Off the List

The Scariest Muslim Ghost Story Never Told

A perfect looking Persian girl from Iran got married off to a baby faced, Opium Farmer from Afghanistan that was considered a highflying, up and coming player like Benny Bronco from the Bronx except this heroin hustler was way tougher, way meaner and got way better stuff considering that he was a fifth generation Opium Farmer that knew the ins and outs of his land better than the ins and outs of dead Russians that bled commie red all over this landmine littered land.

The Opium crazed, double pita chip dipping, dope dishing Afghani, otherwise known as Brown Sugar strutted like a wannabe Tony Montana through the local Farmers Market in downtown Kabul that sells Birkenstocks for half the price it costs in Germany except these sandals lack that fresh box sandal smell due to the cramped Taxi cab size of the market.

Behind Brown Sugar is his Persian wife turned, Muslim mad maid, making sure to look down at the ground as she walks like she’s on landmine detail. The full length burka wearing, mummy covered, loyal lost wife watches her husband buy a vanilla ice cream cone. Sprinkles are considered too western and too perky for these parts. Brown Sugar gives the vanilla ice cream cone to his wife which seems like a nice gesture but she’s just stuck holding it looking like the most confused, blanketed woman on the planet thinking: What am I supposed to do with this? Watch it melt like I do under these resin black burkas all life long.

Of course, she doesn’t dare uttering such extreme agitation because married Muslim woman in Afghanistan have their personality circumcised and their sexuality neutered the moment they step out of the house or womb, take your pick. The wife would love to yell at her husband for torturing her with the image of an unlickable ice cream cone while stuck in the desolate, unrelenting desert heat that is making her sweat more than an American who got arrested for smuggling hash out of Turkey who just realized that the judge from Midnight Express is still residing.

She can’t frown, sigh or express any displeasure in her joyless, man always has the right to beat her to death existence. If she really wanted to show her displeasure, she’d roll her eyes which he’d have no problem seeing, but then she’d be stomped on like a human Persian rug. It’s this nagging fear that prevents Afghani woman from ever stepping out of their pre-ordained, colorless, chat-less character that make Storm Troopers seem chirpy.

But when you’ve had enough, you’ve had enough . Every dog has its day and even Muslim woman that live in constant fear of retaliation can strike back. As the wife watches the vanilla ice cream drip down her cone onto her burka covered hand, she decides that its her time to strike back and that the best way for her to do so is to give that already half way melted scoop of vanilla one mean licking for the entire market to see. This one licking in front of all of those oppressive, domineering eyes would be her independence day. She could savor the taste of freedom on the tip of her censored tongue that had no place to discern taste, express itself or seek out pleasure under female right canceling, Sharia Law.

As she psyches herself up for the most daring, death defying move of her life, Brown Sugar asks her what time it is realizing that he has a poppy farmer growing conference to attend later that morning where he is a distinguished speaker, apparently all of the heavy hashish smoking at the new Oxygen Bar opening last night has made him more groggy than usual. Now, the wife gently lifts up her burka slightly above her wrist to get the time for her husband which shows off a spec of skin which is a big no, no in these parts and looked down upon with vengeful scorn even though no man in the history of mankind has been recorded to experience a surging blood rush to the penis when this happens. Now, she looks down at her black swatch, exposing the slightest parcel of skin and says 10:30 with zero inflection. Brown Sugar's eyes overfill with rage as he becomes consumed with her exposed wrist in the middle of the Farmer’s Market in downtown Kabul. In a hate filled rage he swipes the ice cream from her quivering hand that trembles from his sentencing stare: I bet you think you deserve one last lick before you get stoned to death and I’m not talking about overdosing from a Speed Ball either.

Brown Sugar extends the ice cream cone back to her but then pulls it back and in a mischievous tone, blurts out: Sike. From there a burly, chest hair exposed, Afghani cop grabs her arm from the back: Say goodbye to this world, were taking you down under. There is no trial or judge sentencing her to a planned stoning, just a cop and an unloving husband sentencing her to death because she exposed her wrist in order to give him the time as requested.

At this moment the wife pulls down her veil, spits in Brown Sugar’s face and takes the ice cream and shoves the entire cone into her mouth in the most provocative way possible which causes an explosion of vanilla to dribble all down her mouth. The crackling crunch of the cone went down as the ballsy bite heard around the Muslim World. As the melted vanilla comes trickling down her creamy stained burka, she spits it all out over his face, John Belushi style: This is just a taste for things to come. Your terrorizing days are done.

The details are gory so I’ll spare you the play by play but in the end, she got stoned to death as the entire village did their best Marv Albert impersonation and let out a collective, overly exorbitant yessss. But now the ghost story only begins.

Now, its Halloween, 2010 and the ghost of Brown Sugar’s stone dead wife hovers over the smoky, starlight, Afghani, desert sky after just pulling off the biggest freak job since God spoke to Moses through a burning bush.

They don’t celebrate Halloween in Afghanistan yet that doesn’t mean that the dead ghosts don’t come out to play on this freaky night and haunt the men that robbed Afghani woman of their dignity, freedom or chance of happiness in this fanatical, war tattered corner of the universe. On Halloween, the stoned spirits of Afghanistan will freak out Afghani men and instill fear of gods in their hearts like never before. How will these ghosts pull of this impossible task, you ask? More importantly, the larger question at hand is: What scares Afghani men more than finding out that the virgin promise was nothing more than a scam or pyramid scheme? Is it forced Woody Allen viewings in newly installed American History classes? Nope, the biggest fear of Afghani men is Woman’s Lib and Allah ordained, westernization of its woman which was about to occur.

With this life changing, liberating knowledge, Brown Sugar’s ex-wife pulls off the scariest stunt of all time by going back in time to freak out Muhammad and scare him into rewriting Sharia Law so abusive, blood thirsty Muslim men lose the divine right to enslave and brutalize their woman whenever their in the mood for it.

Muhammad was translating the Koran one day and the Ghost appeared in Muhammad's prayer chambers hovering above his desk, wearing a bright pink Burka that says Juicy on it. Her eyes are devil red which literally freaks the shit out of Muhammad as he drops his imported feather English pen in a state of open mouthed, disbelief. Who are you?, he whimpers. The pink ghost speaks: I’m your worst nightmare, I represent pink power. What’s pink power? The power of the vagina stupid? I’m here to tell you that your lack of social suave around woman and the fact that your still a 30 year old virgin is no reason to instill a scripture that turns us into sex slaves and maids that dress like old Italian woman that are always hiding their appearance like were stuck in a witness protection program without the perks of paid for relocation. Whatever urge you have to keep us under your ownership like house broken dogs ends now. Don’t be afraid of the pink power. It creates life and and is the greatest pleasure center for both parties involved. So don’t bury it under the sand and hide it from plain sight, pink power is the most natural expression of life. Just because you can’t always drink up our pink punch whenever you want, it doesn't give you the right to strip, diminish or downplay its pleasure provoking power. So start rewriting Sharia Law Muhammad, unless you want to feel the full wrath of pink power as I turn from pink to herpes red. Muhammad responds: Do you have any idea how long it took me to write this? She responds: I can just haunt your sex life forever and cover you in herpes sores from head to toe. Alright fine, I’ll rewrite the damn thing, I’ll celebrate pink power, I got it. My hand is cramping up big time. Do you think you can give it a rub? Get to work Muhammad, your sexual satisfaction on this earth depends on it. Don’t bank on those willing, can’t say no virgins either in the alleged afterlife.

Now, its Halloween again 2010 and Sharia Law is rewritten which freaks out Afghani men because it was just enacted tonight. Thousands of years of Afghani woman being stepped on like human Persian rugs ends tonight. Tonight, Afghani woman can divorce, have abortions, talk back to their husbands, refuse to clean the dishes and tell their daddy to suck off a camel next time he tires to enforce an arranged marriage.

Tonight, a group of just liberated Afghani woman host a panty party around the pile of rocks that marks the stoning spot where Brown Sugar’s Ex Wife was stoned to death. Her ghost rises from the grave holding a Victoria Secret Bag that holds all the new sexiified souls that these woman will now carry with them forever. All of the Afghani Woman light a bonfire, take off all their burkas and chuck them into the roaring fire as they dance in a circle hands joined together, stark naked, letting their bushy bushes roar with delight outside the rejuvenated, desert dreamscape that they now live to inhabit.

The ghost now known as Pink Power drops their new power panties from the sky. All the bushy Afghani woman jump to grab hold of their newly empowered selves. They all slide on their panties and dance the night away while that very Van Halen song plays on repeat in the background. Tonight belongs to them, but tomorrow they will unleash their unabashed, un-ashamed, undeterred, universal selves on the Farmers Market in downtown Kabul and show up in just their panties to eat ice cream at their own provocative leisurely pace which will give their former abusers the licking of a lifetime. Then, they will taste true freedom that will last. It will go down as the most triumphant day in the lives of Afghani woman and the scariest one for Muslim Men knowing that Sharia Law is overturned and that their power over woman has finally melted away.  

                                                                   The End

Written By

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

What would Greg Giraldo say at his own eulogy?

What can you say about a prolific, highly intelligent, dark edged, pseudo political, drug plagued, comic that never found a hit TV vehicle, resented the road for it who died in his prime? But enough about Bill Hicks.

As pathetic as it sounds, I’m the only comic of my generation who came close to touching Bill Hick’s poetic, super tight, anti-authority edge except that I wanted to sell out but wasn’t likeable or marketable enough for the studios or networks to rally behind and push me as the next big thing or anything bankable really.

How is it that I overdose on prescription pills but Artie Lang screws up his stabbing suicide attempt? If anyone is going to die from overdoing anything it’s Artie, not me. Overeating hasn’t killed Artie, neither has overheating in that Babe Pig outfit that he wore for that sketch on Mad TV. Artie isn’t capable of overacting, because his acting career was declared over after his failed suicide attempt. Then again, Owen Wilson is still getting parts, so what do I know.

Hey, Artie some words of advice, if you really want to kill yourself, next time, bypass the straight heroin that you used to pick up from Delaware and overdose on Oxycotin, my death was accidental and premature but your death was supposed to be intentional and overdue.

I left four kids behind. It looks my consecutive shitty, father streak is intact. All I got to say to my  kids, is that regardless of whether my overdose was ‘accidental or not”, I still love you, more than your mothers ever did.

Then again, are any overdoes ever accidental? To start off with, you have to take a shitload of drugs, way over your normal average in order to overdose which requires multiple trips to the ATM machine and plenty of commitment to getting zonked and numb as humanly possible so how accidental is my slip up after all?

Heath Ledger, Marilyn Monroe, John Belushi, I’m not going to say they intentionally overdosed, but taking a shitload of pills, and heroin wasn’t accidental either.

At least, I overdosed at the top of my comedy game which is more than you can say for Belushi or Farley. Before they went not so gently into the sketched out, ultra dark night, no studio would insure them. Then again, I don’t even know what the inside of a movie studio looks like.

Hey Lisa Lampanelli, I know your busy packing more weight than Michael Douglas’s son but would it kill you to tweet a nice sentiment about me once I was declared dead by TMZ? You know the celebrity tracking site that you would crash if you were on it based on you pixel size alone.

Lisa talks dirty but she’s a real romantic at heart. When the comedy world tires of her recycled, only black men will sleep with my fat ass shtick, she can pose on the cover of black romance novels as the flabby Fabio.

I had a good time on the Collin Quinn Show. I appreciate the exposure Collin. As expected, it did nothing for my career except make me look like smuck when Dennis Leary came out with Rescue Me five years later after I called him out for not writing enough jokes to keep his previous shows alive.

My buddy Louis CK, gave me a nice a shout out on Twitter. Now that I’m gone Louis CK is the only twenty year, headlining, NY comic that can actually do family material on having kids besides Rich Vos but who cares about that buck toothed, pizza pie maker, his TV exposure is minimal at best, you can’t TIVO his name, without TIVO filing a missing comic’s report.

I was known for my scruffy, unshaven look. But that’s a sign of comedic genius, and that’s why Nick Dipalo is that one of a kind Italian incapable of growing a stub of a goatee.

What else is there to say? It was a nice run. I should’ve been happier knowing that I never had to work a real office job more than a year in my life while my other comedic colleagues suffered much longer and were bailed out from their parents more times than they’d like to remember.

I learned to kill with precision, I dominated every roast, and sold out my New Years Eve show at Comix with ease. My kids can grow up and say that I was the Bill Hicks of my generation and considered a grade sharper than the rest of my comedy class. As for my two ex-wives, you can’t suck my will to live any longer, the Comedy Gods have forgiven me for my sins, you should try too, make sure my kids don’t stay half a tards forever, banning them from prescription pain medication would be a smart start.

Rest In Peace,

Greg Giraldo

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wailing Wall

I wept tears of joy as Roger Waters reconstructed, and tore down the Wall in front of thousands of cross generational Pink Floyd fans that worship this lull proof, two sided, epic rock monster of a story. As we all know, “The Wall”, is a sacred album for Floyd fans and its master architect, Roger Waters who last night, turned MSG into a holy site for the rebirth of this spiritually renewed, beautifully restored, rendition of master rock theater.  

All of the lifelong stoners, loners, and sober property owners made the holy pilgrimage to the Garden last night to see the resurgence of the refreshingly mellowed, well rested, reinvigorated Roger Waters that brought the most complete, heart rendering, confessional, authority challenging,  psychedelically mad, psychic wounded, trip experience back to life. The ticket prices were blasphemous but how can you put a price tag on such a twilight topping, heaven portal opening performance?      

They say that a divine presence rests upon the Western Wall in Israel. At the Roger Waters Wall reenactment show at Garden last night, you felt a discernable, celestial presence, pulsate through every crack in the (Wall of Rock) mounted on stage which reflected a gleaming, white, pearly gate, light that draped the stage like a heavenly blanket to keep all the grown up Floyd fan babies, comfy and warm. 

You know that you just witnessed the greatest first set of all time, when a Magic Mountain size line for the bathroom forms right after it knowing that all of the hard core, faithful Wall worshipers wouldn’t dare missing a lick, verse, or special effect for the sake of relieving themselves because missing any of that heaven sent set would be like turning your back on God when he talks to you through a burning bush or in this case an English Castle, size wall. Roger Waters closed the majestic, masterful first set with Good Bye Cruel World, as a royal purple light shined on him which dwarfed his already miniature presence against the giant Wall surrounding him as he played his, farewell, f-you, swan song with heartbreakingly honest, defiance.   

As I waited on line for the bathroom during intermission, I thought: Side Two, coming up which immediately transported me to my initial Wall discovering experience courtesy of Columbia Records when they shipped you a box of cassettes for the price of what it cost for a piece of Bazooka Joe Gum not knowing you were obligated to buy normal priced cassettes once your trial ended.  I don’t think I’m the only one who can honestly say that if Roger just called  it a night after the first set, the show still would’ve have gone down as the most spiritually connected, happiness spewing concert ever.

Of course, not every fan at this show was a lifelong loner or stoner like the guy behind me on line for the bathroom who made a comment about getting a contact high at the show after I bitched about a security guy shining a light on me when I was lighting up, instilling an unnecessary, restrictive republican right aura to what should be a blissful, buzz kill free environment.  I told him that the contact high concept was a myth but effective as a useful plot device in the Cheech and Chong movie, Up in Smoke.  

