Art Kumbalek
Anyways, this week I choose not to belabor the craft of a finely honed essay, ’cause I beseech you, who the hell’s going to read it what with the holidays, with or without Jesus, upon us? You’re all too busy with your fruitcakes and with your focking relatives (to whom it applies, please excuse the redundancy) to read anything I’ve got to pitch your way. Besides, right now I’m awfully busy trying to locate my mistletoe belt buckle. Cripes, I hope I didn’t lose the goddamn thing somewheres.
But before I go, I’ll give you’s a nice little retelling of a favorite Christmas story of mine that you can present to loved ones this season, perhaps in lieu of a regular gift, you cheap bastards.
So, one Christmas Eve long, long time ago, Santa’s getting ready for his yearly trip ’round the world like always, but he’s running into all kind of problems every time he turns around. All of a sudden five elves have the flu-like symptoms and are way too sick to work and the rest of the elves can’t pick up the slack, so now’s Santa got a case of the heebie-jeebies from being way behind schedule. Then on top of that, the Mrs. tells Santa that her mother was coming to visit for a couple weeks, and now he’s really in a bad mood.
So he goes out to harness the reindeer, and he discovers that three of them are about to give birth and another two had gone AWOL over the fence to who knows where. Now he’s really stressed out. And then while he’s loading the sleigh, one of the floor boards cracks, his big bag of toys tears, falls to the ground, and now he’s got toys all over the gosh darn place.
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Santa’s really beside himself, so he goes back into the house for a cup of coffee and a quick shot or three of whiskey, only to find the bottle empty and now he knows why the elves were too sick to work. Then he accidentally drops the coffee pot, which shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces all over the kitchen floor. He goes to get the broom to clean up the mess only to discover that mice had eaten all the bristles.
And just then, wouldn’t you know, the doorbell rings. Santa goes to open the door, cussing all the way. And there, holding a Christmas tree, stands the chirpiest, most cheerful angel you ever did see. The angel looks up at Santa and says, “Hi ya’, Santa. I’m Harold. What a wonderful, wonderful day. Merry, merry Christmas to you, and look at this beautiful, beautiful tree I have just for you. Hey Santa, where would you like me to put it?”
And that is how the tradition of an angel stuck on top of the Christmas tree began. Ba-ding!
One more thing, for those generous souls who just may wonder what a guy like me would truly appreciate for Christmas, my wish list remains unchanged from any other year:
• A busload of Vegas showgirls.
• Case of Pall Malls and a boatload of Old Crow to wash ’em down with.
• My own private compartment on all buses that run the No. 30 or 15 line. (Hey, one of my favorite movies all-time is Todd Browning’s Freaks, but I’d rather watch it than be in it, I kid you not.)
So, there you go. Happy holidays, merry Christmas, joyous whatever-it-is-you-got-deserves-celebrating. And to all: I hope you get what’s coming to you, right here, right now, and I mean that in the best way, whatever that means.
So be damn sure to celebrate this holiday good and plenty. You just can’t ever be 100 per-focking-cent sure that it may not be the last one you’ll get; so make it a good one, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
