Tag: books

Us Jews and Them

by doitalldadyear, posted in poetry, storytelling, writing

Pizza Lady says, “Eggplant Parm Hero.” I say, “Yes, quintessential Jew food according to Roger Waters. Now, give me some real meat, none of this Old-Testament honoring horseshit.”

Roger Waters talking dirty to Sharia Law Scholar and Palestinian Activist Linda Sarsour on his Gulfstream G6-50 paid off from bitching about his dad not getting away with murder like Hitler still sipping on Malbec on the Spanish steps of Argentina, when he’s not picking at his old school herpes sores, flaring up his desire to annihilate.

“You never saw a perfectly circumcised dick. So, mine has a mole on the tip because I’m a British bean breath like the rest. So, what difference does it make?”

Hillary Hammer Time Cankles strikes again.

Us Jews and Them, Challah, thank you very much.

Rock star bad ass Courtney Love calls Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business participating in the Women’s March on Washington because of her support of Clitoral Mutilation, which explains her backing of Chelsea Manning for Senate.

So, if siding with Courtney Love makes me Alt-Right, then I’m alright with it.

How did that other Jew hating runt rep Ilhan Omar, gonna work it out, Roger Water’s new spank bank backup after horseface AOC describe the anniversary of Amy Winehouse’s death on Twitter? Did she tweet, “12 years ago today, that Parasitical Jewess Bitch, Amy Winehouse died from Alcohol Poisoning, after exploiting the Great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth. #MuslimWomenOnlyGetStonedToDeathHeHe

Us Jews and Them, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

100 Percent Resistance

by doitalldadyear, posted in health, poetry, writing

My six-year-old son did a sixty-nine with his stuffed pet dinosaur this weekend. I guess his boner age came early. He’s gnawing this poor Dinosaur’s nuts off with relentless fury. What am I going to say? That would’ve taken balls to do in prehistoric times, kid. Ice Age is a lame excuse when seeking relief for blue balls. 

Then, this morning, my son says, “Daddy, I don’t like visiting the Pediatrician because he plays with my Nutsy Russell’s. What is Doctor Winick feeling around for? Backstage tickets to Vatican during Marti Gras. 

But seriously, shouldn’t a pediatrician be able to spot a hernia on your balls without copping a squeeze?

The way Ted Williams could spot a split-finger fastball the moment it left Sandy Kofax’s hands.

Why else would you work with half-naked kids exclusively?

And what are Pediatricians listening for when they tell you to cough?

Do they expect these kids to whistle as they work exclusively with half-naked kids for a living? 

Can’t they use AI-powered robots to feel your kid for hernia? Isn’t Musk on that yet? AI will provide added value when it automates feeling up our kids’ private parts on LinkedIn. But make the robot look like Ted, voiced by Seth McFarlane, to inject some levity into the doctor’s visit. “You want to be thunder buddies?” Sure. Ok, then I have to taser your nuts first. John Podesta and friends prefer their pool time entertainment completely bare. That might hurt. Do you want to be in a remake of The Care Bears or not? I know the Director; I’ll tell him to give you a meaty speaking part if you remain fuss-free, capeesh.” 

But seriously, why have parents allowed Pedo cloaked pediatricians to feel up their kids uninterrupted since the industrial age? Alex Jones should’ve been all over this conspiracy theory ages ago. Doc, doesn’t even offer you a margarita slice first? No garlic knots, nothing. He fondles your Nutsy Russells as if he’s just taking up juggling. Doctor Feelgood isn’t looking for lumps in breasts for breast cancer. So, what is Pedo Doc Hollywood feeling up for exactly? Erect interest in a pizza party invites to the podestas place. Suppose you don’t know what I’m saying, Google Podesta artwork on your phones right now. You’ll see enough Pedo bondage artwork to make Marilyn Manson blush. Now, in this instance, I favor 100 percent resistance unless you can present hard data that proves that feeling up my son’s private parts is nothing more than a doctor feeling himself out of debt. 

And I don’t want to hear the Doc is feeling up my son for traces of hernia, which he’d get from what? He isn’t a Dreamer whacking a stick at a pinata filled with Green Cards and pre-paid iPhone cards for life.

