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Cream City Prick

Jun. 17, 2009
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I’m Art Kumbalek and manoh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here we are all right already rounding the corner of a middle of the June and each day that passes not only is one less to endure the noisy summertime, but also one less for the possibility of an embarrassing vacation snapshot, not meant for publication, showing up in the popular media somewheres, what the fock. Yeah, I try to stay optimistic any way I can.

And that’s why I’d like to say it was encouraging to see our new president take his recent trip for peace to that garden-spot known as the Middle East, where the title of every so-called country’s national anthem could be translated into English by way of Woody Guthrie as “Your Land is My Land.”

Had I been his speechwriter, I would have suggested to the president that he begin his speechifying in regard to the Arab-Israeli donnybrook by quoting the late, lyrical and supremely lush Welsh writer Dylan Thomas, who wrote in one of his poems or something: “The land of my fathers. They can have it.”

And then to add some ethnic diversity to his remarks, I would’ve had Mr. Obama add this old proverb from sunny Spain: “A man who prides himself on his ancestry is like the potato plant, the best part of which is under ground.” Then to close the address, who better to quote than my favorite ancient Greek philosopher, Anonymous? “More important than where you are from is where you are going”—which, for the religiously fanaticized ass-hat kingpins over there, I pray would be straight to hell, you betcha.

Hey, and speaking of Greece, I’ll tell you one thing: When it comes to trend-setting, those ancient Greeks from the fossil age had it down stone-cold. Every single one of their top celebrities were known by one name only, as some of ours do today in the modern times—like Euripides, one of their top playwrighter guys from the theater, sort of the David Mamet-type of his day but without all the dirty focking language.

But why I think of him as we round that middle-corner of June is ’cause we got the Father’s Day dead ahead and ol’ ’Rip once wrote something I can’t get out of my head:

The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.

Yeah, focking swell. There’s a sentiment bound to make a guy or gal rush right out to go buy a goddamn necktie or gift-wrapped box of pipe cleaners for the old gent who wears the pants in the family, ain’a? And to think Eurip’ wrote that before the trouser was even discovered. What a world.

Although it is true what they say—that you can pick your friends but not your family (which by the way, blows bigtime)—I truly hope that what Euripides wrote ’round about 2,421 years back ain’t necessarily so. Let us not forget that a lot of the science findings those methuselah Greeks invented were later to be proved as nothing but a steaming pile of so much bull-shish ke-bab.

But if the old Greek’s words are true, then you got to do your best to think that maybe it’s not your old man’s fault you are as unwittingly screwed up as he is—so blame it instead on the gods for the world going to hell in a handbasket but good, generation after generation after generation. After all, chances are pretty damn good pop’s a heck of a wreck through good intentions only. Anything’s possible.

Hey, you know what you ought to do come Father’s Day? If you’re too focking cheap to spring for a gift for the old fart, how ’bout at least make a nice homemade card. I even got a nice sentiment you can write down in it. Since I’ve been using a bunch of quotes from dead guys in this essay, why not this one from no finer writer there ever be again than dear Mr. Yeats from near Dublin:

I have certainly known more men destroyed by the desire to have a wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.

A-focking-men. Happy Father’s Day. And if that doesn’t cheer dad up, then relate to him the following little story on the phone when you call him up to tell him you can’t stop by Sunday ’cause you got more important things to do:

So this dad goes to pick up his fifth-grader son from the school and the kid comes running all kinds of excited. “Dad, dad! Guess what? I got a part in the class play!” Dad says, “That’s wonderful, son. What’s the part?” Kid says, “I get to play a guy who’s been married for like 20 years!” Dad says, “Well, son. Keep up the good work and maybe some day they’ll give you a speaking role.”

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


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