Sloppy Second Stories

By Michael Kornbluth

Sloppy Second Stories is a collection of really funny short stories that don't suck. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Do It All Dad Year Productions
• Release date: Jun 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227837608

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

In Mosey's Dream

Remember when your mom walked in on us singing, No Mosey, No Cry, for my final goodbye? You were in the Bubble again, sparkling like the Lion cub of Judah under the hot Ethiopian sun with your chosen curls dancing in the name of the Lord. And your mom asked in semi-hurt disgust, What does Mosey No Cry mean, Mosey? I say, We're just humming some Bob Marley love songs for Michael's Bubble; nothing new here, Mrs. Kornbluth. Your mom being a banker for Chemical Bank, had no idea who Bob Marley was, so she couldn't feel too burned yet, over our last waltz together before your parents moved to the suburbs so you could cry it out in your crib upstairs, which always makes the more muffled moans of despair easier to bear. Then, there was the time when your mom walked in on you calling me mommy in the Bubble, which hurt her much more inside. She says, Did my son just call you mommy? And I say, It sounds like Mosey doesn't it? That's probably why your mom calls herself Me-Me around your children now. Your mother added, Son, you are being raised in Forest Hills, Queens, not Jamaica, Queens.

The sun wasn't shining in my heart that day. Jamaica, Queens is fine if you don't mind dirt weed blowing through the air as you push your son on the swing to chants of, I'm going to take you higher. Your dad never cared for that joke reference despite him always telling me the story about waking up in a post Acid haze to hear Sly Stone serenade 400,000 hippies with, I'm going to take you higher, at Woodstock only nine years earlier because I was Jamaican. He assumed I smoked weed at some point before I decided to clean my act up and become a nanny for the prettiest boy in Forest Hills. You were such a gay baby, Michael. You'd even choke on the rattler for fun. But I've been sober for 40 years and have you to thank.

––––––––

You see, I grew up in the prosperous part of Jamaica when my father was a big-time record producer for Island Records. Peter Tosh was my Godfather and taught me how Marco Polo introduced the Europeans to Lassie Soup after traveling to China, who also believed in evil Spirits like Rastas do. Bob was a Duppy Conqueror, meaning an evil spirit conqueror who conquerors worried and plagued by fear. My dad never conquered his Duppy spirit and got addicted to the hell water, thinking it was his only way to conquer his doubts of having golden ears after he passed on signing Bob Marley and The Wailers. So, once the fire water rum took over his life, he was forced to become a Janitor at Ska parties in Trenchtown on dirt roads with no electricity as he scrounged for roaches at the end of punky reggae parties to lift his sagging spirits, which is where the term dirt weed arose from actually. At first, I dated a Rasta bum who sold coconut water on the street in Times Square during the summer before it became available at your local 7/11, but that was it. I fell in love with his falsetto voice; he reminded me of a young Bunny Wailer. But he smoked so much ganja; his handwriting wasn't even legible anymore whenever he tried to write me love songs. However, this was before Apple released their desktop computer in 76 because he wasn't the best speller on the typewriter before either. Plus, he insisted on calling Wite-Out colonial imperialism against commas to break up his killer flow or something like that. He was higher than Richard Pryor at Freddie Prince Junior's funeral, far from looking good. But I cut him out of my life and fell in love with a black Israelite, Marcus, who became a public defender for the DA's office, who taught Shofar lessons to rich kids in Riverdale, to pay for our wedding in Israel by a resort beach town in Eilat. Marcus wanted to visit King Solomon's grave, who was known to have a steamy affair with the Queen of Sheeba. Bob Marley mysteriously inherited the ring King Solomon possessed, which traces back to when he knocked boots with the Queen of Sheeba. Did you know that? Anyway, your father always called you the cleanest boy in Forest Hills; of course, I think this was before you'd lived in West Hollywood for three years and ended up recording Pretty Dirty Mind for comedy record 76. So, my obsession with cleaning up my life spilled into giving you three bubbles daily, Michael. You were so happy in that Bubble as I hummed you more Bob Marley love songs, which was a permanent rainbow country for me. And I passed the dreaded typing test before getting a job at Apple in 76 before becoming the VP Of Sales for their floppy disk game division. I made Oregon Trail, America's best-selling floppy disk game, before Carmen San Diego came out as a flasher perv, stalking Bill Walton at Padres games whenever the Grateful Dead were in town.

I know that you've been suffering from night screams, feeling evil spirits strangle the life out of you in your dreams lately. But recently, those dreams have abated, and that's because you haven't lost faith in the sweet Lord, all mighty Hashem, being your protector, redeemer, and ultimate celebrator, or else you wouldn't have produced all these amazing books and comedy records to move, touch and make the universe laugh with, coming together as one. United, we laugh; you prove it every day. I'm your biggest fan, always have been, and always will be, assuming you never stop doing you, long time, all the time. I told you I was your biggest fan, or else I wouldn't know your catchphrases already. Can I get a holla for Challah? Thank you very much. However, I like the idea of you selling furniture for Bob's Furniture in Norwalk, CT. This 1st interview will materialize into more good fortune for you. Your soul is too pure for the cramped office life. Plus, I want you to write that story about triggering a transplanted Canadian furniture designer from Williamsburg, now living in Northern Westchester County, who designs bookshelves for celebs like Amy Poehler, only to tell him to face to face, Bob's Furniture has way better stuff than this shit. And, Michael, you'll have a leg to stand on, which will be an empowering, duppy spirit-conquering place to be. Keep pursuing your dreams of making a living off your comedic song for a living eventually. Bob worked at the Chrysler factory in Delaware before he became Bob Marley. No money, no cry for now, but earning some for a change will help remove those talking blues. Deep down, you must believe you're funny enough to fill out those clown shoes.

The Neverending Prick

Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort? asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a fifty-something, well-dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn't like.

The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last-second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment in the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights where he bought from Julio Silverbade, the Third before his co-op eviction trial began.

The Manipulative Prick (otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot) loved doing cocaine—mainly on the weekends, though, when he wasn’t working. So, what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life (such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine, too)?

Last month, when the newlyweds received their first of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a forty-year-old phone sales rep for Verizon, says, Relax babe. Our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me because his life sucks compared to mine; that’s all.

Wife Kate, a thirty-five-year-old, one-time divorced, yet worn-down-looking ER nurse, says, with weary disgust, "You’re a forty-year-old cokehead who sells smart phones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about, exactly—your tar stains on your two front teeth?

"Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career-secure? Do you think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at four am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s tight, doody-free snatch?

Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor, for a Jewish cokehead, that your Hebrew name is under judicial review?      Maybe he’s jealous about you being a no-show uncle who's more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from five years ago today than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on New Year’s Day, moron."

Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor who