I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here we are at the crack of August, harbinger of a dwindling summertime, and I realize that most of you’s need to cram the seasonal-festive up your agenda fast and often now before the shine turns to frost, what the fock.
Cripes, I’m guessing you’s may not be able to fully peruse my weekly essay ’cause who’s got the time, what with the Irish Fest down by the lakefront this weekend, not to mention the Wisconsin State Fair situated in the picturesque community of West Allis. But here’s a couple time-saving tips if you plan to attend either of these shebangs. Skip the information booth at Irish Fest if you want to know how come the Irish have all the potatoes, and the Arabs all the oil. The answer will be ’cause the Irish had first pick. Ba-ding!
And if you go to the State Fair,
don’t waste your time with the guy who wagers that he can guess your
age and weight. It’s Wisconsin. He’ll guess you’re too old, and too
focking fat. He’ll be right. You’ll lose and be out the couple, three
bucks you could’ve otherwise blown on an extra goddamn creampuff,
So the hell with you’s. You’re too busy to read my essay, so maybe I’m too busy to tell you’s about how I was a late-late-minute invitee to the so-called “Beer Summit” with the president, the Irish cop, the African-American professor and the vice president, held last week in the White House Rose Garden, so as to provide a “national conversation” about this-and-that.
Lord knows why they requested me to belly up to the bar, except maybe they thought a respected working-class member of the media who knows his way around an ice-cold bottled beer and an amusing anecdote could only help. And wouldn’t you know, every time there was a photo opportunity, I had excused myself from the table so as to go take a leak in the bushes. Beer goes through me like crap through a goose, I kid you not.
Anyways, so there I was and I could feel that things were a little tense, a little stiff, between these parties. I on the other hand, being an experienced social-situationist, came prepared, having already downed a half-pint of Jim Beam and two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I was ready to summit, and put everyone at ease to boot. And to break the ice between guys who don’t really know each other, I’ve always found the sharing of a humorous story to be the way to go.
So after shaking hands all around, I asked Sgt. Crowley if he had heard about the lady police officer who had arrested a man for drunk driving. He said that he did not. So I continued: “So the female officer explains to the driver, ‘Sir, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be held against you... “And so the guy says, “Tits.”
Ba-focking-ding! Joe Biden shot a stream of non-alcohol beer out his nose and I knew I was home. So I turned to the professor and said, “Hank, a question for you. Three guys are riding in a car: a black guy, a Hispanic guy, and a guy wearing some kind of focking turban. So, who’s driving?” The professor had no answer. “Hank,” I said, “The cop. The cop is driving.” Ba-ding!
We ordered another round of drinks and sent Biden up to the White House to bring back a fresh bag of Doritos and some mozzarella cheese logs. I turned to the president and said, “Listen Barry, I don’t know what focking planet you were born on, but I do know you might enjoy this story:
three baseball fans are walking to Cominskey Park for an interleague
game between the White Sox and Cubs, when they see a foot sticking out
of some bushes. An inspection reveals that the foot belongs to a
passed-out-drunk naked woman. One of the White Sox fans places
his baseball cap over her right breast. The other Sox fan places his
cap on her left breast, and the Cubs fan put his cap over her crotch.
They then call for police assistance.
The cop arrives and removes the Sox cap that had covered the lady’s right breast and makes a few notes. He then lifts the other Sox cap and makes more notes. Then he lifts the Cubs cap, puts it down, lifts it again and puts it down. When he lifted it the third time the White Sox fan says, ‘’What the fock? Are you some kind of pervert, or what?’’ And the cop says, “Listen buddy, I was confused. Usually when I see a Cubs cap, there’s a focking asshole under it.’’
That story brought our little Rose Garden house down, I tell you’s. Well into our cups by then, as boozy brothers we gathered our feet, clasped hands and stood as one, chanting in unison, “Fock the assholes. Fock the assholes!” Covering their behind, the team from Fox News then quickly departed. Jeez louise, you should’ve been there. Teachable moments are not to be missed, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.