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Where's Artie

May. 27, 2011
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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, seems Brew Town had its Doomsday early Tuesday morn when promotional Bernie Brewer lawn gnomes placed in county parks were all scooped up prematurely by nimble hoarders before little kids and grandmas dawdled their asses to the point that they arrived on-site at the prescribed time so as to leave empty-handed. My pal Little Jimmy Iodine was taking his crack-of-dawn constitutional stroll through Estabrook Park unawares of a lawn ornament giveaway, so imagine his surprise to stumble upon Bernie Brewer contretemps with Bango Buck. “Squeeze play” and “slam dunk” have added nuance now for Jimmy, what the fock.

Anyways, as I indicated last week with the launching of my gala 25th year of essays in this newspaper, I am behooved again to remind all you school administrators that I am indeed available to be the keynote gasbag at your institution's commencement sheepskin giveaway. Fifty bucks and a case of ice-cold bottled beer and I'll come by and harangue any group you got, from preschool to Joe College. So raid petty cash, get on the phone and I'll be right over, I kid you not.

That's right. I can speechify preschool to Joe College 'cause I deliver the same oration no matter where I might find myself podiumed. And that's because my thoughts and words are universal—they transcend age and language discrimination; transcend bourgeoisie definitions of “species”; transcend space, time, velocity, molecular matter; transcend whatever needs transcending.

And I tell you I've got experience in the racket that you can take to the bank, you bet. Take for example my lone commencing gig from a couple, three years back over by the eunuch-owned-and-operated Wee-Wee Park Your Tot Lot, Institution of Lower Learning (Bedwetters Welcome) Institute.

It was a memorable oratorical experience. I was interrupted mid-speech several times, once even with applause when they mistakenly thought my remarks were concluded, plus numerous other times when young scholars were forced to visit the Poo-Poo room following the dropping of a full-load drawers-side.

There was a milk-and-cookie pause, which I found unacceptable. What the fock is a “health” cookie? Cripes, back when I was a tadpole if they'd a' foisted some kind of health cookie or piece of fruit on us kids, we would've had Miss Whoever-the-Fock buried neck-deep in the sandbox so fast it'd make the speed of light look like a Piggly Wiggly check-out lane on Senior Citizen Double Coupon Day. Besides, any kind of cookie break for these katzenjammers was a total waste of time since they'd been seriously snot-snacking during my address from the get-go.

It was 'round about the time that I quoted Eugene Debs (a guy who should've been elected president at least once out of the five times he ran)—“Years ago, I recognized my kinship with all living things, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on Earth... While there is a lower class, I am in it, while there is a criminal element, I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free”—that most of the kids started bawling and I was asked to hit the focking road.

I don't know if these kids got much out of my discourse, but I sure learned something: If I ever get another speaking engagement, I will be abso-focking-lutely certain to demand the case of ice-cold bottled beer upfront.

Anyways, I'd like to congratulate all our graduates of what-have-you out there, even if I don't get paid to do it in the flesh. To those of you's who do not plan on ever getting another ounce of education, I applaud your savvy. Yes, you blink a crafty eye toward the world's ways, knowing full well that you can pull down a buck two-eighty an hour just as easily without more sheepskin as you could with it. Dunderheads never qualify for the bum's rush out-the-door at the job interview 'cause they're overqualified, no sir.

And to those of you who plan to break camp and track the noble entrails of yet even more educating dropped by educators, I say in the parlez vous of your peers: Go for it. What the hell else you going to do. Get a job? Get real.

But to one and all, remember this: It's not what you learn; it's how you know how to make some other co-schmuck look like a focking nitwit in the mind's eye of Big Chief HooHa, he who signeth the check of pay.

Now some of you's may run around in focking circles drawn by false scents wafting 'round the job hunt. Do not despair. Let me tell you, the one thing they didn't teach you en route to the ceremonial diploma bologna is that jobs suck. Baker, banker, candlestick maker; sailor, tailor, shyster financier; 8-10-12 hours of suck-butt a day just for a stinking roof over your head bites. It's so bad that the only thing worse is not having a job, 'cause 8-10-12 hours a day stinking up the public library and blowing your beak on your sleeve bites even bigger, and… hell, I forgot my point; so skip it 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


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