up in Brisbane with only 2 TV stations including non stop repeats of Astro Boy doesn’t beat local broadcasts of the Grand Ole Opry with Dollly Parton’s showcasing the greatest rack of all either. And most of Australia is fly over country that’s so remote, the Chinese don’t fuss over whether to release the Franken Bat on the 2 MAGA country sympathizers who operate a mining company that mines for iron used to stiffen the spines of Aussie government officials who reduced their country to a ball sack containmment camp state over fears of catching an itchy esphogus.

Johnny Cash has been everywhere but fucking Perth MAN.

Perth Austraila is so off the grid country, Waze won’t even bother showing cross eyed corrective lasix surgeon offices nearby because everybody is a born a cross eyed hick to begin with anyway. So what difference does it make? Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again from the land of Perth. So, so far out of the way, it’s not’s even recognized on Waze, under blowing their Little Bo-Peeps brains out edition, Challah. Thank you very much.

Most Aussie hicks outside of Melboune, Sydney, Brisbane; Victoria, Port Douglas maybe, talk slower than southerners do. You ever hear of Australia’s answer to OutKast in their Alternative Weekly called we ain’t got shit past Bon Scott, the Bee Gees and Kylie Minogue. Shit most Aborigines walkabout their enftire lives and in the end when their one dumb fuck cousin is dying from a clot shot induced heart attack, they’ll muster, “You media horror Gods are crazy. ”

Cuntish Contitent Country, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Manic Tuesday

The heat is cranked up in our office today. Or according to Kayne, the ideal oven temperature during the Holocaust.

Of course Black Friday was huge.
Its the only Recession special left.
And Chris Tucker has nothing left better to do.
Besides, make an cameo appearance in a Darren Aaronfsky film every 15 years if it doesn’t coincide with NBA all-star weekend. Assuming Dave Chapelle passed on the role 1st to defend Kayne in his latest and greatest Netflix special Praise Allah’s Gangsta Paradise, followed by Jesus Forgives No Bail Laws. Don’t front, they Jewish producers will stop counting their bitcoin to frisk Terry Crews at a media monopoly mixer at the drop of a dime.” So Terry, you know that thing you do with your tits. Would you put on a wig for that? I mean how many more Expendble films will Sly be allowed after sneaking Mel Gibson into Expendables 3? Ari Emannuel failed to Jew block that pic. He was too busy kissing Larry David’s ass when he wasn’t burning the master tapes that he owns for the Apprentice on top of a pile of MAGA hats at his private beach in Beggars Canyon to keep him from taking Curb Your Entusiasm to Newsmax. I better pat you down. Our Massad agent is taking a smoke break, relax. Terry Crews bolts the bash. Producer says, “Fine I’ll just use black Grinder to find an unvaccinated actor to Smash and Grab my ass.”

Michael Kornbluth

New Work Banter

How are you doing today?

All of a sudden, I feel like Billy Madison reentering the workforce after being a stay-at-home dad during Covid.

Doing my best to block out how my wife tried to pack me a Quaker Dewy Chips bar for work.

But my father hates the term stay at home dad. He prefers Sheltered Bum.

Michael Kornbluth

Burn Baby Boomer Burn

Michael, thanks so much for allowing me to have a look at your book.

I really appreciate it. Unfortunately, it’s too similar to a project

that I’m already handling, so I’m going to pass

Sure, being a Christian book Lit agent, a book called The Koshertarian Comedians is too similar to project your already handling.

Yeah, and Evangelical Christians are auctioning off signed Trump bibles on Ebay to keep their coffers full.

What project are you handling that’s too similar Christian Lit Agent at large, ANTIFA eats Ben Shapiro’s Matzah Balls for Breakfast?

You don’t want to represent a writer who dares talk about election fraud and operation death speed through the clot shot, I get it.

Although, I can’t wait for Biden to cut of Baby Boomers from their social security checks to reduce our deficit and redistribute the rest of their remaining wealth for the endless stream of illegal immigrant dreamers in full.

Then, we’d have a 70 million baby boomer march.

Spike Lee dies from more than blood clots.

Breitbart can do a film about it with Gina Carano plays, the female Braveheart called, “Invasion Of The Social Security Card Snatchers”.

While yelling, “Told you they could take your social freedoms too, you smug elitist, ANTIFA excusing pieces of shit.”

Stepford Wives and MAGA moms will unite in D.C and show what a real insurrection looks like,

Fuck the hippie dippy chants of the 60’s.

Take away social security checks and redistribute them to their hired help on the cheap.

And the 2nd Woodstock resembles an innocuous warm art.

The ghost of JFK emerges from the flames and eggs them to burn baby burn like BLM’s spurned love child that just got booted off the Standard and Poor’s Index.

 JFK says, “Ask not what your country can do for you. But what you can do for Lennon and King who gave a peace chance.

It didn’t work out to well for them.

So, what the fuck are you going to do about it?

Besides, burn your draft card again and spit on Vietnam vets when they returned, you unpatriotic pussies.

You want to eclipse, the greatest generation, now’s the chance.

Or die a soul sellout fake news hippie like rest.

Because when you live in Arizona for 10 years away from your 3 grandchildren to work on yourself, and still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon.

You’re a fake news hippy.

Burn Baby Boomer Burn, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Stumped On Blockers

Why do kids today want puberty blockers again?

Growing up, puberty couldn’t come soon enough.

Especially when younger brother of 3 years hits puberty before you do, in addition to banging the 3 hottest girls in his class. That I tried to jerk off to at the time but couldn’t. One year for Hanukkah I get a book from my mother called the 12 Stages Of Puberty. I freak out immediately.

“Mom,why would you present me this book in front of my younger brother? Jonathan can play with himself whenever he wants?”

Mom says, “But you do that all the time upstairs with your GI-Joe figures.”

If I caught my son playing with his big sister’s Barbie Dolls, I’d think banging my GI Joe figure way past the acceptable age was incredibly gayer, especially while I had Gung Ho manhandle Cobra Commander like his gimpy bitch in Pulp Fiction.

“Welcome to my Terror Dome dick, Major Blood.”

“It’s Cobra Commander.”

“You wish bitch, bottoms away. Yoh Joe! Hasbro lives up your gaping anus hole.”

Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Banking On Boring

What kind of an asshole has a kid today at 46 years old?

What do you say to that kid when we start pledging our allegiance to the CCP?

Freedom of Speech had a nice run, but Trumpy Poo Tits made too many derisive nicknames on Twitter.

So, Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi and other Swamp Thing hostages in Congress gave George Soros and friends in China the green light to release the Franken Bat on MAGA country to ensure we the people never meant jack shit again.

And today, I’d be thrown in jail if I try to prevent you from cutting your dick off before you bloom under your Fruit of the Looms.

Shit, who am I kidding.

Kids don’t wear underwear anymore.

The Commando look went viral when Little Nas became our next President.

Open borders rule everything around us now.

Homeland Security was so weapons of mass destructions years.

Times Square in the 70’s is considered good times now.

At least then, you didn’t have to wear a mask to jerk off in a theater like a moderate Muslim trans wanting to squeeze right in with the crowd.

But I’ll be 66 when you graduate college, which isn’t that bad.

Who cares if my wife has to microdose to make you interesting if you take after me.

Banking on boring, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Year Without Beer Film Premise

I never liked my old drinking buddies enough to seek out their company sober.

I’ve never gotten bombed with new buds in my life come to think of it.

Plus, the one relationship I rekindled that I care most about maintaining is a college bud whose been sober for 15 years.

I still like my gummies, but the idea of meeting up with old drinking buds for drinks offers less appeal than saying grace whenever my mother-in-law launches into a grace at our own Jewish observing house that sports a Big Mouth Moses Nutcracker to freak out fiercely protective gentiles at large in November before expecting a complete monopoly of Christmas decorations for December in full and the following 3 lazy stash away months that follow.

