I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh
manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, sorry to say I can’t cough
up a regular essay for you’s this week on account of the fact I got a
personal platter laden with poo that needs to be flushed pronto before
I even could begin to journalistically think about advice you need to
know so’s to think informedly if not downright correctly about
this-and-that which plagues our modern world, what the fock.
And a good portion of that poo on my platter is that I have to “go find the key,” that mysterious key the worldwide media is telling me and you to go find. I started looking for it last week as you may remember, and wouldn’t you know, I have yet to find the focking thing. But believe you me, if I do find this key and it just so happens to be the key to unlock the door to, say, global peace and prosperity, you will all be the first to know, I kid you not.
And speaking of keys, I’m reminded of a historical story that I’d like to pass on to you’s. If you’ve heard it before, tough luck ’cause now you’ll hear it again:
the days of old when knights were bold, this one particular knight was
soon to leave his castle so as to pursue a lengthy crusade somewheres.
Before his departure, he called for one of his squires and said,
“Trusty squire, I am leaving so as to pursue a lengthy crusade
somewheres. And so I hand you this, the key to my abso-fockinglutely
beautiful wife’s chastity belt. Protect this key with your life. If in
10 years, and no less, I have not returned, you may use this key to
unlock that belt. So I say farewell, my most loyal squire.”
And so the crusading knight sets out on the dusty road that leads from the castle, armored from head to toe. He turns to take one last look at the castle and in the distance sees one of his squires crossing the drawbridge, shouting and racing toward him. The knight awaits the approaching squire who breathlessly calls out, “Oh sire, thank goodness I was able to catch you. You gave us the wrong key.” Ba-ding!
But before I take off to go find that other key, let me tell you that
another pile of poo on my platter is this notion that the printed
newspaper is old-school dinosaur yesterday’s news ’cause today the
people have no use for the inky product. The people today only go to
the electronic universal Web world-wide Internet for their information.
And I need to figure out who these “people” are who can cavalierly dismiss a newspaper that’ll cost you either nothing or maybe 50-cents a shot for the scoop-of-news as opposed to having to spend a couple, three grand on a computer machine coupled with the monthly Internet bill just so you can check out the latest blogging bullshit.
And these computers with the Internet get these glitches all the time
where all of a sudden you can’t even get to your porn sites much less
any kind of newspaper Web site for the latest on who got shot. When you
rely on an old-fashioned newspaper for your information, the only
technological happenstance you will have to deal with is when you need
to change the prescription on your eyeglasses about once every 10
years. Case closed.
But I don’t mean to say that newspapers can cover every single cotton-focking-picking thing you need to know, and that even includes the Shepherd Express. People have come to me and asked why there’s no bullshit on the supremely inconsequential world of sports in this paper. Beats me. Cripes, come to think of it, where does one go these days to get his fill of armchair jackasses kvetching about professional athletic disappointment? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you that I do believe that what this newspaper could really use is a good ol’ down-to-the-bone advice column. Let me give you an example. A while back I received a letter in the mail asking for advice that clearly lied/laid/layed/lay beyond the perimeter of my experience. I would have preferred to have passed this letter on to the Shepherd Express professional advice columnist, except I couldn’t, ’cause we don’t have one. And so I felt behooved to provide a response to this poor soul (as if I’ve got nothing better to do, for christ sake), since that’s the kind of guy I am. To wit:
Dear Mr. Kumbalek, I noticed your newspaper doesn’t have an advice columnist and then no matter how many times I called your paper’s phone numbers, nobody seemed at home, and so I thought I would write you. I have a situation. It’s possible that I may have a touch of what they call “gonorrhea.” I’ve never had such a thing before and I’m too embarrassed to call my doctor. You’re a worldly kind of guy, so I’m wondering if you think this condition could clear up all by itself? —Dick
Hey Dick, I believe that anything’s possible, what the fock.
Also, not everyone feels that the gonorrhea is the worst thing in the
world. I heard a story of this one convent where the Mother Superior
called all the nuns together so as to announce: “I must tell you all
something unexpectedly important. It seems that we have a case of
gonorrhea here in the convent.”
And one of the elderly nuns said to the other, “Thank God. I’m so sick of Chardonnay.” Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.