I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I can’t deliver the palaver this week on how the brainwashed Tea Party/Evangelical/White Militia/Republican uber-faithful constitute a zombie horde hell-bent on devouring truth, justice and the American way, no sir, on account I got to go meet up with my crew over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school on Hysteric Center Street so’s to make our plans for the Super Sunday football holiday coming up on Sunday I believe, what the fock.
But I will tell you’s that about the Super Sabbath, I’ve always found that when the members of your home team are engaged in pursuits not related to knocking the snot out of the dickwads in a different uniform on the first Sunday of February, that the Super Bowl is often a piece of boring crapola that stretches on and on that by the time it’s over not only is your kid out of diapers, but his voice is changed, he’s moved out of the house and his second divorce is almost final. The only thing that could be better than the sound of the final gun is if it had been also pointed at the Geico gecko.
And now, a word of caution. My forecast indicates the likelihood of big-time imbibement come Sunday; thus I should suggest that some of us here in the Corn Cow Cheese Sausage State better keep at least one eye on our drinking-and-driving law, ain’a? Sure as shootin’, more and more people are getting pulled over by the law on suspicion of exceeding the lush limit than they did years ago.
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And here’s a little tip for those who may be new to the trial and tribulation of being stopped by an eagle-eyed traffic officer, especially some of you’s young people: Two things right off the bat that you never, ever want to ask suspicious law enforcement are, “Could you hold my beer while I find my license?” and “Hey officer, is that a nightstick or are you just glad to see me?”
No sir, when you’ve been drinking you should not get behind the wheel. And you should not get in front of a wheel either ’cause if you’re focking plastered, you are roadkill, mister. The best place to be if you’re going to be putting on the binge is within the friendly confines of your own abode—alone. Makes sense, don’t it? Just set up an ashtray, sit wherever the fock you want, and no unsolicited bonehead conversations to endure. Hell, the only jag-off you might encounter is yourself, and you know how to deal with that knobshine—have another cocktail, ain’a?
But yet there may be something you want to consider, and that is the issue of personal safety. Sure, you’re all warm and fuzzy having swigs in your digs, so what the fock’s to fear? Listen, that’s exactly the question craggy Bill Holden, star of The Bridge on the River Kwai, Sunset Boulevard and Damien: Omen II, might have asked himself one evening in 1981 during a solitary booze bacchanal right before he either tripped on a cord, or perhaps a dog squeaky, and cracked his head wide open on an end table. That’s right, a guy can go from Old Grand-Dad to “found dead” at the snap of a finger, you betcha.
So what to do? Some of you’s may recall that a handful of years ago, I came up with the design for what I call the Art Kumbalek Drinking Helmet, a protective device to promote home-drinking safety. Remember? This baby was to be made of the same stuff they make the “black box” on airplanes out of. Indestructible. The helmet would have an infrared bubble-visor for better night vision in case the home-drinker was too hammered to reconnoiter the light switches. And yes, it would have one of those back-up horns to warn any animate object in the vicinity to get out of the way ’cause this guy’s focking loaded; and yes, I wanted Congress to make mandatory for all adult Americans the wearing of this safety helmet from dusk to dawn.
Now, finally, I’ve got the prototype good-to-go, and guess what? The only way I can figure to make a buck from the Drinking Helmet would be to cold-call telemarket the damn thing, and what with the national Do-Not-Call legislation I’m out of business before I can even get in, and the safety of a drinking nation remains at risk.
Once again government regulation squashes the small businessman with no Internet savvy. Fock. I need a drink. Time to go occupy a tavern in protest, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
