Waste Of Height Really Short Stories

By Michael Kornbluth

Waste Of Height Really Short Stories is a showcase of funny, fast stories that don't suck by Author Comedian Michael Kornbluth. His other books of funnyman fiction include The Great American Jew Novel and Sloppy Second Stories. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Kornbluth
• Release date: Jun 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227470928

Michael Kornbluth

Michael Kornbluth is an Author Comedian, a distinguished Hair Metal Historian and Too Tall Jew host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast, funny fast jokes and stories for you and me. He's produced 140 comedy records from home although according to his father he's just talking to himself. These comedic beasts include Lapping Losers, Bronx Boy's Blues, Heavenly Toppers, Punchout Poverty, Do It All Dad Does China, Blast Off Time, Zevon Zappa Kornbluth, Big Mouth Moses and Not Kosher Baby.   His other books include Controlling My Kids With Comedy, A Love Story, Do It All Dad Does Jokes, The Great American Jew Novel, Resist This, The Koshertarian Comedians, Just Red Pilled and Sloppy Second Stories. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years.

Book preview

Flipper Bird Baby

On February 12th, Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was born, compared to his grandmother Mimi, who was born on February 13th. This finally offered undeniable, certifiable proof that God wasn’t picking on Do It All Dad’s wife anymore.

February 12th is also Abe Lincoln’s birthday, which held special significance within the Kornbluth family (especially on the southern side, where Do It All Dad’s mom hailed from) because their great-great-great-great Grandfather Austin Gallagher saved his boyhood friend Abe Lincoln from drowning, which is the greatest presidential save since JFK kept Marilyn warm for Bobby.  

The worst part about this story is how, after Abe tripped on a log cabin while crossing Knob Creek in a rush to get home on time for Racoon Soup Night, he pressured his dear friend Austin to never tell anyone about saving him from drowning to death because he'd a had a vision while gasping for air within the limestone-laced waters of Kentucky.

One day, he’d be the man responsible for helping liberate the black man from the chains of slavery, and he wouldn’t be looked upon as a serious saver, knowing he was a worst swimmer than they.

One time, Do It All Dad held an Astrology-Off among his three kids, after Chosen Curls was born, between his older brother and sister, Art Show USA, and Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth—meaning, they compared famous men and woman born on their birthdays.

Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo had Abe on his list, and Arsenio Hall from Coming To America. Matilda’s other younger brother, Art Show USA (otherwise known as Number One Capricorn, born on New Year’s Day), had Mini Me and Paul Revere on his list, and all she had was Peter Sarsgaard, prompting her to blurt out, in progressively pissed off disgust, I don’t like this Astrology-Off anymore. Nobody I love, like Shakira or Mel Brooks, was born on my birthday.

Do It All Dad gave her added unwelcome grief, and said, Pisces are very competitive.

Now, Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo was stuck in the wrong way within his mama’s womb, with his feet facing down toward his exit hole. Normally, breach babies who are positioned to be yanked out of their mama’s fun box feet first are either flipped by a doctor, to be pushed out headfirst, or excavated from the womb through a stomach-lacerating C section (which most woman would prefer to avoid, because if you’ve seen one Alien movie, you’ve seen enough).

Chosen Curls was chilling in the womb for nine months in the wrong way with his toes tingling with delight closer to mama’s vagina (which he didn’t mind one bit, knowing he had great-looking, inhalatory baby feet which looked better than most gross, bald baby heads that come out, crying, out of most vaginas not nearly as snuggly as this).   Mama’s womb-housing vagina was so snuggly that Chosen Curls could take endless naps in there, on crystal meth.

Also, Chosen Curls liked being a wrong-way baby because it would give him bragging rights one day, when he eventually performed his first reverse somersault in the womb knowing that his Do It All Dad was a knock-kneed putz who got penalized in gym class back in the day for toppling over to the side whenever he tried to sit Indian style while sitting out another game of kickball on the sidelines for getting eliminated almost immediately, again.

At the same time, Chosen Curls didn’t want his mama’s stomach ripped apart because he refused to flip for Mama's love, out of blatantly premature spite for Mama's never encouraging his WWE wrestling career soon after, in his pursuit to become the dreamy child offspring of Andre The Giant and Bruce Lee, while being billed as Hardcore Hurting Hunga.  

