Wild Blue Wander

×

Expand

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I was up all night the other night wondering where the sun had gone…then it dawned on me. Ba-ding!

I was also wondering if any of you’s are getting in line to sign up for Trumpel-thinskin’s Space Force. After all, one would be wise to take the words of the late, great Sun Ra to heart, that “space is the place,” you betcha.

I also wonder if, as a member of the Space Force, one might be required to go toe-to-toe with some aliens on occasion, which actually might be justified ’cause I’m guessing that these aliens wouldn’t be from a different country but from a whole ’nother planet come to tear us Earthlings a new one, what the fock.

Anyways, I’ve got not much to say and you’re all too busy swatting mosquitoes and cranking up the AC to read, anyways; so, looks like we’ve come down with a case of synchronicity, ain’a?

But do let me declare that this would not be a late June “Art For Art’s Sake” expedition if I did not lodge a perennially annual complaint, which goes like this:

I don’t know what it is about this time of year, but it seems every time I turn around these days it’s that time of year again, I kid you not. Cripes, and now it’s that Summerfest time, again, and listen (and don’t stop me if you’ve heard this one before ’cause we don’t have time): After all these years when it comes to this time of year, if you even begin to wonder if I have any gas left to pass through another essay on that annual musical racket down there by our lakefront—the answer is abso-focking-lutely “yes.” Of course I do.

The gas might be a tad overripe, but it smells like this: I’ve pored over, under, sideways, down through all the big gig guides and lists and brochures and pamphlets and…HEY! Know what? I think the people in charge of that shebang have gone deaf from all that LOUD ROCK GUITAR MUSIC HELLABALOO they got all the time down there, I kid you not.

I think those people have gone to deaf because each and every year, simply as a professional courtesy, I keep asking a’loudly over and over for two simple things at the grounds in the Summerfest: A TOPLESS TENT and a BOURBON TENT—like it would really kill the hippies who run that fest-joint to have a little something for which the common man to enjoy himself by. It may come as an unexpected thunderclap to some, but we’ve been known to drop a couple, three bucks here and there, now and then, for entertainment purposes, what the fock. Thank you for your attention.

And now something for you conspiracy theorists, ’cause I know you’re out there:

I was watching the RCA color TV on June 5, 1968. I was 17 and soon to be grudgingly tossed a diploma from Our Lady In Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough so’s I could go out into the wild blue yonder and fight for truth, justice and the American way (such as it was). On came the fan-focking-tastic news that RFK had won the California Democratic primary, and had I been a hotshot soothsayer I would’ve forecast that this meant no Richard Nixon, no Ronald Reagan, no Bushes, no President Orange Circus Peanut. Hallelujah.

And then came the news that June 5 late, late evening that Bobby Kennedy, my guy, had been shot dead by a guy with two first names, or two last names, or what the fock.

And I’ve always wondered how come there was never a Warren Commission kind of commission to finger a conspiracy that knocked off Robert Kennedy. If they would’ve had one, I bet you a buck two-eighty they would’ve found Dick Nixon hooked up to his elbows in that steampile, abso-focking-lutely. Nixon hated the Kennedys anyways, plus he knew that RFK would’ve cleaned his clock but good in ’68.

So Nixon was elevated to the peak of power through the itchy finger of a wet-behind-the-ears immigrant from focking Jordan, some kind of weasel fockstick with two first names—Sirhan Sirhan. Wait. Two last names? No. The same two names—for christ sakes, what the fock, ain’a?

Nixon had Bobby K taken out all right, and I can prove it. Take the name “Nixon”—switch the vowels around (that’s the “i” and the “o,” for the homeschooled in the audience) then spell the name backward. What do you get? Focking “Nixon,” that’s what. Now take “Sirhan Sirhan” and switch the names around. What do you get? Enough said.

Genug ist genug, ain’a? But before I go, a sample test question for entrance exam into Trump’s Space Force: Q. What should you do if you see a green alien? A. Wait until it’s ripe. Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.