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Loco Motive

Nov. 11, 2010
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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, once again I can’t whip out a big-time essay for you’s this week. I’m on my way right now to meet up with my gang over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the Hysteric Corner of Center Street & Humboldt. It just so happens for me to be that goddamn special personal day which comes up each year that reminds you that you’re one measure closer to being but a memory. Focking swell.

The fellas want to buy me a cocktail or three to celebrate, so come along if you’d like but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.

So where the fock is Artie?

He said he’ll be a little late. He wanted to stop in at his voting place to see if he could exchange his “I voted” sticker for an “I’m screwed” sticker.

I thought Walker was going to do something about jobs, but it seems all Governor-elect Snidely Whiplash wants to do is play “choo-choo train go bye-bye.”

Little Jimmy Iodine:
Any you’s guys want to join my pool? You got to guess how many days after the new U.S. Senate begins their session until a senator loses his patience, grabs a cane and beats Rand focking Paul senseless on the Senate floor. Hey, Artie! Over here! Put a load on your keister.

Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know.

I know I was going to write you in on my voting ballot the other day, Artie, but I never remember how to spell your name.

That’s easy: L-O-S-E-R.

So Artie, you going to buy us guys a round for your birthday?

I’ll never forget this time when I was living in Chicago and Artie and Little Jimmy came down to buy me a birthday cocktail. So we went to this joint and grabbed a corner table. Now, there was this knob at the bar and he asks for a bottle of 40-year-old Scotch. Seems the bartender didn’t want to give up the good liquor, so he poured a shot of 10-year Scotch and figured the guy wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. The guy downs the Scotch and says: “Excuse me, this Scotch is only 10 years old and I’m not paying for this! I specifically asked for 40-year-old Scotch.”

The bartender was kind of surprised, and we saw him reach into a locked cabinet at the end of the bar, pull out a bottle of old Scotch and pour this knob a shot. The guy downs it and says, “That was 20-year-old Scotch. Did I not ask for 40-year-old Scotch?”

What a focking fockstick, ain’a?

Little Jimmy Iodine:
You betcha. So the bartender brings out a dusty bottle of Scotch from the backroom and pours the guy a drink. A small crowd has gathered and they watch as Sir Scotch downs the shot. This time the guy says, “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but this is 30-year-old Scotch and I refuse to pay for it. I want 40-year-old Scotch.” The bartender shrugs, leaves the bar and goes down into the cellar. Couple minutes later, he returns with a wrapped bottle and pours a shot. The guy downs it and says, “Now, this is 40-year-old Scotch!” The crowd starts to applaud ’cause I guess they can’t believe how good his taste is.

All of a sudden Artie stands up, walks over to the guy and says, “My good man, impressive performance. Here, I’d appreciate your opinion of this.” Artie hands him a tumbler of something, the guy downs the drink, immediately starts to choke and spits out the liquid all over the bar. “My God! That tastes like urine!” And Artie says, “You got that right. Now tell me how old I am, asshole." Ba-ding!

So fock Artie’s birthday. Time for my annual toast to Nov. 11, Veterans Day here, and Remembrance Day in Canada. If ever there be a day that ought to be a sacred day just for the focking simple reason of being sacred, then the day of Veterans, and the day of remembrance, is that day, the day the bell tolls for all those kids who wound up getting buried god-knows-where-or-when in the field, the jungle, the desert, at sea. And why?

Because they liked a government that would let anybody come down the pike and say and think just about any damn moosedick thing they felt to say or think—even knobshine lying Republicans who think we don’t even need a government, or at least a government that has any money.

Amen, Herbie. Even though these kids of ours are long gone from around here, there’s not a day goes by that I don’t hear their voice, feel the touch of their hand, and remember always to carefully consider any “noble cause” that would be invested with memories too-soon such as these, ain’a?

(Hey, it’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)


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