Now, it was showtime. Mama was ready to burst, and this birth wasn’t a walk in the park compared to his older brother Art Show USA, who popped out easier than a tin of Altoids in one hour flat.  The nurse encouraged Mama to push, yet Chosen Curls was taking his sweet-ass time to transform himself into a real deal, choke-free Flipper Baby, after all.

Then, Chosen Curls heard his Do It All Dad’s booming voice (more so than usual) pierce through Mama’s cervix as he barked, You can do it, Samuel. If Rodney could do the Triple Lindy in Back To School, then you can flip for Mama's love, too, knowing she's remained freakout-free from giving up wine for nine months straight...again, on your behalf. Also, Mama’s vagina is fairly broken in, at this point, two kids later, in addition to my Hebrew Hammer leaving a substantial dent, prior.   So, let’s get moving before Mama flips you the bird and curses your existence forever for you denying her the beauty of being yanked out into her arms in one semi-seamless motion, versus the Alien stomach-mauling coming out kind of birth.   Pretty please, with extra booger sugar for Uncle Jon (AKA, Sir Snort A Lot On Top)?

As the delivery doctor grabs Samuel’s head from outside Mama’s belly, Chosen Curls performs a seamless reverse baby flip to show his dada that he wasn’t born to be a tense baby like a pubescent Albert Brooks in the making in Defending Your Life, only for him to grow up becoming a perpetually wound-up stress ball on two legs, with decades of fear-plagued tension embedded within his frozen-in-time neck.  

Do It All Dad spots his son’s head emerge from Mama’s blessed box flush with endless life-enriching charms and cranks up the volume, blaring, Homestretch, Samuel. One more push and Made In The Shade will be made in the shade. Now, slide out of Mama’s snuggle snatch hard, Ricky Henderson style.

Doc pulls Samuel out, this time, and he emerges into this wildly unpredictable, God-graced, awe-inspiring, beautifying world with a full set of hair.

Do It All Dad is at ease now, knowing that bald babies with indentations on their heads are gross, and look like Nurse Jackie dropped them on top of an anvil one too many times after getting the shakes because she’s out of methadone again.

The nurse hands Chosen Curls to his dear Dada to hold tightly to his heart, and with his back turned towards Mama, he starts bonding with his lucky number three child, saying, Your big sister, Singing Rose, recognized my voice out of the womb, too. I’ve been in love with you since you were a blip of an alien baby on Mama’s ultrasound report. Your brother and sister are the coolest. They’re going to love you so good.

Eventually, Mama interjects and says, You weren’t housing Samuel for the past nine months. I was. So, stop boxing me out from my baby and turn around, so I can see the face of my beautiful baby, already.

Do It All Dad turns around and says, You handled that well, babe. I got carried away, hearing my own voice again. At least for now, we know it has a calming influence; unlike a ten-year marriage, which is bound to unleash anybody’s flip-out side.

Tofu The Terrible 

Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth was in no singing mood today. Every day, she'd wake up singing 'Good Day Sunshine' by the Beatles even if she had gotten up at the crack of dawn again or decided to work in Norway away from her mom and Dad throughout an entire darkened five-month winter as a 9-year ski model for Northface; knowing that in a post-Corona universe, she was used to doing remote learning away from school, anyway.

But this drab Thanksgiving morning was different because she had to act thankful for eating Tofurky Roast again (despite the spirit of Tofu The Terrible terrorizing her dreams since she'd described soy dogs, in her school lunch cafeteria blog, as Rubber dog link nosh toys.

But how could Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth act grateful for eating a Tofurky Roast since her fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Right, made it clear how the Native American Indians weren't responsible for teaching the Pilgrims how to turn soy milk into white blocks of semi-firm bricks of soy, with higher levels of estrogen to feminize John Smith's sturdy stock of sailors.

Also, Thanksgiving this year, post-Corona, wasn't feeling particularly festive, knowing that Matilda had PTSD from wearing all of those Corona masks to death. Matilda was now having nightmares of being terrorized by the masked man Tofu The Terrible, who ruined every favorite meal she'd dreamed of.

For example, suppose Matilda had just won the gold medal in the Hardcore X Games for Equestrian Riders within the Under 10 Years age bracket, having to complete jumps through rings of fire with an occasional baby dragon on her tail. In that case, she'd typically celebrate with her best friend Shannon (in her dreams) over their favorite treat of jellybeans at a sleepover party soon after.

But now, all that appeared in her dreams were pasty, slimy soybeans instead of jellybeans because Tofu The Terrible was punishing her for calling soy dogs, on her cafeteria food blog, Not good enough to pass for rubber dog toys. And Matilda hated pet dogs because they ate dog food with minced horsemeat inside.

