The Yoga Scout

The Yoga Scout enters a wine shop and locates his prey—a handsome white dude, most likely in his mid-thirties, trying to figure out what wine to get. Yoga Scout goes in for the kill and says, “Buying wine for your wife again because you have a hard time expressing how much you’d prefer she do core exercises with her Peloton app instead?”  Married white guy says, “How did you know?          Wine Shop owner approaches. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

             Yoga Scout’s eyes remain locked on his prey, and he says, “Ignore the wine merchant of death. She doesn’t care about making your sex life above average again. I do.”

            Wine Shop Owner says, “How dare you?”    Yoga Scout continues to focus his eyes only on his prey and fires back with, “We’re in the middle of a conversation. I’m in the process of offering a new lease on life. All you offer is boring talking points from Tucker Carlson. So, with all due respect, I’d like to help save what remains of this man’s flagging sense of independence.

            “Pretend you care about another customer’s interior life while we wrap up our bonding session here. I’m not your sigh-heavy husband, who has to act content with your indifference to high-stepping out of those spanks from more box jumps in the yard after you’re done pushing more artificial love juice into sour relationships which reached their expiration date ions ago, lady.”

            The Wine Shop Lady rolls her eyes and returns behind the cash register as a new customer enters; a pretty-faced gal, most likely in her early forties, who shoots a warm, semi-flirty smile at the Yoga Scout as she enters. Which he feels from behind the back of his head, because his third eye is open to eye sensations from every direction imaginable.  

            The Yoga Scout resumes his pitch. “Look, I know you’re buying wine for your wife because you strike me as more of an IPA guy, for starters, despite your complete lack of facial hair, secondhand clothes, or visible tats straining for hardcore Indie cred respect.

            “More importantly, I’ve been in your shoes before—married, constrained, and worry-laden because you share more in common with your nine-year-old daughter than your own wife, who has done everything in her power to depreciate your relationships with your family and old friends because she’s always struggled with accepting how much joy others are capable of giving you without her presence.”

            Middle-aged white dude says, “Are they doing a remake of Candid Camera again? How do you know so much about me, already? Or am I really that much of an open book on depression? Also, do you realize that pretty-faced gal who just came inside was giving you the yummy eyes the moment she came in the store?”

            The Yoga Scout says, “Of course I did. My third eye feels all lusty awe. More importantly, do you long for greater flexibility in your life? Do you fantasize about doing what you want to do to satisfy your own shot at fulfillment on this earth, which, more often than not, doesn’t include your wife, these days?”

            Middle-aged dude says, “Is Coors Light the pounding beer of choice in Daytona Beach during Spring Break because it’s lightweight and easy to inhale in rapid succession like miniature yenta-breath sorority girls from the University Of Buffalo? Personally, I wish they’d make a toothpaste that tastes like Coors Light, so I don’t taste anything afterwards.”

            The Yoga Scout exudes a booming laugh which shakes the pricier magnums of first-growth Bordeaux on the walls a little bit.

            Middle-aged guy says, “That’s the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. It was on par with a room full of black guys in the audience on Def Comedy Jam after Bernie Mac came out and said, ‘I ain’t scared of you motherfuckers,’ which set off a bomb of cataclysmic motion of high-flying legs and flailing arms in every direction, which screamed touchdown.”

            The Yoga Scout says, “My throat chakra is as clear as Times Square on New Years Day. So, I have no problem projecting with a mountainous echo of feeling.”

            Middle-aged dude says, “Are you a yoga instructor? I learned about chakras when I used to live in LA. My psychic there told me I should’ve been a big-time comedy writer already, but I had to pay two grand to clear my chakras first, because they were more clogged than my freshman one-hitter.

            “Although, one unplanned kid later, and with me still working as a journeyman IT agency headhunter who’s more of a trickler than a consummate rainmaker, not too much has changed, since.

            “Wearing sandals in the dead of the winter, in addition to your Spread Eagles tank top, should’ve told me you were in the yoga business. It looks like my third eye needs much greater opening than I thought, after all.”

            The Yoga Scout says, “I do teach yoga—hot naked yoga after dark, to be exact. But I’m also a single dad who was tired of living in his head. But that desire, alone, wasn’t enough for me to stretch myself outside my comfort zone for a change.

            “It took my seven-year-old daughter, at the time, to buy me some yoga classes from money made from her lavender cupcake bakeoff sale at school, to make me realize how much I need pretty feet in life, for nirvana on earth to help me heal my jaded heart for denying myself that scrumptious, inhalable pleasure for so long. There’s no bunions in my yoga class, Spread Eagles.”

            Middle-aged dude says, “How can you provide a no-bunion guarantee? Does your third eye possess x-ray vision, too?

            The Yoga Scout says, “You know how normally you can tell if a woman tastes good or not? Well, the more hot naked yoga you do after dark, in a candlelit room with In A Silent Way by Miles Davis on, the more in touch you become with your powers of intuition. Plus, anyone who enrolls in a hot naked yoga class is most likely bunion-free.

            “I offer a full month membership refund, if they do. My Spread Eagles hot naked yoga classes after dark is full of many single men moaning, too. I wanted to create a safe space mixer for divorcees to meet without having to go through all the drawn-out time-suck charade of having to wine and dine each other first, because when you’re a single dad or mom, who has the time for that bullshit, anyway?

            “Also, if you sign up for my class, it means you no have no problem with your fellow classmates objectifying your body, knowing how much my Spread-Eagle line of scented lubes and yoga mats (with my signature spread-eagle logo of spread legs with picture-perfect toes) fly off the shelves, too.

            “More importantly, my class helps heal the trauma of repressed rage and latent sexual tension which has been held imprisoned by shame and guilt for way too long.

            “Our motto at Spread Eagles is, “Moaning Is Good, Sighing Is Bad, because when you moan for pleasure, it means whatever you’re doing, is making your body come alive because it hurt so good.” Holla John Cougar Mellencamp lives, thank you very much.”

            Middle-aged guy says, “Do you have a yoga studio nearby? Croton Falls, NY isn’t a bastion of after-hours hot naked yoga studios, last time I checked on Yelp.”

            The pretty-faced forty-something gal approaches The Yoga Scout and says, “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear you two, but do you teach yoga at Spread Eagles in the city? My best friend met her latest and greatest boy toy there, at your Tribeca location, I think.”

            Middle-aged guy says, “Wait a minute. I thought only divorcees were invited to attend.” The Yoga Scout says, “There’s more fucked-up feet out there than you’d think. So, in the true spirt of compassion and love for variety, Spread Eagles does everything in its power to spread the love.”

Michael Kornbluth

Dumb Drunk Daddy

I say, “Matilda, tell me about the Bath Bomb mama got you last night for
Hanukkah. She says, “It’s almond winter mint.” I say, “Sounds like a coffee drink
Michelle Obama strong armed Starbucks to make for Kwanza.”

I support defunding the United Nations. They only exist to give Hamas a veneer
of diplomatic stature like Kamala Harris in a Burka made from Ann Taylor.

The Left today has less use for proud practicing Jews than abortion on
demand because nobody would get smoochy with Booger Face Behar disciples without
a nappy mask on to puke up their pro-Antifa innards 1st.

Leftist Jews today reject everything today Jewish. Why else would they rush to
tat up their arms to rock the Lena Dunham arm flapper look for all it’s worth?
And you wonder why New York birth rates have sunk into China rat ruining

Mocking full of themselves, fully vaccinated dicks from my Generation X, who got an itchy esophagus from COVID, who still think Mr. Groper won by a hair, who had no problem with the Democrats using mail in voting to jack an election to hide their crimes
against humanity is more than kosher in my book.

They moan, “I can’t believe I got COVID. I’m vaccinated for Christ’s sake.
But you’re still the Mongoloid Moron for trusting your natural immunity over
Dr. Gnocchi, Obama Be Good and Nancy Denture Breath Pelos, who have less use
for lockdown-imposed rules than consciousness clearing confession.”

More pretentious moans of despair continue.

“How could I get COVID after being fully vaccinated?”