In this day and age, who’s cool with Doc touching your kids’ private parts post-COVID damage done, seriously? 

Before Teddy Roosevelt became president and instituted child labor laws, you had to be concerned about your artist son contracting hernia if he spent time blowing glass in his downtime while working full time as a welder on the Empire State Building. 

But when did parents decide to stop protesting the issue of Dr. Feelgood feeling up their son for hernia? 

Were the seventies that wild? 

You’d think the Doc was testing baby hunter for cocaine dick. 

If I’m not worried about my kid getting a hernia from lugging around his dinosaur dick in the making, then you shouldn’t, too, Doc. 

The pedo prick wants to make sure everything is developing normally. Sure, but pedo prick will prescribe that same kid puberty blockers, after he catches wind of him going down on his Dinosaur stuffed animal. 

I talked myself out of a speeding ticket recently. I say, “Officer, I’ve been making fun of ANTIFA on my podcast for the past five years and change.” So, there’s still hope for mankind after all. We don’t have to watch the entire shit show go up in flames. But seriously, how does ANTIFA celebrate Mother’s Day? Pick up the trash and move out of the house for good. 

I am still determining what I expected from my Freshchester Pale Ale, Captain Lawerence Brewery makes that. Eastchester, NY, is a suburban Guido enclave of southern Westchester Country. Those candy necklaces never looked fresh around Guido Nation. Still, eighties Guido’s are unsung heroes of the metrosexual revolution. Nobody else spiked hair with such stylized panache as Guido Nation in the eighties. For Christ’s sake, the tanning salon paychecks bought Tommy Hilfiger his 34 million f-you estate in Greenwich, CT. Because deep down, Tommy Hilfiger knew wiggers weren’t getting into the Pallidum dressed in pink wife beaters alone. So, what was my beer review description for Freshchester Pale Ale on Beer Advocate.com? “Skanky, rip-off Drakkar Noir made in China sprayed in my face instead of mace.”

What’s 100 percent resistance? Refusal to laugh heartily at any joke, I say, because it kills you to give props so easily away. 

I feel scuzzy for buying my 12-year-old daughter body butter so freely. 

For once, I was guilty of sensory overload despite my intentions to understand what my daughter was pushing for. I ask. 

Do you use body butter in the bath or after? 

And my daughter says. 

It’s something you use in between getting wet and getting dry. 

Then, my brain went haywire. 

She already has hips that hit the ceiling. 

Still, all I needed to hear was, “You use it in a bubble for cleansing purposes, fine.” 

Now, I learn from Mama, “You don’t use body butter in the bubble Matilda. Is Vatican soft on punishing pedophilia, yes? Daddy got you a high-end moisturizing cream for your legs to put on after the bubble. I wouldn’t mind borrowing some myself. 

I wasn’t happy with this discovery one bit. 

Not only did I blow eighteen bucks on a Coco Butter, so my daughter could slather her legs up like Taylor Swift does before visiting the Pediatrician. But my wife is calling 1st dibs on the body butter, which rubs in the fact that my wife never inherited Taylor Swift’s lick-them-clean lollipop legs. 

My daughter plays dumb after. 

I thought you could use body butter in the bubble.

I should’ve known better. 

My daughter is already guilty of wearing shorts that hug her pelvis for dear life.  

So, of course, she’s interested in adding polished refinement to her legs. 

But you need body butter for dry skin, right ladies? 

But somehow, I don’t see Jeanne Garofalo clamoring to slather her clad-covered legs in the dead of summer. So what truth am I trying to reveal here? What’s the reality of your daughter having Rockette legs in the making? Do I force my daughter to wear double-layered leg warmers like Darla on VH1 back in the day for lesbian lust appreciation month? Or do I accept that God gave my daughter a leg up on the competition with legs that go on for miles and miles? She already broke the long jump record at her school, which is still standing. My daughter does yoga workouts on the Peloton at home without nudging encouragement. I think she’d make a mini killing running her own yoga studio and wellness center at some art retreat destination in Beacon, NY, down the line. Eventually, my daughter wins the 30 under 30 distinction by Entrepreneur Magazine. 

My daughter starts her speech with. 

I fooled my dad into getting me a fancy batch of body butter when I was 12 at this high-end soap shop in Beacon. I told him I could use it in the bubble, which was total BS. All I wanted was my body butter to slather my legs with, so every time my dad commented about my need to expose too much shiny leg. I could use leverage and say, “What did you say, Swifty, my nickname for daddy, because he still dabbled with Time Release Adderall at the time. So, if you want your 1st born to forsake body-banging butter, you need to forsake the Adderall Swifty deal. It worked. I don’t have a dry skin problem. I just wanted to show off my legs because my dad was always making jokes on his Do It All Dad Year podcast about my developing breast buds but not sweating the prospect of being weighed down by busted beauties if I took after Mama, versus Jennifer Tilly. But if I’m a dad, I’d prefer my daughter to have long legs than all-consuming breasts. So, I can make other boys feel inferior in my presence and keep them on their toes. I hate socks and was destined to be a long-legged wellness Yoga Instructor and podcaster for Generation COVID. Plus, Daddy would always make fun of my role model Emma Chamberlin for doing her podcasts in her jammies while in bed, accusing her of suffering from long COVID. So, my daddy can’t have it both ways. It’s either Swifty Legs or Jammies in bed. So, I went with Swifty Legs, minus the part about getting hooked on Adderall ever, although I’d love to hear that breakup song from Swifty Legs. 

The boys come and go. 

Compared to Time Release Adderall, they’re all so, so. 

But one day, I had a change of heart. 

Barley finding time to belt out a fart.  

My life was flashing by too fast. 

So, I ditched the speed train, never relaxing enough to break gas. 

I’ve been smelling the body butter these days since I gave my time Release Adderall prescription away. 

I’m reading a book called Weird New York to my kids that tells the tale of writer Dylan Thomas, haunting the White House Tavern after drinking himself to death there. Legend says Dylan threw down 18 shots of whiskey that night. Suddenly, I feel like John Wayne compared to this lightweight cuck. I boast, “My friends bought me 21 shots for my birthday in college, and I mixed liquors that have no business mixed with, like Bacardi 151 and cheap Tequilla, and Jager soon after.” My daughter says, “You’re animal daddy, but not in a good way. God spared you for a reason. Most likely because of me. Yeah, I didn’t get sick or blackout. And my daughter says, “Well, Bob Zimmerman from Minnesota didn’t name himself Bob Kornbluth in your honor. So why don’t you get off your high horse for a bit.” 

100 Percent Resistance, Challah, thank you very much. 

Michael Kornbluth 

Surviving Sensitivity 

by doitalldadyear, posted in Parenting, poetry, writing

The first time I cooled on my son ever. 

Otherwise known as the Boy Who Raised Himself. 

I try to pick him up from a playdate. 

He’s outside with his two other long-haired buds looking a like a mini-Poison cover band in the making.

He says. 

Can you come back later? 

Then, his friend gets mouthy with me after I tell him “no.” 

Friend says. 

He doesn’t want to leave yet. 

Didn’t you hear him the 1st time? 

You’d think I was crashing John Podesta’s pool party prematurely. 

Then, all his friends formed a unified front and barked. 

Pick up time isn’t for another hour. 

And I’m feeling like a resurgent herpes sore on the spot. 

A bunch of 9-year-old punks now wield as much power as a VP Of Technology for Tesla, telling a Headhunter, “We’re all set. HR does your job better. Shouldn’t Mommy be on a pickup detail instead of you? Put us on the don’t disturb list. We work for Tesla. The government has our back no matter what. Our charging stations are the future. Who cares if the New World Order is actually collapsing national currencies for the sake of jamming more Jalopy-looking Teslas down your throat? 

Who likes impressions? You’re going to hear one anyway. Imagine Ziggy Marley getting interviewed by High Times Magazine. “Ziggy, how did your dad have seven kids? Doesn’t Ganja drain your life blaster dry and make you impotent like Agent Orange or the COVID vaccine, according to Nicky Minaj’s cousin? Ziggy says, “Fake News, Man.” 

