Welcome Dirtbags, Again
what the fock, here it is anyways: So what’s the difference between a
Harley-Davidson and a vacuum cleaner? Give up? OK. The difference between a
Harley-Davidson and a vacuum cleaner? The position of the dirtbag. Ba-ding!
So listen, I’m not whipping out a big honking essay for you’s this week and I’ll tell you why. It’s summertime—that season I need about as much as I need a tax audit. You know the score to my lament: The bugs. The noise. The heat, coupled with high stupidity. Who needs that? You tell me, what the fock.
And then I’ll tell you that nobody reads in the summertime anyways, at least not the highfalutin intercourse of excogitations I’m prone to pump out. So I’m not even going to bother, this week anyways. No sir, in the summertime the only thing people read, if they read anything, are paperbacks they buy at the supermarket. Especially the gals. They really go for those books where on the cover they got some knobshine buff buccaneer with his shirt half ripped off and flowing coiffure flapping in the sea breeze. Guys don’t read those books. The guys I know would agree with Groucho, who said he never goes to see a motion picture where the guy’s tits are bigger than the lady’s. Hey, same goes for a book.
But about this how-many-anniversary-hoedowns-can-one-company-possibly-have Hog Fest at the top of the list on our community docket, I will say this: I do appreciate that these motor-psychos will supposedly maybe drill well over $100 million smackeroos into our town’s economic pipeline; and as a resident, I do look forward to the check-is-in-the-mail I ought to receive for the pain and suffering I will endure from all the piss-ass car alarms going off in the middle of the night every time one of those softail-fat boy-sportster-dual glide two-wheelers farted on down the boulevard. And when I do receive my check from the city, I promise to spend it wisely.
(Before I forget, for those of you’s clamoring to know—thanks for asking—how I’m doing following my painfully disruptive bathtub tumble of last week, I can tell you I’m good enough. I chose to follow the health mantra of the un/under-insured whenever they come down with a bout of cancer, appendicitis, heebie-jeebies, and that mantra is this: “Hey, maybe it’ll go away by itself.” So far, so kind-of good, I think. And when the hell did this HMO co-pay-through-the-roof bullshit start? Fifty-focking-bucks just to walk through the door to see the doc? For a $50 cover charge, I should at least expect the doctor to croon a nice “Moon River” or pull off a couple, three magic tricks and pretend to saw the nurse in half, before he tells me that whatever’s ailing me will probably go away by itself and then charging $200 for the advice, ain’a?)
And another thing, this week was supposed to be my gala Back-to-School Address to our young matriculators and matriculees. Looks like I’ll be at least a week late, just like every single goddamn homework assignment I ever got while serving time at Our Lady of Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough, what the fock.
But I’d like to quickly point out to our juvenile rocket scientists that you got one hell of a lot to learn, compared to if you had to go to school 2,000 years ago. Hey, how hard could geography have been back then? For crying out loud, they only had like about four countries, I kid you not. Piece of focking cake. And history? Those people were born yesterday compared to what you all got to memorize these days. English Lit? Mighty slim reading list, wouldn’t you say? You young people of the modern age sure got your work cut out for you’s, you betcha. I recommend heartily that you brush your teeth and stay in school. A successful future can be yours as long as you don’t fock it up. Amen.
I got to go, but to our nomadic visitors who rode into town on a bicycle with a motor attached, remember that New York may be The City that Never Sleeps, but Milwaukee is The City that Always Sweeps. So please, before you hightail it out of town remember to clean up after yourselves. Heck, even I might welcome you back, again, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.