Slinging of the Bull
So listen, I’m back from my so-called vacation—can’t believe President Orange Circus Peanut didn’t give Alaska back to the Russians at the G20 Summit—just in time to land smack-dab in the middle of this so-called Bastille Days Downtown Drink Beer in the Street and Oui-Oui in Les Boulevard Fest. Focking swell.
Once again this fest coincides with the running-of-the-bulls-shit they got going over in your Pamplona, Spain, which reminds me of an idea I had some years back on how our Frenchie-palooza could attract a more culturally diverse patronage (other than young white people walking around in circles)—a patronage that would be brave, not cowardly, in pissing away their spend-able francs on parlez-vous and what-not, what the fock.
I suggested our Downtown French shebang could garner the annual international attention and fervor like the “running of the bulls.” So why not during the Bastille Days we periodically let loose a couple, three rampaging bulls at the swell corner of Jefferson & Wells so as to attract the wealthy international traveler bent on confronting death? Hey, you tell me.
So yeah, I took a week off and now I’m back from my focking vacances, excuse my French. And why I go on a vacation, I can’t tell you. All I get from a vacation is a reminder of a definition for insanity: You keep repeating some kind of stupid-ass dead-end behavior, each time thinking: “O Lord, please let the outcome be a little better just this one time, would you, for christ sakes.” Yeah, I know that’s also the definition of newspaper-column writing, but I’ll deal with that another time ’cause I got other fish to fry.
You betcha, my vacations never turn out the way I’d prefer. You want to know what my vacations are like? I’ll tell you what they’re like. They’re like what happened to this guy I know. Here:
One day this guy I know is on his way to lunch and walks right by a snazzy travel agency with a sign in the window that says, “Four-day cruise down the Murray River—$40 all inclusive!”
He can’t believe the price, and a nice relaxing river cruise was exactly what he had in mind for vacation that year. So he races into the agency, slaps two Jacksons down on the counter and tells the agent he wants to book a Murray cruise. Agent says, “Very good, sir,” whips out a baseball bat and knocks the guy stone-cold out.
So he comes to and finds himself strapped to a floating log racing down a white-water river. A little ways down, he sees another guy strapped to a log rolling down the other side of the river.
“Forty-dollar Murray cruise?” he shouts out. “Hey, you betcha,” says his fellow cruiser on the other side.
“This blows. I’ll bet we don’t even get breakfast,” he yells. “I don’t know,” says the other guy, “we did last year.” Ba-ding!
Anyways, my “week off” wasn’t to be one of those vacation vacations where you just sit around on your cushy butt spending dough in hopes to convince yourself you’re having a good time, no sir.
Listen, as a candidate to be your next governor of America’s Dairyland, I’ve heard tell that our Badger State is one of these so-called “swing” states that could flip either way, especially for a presidential election. So I thought it would be wise for me to tour outposts like your Ladysmith, Cadott, Cornell, Black River Falls, Solon Springs, Town of Barnes, and bamboozle the bumpkins with my glad-hand just like a regular would-be governator.
But I’ll tell you, “swing” is not the first word that comes to mind during a jaunt through these hinterland haunts, unless come Saturday night you hang yourself from a beam in the basement, just for something to do.
And it’s a mystery to me that candidates for office believe that a quick stop here, a pop-in there, can do very much to jack-up the opinion of elected representatives held by the bucolic wing of the electorate. Cripes, I remember a story from some years ago that shows just how much work needs to be done to improve a would-be statesman’s standing with the cornfield crowd. I don’t know if this story’s true but here it is anyways, what the fock:
On Friday afternoon, the entire state legislature of a state located not-even-close to either coast was aboard the official state bus touring a remote rural area when the driver lost control and crashed the bus into a ditch. Sometime later, a local farmer sauntered by and upon finding the politicians lying in the road, buried them.
It was reported that county sheriffs then arrived on the scene just as the farmer finished tamping the dirt down over the last member of this state’s legislature. Upon questioning the farmer about the wreck, a sheriff asked, “So you buried ALL the politicians? Were they all dead?”
The farmer reportedly answered: “Well sir, some said they weren’t, but you know how them politicians lie.”
Ba-ding! And thanks again to reader Ingrid Mae. When I’m governor, no taxes for you ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.