“Because you’re a glamorized lab rat, immune to self-corrective inspection like
your baby boomer resister parents, because insufferable, wholly destructive, baby
boomer arrogance never dies. And you’re the delusional, a plus narcissist who
thinks the real America kicked off Twitter already, gives a flying shit about your opinion’s inflated sense of self-worth since you’ve done dick to speak out against censorship and
silencing of any pro-self-defense sentiment since your jerkoff media pretended, they acted in good faith by calling a child rapist released from the loony bin in Kenosha as a peaceful, victimized protestor who only punctured his victim’s age of innocence with guided meditation music on Amazon music, indefensible pricks.”

Kurt Vonnegut was right; the US media is the one to blame for dividing everyone
into either a liberal or a conservative. Why can’t someone just launch a Burning
Mask Party already? That’s right, black men have been wearing a masks for
years according to Dave Chappelle. Yeah, Kamala, the Ugandan Giant wore one in character from 84 to 86, but that’s it. We all know Kamala Harris was a useless cackling
whore before she was assigned border visitation duty to see if the Donkey show is
keeping the dreamer alive in us all. Unmasking Kayne as an opportunistic showboat
fame whore didn’t require a tremendous leap of faith either.  So, Drake accused the infallible Kayne West of writing strictly secular rap music these days. Fucking own it Kayne. Don’t sling me shit like how Bound 2 You, was secular music, when you banged Kim on the sink, while getting some gunk on her mink. Unless you’re framing Kim Kardashian in
your eyes as top of the Porcupine Persian Puss chain, who could turn
your prick into wine to pour over Taylor Swift’s country ass white dress at the
MTV music awards because only Beyonce can get away with wearing ray of light white
after Labor Day in St. Barts.

I can’t wait to give up all forms of overpriced wine and IPAs for the year.
So, I could feel like a less bloated, blowhard hobbit hipster straining to
give any bangable woman sustained stiffage based on their Grateful Dead and Company
shirts and Dancing Bear masks since everyday became mask up Sharia Law appreciation
day.  Without those freedom loving deplorable Dead Heads making a peep about the fascist Democrats hacks in charge of these draconian policies otherwise. What a depressingly dreary, fake news patriots unmasking it’s been. But Hillary doesn’t have evil energy like Trump, Carlos Santana? But Hillary is the best-selling voodoo doll in Haiti, year after year. Plus, I don’t need to drop acid in this instance, to see who’s full of shit Carlos.

Did you know you can reverse all form of brain damage impairment by refraining from alcohol for one whole year? You experience improved memory and better
executive reasoning for a degenerate Jew like myself, with a long, shameful
history of alcoholic bumps into furniture in the middle of the night after
pissing himself while passed out in his daughter’s bedroom prior because he
possesses no feel for measured pounding pace of Kentucky bourbon on the 1st night of Hanukkah, that he’s only been planning for all year, whatsoever.

87,000 people die each year from Alcohol overdosing. I must have 87,000
lives then. Because I’ve drank enough bourbon one winter in my parent’s attic
with my wife to make Charles Bukowski feel like a lightweight pussy poet,
guilty of excessive hyperbole like Hitler’s claim to be Marc Chagall in the
making despite never leaving you with a magical dreamy, impressionistic

Hanukkah Challah Day Joke:

A Cardinal’s finishing line on altar boys next in line.

“It’s all holy meat juice to you kid.”

Lenny Bruce Lives.

Hannukah Challah Day, Challah.