Year Without Beer, is shaping up nicely, my belly too, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Regaining That Cuddly Feeling

Before Daddy says his final goodnight, his magical pitch-perfect daughter says, “Daddy, what do you do after you put me to bed and tell me what to dream about?”

            Do It Dad gets a tad huffy, cagy in response to his daughter’s innocuous inquiry, and snaps back with, “I squeeze in some me time, alright.”            The reality is, Do It All Dad loved tucking in his firstborn in his old office, which his daughter took over after her baby brother Samuel was born— way more so than hearing his younger brother bemoan, over the phone, how their Dad is no longer into him as much because the old man was burnt out upon hearing about his youngest’s non-stop pity party, knowing he had a cushy restaurant manager job in the city now and was happily married, allegedly when other family-run generational restaurants had become obliterated forever in a post-COVID constrictive universe gone wild.

            At the same, tact was never Do It All Dad’s younger brother’s forte. For example, after his second child was born, Art Show USA, his younger brother, calls Do It All Dad and says, “Hey, bro, congrats. Figured I’d call you while taking a piss.”             Do It All Dad, always quick with a snappy one-liner, replies, “So glad you could squeeze the call in between doing more bumps of coke into your late thirties, only hearing the last call from the bathroom stall.”  

            Now, Do It All Dad wasn’t a drug-free monk. Even after becoming a father of three, he took a daily hit of pot downstairs in the garage at night, which was a reward for posting another short story on his blog or from performing a new chapter piece from his upcoming book The Koshterarian Comedians on his Do It All Dad Year Podcast, which he would listen to after a puff of his cherished green. He knew it made his material come more alive, in addition to chilling him out after another day of banging out more sheets of comedy gold in his relentless pursuit to become the star voice behind the remote work revolution and earn some book advance money sometime this millennium, so he could continue to grow closer to his kids and God on the Stay At Home Comedian front, yeah, yeah, yeah.

            Still, Do It All Dad knew that cocaine was the most overrated, soul-sucking drug of all time, which played the main role in getting his father addicted to Ambien, knowing how much his younger brother’s ongoing cocaine incidents, including getting arrested, stealing money from their ATM account, being shipped off to boarding school for it, going to rehab, and fucking up every new golden restaurant manager opportunity played no role in Pops becoming the deepest sleeper in the world anymore, either.

            Do It All Dad had always resisted telling his parents about his younger brother’s drug woes. However, whenever he did alert them to his younger brother falling into a dark hole of a druggy abyss with no flicker of light in sight again, little bro would resent his big brother’s intervention. This was despite him knowing that only their father could put the fear of God into his little brother during another predictably dark dive into pity party played-out land, again.  

            Do It All Dad also knew what a manipulative, lying cunt his younger brother could be as a result of being a cokehead for more than two decades in a row and counting. So he was more sensitive than most about the residual damage early teen drug use can cause in families, which never ceases to tear the trusting, binding fabric between family members with relentless precision at the seams.

            So when Do It All Dad’s nurse wife started pushing melatonin gummies on his precious Bashert daughter, he got tense immediately because he didn’t want his daughter to develop an addiction to any drug or sleep-inducing vitamin (despite it being all natural—whatever the fuck that meant, because nothing felt natural about a mother drugging her daughter to sleep).

            Knowing of his dear Matilda’s effortless, warm, sparkly glow made Do It All Dad feel most alive in her presence, come rain or shine. She wasn’t some deadweight conversationalist snooze who was better off forced to bed prematurely before she bored everyone else to fucking death in the family, in the process.

            Now Do It All Dad was applying for freelance writing jobs to keep his marriage together, because the endless sheets of comedy gold banged out for the wild enjoyment of his Do It All Dad Year audience wasn’t paying off the mortgage any time soon, either.  

            Today, he even applied for a Sleep Niche Marketing Copywriter position which sells sleep masks, and fired off an email to his potential hiring benefactor that read like this: “I’m a great fit for this role because I have vested interest in promoting any sleeping aid which helps my daughter go to sleep without it feeling like the Neverending Bedtime Hour.

            “Plus, I hate my wife pushing melatonin gummies on my daughter because it’s a gateway drug for Ambien, and I don’t need my daughter to sleepwalk into my room at night, only to ask me again, “What should I dream about, Daddy?”

            ” I can only say: ‘Dream about dunking over your younger brother while farting in his face so many times, before the idea loses its forceful funk forever. 

            “Lastly, I’m a creative, funny writer who loves to sell. Like the late great Joan Rivers used to say, ‘Can we talk?'”

            Matilda, Do It All Dad’s daughter, didn’t enjoy Mommy pushing melatonin gummies on her or her younger brothers, either, knowing that she didn’t see her mama nearly as much at night, compared to Daddy. Plus, nothing screams ‘leave me alone already’ than the automatic pushing of melatonin gummies at hard seven, every night.

            Little did mama know that Matilda, similar to lipsyncing grace in her parent’s house, was also pretending to swallow the gummy before spitting it out in the trash soon after. Matilda has been doing this routine for almost a whole year now, so her tolerance for melatonin gummies was at an all-time low. This got freaky for her fast, one night, when she forget to spit it out because it was a new brand of melatonin gummy dipped in eucalyptus oil from the faraway hinterlands of the Aussie outback, which had been taken over by Chinese big pharma companies looking to expand past the market for muscle-soothing Tiger Bomb, which is the Aussie football team’s cooldown lotion of choice.

            Mama got a good deal on these gummies on Prime Thursday, and couldn’t resist. For some reason, these melatonin gummies were real creepers and didn’t kick in until far later, after Dada tucked in her two younger brothers to sleep.

            Mama was downstairs watching the Great British Bakeoff while Dada read to his daughter from their Weird But True book about a ghost tale from upstate New York. This triggered a pleasant stroll down memory lane when Dada said to his daughter, who was resting her head on his chest, “You were conceived in upstate New York—outside of Cooperstown, NY, in a cornfield, to be exact.

            “It was the 4th of July weekend, and Mama and I were there to see a Further show (which was the new version of the Grateful Dead). The show was only twelve miles away from the Baseball Hall Of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, which is why I’ve always called you an American-made beauty from the start.”

            Daddy gets inspired and asks Alexa to play ‘American Girl’ by Tom Petty. Then, Matilda runs into her room to grab her favorite new American Girl doll, Layla.

            Once Matilda re-enters the room, American Girl’s eyes looked more tweaked than usual and she says, “Daddy, do Layla’s eyes look bigger than normal?”

            Dear Dada says, “Nothing out the ordinary. Layla still freaks me out whenever I catch her in the bathroom watching me take a piss. I’m just playing—I’ve never had Layla check me out in the bathroom, but you know what I mean.

            American Girl Dolls can be creepy realistic, making Chucky look like a harmless Cabbage Patch Doll, in comparison. Then, again, I was raised on Garbage Patch Kids trading cards, so you’d think I can handle an American Doll batting her eyelashes at me with such pronounced real-deal feeling.

            “Also, it’s hard to feel like your own man when you’re Stay At Home Dad, Matilda, which is another reason I want you to stay clear of all gateway drugs while your brain is developing, especially in high school. I don’t want you taking any pills besides aspirin; got it?

            Now Mama receives a notification every time I make another questionable purchase, before Mama texts me, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride of Chucky?”

            Matilda says, “I have a confession to make, Daddy. I took one of Mama’s new melatonin gummies by mistake tonight (meaning, I forgot to spit it out later than usual), and I think I’m hallucinating since feeding my head with melatonin (which my body produces naturally, from concealed darkness, last I checked on Google).”      Do It All Dad says, “Let’s put a sleeping mask on Layla so her eyes flickering eyes don’t freak us out as much.”  

            Matilda says, “Why don’t we just close all the curtains and snuggle? But no guided mediation music, please.”

            Daddy says, “I hear you Matilda. Trying to sleep off the acid to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in my freshman year college was the worst idea of my life. At least we don’t have any distracting, flickering black light constellations to contend with, in here.

