Maybe Baby

May. 17, 2012
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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, I just walked in and boy-oh, are my legs tired. Anyways, about the recent Time Magazine cover and the breast-feeding brouhaha in the modern age, there is this:

Noted expert Sir Rodney Dangerfield once said, “I was such an ugly baby. My mother never breast-fed me. She told me she only liked me as a friend.” Ba-ding!

You betcha. And I once heard of this gal who didn't like to breast-feed her children. She said it hurt when she boiled her nipples. Ba-ding-ding-ding!

OK, I suppose I should get serious for a moment, about the nurturing of the future of our species. And so I consulted this worldwide Internet—today's most popular source for information you can use, I hear—for tips for you moms out there perhaps unsure of exactly when the breast-feeding ought to be nipped at the nozzle—unsure because, really, who can afford to go to the goddamn doctor these days even if you've got some kind of focking health insurance, unless you're a member of Congress?

In my research, I found a couple, three indications that it may be time to pack up your breast in your ol' tit bag:

  • The kid can now open your blouse by himself.

  • He's slipping dollar bills in your belt during the feeding.
  • He's developed a habit of flicking his tongue.
  • Beard abrasions on the boobs.
  • Child invites his friends over for dinner.
  • Your birth control pills interfere with his acne medicine.
  • After each session, you both have a smoke.

Anyways, I got to go early this week so I can hone my annual commencement address to our newest batch o' graduates who've been painstakingly educated to the point they couldn't find their butt on a map even if they were focking sitting on it. America: We're No. 1! Want some fries with that?

(Reminder: Fifty bucks and a case of ice-cold bottled beer is my standard fee for addressing whatever kind of group you got needs addressing.)

And in regard to what I can possibly say concerning the golden future that awaits our commences just beyond the pale, what I got so far address-wise is, “There's no business like show business, so get a focking a job”—which is just as far as I got last year, so what the fock, guess I'm finished.

Except to say, speaking of show biz, gosh darn it that I just heard that we here in Our Town have lost a trouper who pounded the boards in true iconic fashion—Black Dog, Electric Asshole, Mark Shurilla, who now blitzkriegs Kenosha and nurtures our scene from a sadly premature emeritus status.

At a time when playing live music for the working musician in our town seems to be focking dang near illegal, it's tough to lose a soldier such as he, ready to plug in, count off and “take it to the hoop,” anywhere, any time.

So yeah, that'll be the day, when I see you again, mister, at the bar, to split the dough, have a nightcap and go home, world champions, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


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