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License to Swill

Jun. 22, 2012
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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, I don't want to say this heat's getting to me, but yesterday afternoon I found myself wearing nothing but a dinky loincloth whilst speaking some kind of click language as I dug for grub worms in the neighbor's yard so I'd have something for dinner, what the fock.

I think I got to relax and try to cool down, so no essay for you's this week. Instead, I beseeched a couple, three of my buddies to volunteer and fill this page for me so's I can still collect my measly stipend, god bless them. I don't know if what they've written is any good, but since nobody has to pay anything to read this newspaper, I really don't give a flying fock.


With another presidential election coming up like a bad burrito from the night before, I got to know how long does this focking abortion uproar have to linger like hell's hangover anyways, huh? You focking knobs, like a little compromise would be so bad? Theoretically personally speaking, when I figure the cost of an abortion I might have to chip in on versus 18 years' worth of gym sneakers, I light a votive for Harry Blackmun.

Yeah, whatever happened to compromise I'd like to focking know. It would mean the best of both possible worlds: Abortion, OK, but maybe not according to the druthers of your most ideal time; so maybe instead of a second trimester thing, you'd wait 'til about the fifty-focking-second trimester, like when the kid's about 13 and gives you some sass talk. Sure, that may seem late in the pregnancy to your average right-to-lifer, but you could placate them by agreeing to meet them halfway and let them execute young shoplifters and masturbators at around the age of 13.

People got to learn to compromise, like that great old American statesman Henry Clay. In Whitefish focking Bay, they even named a street after his butt. Nobody remembers what political party he belonged to, but party and Whitefish Bay don't seem to go together anyways, so what the fock.


Artie wanted me to write something for his little article in that hippie newspaper. OK. The guy's a genuine 100% fockstick, and a cheap-ass to boot. The End.


We got so many focking problems and catastrophes hanging by a focking thread ready to happen 'round the world, it isn't even funny. And what's anybody doing about it? Not a focking thing.

China. I read they got a “serious shortage of women.” No kidding, shortage. You ever seen a Chinese lady topping 5-feet-2 in shoes? Yeah, that's what I thought.

But the experts say this shortage is going to cause serious problems for them if something isn't done about it. “Lack of wives for millions could lead to chaos,” they said. I, for one, am telling you these Chinese don't know when they got it good—talk about inscrutable. But I'd like to help.

They don't have enough wives to go around? They can have mine then, any focking time they want. I'll even toss in her Ma to boot, no charge. Take 'em both, what the fock.


OK, it's been 40 focking years since a bunch of Republican turd-clowns broke into the Democratic National Committee headquarters and kicked off the whole Watergate hodgepodge shebang. And I'd like to know how come there was never a Warren Commission kind of commission to finger a conspiracy that knocked off Bobby Kennedy. If they would've had one, I bet you a buck two-eighty they would've found Dick Nixon under that pile, you think? Nixon hated the Kennedys anyways, plus he knew that RFK would've cleaned his clock but good in '68.

Nixon was elevated to the peak of power through the itchy finger of a wet-behind-the-ears immigrant from focking Jordan, some kind of weasel fockstick with two first names—Sirhan Sirhan. Wait. Two last names? No. The same two names—for christ sakes, what the fock, ain'a?

Nixon had Bobby K taken out all right, and I can prove it. Take the name “Nixon”—switch the vowels around (that's the “i” and the “o,” for you illiterate dipshits) then spell it backward. What do you get? Focking “Nixon.” Now take “Sirhan Sirhan” and switch the names around. What do you get? Enough said.

Little Jimmy Iodine

OK. I tried, but I just couldn't write something better than Artie usually does, sometimes. But I came across a little riddle that the youngsters who week-to-week suck up Artie's little essay like Popsicle on a stick might enjoy: What's green and hangs on trees? Giraffe snot.

Thanks, gents. Whatever you said is good enough by me, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


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