And Your Bird Can Fling
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear there’s been a load of scuttlebutt all over, under, sideways and down America’s Dairyland lately about whether or not yours truly ought to take an electoral stab at being our state’s next governor. Yeah, go figure. But I guess when you consider the tired names of the honky-dorky nutbag losers our Republicans are throwing up for your consideration, a Governor Art Kumbalek must sound mighty nice, what the fock.
Anyways, I better skip writing an essay for you’s this week and instead get over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school where I can meet up with my campaign brain trust to discuss certain particulars, like just when the hell this election is supposed to take place in the first place, for christ sakes—except they’re not open yet; so first, I’ll slide over by this 24-hour joint that slings the hash and Joe whether you like it or not. Come along if you want, but you leave the tip.
Hattie: Oh my, look who’s here. It’s my little Artie come by to see his dear old Hattie.
Art: Hattie, how’ve you been? I sure as heck haven’t seen you for a while. I thought maybe you retired.
Hattie: And you thought wrong, mister. So let’s cut the sweet talk and get down to business before I have to shoot you.
Art: Hold on, Hattie. Cripes, that really is a gun, and here I thought you were just glad to see me. I’ll have a nice cup of what ever it is you’re calling plain-old American coffee.
Hattie: Now, was that so hard, Artie? And I’ll need the tip up front, so there’s no shenanigans.
Art: All right already, Hattie. Here’s a buck. Go get yourself something nice.
Hattie: You’re such a nice boy, and here’s your coffee. So what do you hear, what do you know, my little Artie.
Art: Jeez louise, Hattie. When the heck did you get a gun?
Hattie: I got a gun as soon as I heard that when the government makes people have to get health care, the president could put all the white people into concentration camps. And then the people could be Hooverized into the Democrat vacuum cleaner of death, like a retroactive abortion, if the feds decided that they didn’t really want these people. Can you imagine?
Art: What the fock, where’d you hear that?
Hattie: At meetings and on the Internet, Artie. Did you see that story about a 107-year-old woman in Malaysia who’s worried that her husband—number 22—may have left her for a younger woman?
Art: I did see that. They said the husband was like 70 years younger. My guess is that he didn’t leave, but that she kicked him out the day she was standing nude in front of the bedroom mirror and said to him, “I feel horrible. I look fat, ugly, and really old. A compliment sure would make me feel good.” So the husband says, “Your eyesight’s damn near perfect.”
Hattie: Isn’t that something, what you can learn on the Internet. The other day I read a story about this man who was sunbathing in the nude on a private beach when he saw a little girl coming toward him, so he covered himself with the newspaper he was reading. The girl came up to him and asked, “Are you hiding something under that newspaper, mister?” And the man said, “Nothing, really. Just a stupid bird, I guess.” So the little girl walked away and the man fell asleep. When he woke up, he was in a hospital in tremendous pain. When the police asked him what happened, the man said, “I don’t know. I was lying on the beach, this girl asked me about my newspaper, and the next thing I know is I’m here.”
So the police went back to the beach, found the girl, and asked her if she did anything to the man with the newspaper. And the girl said, “I didn’t do anything to him. But after he fell asleep, I was playing with the bird he had under his newspaper and it spit on me, so I broke its neck, cracked its eggs, and set its nest on fire.”
Art: Ouch! Got to hope that guy had health insurance, ain’a? Just like I hope Brett Favre’s got to dip into his deductible after he plays the Packers come Monday.
Hattie: Oh, Brett. If that Cajun bitch he’s married to ever set him free, I’d love to make him hubby number five. You know, Artie, whenever I get an itch down there, I always imagine he’s the nice, rough and tumble Johnny Reb country-bumpkin come to scratch it.
Art: And who’d want to intercept that play? Not me, I kid you not.
Hattie: Oh Artie, you’re a little devil, aren’t you. Take care.
(OK, it’s off to the Uptowner. If you see me there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)