Prior to the show, at a bar down the block, they were playing an old David Gilmour lead, Floyd concert from the Division Bell tour which was packed with Floyd Fans who were a studious, non druggy, ultra prompt bunch that would never think of squeezing in one last toke before the show began which according to the locals was at a hard eight which came across as a demanding request for lost in time, Floyd fans but made sense considering the monumental might of this overdue, once and in a  lifetime, no longer in college, can’t afford to miss, the In the Flesh, cape wearing, whip snapping, plane crashing, Roger Waters lead, heaven on earth opening event.  After all, Roger Waters made it clear that he was the playing the Wall from beginning to end which is like experiencing an extended two hour, ecstasy charged orgasm to the most soul shaking, spiritually elevated soundtrack ever.

All I have to say about the second set is that it went by in this beautiful, giant flash of angel blowing light. I forgot how powerful the lyrics were to Hey You, along with the permanent chill down your spine guitar solo which made the guitar solo to Comfortably Numb sound rather tame and poppy light in comparison. As the concert geared up for the dramatic finale, the crowd yelled with divine approved, authority, tear down the walls, tear down the walls before the skyscraper size wall display exploded, and crumbled down on the stage bringing new meaning to the expression going out with a bang. Then, Roger Waters and his eleven piece crew sang some shitty, unheard of folksy song that nobody gave two shits about but he earned the right to squeeze in that farewell, love not war, hippie toned number for finally making that live Wall dream come true in such a spectacular, artful, heart wailing fashion.  Now, we all love David Gilmore but the argument of whose better is dead, Roger Waters proved that last night by spilling his great guts one last time in front of Floyd followers that will forever look at MSG as the scared site, where the Wall rose from the dead like our long lost musical messiah.   

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth  

 

 

 

 

I'd prefer a girl

Whenever you tell a casual friend, overbearing mother or complete stranger that your having a kid, the immediate response is, what sex is it. You just announced the most natural, divine act that mankind is capable of yet the mad obsessions with sex already begins, this kid won’t even know how to play with his private parts for the next decade yet the so called grown ups are already fixated on the sex of your sperm scoring, fetus forming infant. I don ‘t care what sex the kid is because were committed to having it, abortion was never an option because it was sort of planned and my wife turns 30 next month and her eggs aren’t getting any fresher, so the sex of the kid is insignificant at this point and has no impact on my satisfaction level, sanity, sex life or sure-fire sperm shooters that got her pregnant after only firing of a couple of initially construed practice rounds by a cornfield while hippies blared Grateful Dead tunes like Not Fade Away which hummed outside our baby creating, top the line, just broken in, tent.

If I had to chose, I’d prefer a girl because then the kids will stand a better chance of becoming more like it’s mommy. I don’t want to pass down my knocked knees, can’t sit Indian style comfortably limbs to a boy that can’t go to a yoga class without feeling like he got the deformed end of the stick. Also, if we have a boy, I just know that he’ll inherit my trip over paved sidewalks while digging into my wife’s back heal, level of coordination which he’ll resent me for forever. I’m also not even close to closing that gap between being a shishy bitch and being a man’s man so at this point, I’m unprepared and unsuited to teach my kid how to be a real man let alone end my own humiliating, pussified, panic stricken state around power tools, bar fights or under the hood of a car while an oil covered mechanic hovers over me, raping me for all I’m worth from behind.

How can I teach my kid how to be a man when I’m barely clinging on to that title? I don’t know how to throw a punch, change a tire or avoid getting raped by an Italian Mechanic as stated before, so what type of man defining wisdom do I have to offer my potential baby boy? Thank god that your tall because nobody really messes with you even though they don’t know that your father’s only contact with boxing was him experiencing a boxer’s fracture after he punched a stationary door after missing an easy pool shot in some loser, sightless, bar outside of Hermosa Beach on the day of Rosh Hashanah where he had no business day drinking in the first place. What other pearls of man exerting knowledge can I can teach? Triple A is the most dependable friend a Jewish man can have. If you want to become a real man, you’ll tell me to not pay for your Bar Mitzvah and take you shopping at Home Depot instead.

