Hallow Can You Go
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world,ain’a? So listen, hard to believe Hallo-focking-ween has come back up, up like a tainted fish fry from St. Sal Monella’s—fare fit for a firstclass ride on the porcelain bus.
Yes sir, it’s to be a Saturday, October 31, as if another focking amateur night like New Year’s Eve or the day/night St. Patrick’s Day isn’t enough for these knobshine partygoers.
As I tell you every year, please remember that no matter what stupid-ass costumes you dream up (Yale University rodent-lab janitor accompanied by sexy Oriental graduate student enrolled but good in the thigh-high-black-boots happy-ending masseuse department), that no matter what you “go as” to these soirees a’ swarming ’round the town, you will come back as a drunken knoblin wrapped in three sheets to the wind. I advise you skip the dicking around with a costume, and just plain cut to the cocktailchase; what’s to lose, what the fock.
Anyways, I got to tell you’s that I’ve run clean out of time to pony up my big-time essay this week, one that would’ve been graciously particulate about how the world would be tentimes a better place if there were fewer focking idiots inhabiting said world.
But hey, I’ve been busy with trying to figure out just when the heck the deadline for declaring one’s self a candidate for governor of America’s Dairyland might be, ’cause I want to make damn sure I don’t already have something going on that day, so give me a break.
On top of that, last weekend my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine came down with the pig flu that’s been making the rounds; so I had to go over by his place and help him prepare the healthily free-farm green rain-barrel drenched treats he planned to offer the little trick-or-treater beggars come by his door—mashed potatoes with organic gravy, and scrambled eggs with the diced holistic raw onion stuck in it. I was able to help Jimmy ’cause the kids don’t come by me for the Halloween ever since I put out the cubed head cheese and pickled chicken hearts for them the other year, god bless; they keep their distance from my door now.
Jimmy kept feeling worse and worse so I stuck around to pass out the goods to the little costumed ding-dongers. There was this one kid come by made up like the movie “Rocky,” with the boxing gloves and satin shorts. Kid even had colored in a black eye, at least I think he colored it in. So I scoop a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his bag, and wouldn’t you know, short time later he’s back at the door. I said, “What the fock, weren’t you the same ‘Rocky’ who was just here?” Kid says, “You bet, but now I’m ‘Rocky II’ plus I’ll be back three more times tonight, and if you don’t pony up something better than goddamn mashed potatoes, I’m going to kick your ass around the block and back, mister.”
Tough kids, these days. Then there was this other little guy come by the door, seems every year, never gets bigger, has one of those what-you-call speech predicaments. So I answer the door and he says, “Bick or beet.” So I says, “And what are you supposed to be for Halloween?” He says, “A birate.” I says, “Isn’t that sweet. A ‘birate.’ And where are your buccaneers?” And this kid says, “On the side of my buckin’ head, asshole.”
So, I got to run. I hear this weekend the clocks get shoved back an hour and I got to figure how to put that extra time to good use. Right now, I’m torn betweenst using that time to learn French, take a trip to Tahiti, or rearrange my sock drawer. Fock if I know.
But I do know that I ought to leave you with a little story appropriate to this festive time of year. You may have heard it before, but now you’ll hear it again, so what the fock—and given the ways of the world, this could be the last time:
So this guy’s driving home late one night and starts feeling a little frisky. He’s passing by a pumpkin patch and thinks, “You know, the interior of a pumpkin is not altogether unlike a certain part of the female anatomy—in a sensual sense, that is. And what the fock, there’s no one around for miles.” So he slams on the brakes, jumps the fence, picks the juiciest looking pumpkin he sees, carves an anatomically correct aperture, drops his drawers and commences to slake his burning desires.
Reaching the heights of passion, he fails to notice the police car pulling over to the side of the road.
Cop walks over, shines a flashlight on the guy and says, “Hey buddy, did you know you were porking a pumpkin?” The guy looks at the cop, then down at the pumpkin between his hands and says, “Good lord, officer! Is it midnight already!?!” Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.