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Gutter Balls a-Bowling

Feb. 4, 2010
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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, for those of you’s wondering if I’m feeling any better than I did last week when I was bitching and moaning about being under the weather, the answer is fock if I know. What I do know is that the amount of snot expectorating out of my head lately would be enough to feed a small fourthworld village for a month, I kid you not.

But seriously, how am I feeling? Hey, with my fingers. Ba-ding! God forbid I should lose my sense of touch, say, in an unfortunate documentshredding accident due to an overzealous effort so’s to protect my identity ’cause I’ll tell you, if you don’t have your identity, you got yourself a situation but good.

Yes sir, you get your identity stolen by some douchebag, and it’s like all of a sudden you’ve got an evil twin out there somewheres in the world having a grand old time on your dime, what the fock.

And natch’, I got to wonder who in their right mind would want to steal my identity ’cause if they did, they’d soon find it to be way more trouble than it’s worth.

What, you want to be me? Are you focking jerking my beefaroni? OK, be my guest, but let me warn you this: Do not expect to be shown to the best stool when you visit your local George Webb’s, and you can definitely forget about doorto-door service from your Milwaukee County Transit System when you got to hop onboard so’s you can get to the hospital on account of sudden yet dire physical circumstances that will lead to emergency hemorrhoid surgery, and don’t expect V.I.P. treatment from the bankruptcy court you will appear before ’cause no way in hell do you have an extra $20-grand to pay for said emergency surgery because you don’t have any kind of health insurance, because our asshole United States senators who represent our people from sea-to-shining-sea don’t believe their purple-mountain-majestied people deserve a little across-the-board protection when it comes to the kind of puking-dying sickness that will land a guy or gal flat-on-their-ass out on the street.

And Sarah Palin wants $150,000 to come give your tea-bag gang her brand of speechifying. God bless America.

Heavens to Murgatroyd, you bet. But as the great mid-20th-century American philosopher Daffy Duck once said: It is to laugh.

Yeah yeah, and it’s not just individuals who can somehow lose their identity. How ’bout that Democratic Party, the party for the workingman?

(Extra-long sentence warning ahead, hold on to your neighbor for safety.)

So we sure as hell have a slimmer number of USA working-mans than we used to, but with a so-called congressional majority of these Democrats they apparently cannot find a way to grant a good-and-plenty health-care goodnessfor-the-people bill the green light that would both let some air out of a King-Kong federal budget deficit and also give the working-and-wannabe working guy and gal a little comfort to know that if their boy or girl comes down with the cancer, that they have some kind of a financial life-line of hope as opposed to shooting themselves “accidentally” in the head so as to collect on the bullshit life insurance payout to cover the cost? Or s o m e t h i n g like that?

This party that ought to be for the workingman/guy/ gal, I don’t know if they lost their identity, but they sure lost their balls, goddamn it.

And I do know that the possibility of losing one’s identity has always been a worrisome thing for those hooked up in professional show business, you betcha. How ’bout the latest example, Jay Leno? He used to be identified as the king of late-night TV comedy; and now he’s a turd. “Turd” as a word is golden comic currency, most spent by the wags who identify themselves as public-school second-graders. “Jay Leno” as a used-to-be talent is comic currency spent by no one with a taste for the funny. What a world.

But speaking of jobs, or the lack thereof, these days one never knows when he’s going to have to find a new one, but I do know there are at least three jobs that right off the top of my head I know I’d never be able to pull off, no matter how hurting the market was.

One: Astronaut (heights make me queasy). Two:

Gondolier (my Italian sucks). Three: Head referee for the all-lady fan-focking-tabulous Lingerie Bowl to be broadcast somewheres during the halftime of this coming Sunday’s NFL Super Bowl (I’d be the most, and perhaps only, penalized football referee in history, let me count the ways: illegal use of the hands; offensive h o l d i n g ; extra man in the huddle; (p) ass interference; intentional pounding; gratuitous sacking of the gal with the biggest knockers coyly pretending to play the tight-end position; quick whistle on a run-up-the-middle turnover resulting in a play blown oh-so dead; and for those who enjoy a reverse Spoonerism—defensive interference on a fair catch of punt). Ba-ding-ding-ding!

Anyways, please join me next week when maybe I’ll tell you about why this apparently recent drop in crime here in the City That Always Sweeps is not necessarily a cat’s pajamas for the picnic on a beach, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


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