Matilda had always been a hardcore vegetarian loyalist. Yet, she'd greatly offended the spirit of Tofu The Terrible, a ferocious Chinese, vegetarian warrior from the Ming Dynasty who even got Genghis Khan into Mapo Tofu over jasmine rice, a fiery dish loaded with super-scary Sichuan spice.

The smell from the ground-up Sichuan peppercorns would make most grown men cry, making their lips tremble in fear at the prospect of having to try one more bite, knowing that Genghis Khan would be hoarding all the Sake rice wine for any temporary relief for themselves, soon afterward.

Matilda was sure she'd never enjoy the food she loved in real life again (such as her Dad's fried Icelandic cod in a barbeque aioli) without tasting anything but mushy dog drool. 

Now it was time for everyone at the table to give thanks for Thanksgiving. Matilda had been dreading this from the start. Matilda suffered from nightmarish visions of Tofu The Terrible ruining all her favorite foods in her dreams and real life, such as her Dad's star side dish creation, Caramelized Cauliflower Potato Gratin, combining cave-aged gruyere and raclette cheese from the Swiss Alps, which injected the dish with an extra scrumptious, creamy, fresh finish.

Matilda's Dad, a Stay-At-Home Comedian, Author, podcast host, and self-taught semi-gourmand chef, can tell that his daughter dreads her turn to participate and says, Matilda, you look like you've seen a ghost. Is Tofu The Terrible ruining the taste of your jellybeans again? Shaken out of her petrified, frozen comatose state, Matilda perks up and says, How did you know about Tofu The Terrible, Daddy?

Matilda's Dad says, I helped you launch your lunch cafeteria blog on WordPress, remember? Your last piece, Tofu Brownie Blues, was about how Tofu The Terrible threatened to shred everyone's masks at school unless the Brownie Girls started selling his special batch of Tofu Brownies at the next book fair, instead.

Matilda says, Do we have to eat the Tofurky Roast this year?

Dad says, No, try this veggie Barbeque Pita instead. Matilda takes a reluctant bite. But she's touched by her Dad's gesture of goodwill. She says, Yummy, Daddy.

Her Dad says, I fried up cubes of semi-firm soy inside that bad boy. The sautéed onions and peppers keep the memories of mushy dog toy food at bay.

Tofu The Terrible was dead in Matilda's head, and she started singing again while giving thanks and praises at Thanksgiving, singing, Soy Dogs still suck, Tofu The Terrible too, but you're no longer so bad since my Daddy came to my rescue.

Waste Of Height

Once upon a time, there was a Giant who lived in a tiny village called Humungous Falls in Northern Westchester County who never really fit in, despite owning a popular deli called Foot Long The Giant (which is what all the local lumberjack giants frequented every day, before chopping down more trees, later used for bookshelves for their hobbit hipster southern neighbors in Bushwick, Brooklyn).   Every day, the Lumberjacks would taunt Foot Long The Giant, calling him a waste of height for wasting his life making sandwiches for his fellow giants, when he could've just hired a bunch of Hipster Hobbits to perform the job, instead. Every day, they’d accuse him of being soft for shying away from more hardcore forms of manual labor involving chopping down trees from dawn to sunset.

One day, an eight-year-old aspiring professional food writer hobbit from Bushwick, known as Hardcore Hunga, wanted to do a profile for The Bushwick Post on Footlong The Giant, considering his legacy for making the best footlong heroes in New York (which were totally worth the schlep from Bushwick, assuming you didn’t get too freaked out about getting stomped to death by a Giant Lumberjack by mistake, on his lunch break).   So, one day, Hardcore Hunga faked a tummy ache, ditched out on school, and flew his pet dragon to Humungous Falls to meet Foot Long The Giant face to face, praying that none of the local giant lumberjacks sneezed in his general direction, which could send him flying all the way to Stink A Lot Jersey, where all the shitty-smelling swamp creatures roamed.

Footlong The Giant was descended from a land of giants who grew up to their full height out of Mother Giant’s womb. They expected to get working from day one, being denied any sustained age of sheltered innocence from the real world of a grinding worker existence 'till their last dying breath.

Mother Giant finally banged out her last giant, and with no female giants to procreate with, this made these remaining giants the last of their kind. They normally started dropping like flies at a hard age forty.

So, these lumberjack giants barely slept, and dedicated their walking lives to chopping