I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, if you’re a cheap-ass like me who may be looking for free focking things to do indoors during the hellacious days of summertime, you may consider a stroll over to your nearest Motor Department of the Vehicles and take the test you have to write with a pencil like I did the other day when the thermometer mercury read like Mercury.
And if you do, you’re in for a surprise ’cause I tell you’s, it sure as hell isn’t the test I remembered from the last time I flunked it way back when only foreigners drove foreign cars. They’ve made it damn difficult, I kid you not. Yes, I understand our great state hankers for a higher educational standard for all Dairyland school kids, but I think they’re getting a little radical extremist when they expect these standards to carry over to a test for driving, for christ sakes.
For example, I thought I did alright on the matching section only to find out later I’d mixed up the Treaty of Ghent with the Treaty of Nystad, what the fock. And essay questions? You got to be jerking my beefaroni. That’s the kind of thing you expect from the government when you take the test to be ambassador to Timbuk-focking-tu or somewheres, not when all you want to be is legal so’s to drive down to the 7-Eleven for a six-pack and hot dog, ain’a?
For the essays, you could choose from one of three questions: “Compare and contrast the Neolithic Revolution with the Counter-Reformation”; “Describe in detail your favorite color”; and “Which is preferable: drinking and driving, or, drinking while driving.”
That last question I thought was easy for me. I explained how messy and potentially dangerous it was to try to mix a proper bourbon Manhattan while behind the wheel. Common sense, then, would suggest that you have a couple, three before you drive. Guess what? Yeah, I flunked. But big focking deal. The DMV air conditioning was free, and besides, I haven’t owned a car that moved since 1976, so what the fock.
As for things that might cost some dough that you can do outdoors during the hellacious days of summertime, you might ask me about this Summerfest shebang coming up. And my answer would be “no,” you won’t see me down by there. That truth is best expressed by a formula as elegant and funda-focking-mental as any of Einstein’s concoctions: nbt + ntt x tmgdm = nAK (sfe). To the nonmathematical layman, it reads thusly: “no bourbon tent plus no topless tent multiplied by too much god damn music equals no Art Kumbalek (so fock ’em.)”
Speaking of free, here’s a couple little stories maybe you could share with your freeloading relatives and assorted hangers-on when they come by you’s on the Fourth of July right-around-the-corner to watch fireworks and drink all your beer:
This guy got into a bad bicycle accident and his “manhood” got mangled and torn from his body, for which he got a nice settlement from the insurance company. So he goes to one of these newfangled guy clinics and the doctor assures him that modern medicine could give him back his manhood, and that the cost would be $3,500 for “small,” $6,500 for “medium,” and $14,000 for “large.” The guy was sure he’d want a medium or large, but the doctor urged him to talk it over with his wife before he made any decision.
So the guy calls the wife on the phone and explained their options. The doctor came back into the room and found the man looking like he just lost his best friend. Doctor says, “Well sir, what have you and the wife decided?” And the guy says, “She’d rather use the money to remodel the kitchen.”
A chemist, a biologist and an electrical engineer were on death row wouldn’t you know, waiting to take a seat on the electric chair. The chemist was brought forward first.
“Do you have anything you want to say?” asked the executioner, strapping him in.
“Can’t think of anything,” the chemist said. The executioner flicked the switch and nothing happened. Under state law, if an execution attempt fails, the prisoner is to be released, so the chemist was set free. Then the biologist was brought forwards. “Do you have anything you want to say?” the executioner asked. The biologist said “No, just get on with it.”
The executioner flicked the switch, and again nothing happened, so the biologist was released. Then the electrical engineer was brought forwards. “Do you have anything you want to say?” asked the executioner. “I do,” answered the engineer. “You see, if you swap the red and the blue wires over, you just might make this thing work, I kid you not.”
Ba-ding-a-ding-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.