My brother’s response to this joke was a plug for an old school Public Enemy
video. He says, “Despite your political affiliation. I know you can still appreciate
some old school hip hop.” I say, “Why, because Public Enemy predates the
Thugs Lives Matters Most protests during last year’s Summer of Love? I should still
love Public Enemy because the Jewish Forward insists on framing Professor Griff
as a “victim”, whose career was gunned down by the Jewish Mafia over his comments
about all the Jews controlling the slave trade at the height of Public Enemy’s
popularity despite Jews heading up the Holocaust being banned from land ownership
in Europe while being stripped of any incentive to love thyself as thy neighbor,
when you’re surrounded by nations of mini-Hitler’s mouseketeers.  Why would I listen to Public Enemy after my best friend’s mother claimed I looked like Elvis growing up as a kid? It feels good to be compared to rock royalty while your best friend’s mom drools at the prospect of unleashing your hound dog side inside of her for some totally worth it rib rattling, jail house bound rock of her own. Professor Griff is a fucking moron. Calling Jill
Biden, Dr. Biden, doesn’t make her any less of a lying, trashy, small-town ho, who
never met a brush she liked for Scarecrow Appreciation Month. Professor Griff
accused the Jews of controlling the entire drug trade to Rolling Stone. I’m positive
Frank Lucas would have an issue with that white supremacist blanketed assertion.
If you saw the movie American Gangster, you know Denzel’s character believes, “Whatever those dumb mooks can do to poison my community, I can do better. Just wait until the Saints of Newark comes out motherfucker.”

How does Farrakhan celebrate Holocaust Remembrance Day? Spray Jard Kushner’s
Twitter feed with nothing but termite emoji’s, from dawn till night, but throw
in the hashtag, but Natalie Portman is alright.

New theory behind my compressed nerve: Losing my nerve to offend LinkedIn by
posting more comedy records bound to keep me out of Corporate America forever.

Future father wisdom 1st time Dads can look forward to on text conversation threads from their friends in the same boat already.

Increased wiggle room can be a deflating experience.

Unlike Glue Guns, your sweaty sex period won’t stick.

No looking back once mama’s semi-tight snatch of yesteryear tears apart at
the seams.

You won’t know whether you’re floating in space or landing on an aircraft carrier
museum strip in Chelsea Piers, unable to achieve blast off without fantasizing about
new Bermuda Triangle’s to have your super soaker disappear in.

Give hell hole sex a chance, for a tighter topping experience all around.

2 kids later, Goose would rather spike Wilson half naked around other sweaty
slick Top Gun gunners, instead of taking another nosedive headfirst into Meg Ryan’s
sunny shine snatch. Because sex with Meg Ryan after 2 kids resembles playing musical
triangles in the high school band as you flail your metal rod stick against Tom
Hank’s romantic movie library collection stuffed inside.

Before you know it, your 10-year-old daughter gets breast buds. And you get
mad at your wife yelling, “Why haven’t yours sprouted yet.”

But you can’t get mad at your wife for converting a gingerbread house into
a tricked -out Hanukkah blue one with a Star of David out front for the 3rd
night of Hanukkah. The only thing missing on front door was a sign that said, “No
Liberal Jews allowed, who think Farrakhan’s admirers in Public Enemy are held back
from demonizing Jews any more than Deshawn Jackson only needing to be properly reeducated on Hitler.  You know, Obama’s most admired leader according to the Source Magazine. Obama would give Hitler 5 mics if he could. I’m not even exaggerating. Obama’s the one who loves Hitler. Obama wishes he was that organized. Mass extermination, of all his nosy pestering journalist critics, who dared to criticize his billion-dollar nuke time out deal with Iran would be a gas. Dumb Drunk Daddy, no more, no more. Aerosmith lives, Hanukah Challah Day, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Reimagining Tea For Dad

Dad says, “Tea is gay.”

I say, “Do you want your 1st born to achieve his Do It All Dad Year or not?”

Dad says, “Does your Do It All Dad Year include you doing guys on the down low? I don’t get it.”

I reply, “I bet the voice of Alexa isn’t manly enough for you pops. Why don’t I change the voice of Alexa to the voice of Scarlett Johansson who sounds like she’s stuck between estrogen throat blocker treatments.”

Dad says, “I’d change the voice of Alexa to Samuel L. Jackson.”

I say, “Alexa, who told Samuel L Jackson it looks cool to dress up like Spike Lee’s Grandma, who identifies as a Jazz Critic descendent of Sonny Rollins, in Tyler Perry’s new film, The Uppity Cunt?”

Dad says, “You don’t like black people.”

I say, “Dad, how many black girls have you banged named Porsha? That’s what I thought. But good luck trying to gay shame me into resuming my lushy ways over drinking tea like Bruce Lee again pops. And even if I was 30 years gay, you got 3 grandchildren out of it pops, so you came out on top. And that’s how the tea leaves crumble.”