            “Just know that you’ll always be the light of my life, and if there’s one person on this earth who doesn’t require any form of chemical-induced enhancement to make your magical way of being any more spectacular than you already are, it’s you. You’ll always have me and God in your heart, no matter what.”

            Matilda says, “Daddy, what should I dream about?”

            Do It All Dad says, “Castles made of melatonin gummies. Before Daddy eats them all to cure his loud man’s disease, so Mama doesn’t get freaked out as much from me blaring too many ‘holla for challah’ chants during my next Do It All Dad Year Podcast, whenever she is home.”          Matilda says, “I love the loud you, Daddy. So why don’t we make the castle out of diet cokes and some hidden Adderall pills, instead—not that you need it. I don’t care that you’re naturally louder than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning.”

Michael Kornbluth

Busted Beauty

Busted Beauty, otherwise known as Becca Kornbluth, was in no singing mood on Saint Patrick’s Day today, especially during the chanting portion of her Bat Mitzvah without a Torah Scroll to hide her nose behind, which she inherited from her mom’s black Irish side. Still, Becca wasn’t too green with envy on her 13th birthday compared to Ivanka Trump’s daughter, who most likely chanted her Haftorah portion in Mandarin. In fact, Becca was feeling a tad luckier than most since she struck up a platonic relationship with her best and only real friend, Joshua Prize, who turned her on to Phil Lynott’s soul man and a half’s stylings as the lead bassist and head front man singer songwriter behind Thin Lizzy, who actually looked black Irish from head to toe in real life, sporting the super-size, fly guy 70’s afro to match.  Getting Becca into the Thin Lizzy wasn’t the easiest sell despite Phil Lynott being considered Dublin’s answer to the biracial Bruce Springsteen of his day because she associated everything Irish with her busted looking nose with a bump on top, that no amount of Irish Spring when applied to it, could smooth her ruptured soul, after the time she was forced to feel excluded because of it during a game of spin the Guiness bottle on Saint Patrick’s Day on her birthday no less, which is the double whammy of in your face shame.

It was one year ago when Becca was forced to hide in the closet at Joshua’s birthday party, who was born on Saint Patrick’s Day top, so maybe there was some truth behind there being a thing called luck of the black Irish after all. Normally, Becca didn’t attend many birthday parties, instead spending her free time at home listening to Neil Diamond’s record Hot August Nights while reading Cracked Magazines as her black Irish mom who possessed a piss poor tolerance for even low alcohol lagers like Killian’s Red yelled at her dad, Michael Kornbluth for not “touching” her anymore, which made her feel like the busted, broken beauty inside. But tonight, was different because Joshua Prize was a transfer student from Park Slope, Brooklyn, and not having any friends in this new suburban hamlet otherwise known as Croton Falls, 45 minutes north of New York City, home of the ultimate Saint Patrick Day’s parade, he struck up a friendly conversation with Becca after the teacher announced the classroom birthdays, despite both of them refusing to wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day. Joshua Prize’s excuse was that he didn’t think green was the most flattering color on him. Plus, his Jewish father, who married an Irish lassie also, was beat up by Irish kids non-stop growing up in Brooklyn, who called him a Christ killer ad nauseum, insisting his ancestors 9 degrees separated from Don Rickles ancestry were responsible for heckling the indecisive Romans into crucifying Jesus to death.  So, sporting green on Saint Patrick’s Day didn’t make Joshua Prize feel so money mighty on beat up on the Jew day for being associated with alien blood colonizing blood suckers who controlled the Federal Reserve and all the banks in the North Pole to. So, when Joshua Prize was given the opportunity to make an impression when introducing himself to the class, he did. Joshua says, “You’re probably wondering, why am I not wearing green today? A classmate yells, “Because you’re a dirty gay Jew bastard.” Joshua says “I was going to say, Celtics shirts darken my inner light and look too regular drab for my taste, but close enough. Anyway, I’m having a Saint Patrick’s Day Birthday at my parent’s house tonight, which also happens to be my birthday. We dyed the pool green, hired House of Pain to DJ and imported a brick oven pizza hand tiled in Italy that will be serving all the pesto pizza pies you can eat. The party starts at 7, hope to see you all there, especially Becca. She’s an extra loosey-goosey live wire one, I can tell.” The entire class laughs with surging derision despite Joshua letting off a winkish smile at Becca from afar while looking directly through her soul which screamed, new love is in town. 