I’ll also make to sure to prevent my kid from listening to all of my old hair metal records and to ban him from reading any collectible issues of Circus magazine so his bedroom doesn’t look like a house of She- Males, pursing lips, doing splits and licking their guitar shafts. If you want to be a real man kid, I’ll send you to Wilderness Ventures so you can learn how to hone your outdoor, survival instincts, scale mountains, start fires and stare down bears without trickling pee down your leg like a tepid tranny caught taking a pee in a back alley in the Meatpacking District in front of a group of drunk, horny, frat boys, about to strike.

I also hate this half a fag notion that you receive whenever I tell someone that I’d actually prefer a girl over a boy as that’s the most repulsive, sexually repugnant, hell damning statement an alleged straight man can make. I’ve always gotten along better with woman, and always found for more woman than men to spend my free time with. Having a warm, juicy, glory hole for me to nestle my macho man, maligning, monster inside certainly helps but once I’ve surpassed that sweaty sex period of the relationship, I’m spending what, five minutes a day inside there, tops.

Besides blah brained, vacant, yenta yuksters, woman are more interesting conversationalists than men because the majority of men are about as deep as the eighteen hole and as humorous as the blank faced, dead eyed, sleepy time, emotionally numb skulled Andy Roddick.

 Let’s face it guys suck. Guys cheat, get fat and try to get co-workers fired for challenging their corporate authority like humorless shriveled up pee, pee heads. In my previous piece, I placed slight emphasis on the female reaction to our baby announcement which was far from storybook but what these woman fail to realize is that I just expect a better showing from them in comparison to dudes who are supposed to be the ones that act stupefied, confused, and emotionally ambiguous from such uprooting, Christopher Columbus, new world opening discoveries.

I hate guys that drop lines like, I got to have a boy like an extension of them is crucial for the advancement of mankind or that his holy seed will give birth to the next incarnation of the Dali Lama. These guys always demand to know what the sex is ahead of time so they can mentally prepare themselves for the prospect of not generating more of them which was pretty sleazy, cheap and thoughtless last time I checked but brace away for not being able to perpetuate such a lovely, refreshing, concoction.

The main concern any father has for a girl is her being sexually assaulted yet my potential daughter will be well versed in the martial arts and will be shoeless until she earns her black belt so I’m not sweating out that outcome so I can wish for an annoying, loud, unsophisticated, run of the mill teenage boy. Wishing for a boy just seems beyond cliché and not all that unique. If we have a daughter, that kid has a strong chance of becoming a bad ass, long legged, hilarious, artistic, laugh out loud, balling beauty. Child Molestation has nothing to do with my desire to bang out a girl by the way. In the end, I’d prefer a girl because the world needs more super sweet, cool, funny, tree hugging, big hearted, gentle yet strong, love filled spirits that shine inside my wife and with some luck will be passed on to our child.

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Were having a baby!

Were having a baby! That’s the most mature, decisive, life changing announcement you can make. The only comparable proclamation a couple can make is: Were getting divorced, were adopting an Asian baby or were going to form a comedy team, move to Australia and form a love triangle with some exotic, wildly erratic, multi-lingual beauty that Woody Allen would claim credit for creating.

We didn’t tell our parents about the incoming baby till after we got married . In short, we didn’t want our unformed, colorless, turnip size baby to steal any attention from us because in five months we won’t be able to make a purely selfish decision ever again. We also held off on telling them because we didn’t want to deal with any potential, worrisome resistance, unwelcome, dreaded, I don’t think your capable of raising it, silence, or unpleasantly surprised sighs of disbelief. Telling our friends, siblings, parents and other close family members about our first, incoming, bloodline perpetuating, family creating love child has given us an immediate feel for how freaked out it made them in both the positive and encouraging and deflating, resentful, you don’t know what your getting it into sense.