It’s hard to feel your own man when you’re a stay-at-home shemale comedian dad. Especially when your wife’s smartphone sends her an alert after you make another questionable purchase. My wife called me from work the next day, “Hey, babe, so how was Bride Of Chucky?” 

And it’s near impossible to get your wife into a kinky mood when you’re choking her too hard financially. So, babe, I’m not drunk, stoned, or on Adderall, so it won’t take me forever to juice for joy all over Blondie after giving me some lockjaw love. Who doesn’t love endless dick? And my wife says, “Get us out of endless debt 1st, and we will talk.” 

The best thing about my daughter wearing my wife’s clothes now is realizing my interest in obscenely wealthy older women with CT listener plates hasn’t subsided. 

What has Mr. Bubble taught me about falling out of love? 

It’s taught me that people fall out of love easily until your presented with the next best thing. 

For example, my youngest son, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, used only to have eyes for Mr. Bubbles. He’d blow fart bubbles at the sight of Mr. Bubbles winking at him in the Bubble. Then, one day, we ran out of Mr. Bubbles. So, I introduced my son to Dr. Teals, Mandarin Mist, and Mr. Bubbles became a distant memory. It’s as if Mr. Bubbles never was. Now, my son is jamming tangerines up his butt for fun. He orders mimosas for brunch. He peels his mandarins with his teeth to get him into the mood before taking the plunge in a soothing salt bath with Dr. Teals again. 

I hate skinny chefs more than a sunglasses entrepreneur with perfect long hair in San Diego on Triple D without a worry wrinkle in sight. 

I hate skinny chefs more than twenty-year-old Persian kids who Mansion hop in San Diego on YouTube when I can’t even score a fashion copywriter interview in Stamford, CT. 

Why didn’t I pulverize my brother’s girlfriend’s vagina on my 30th birthday when I had the chance? Especially after she was hanging on to my mighty meat mallet for dear life. Am I a liberated pervert, Yes? But denting her pussy would’ve been gross because that would be like getting HPV through my brother. 

Would you like another example of me cooling on my son in the same week? 

After I drop him off for camp, I’m blasting George Thorogood in the car with the windows down. 

Son says. 

I’m no longer your son. 

I say. 

Would blasting Justin Bieber make a difference? 

Is his boy band wrecked face in a malleable position yet? 

If there’s any American-made band with balls that was in 0.0 rush to flash their Just Vaccinated stickers, it was George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers, known for classics such as Gear Jammer, American Made, and Shut the Fuck Up Karen; You Talk Too Much. Bud Light was a pussy beer, to begin with. So, it makes no difference to Georgie. 

I average one call a year with my dad; the last one went, “What’s new?” 

I say, “I got a call from the Creative Arts Agency yesterday. They said I’m eligible for a Wikipedia page.” 

My father says, “You’re not even eligible for a Discover card.” 

I say, “But it only costs 4000 dollars for my own Wikipedia page to confirm everything I do is hate speech in Groping Biden’s eyes.” You can’t buy better credibility than that.  

But I’ll always cherish the memory of my father showing 0.0 interest in pretending to care about my squeamish cell carcinoma diagnosis. He says, “Stop bitching; it’s a child’s play cancer.” My doctor said, “My trauma caused my child’s play cancer. So, I say, “From what doc, flipping my dad the wrong finger? 

Surviving Sensitivity, Challah, thank you very much. 

Michael Kornbluth 

Sexualizing Dream Boards

by doitalldadyear, posted in beauty, poetry, travel

I don’t want to sexualize my daughters Dream Board. But it’s hard to avoid, when you come face to face with the caption, “You can do hard things.” Does my daughter follow Kris Jenner on LinkedIn now too?

So my daughter is lying on my chest for a late night tuckin cuddle, and I’m thinking, “You can do hard things.” What was on Megan Raponie’s Dream Board growing up? Penetration is overrated. That’s what Liz Cheney told Megan Rapinoe at the Enchantment Under The Sea Dance, with a pair of VR Goggles on for Back to Future Pride month.

Do It All Dad desecrates Dream Boards, Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth