I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I got the good news and I got the bad news—what’s the “good” and what’s the “bad” is up to you’s, but here it is: On one hand, I’m back from a summertime Up North odyssey 30 miles straight out of Hayward; on the other hand, I’ve returned queasily under-the-weather to the degree that there’s not much on my platter that I can shovel your way in the form of an essay, what the fock.
But hey, thanks for taking care of the city—such as it is—while I was away. And yeah, the trip was OK, thanks for asking, until focking Ernie somehow managed to drop the car keys out of the goddamn boat for christ sakes. You know, when you go Up North you always hear about the deer ticks and the wood ticks and I say big focking deal, ’cause I tell you that the ones that really get under your skin are the luna-focking-tics you’re vacationing with, I kid you not.
Yeah yeah, we were way up northwest around your Sawyer/Bayfield counties, a quaintly developed area of the state where I swear Woodrow Wilson is still president. But it’s one heck of a scenic locale, and although job opportunities seem slim, there appears to be plenty of eating opportunities given the load of girth the huge majority of residents have swaddled themselves with. Cripes, my buddy and political campaign-fund solicitor Herbie goes about 225 lbs. but Haywardians always threw in a couple extra bucks out of sympathy when he panhandled them for the cause ’cause they thought he was sick-thin from chemo treatments or something.
We held our brainstormin’ retreat that could change the future of this country at my buddy Ernie’s brother-in-law’s state-of-the-art summer home. Yes sir, state of the art provided you were a contemporary of Jean Nico-focking-let. And spacious? You bet. How would the equivalent size of three modern-apartment bedroom closets, with equivalent toilet facilities to boot, sound to you? Well, whatever it is you hear Up North, it sure wouldn’t be the sound of a flush toilet if you’d have stayed where we did.
And I’m also tight on time on account of having to meet the fellas up over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school, so’s we can make our plans for going to see the new Apes Planet movie. But I got to tell you, even if this movie is Oscar-worthy, it won’t seem like a genuine Apes movie to me without Chuck Heston in it. Talk about a guy with a style. I don’t want to say the guy brought a curious quality of woodenness to his characters, but whereas most of your actors put on some makeup before doing a scene, Chuck would slap on a fresh coat of varnish and be ready for action, what the fock.
You know, in this new batch of Apes movies, the monkeys are as smart or smarter than the humans—like they’re super aliens from outer space somewheres. Which reminds me, I read an article the other day about this institute out in California to search for extraterrestrial intelligence. And I’ll tell you’s that anytime I hear of some outfit out of Californica that goes by the name of an institute or academy, my nut radar starts to hyperventilate. Contacting aliens? A terrible idea. What if we get mixed up with a bunch of conquistadors from who-knows-where? Hey, go ask the Aztecs how that panned out for them—if you can find any.
And speaking of species of lesser intelligence, our President Orange Circus Peanut apparently entertains a novel notion regarding personal fitness. The following is from a Trump biography by a couple of Washington Post writers, by way of Kali Holloway from Alternet:
“After college, after Trump mostly gave up his personal athletic interests, he came to view time spent playing sports as time wasted. Trump believed the human body was like a battery, with a finite amount of energy, which exercise only depleted. So he didn’t work out. When he learned that John O’Donnell, one of his top casino executives, was training for an Ironman triathlon, he admonished him, ‘You are going to die young because of this.’”
Talk about compassion, ain’a? And this from a guy who was supposed to have a great fantastic plan for health care, a great beautiful plan—part of which, I imagine, that if you now couldn’t afford the astro-focking-nomical health insurance plan, insurance companies would be mandated to rent you a shovel so’s you could choose to dig your own focking grave, what the fock.
Cripes, I got to go relax. Anyways, it’s nice to be back where a guy like me can see concrete again wherever he looks, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.