The vax lessens the symptoms, didn’t you hear?

Forget fatigue, you’ll storm the Capital Building like the Running Man after DeSantis wins in a patriot made landslide, no amount of election fraud can conceal.

No more headaches, just a mild irritation of the ears like the Muslim Call to Prayer on a busted loudspeaker in Astoria, Queens.

First an itchy esophagus, now you’ll be deep throating Lexington Steele replicas without it feeling like your tonsils just got punctured to pieces in the process.

Fever finished. Just measured smug superiority flowing forward.

Shortness of breath ends. Now, you’ll last longer than Jared Kushner in the sack with Ivanka despite her talking boring dirty to him in Mandarin on his birthday again.

Coughing comes to a screeching halt. Now, you’ll suck down medicinal strength dispensary weed out of a metal bat made in Wuhan and you’ll be flying high again.

Muscle aches become orgasmic mush on pure E from 1995.

Naps become siestas with Penelope Cruz falling asleep on your crotch to put her motor mouth lisp to sleep in the process.

Diarrhea is replaced by out of this world, beyond substantial dumps like you just inhaled an entire protein pea farm in one sitting.

Difficulty breathing ends although if Pearl Necklace Harris becomes President all bets are off. Calling that bitch erratic, is an insult to stable schizophrenics holding down government jobs in Quebec.

Congestion gone. Who cares if your media worshiping whores are still full of shit from head to toe already?

Michael Kornbluth

Hitting On Edgy

After my son’s teacher parent conference, I’m convinced his teacher is flirting with me. Or why would she say in the hallway, “Arthur, you didn’t tell me how tall your dad was?” In other words, I’ll take his birds eye view of my push up perched bra anytime. Challah, thank you very much.

Daddy what’s a pervert? Flexing your manhood without permission.

My new turn-on is older woman with silver grey hair. I call them Wisdom Whiskers. Wisdom Whiskers can make you cum like a prize horse from reading your mind like Uri Geller.

“He won’t be anal about ass play if he takes forever to blow his loud after lock jaw love has kicked into overdrive.”

Wisdom Whiskers can bend your dick like Professor X after regaining the use of his legs again in the form of a horny silver haired fox chick, who’s capable of riding your joystick out of its socket if a stiff Storm creeps up, she-he’s ass. Challah, thank you very much.

At Whole Food with my kids, I get wrapped up into staring at a magazine title and say out loud to the grocer worker scanning groceries, “Living Without Inflammation.” Is that magazine article about your avoiding your mother-in-law till your last dying breathing.”

Whole Foods worker laughs long time. United we laugh, I prove it every day, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Later, we’re at the Pizzeria and a woman takes an interest in me being tagged along by my beautiful stream of kids. She says, “All 3 are yours?” I say, “I never mastered the art of the pump fake.”

So-So, MILF laughs long time.

Daughter asks daddy, what does pansexual mean? I said, “Orlando Bloom trying to look semi-quizzical serious in Elf ears.”

Earlier, my youngest yells at his big sister for getting Katy Perry stuck in her head. He complains, “Daddy, I’m going to beat up Tilda for throwing me in Kornbluth Jail. In Kornbluth Jail, I’ve got Katy Perry stuck in my head.” I said, “Next time Katy Perry rings, tell her to suck the hate speech and Russian disinformation out of my new lease on life love blaster, if she’s itching to trigger an early release on top of her money shot freeing beauties. Trump has ties to Russia. Duh, what Mail Order Bride Owner doesn’t it? Challah, thank you very much.

Kids try all the fancy cheese samples at the grocery store. I say, “Manchego was the scene stealer of them all.” Semi-busty, blond, significantly older than me gal standing next to me at the grocery store deli line says, “Manchego is always the scene stealer.” I use my Improv training at UCB and say, “Yes, and I’d rather fuck a sheep giving birth to Manchego cheese than stick it in Madonna’s droopy, kick the can camel toe snatch these days. Did Madonna become Ashley Judd’s spirit animal overnight, or what?”

Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Screening Wild

My son just missed his screen test for kindergarten because I was jailed by Child Services after my son points out a shirt with excitable boy glee at the Danbury Mall and screams, “Rick and Morty, Rick and Morty. Then he adds, “What’s an anus hole probe again Daddy?” I say, “A shrink examining whether you’re a bigger asshole than your father.”

I call his school to reschedule his Kindergarten screen test because my wife already feels bad about forgetting to remind me about the screen test this weekend when she was working as a lactation consultant, giving new mommies breast feeding tips like, “The sooner you get your husband into sucking down regrettable non-fat lattes, the better.”

Gene from school picks up.

“Hi Gene, this is Michael Kornbluth, I was calling to reschedule Samuel’s screen test for kindergarten. He can’t wait to make his presence felt like his big sis and older brother there. So, in other words, your school forecast is more extended, perpetual sunshine.”

Gene laughs long time.

I add.

“For what’s it worth. Not only can Samuel spell his name, but he can name the members of all 3 Beastie Boys with real deal New York bred, funkified flourish. “Ad Rock, MCA and Mike Diamond. My name is Mike D, and I got all the flying juice.” Plus, he can count to 10 one armed pushups while chanting, “You suck forever stupid masks.” My dad is an ancient moron, have I told you that yet? And 8 million New Yorkers who wear 8 million masks outside are 8 million morons in a row. Did I pass my screen test for kindergarten yet? When I grow up, I’m going to live in Philadelphia to train like Rocky and little Creed. Daddy thinks, I can knock him out in 2 years. He ain’t poop without me. I know I can ‘t say poop in kindergarten. But daddy keeps force feeding me that line. He’s a comedian. But you’re not laughing, so it stinks more than my old school nappy bin.”

Challah, thank you very much.”

Michael Kornbluth

Fago The Great

In Woody Allen’s memoir, Little Jew Balls. No, I mean Crimes and Misdemeanors, the Early Years. No, Curse of Christina Tightchoochie. No, Too Bad Soon-Yi doesn’t have any twin sisters. No, Yellow Tail at home over Streetcar Named Desire on Broadway. No, Husbands and Epstein’s friends on Facebook. No, Everything You Wanted To Know About Judges Who Love My Movies who have no problem releasing Illegal immigrant rapists just jailed by ICE agents, primed for deportation, because Homeland Security is so passe and Weapons of Mass Destructions Years. No, Midnight In Soon-Yi after offering Mia’s babysitter the Chamomile Cosby Tea special. No, Nipples That Taste Like Spring Soft Seaweed Never Sour Pussycat. No, Don’t Wear Makeup Soon-Yi because you’ll look older than I want you to already. No, it’s Mia’s Bananas for insisting Frank Sinatra fathered Ronan or else Frank’s goon squad would be off the races and I’d be sleeping next to a decapitated Secretariat. No, Shoot The Ping Pong Ball Out Your Snatch Again one more time, to help my dear friend Dick Cavet snap out of his crippling depression or else you can’t be sent back to that orphanage in Laos where Mia plucked you out of dirt poor obscurity SOON enough. No, Small Time Sleepover Crooks. No, Love and My Private Geisha, who’s allergic to Oxy Pads, so she remains forever adolescent young in my eyes. No, Soon-Yi’s Interiors read, Me So Horny, for Woody’s Wood Only. No, Manhattan’s Top Pubescent Publicist. No, Star Fucker Memories. No, A Midnight in Mariel Hemingway’s Cubbie Hole at Dalton Prep Elementary. No, Broadway Danny Knows, Blown Up Actress Snatch Blows, No, Celebrity Teen Snatcher Immunity. No, Another Happy Ending. No, Manhattan Murdering Hymens. No, Mighty Mouse Allen. No, Everyone Says I Rocked The Cradle Of Love With You. No, Deconstructing Eating Chinese In, without having to order in,  versus scarfing down more veal piccata at Elain’s again. No, Sweet and Sour Lowdown on being charged with culturally appropriating Somalian pirates taking a dip into in the hymen jacking game throughout the Caribbean next to Lolita Island. No, Soon-Yi Love Triangle Dream With Lucy Lu. No, Whatever Works To Give You Sustained Stiffage Through The Night. No, To Rome With an Elite Yelper On Yelp. No, Blue Balls Has-Been. No, Magic in Soon-Yi Fondling My Thinking Balls during my downtime between shooting pics. No, Irrational Prude Rubes. No, Café Polanski, Got My Back Society. No, its, Festivals Of Won Ton Suds In My Mouth. That’s it, in Woody Allen’s memoir, Festivals of Won Ton Suds In My Mouth, he repeats a quote by Emily Dickenson when stating, “The heart wants what the heart wants.” Or in Woody Allen’s case, this means a bunch of stuck together old Polaroid shots of a half-naked 9-year-old Soon-Yi. The only pics missing from Woody’s collection was the one of Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine, Challah. Fago The Great lives, to dump on another funny man celebrity of his day. With some luck, The New Yorker will print my flaming funny prose in the Shouts & Murmurs section by May.

