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The Bipolar Express

Dec. 15, 2010
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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, how ’bout that price for electricity these dark days jacked up to where a guy’s going to have to take out a loan every month when he gets his bill handed to him, what the fock. Problem is, we can complain all we want, but it might be wise to recall the words of ol’ Lonesome George Gobel: “If it wasn’t for electricity, we’d be watching TV by candlelight.”

Anyways, since we be ’tis smack-a-dab-a-rooni amidst decking the halls with maids a’milking and lords a’-focking-leaping, I’m guessing you’re too busy to carefully read my piece of essay, what with your holiday shopping (I take a 42 Regular in a sport coat, and I suppose I could use a new iron to press my $ingles with before I visit the gentlemen’s club; thanks), stockings that need stuffing and halls that need decking, ain’a?

Fine and dandy, besides I’m too busy to do anything but whip out the first thing off the top of my head. I got to head out the door pronto ’cause I got a bunch of errands that need erranding, and since Governor-elect Snidely Whiplash sees public transportation as a pussin’-bleeding boil on the butt of the Badgerland taxpayer, I need to catch a bus while there’s still a bus to catch.

And health care. I heard some crooked federal judge out of Virginia declared the new health care law to be unconstitutional—which reminds me of a story, what the fock:

There’s a student in medical school who wants to specialize in sexual disorders, so he makes arrangements to visit a sexual disorder clinic. The chief doctor is showing him around, discussing cases and the facility, when the student sees a patient seriously spanking the bejesus out of his monkey (masturbating) right there in the hallway, I kid you not.

The student wants to know what condition this man has, and the chief doctor says, “This man suffers from Seminal Buildup Disorder. If he doesn’t obtain sexual release 40 to 50 times a day, he’ll pass into a coma.”

The student observes and takes some notes, and they continue down the hall. As they turn the corner, he sees another patient, this one with his pants around his ankles, on the receiving end of a hum job (oral sex) to beat the band, administered by an abso-focking-lutely drop-dead gorgeous nurse.

The student is curious and asks, “And this patient, doctor? What’s his story?” Doctor says, “He has the same condition as the previous patient; however, he also has a much better health plan.”

And speaking of research, here’s a question I wish our scientists would take a gander at: “If electricity comes from ‘electrons,’ does that mean morality comes from ‘morons’?”

So no trains, buses, and soon no health care. Focking swell. All this pissing and moaning about health-care reform has even affected the play of innocent children’s games. I heard the other day about this little girl in the second grade who came home from school and tells her ma, “This boy in my class asked me to play doctor today.” Naturally, her ma was a little nervous and asked the girl what the heck went on. And the girl says, “Nothing. He just made me wait an hour and 45 minutes and then double-billed the insurance company.” Ba-ding!

All I know about health insurance is that you get good and honking puking sick these days without the insurance—or what passes as “insurance” for the average guy or gal—and not only do you need the sick leave from work, but you’ll need at least a day for the bankruptcy leave to boot, I kid you not.

And serendipity, just this morning I heard some guy on the radio talking ’bout the skyrocket costs for the health care, and that if all the people took more of what-you-call the preventative measures, these costs could enjoy a bit of shrinkage. That’s just got to be good news for the uninsured, ain’a? Take your preventative measures—that way if you get good and honking puking sick, it might only cost you one billion focking bucks instead of two for christ sakes.

It’s really a damn shame that this new batch of Florence Nightingales we somehow got elected to Congress don’t seem to give a good goddamn for the people who can’t get the health insurance or a job, except to offer them the option of considering only one health-care preventative measure—which is to go hang themself from a beam in the basement and declare themself technically out of the system. Fock ’em all, each and every one, and merry focking Christmas ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


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