I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear our Governor Snidely Whiplash’s billionaire-boat, the USS Pay For Play, has sprung a leak, what the fock.
Here’s what I know, and it’s the strangest thing. Some days ago I thought to check my dinky email inbox. I only get about a handful per week—messages from Sears about their latest sale on men’s socks, and like ilk—but I couldn’t get the goddamn thing to open. So me, being a regular Mr. Dell Jobs, assumed the logical thing to do would be to curse a blue streak whilst rapidly hammering random buttons along with a flurry of combined random buttons. Sha-focking-zam! Not only did the inbox pop to life but I had way, way over 1,000 new messages to gander at, I kid you not.
None of them were for me. All were addressed to and sent by people I’d never heard of. Jeez louise, had I accidentally hacked into someone else’s schmutz? So of course I began to open these babies so’s to take a peek and maybe get a fix on what the fock was going on here.
The first one I opened said this: Hey, since the Governor is so ecstatic that our lead paint provision passed the Legislature, should Scooter’s new nickname be ‘Sherwin’ or ‘Dutch Boy’?
The next one: OMG. The Guv confessed to me that he had a HUGE crush on Bea Arthur when he was younger. Wasn’t she one of those transgender types?
And: To all: The Governor reiterated to me to remind you that at the risk of immediate termination, to never, ever mention to absolutely ANYONE that he always roots for the Bears.
Holy focking cow, ain’a? But before I could open another, the mysterious emails vanished, along with the few older ones addressed to me. Was I hacked? Beats me, but a few moments later a new message popped up. It had no identifying info or text or attachments; however, in the Subject box was this: “Cheerio, Mate.”
Anyways, anybody hear anything about Bart Starr’s latest stem cell treatment down Mexico way? Yeah, me neither. And why the poor guy has to go to a foreign country south of the border, I’ll never focking figure out.
Hope it goes well, although I am surprised there hasn’t been more hubbub about it, in a righteous negative way. Cripes, I remember not that many years back when a whole bunch of citizens were clapping their hands and waving American flags (the special flags, the ones with a 51st star for the State of Ignorance) on account that a U.S. district judge put the kibosh on federal funding for all embryonic stem cell research. These were the people whom the lord told that that glob in a lab dish is a human being and oughtn’t be dicked with.
And what a life, ain’a? I tell you, if that were me flat on my would-be ass in a Petri dish, I’d say who needs this bullshit. All around me I’d hear the lab guys and gals making lunch plans, going out for a smoke break, making plans for the weekend and all the time there I am, stuck in a dish. That’s no way to live, I don’t care who—or what—you are, or were, I kid you not.
As one sitting in a dish, I sure as shootin’ would want the scientists to get their butts in gear and figure out the way to grow me into some kind of human tissue, so I could replace the crappy cells inside a real, live, walking-around human being. Now that would be sweet.
Yeah, get out of the dish and get planted into some guy who’s going to start feeling a whole lot better because of me, and then watch out! We’ll take in a ballgame, have a couple, three ice-cold bottled beers. Maybe take a walk along the beach, or decide to screw it and just stay home, make a nice baloney sandwich and watch us some TV. Or wait, best yet, we’ll go get us a wad of singles yea-thick and head on over to the nearest gentlemen’s club and research the female form. Now that’s what I call living.
And you know what? Apparently it’s not too late to help these human beings stuck in lab dishes get a real life. Write all your bonehead politicians and tell them you demand that they either push real hard to get the green light for unlimited funding for this eggs-cell-ent research (there’s money to be made in eradicating disease, what the fock), or you’re going to conduct your own research on replacement politicians to better serve the body politic come next election (early voting starts in a couple, three days, don’t you forget), ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.