Michael Kornbluth

Root Down Mixes Rule

3 months into our relationship, girlfriend now wife says, “I won’t covert to Judaism.”

I said, “Fine, but if I forget to ask if you’re the pill because I’m stoned again. I want to raise our kids Jewish.”

She says, “Only if we raise them pescatarian”, which includes a vegetarian based diet with fish like crawfish, which is shrimp with more personality.

I said, “Why not? Jesus was the original super Jew, deal. He worked as a freelance fisherman when his carpentry business for giant crosses hadn’t caught on like wildfire yet.”

Now, we rock the Koshertarian Diet at home, and I perform Shabbat prayers by throwing in an occasional, “Can I get a holla for some Challah?”

Granted, my gentile wife can’t fight the urge to inject our house with Christmas forced cheer through tainting our Jewish home during Hanukkah with Oreo Candy Canes, Gnomes and paint your own Gingerbread homes from Michaels. Because Catholic High School girls are more colorful holiday celebrators than their ho hum waspy counterparts.

But you know your wife doesn’t think Jews are the root of all evil if she tricks out the Gingerbread house with a Star of David on top.

I told our kids the Gingerbread House converted.

Daughter asks, “What does converted means?”

I said, “Kicking it Old School Testament style.”

Beastie Boys live, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Holy Lighter

It’s been officially 6 months since my year without beer journey began. It got humiliating spending so much time hungover, recycling, endless reminders of my lush-littered past, as entire Rocky Marathon marathons on AMC passed me by. Now, I fuck with type A personality types, who think it’s a good look wearing a running medal of some kind at a bagel shop during the weekend. Chances are, this edgeless, blah breath, has never been in a rush to slam double IPAs behind his kids’ back on a Friday, because his wife is being ahead of the curve annoying again, especially when she says, “Do you believe in the Monkey Pox Vaccine?” I say, “Babe, I gave up my alt right dirt rags like the Gateway Pundit and Breitbart according to Anti-MAGA country at large. So, I don’t really give a shit about any of the damned hell hole sex commentary about it. All I know, is that according to an American Thinker article from 1 month ago, kids are getting it, according to groomed are Plus, from what I’ve read in the past, I’ve learned that Monkey Pox primarily impacts the gay community and can be transferred from mere skin on skin contact, which rules out random hand job relief at the Equinox Gym in Chelsea, that I can’t afford a membership from my non-existent book sales anyway. So, I don’t see what a vaccine can do to prevent skin on skin infection outside of good old-fashioned abstinence, which I’ve got going for me because were us, and I’m in the middle of porn cleanse also, so the temptation to juice for joy at the sight of Third Legged has died. So, I’ll pass on the Aids light, Monkey vaccine, thanks.”

So, the Medal running douchebag at the bagel store on a Saturday gets all chummy with the manager there, taking about the upcoming New York City Marathon, I think, then his age of 36 is brought up, which is a decade a younger than me. My sober Alpha Dog attacks and spit fires, “Do you still get asked for ID?” Atkins lite barely mutters a clear sounding lie, “Well, maybe, sometime.” Because this asshole has never passed out with a raging hardon with a condom still on while blacking out the face of the gal he banged the night before, guaranteed. And I say, “I still get asked for ID and I’m 46. I win this race to the fountain of the youth, BMI light. The only thing that sucked about getting asked for ID around my 3 kids at Target, is how it made me feel like a teen drop out mom from Tallahassee. Later when I got home, I wanted to change my headline title on my LinkedIn profile to Crystal Meth Homemaker.”

So, what’s my essential thought leadership point LinkedIn, as the new king of sober media? Comedy keeps you young at heart and does wonders for your complexion, which is why upholding a rigorous regimen of banging out more endless sheets of comedy gold keeps those encroaching greys at bay. At the same time worry lines don’t become to pronounced worrisome after your done lifting the spirits of random mom’s standing next to you with your kids at Target now, with the oppressive hold of Adderall and edibles rapidly fading from your system, who thank you for “making their day”, after you refuse to get your son a Hershey Bar after stating, “No chocolate bar. We just made Chocolate chip crumbled pancakes at home. And we have crazy hick degenerate DNA to contend with on the southern side of our family, that makes Hunter come off as a slacker underachiever in comparison. Plus, mom had a drunk cousin on her Irish side who fell into a vat of Guiness while on the job once to. So, we need to temper our over top indulgent desires more than most families or else you’ll be a slave to your primal desires forever, and never achieve sustainable levels of holy lighter light. Which explains why Uncle John, looks like a hollowed version of his former self these days or why former Mets All-Star Dwight Gooden talks in that stilted, drained dry manner while losing his God given ability to throw blazing, awe inspiring fastballs that scream you better feel the fucking breeze in my presence motherfucker. Back when Dwight Gooden’s masterful timing and killer attack ease, would leave you speechless like Shoeless Joe Jackson batting .408 his rookie year, which is a hit to swing ratio even Woody Allen couldn’t match on Show of Shows with Sid Ceasar, despite him shitting out films like Bananas soon after in his sleep. That’s why holy lighter can’t be beat.”

Son says, “So not drinking beer for 6 months in a row, makes you feel lighter on your feet? I say, “Yes, and your inner light shines brighter than putz breaths who show up to bagel shops on the weekend wearing running medals with far more stable work histories to boast of, who haven’t been fired more than a Palestinian Sling Shot, that’s correct kid. Plus, I can finally trash my old joke about what it’s like being a Stay at Home She Male Slayer Comedian. “Well, drinking alone is no longer an issue.” Son adds, “Don’t you mean behind our back?” I add, “Well, daddy, doesn’t do that anymore, but that’s correct Art Show. Now, I can feel superior around mama while she nurses a glass of Pinot Grigio on a Friday night or around my mother for that matter, who sometimes can’t even wait for the Oaky Chard to cool because I’m strictly committed to getting high off your presence now kid, Matilda and Samuel included. That is until, next summer in Vermont, so I can order an insanely overpriced IPA in Burlington Vermont, only to spit out the 1st sip and declare, “Murderers Row work here. Sorry, I confused you for Hospitals sanctioning quadruple clot shots for its employees while more Doctors hit the floor than coin at the strip club in Montreal during pledge trips from the University of Buffalo while Neil Young and Crazed Vax Horse is reclaiming lost Spotify royalties in town. Holy Lighter rocks on in his free clot shot world, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

6 Types of Eggplant Parm

1) Sad, mushy, flavorless, middle-aged malaise.
2) Gross, burnt, disgusting veggies on borderline stale bread.
3) Scary to think someone would willingly buy that shit again.
4) Seething enragement for blowing 10 bucks on rancid breadcrumbs.
5) Complete shocked awe at not completely sucking for a change.
6) Full blown happiness attack because Frank’s Eggplant Parm is the bomb.  

Your kid doesn’t eat dead animals.

Then, take them to Franks for their Eggplant Parm.
And let the fussy free attack ensue.

Frank for President.

Croton Fall’s finest has blessed us with an Eggplant Parm that’s the best of the rest.

And his pizza pies are phenomenal.  Each bite is crackling sweet perfection.  

Garlic Knots will center you again.

And your chakras will no longer feel more clogged than your freshman one hitter.

Let blast off time begin.

Michael Kornbluth