First, we told my wife’s friends because her bachleorette party was coming up and she thought it was the respectful, thoughtful thing to do considering their shared history of lushing it up together since college throughout their high liver living, mostly care-free twenties in Brooklyn and Manhattan. So based on her friends shocked reaction to our baby announcement it seemed that we just yanked the plug out of their non-stop party machine existence yet to them it felt more like last call as the light at the end of the baby tunnel illuminated the stale, past its expiration date, binge drinking life that we just left behind and blew off for good. Two of my wife’s friends don’t plan on ever having kids while the other one does but struggles to find a man that worships her enough to give the middle finger to a lifetime of freewheeling, non committal brushes with lust while also granting her exclusive play rights to his penis pounder for all eternity.

My friends were a little shocked by the announcement but there is nothing comical about their responses that is worth exploring here. Yet I do derive a sense of perverse power over not sharing the news with former friends that I don’t value enough to share my blessed fortune with. At the same time, my friends as opposed to wife are older and already have kids and are mentally checked out from that spontaneous hook-up, hot pursuit lifestyle already. The only remnant of their unscripted, exploratory single city life is the bottle openers on their key chains although those probably went out the window along with their surging self-esteem when they finally decided to ditch a life of loneliness for a life of sharing blankets, meals, lube, rent, and in-law, scarring angst, myself included.

Now, her parents reaction to us having a baby was less stellar than I expected which wasn’t much. My wife tensed when I signaled for her to make the announcement so I came to her immediate rescue, my husband protect mode kicked into full gear as I said: Were having a baby, your going to make wonderful grandparents, congratulations. At that point, the mom who was already sitting on the couch, let out a confused, don’t know how to take this sigh and leaned her head back on the coach in a dramatic slow motion like we just told her that we couldn’t decide on the name of our kid because it’s going to be a cross eyed, Hermaphrodite. What do we call this cross eyed sex monster, beaver or butch? As her mom let out another surprised, tiresome sigh, I wanted to shake her out of this dumfounded, non motherly, emotionally retarded comatose state that was tearing my wife apart at a painstakingly, awkward, heart burning pace. At this point, it was up to the father to make up for her mom’s stupefied, incredibly annoying, glaringly inappropriate, sloppy reaction, no such luck. The man was tongue tied, speechless, all he can garble out was, I didn’t expect to hear this. Well, I didn’t expect you to instantly ruin the most special announcement of our lives with such clumsy, thoughtless precision. I know that your not excited about the prospect of having to spend any more time me than you have to but can you at least make an effort to conceal your glaring disappointment and displeasure in our family founding, soul lifting, divinely connected, humanity cementing announcement. If I knew you’d react like this, I’d have your daughter hide the pregnancy till the third trimester so you’d have even less time to cope with being such an unwilling, unsupportive, under whelmed, un-grandstanding granddaddy.

You might think I’m being overly sensitive or a tad judgmental for accusing the father of intentionally ruining what’s supposed to be a classically wonderful father, daughter, Hallmark scene or for making no attempt to heal such a broken, can never take it back moment.

As the extended awkward aura of bewildered silence hovered over the room like the ghost of spooked out past, her father rose the insensitive stakes and made a remark about how my father should be happy about being a Grandfather considering that he just had a heart attack and didn’t expect to see a grandchild before he died. Well, thanks for the pep talk there pops, just because you run marathon’s, doesn’t mean you can outrun the Grim Reaper. But I appreciate the projected highlighted contrast in reactions because it gives your daughter one last chance to be given an all loving, all enveloping, non judgmental, deserved, overdue, expecting mother embrace. As usual, my wife’s brother picked up the emotional load and infused much needed empty space with love and palpable excitement. My parents shed tears of joy when we told them that they’d be grandparents real soon which became that much more special knowing how much my wife’s parents squandered this insanely joyous, pro life-affirming, starting our own family announcement. Her parents must think it’s a rushed, non-thought out, financially unsustainable idea without their financial assistance. Apparently, having kids doesn’t stop you from always thinking about yourself after all.

Written By,

Josh Kornbluth