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Don’t Tell Me What I Can’t Do

Feb. 25, 2010
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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, hate to say that I’m not up to whipping out a fully blown essay for you’s this week. I’m still recovering from the annual Presidents’ Day costume gala me and the fellas had over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school. The presidential scavenger hunt never gets any easier—and if you don’t believe me, some night around 11 p.m., go out and try to find some wooden teeth somewheres; then you’ll know what I’m talking about, what the fock.

Anyways, right now it’s a Tuesday for me—for you it’ll be the future of a different reality by the time you read this—but I got to program my video-recorder-thing for tonight’s episode of the prime-time philosophy TV show “Lost.” Heard about it? All about free will versus destiny, science up against faith, ABC versus FOX.

So I got to go, but I’ll leave you with a short piece I wrote that echoes the blueprint of the engine that powers the show, a piece that first appeared in the gentlemen’s periodical, Bendover, somewheres, sometime, in a sideways universe:

Victim of Circumstances

By Arthur Kumbalek

As the late Wentworth Dillon, who-the-fock Earl of Roscommon, was famous for telling you’s: “Choose an author as you choose a friend.”

A-focking-men. But before you choose to read further, me, the author of this, a choice that might not only affect your entire future but also go down on your permanent record to boot—I would feel like a total fockstick if I did not choose to relate the following, about the matter of “choice”:

So this guy goes to the doctor’s office, he’s not feeling well. “I'm not feeling well,” he says. The doctor does a quick checkup. Seems the guy’s got a carrot in his left ear, a banana in his right ear, a couple of green peppers up his nose and a kumquat up his you-don’t-want-to-know-what (between you and me it’s up his ass, I kid you not).

Guy says, “So Doc, what the heck’s the matter with me?” Doctor says, “Well sir, just off the top of my head I’d say you’re not eating properly.”

Guy says, “Well then the hell with being a vegetarian.”

And so it is that the conceit concerning the nature of “choice” proves to be the folly it is through the story we have just read. To wit: The man believes he is wise vis-a-vis his personal wellness by choosing to be a vegetarian. However, as the story illustrates: The man is not well. No man with a kumquat up his butt can be well, I don’t care who the fock you are.

But what if he’d chosen a different diet? What then? Would the man in our story feel better that if stuck in his orifices were meat by-products instead? The answer is no. The man in our story can never be better no matter what he “chooses” because the man in our story is a focking idiot, and not because he stuck a banana in his ear or a kumquat up his dupa. No sir, the man in our story is a focking idiot because his conclusion—“the hell with being a vegetarian”—says to me he is thinking that a different choice might’ve kept him out of the doctor’s office that day. It is to laugh.

And so should we take away from our little story the following: Any knobshine who chooses to believe they got a choice about anything has only proven that the first choice they made was to be a moron.

So yes, we should disregard the hypocritical moral prig pigs (conservative Republicans) who pander this: “Hey, any focking thing bad happens to you it’s your own damn fault, so suck-up and shut the fock up about it and leave the rest of us alone. For christ sakes, somewheres you made a wrong choice all by yourself, so learn to live with it, asshole.”

But are we “alone”? It’s said that we control our destinies, and I say you got to be jerking my beefaroni ’cause the enlightened modern free-thinker would argue that there is no free-thinking, no free will, no choice; that there exists in the world only unseen and unknown authority (dark matter), not to mention dogma with a serious case of rabies.

The free-thinker would argue that since you don’t choose to be born and you can’t choose not to croak, any pissant so-called “choice” in-between birth and death is just a focking joke and if it isn’t, it damn well ought to be.

I’m sure the arguments about free will, choice, destiny and blah-blah will go on and on, but for my money all questions concerning the significant meaning of mankind’s existence on this planet and in this universe were answered forever but good the day the late philosopher Jerome Howard remarked to his brother Moe following the repeated application of the business end of a ball-peen hammer to his curly pate or a pliers up his schnozz, “Hey, Moe! I’m just a victim of circumstances.”

Lost, are we all, upon the crash of our birth onto this planet, ain’a? And John Donne, the early-early 17th-century metaphysical poet said “No man is an island.” Of course not: “He’s a peninsula,” so said the Jefferson Airplane before disappearing in 1972.

And I say free will and choice rules: Brush your teeth and stay in school, or you got yourself a situation. Of course, if you crash land at birth in your Mauritania or Chad, good luck with finding a toothbrush.

But what the fock, if Hurley ends up with Kate by the end of this “Lost” season, I’ll believe all things are possible and that this is the best of all possible worlds, maybe, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


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