2 seconds into the party, the class bully Liam O’Reilly, insists they play game of Spin the Bottle, but only if Joshua and Becca hide in the closet, because they refused to wear a shirt that says, “Kiss me I’m Irish.” Becca and Joshua oblige. Becca hunches over in a rather spacious closet while fighting off hanging minks and leather jackets to get a clearer view of Joshua, whose father Steven Kornbluth, was a big time TV development executive in Manhattan for FX who greenlit It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Rescue Me. Finally, Becca fights through the endless jackets and her eyes meet Joshua’s piercing hazel lit eyes. She goes in for a kiss but Joshua backs away from it. Becca says, “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” Joshua says, “I’m just nervous about kissing you Becca because I’ve never kissed a girl before.” Becca says, “That makes 2 of us for now.” Joshua can sense he’ll wreck Becca’s surge of self-esteem for the foreseeable future if he doesn’t try to get into kissing her immediately. Joshua leans in to kiss Beca with his eyes closed and they clank their teeth together, almost shattering them into the smithereens. Becca says, “So I wasn’t born to be your main squeeze, Joshua. We can still be friends, right?” Joshua says, “I snuck in a bottle of Guiness, why don’t we split it together and play truth or dare.” Becca says, “Fine, but you to have to pick truth 1st.” Joshua says, “Truth, Becca is pretty with no makeup on. And I get along with girls better than boys, my mother excluded.”

Now, Becca stands tall over the bema, which is the elevated stage in Synagogue where she performs her speech to commemorate the completion of her Bat Mitzvah and says, “One time a dear friend told me, “Rejection toughens you up for more rejection”, yet I stopped feeling excluded from a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day since Joshua Prize came into my life. All of a sudden, my birthday felt pregnant with feel good possibility again. Now, I no longer wanted to bury my nose in AP chemistry books till science camp to hide my mark of shame. I’ve wanted a nose job for the longest time. Originally, it was the only reason I decided to study for my Bat Mitzvah, after my father bribed me with future Bat Mitzvah money to pay for it.  But I don’t mind my nose anymore since my friend Joshua gave it a positive spin after we were forced to sit out a game of Spin The Bottle in the closet at his parent’s house on his birthday no less. Joshua said, “Don’t blame your mom for your busted nose, Busted Beauty. Blame your gay closeted dad for getting too drunk to pull out again. But seriously, who cares if you inherited your mom’s busted nose or not? Your dad’s the one you should be pissed off at, especially knowing how’s he pushing you to use your own Bat Mitzvah money to pay for corrective nose surgery that was his glaring production oversight in the 1st place. At the same time, you can’t be too mad at pops, because he gave me you. Granted, our kissing chemistry is non-existent. But new love was in town the day we met in chemistry class, and we could always produce a test tube baby together if you’d like. Like the late great Phil Lynott said, “If you’ve got nothing but a sense of humor, you will survive.” And we’ve got each other’s back, no matter what. Who cares if you’re into kissing girls more, more than I am. Pervs stick together. Hey, we just outed ourselves while still stuck in the closet. Regardless, you’ll always be my favorite busted beauty Becca.” I said, “Joshua, stop being such a drama queen already. Your gayer than Allen Ginsburg during Fleet Week. Oscar Wilde wants his quilted pen used to ball tickle the ghost of Lord Byron back. Moments later, we emerge from the closet while the game of Spin The Bottle during party continues. Then, I go into kiss Joshua on the lips, but he arches his back away from me this time, before cracking his head onto the sharp corner of the wall, which required 13 stiches soon after. So, what’s the takeaway of this story ladies and gentlemen? He’s only a fag hag if you end up marrying the fruitcake. And sometimes, a gay boyfriend is a girl’s best friend.”

Michael Kornbluth