Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I choose not to belabor the craft of a finely honed essay for you’s this week ’cause I’m guessing you’re just too damn busy to read anything important I got to tell you this time of year aren’t you, what with your holiday this and your holiday that. Yeah, bet you a buck two-eighty you’re probably getting ready to go out and do some shopping right now, ain’a?
(Just so you know, I take a 40-42 regular and I can always use some socks, but cash always makes for a nice gift, you betcha. But what I could really use is my own private compartment on all county buses that run the No. 30, No. 15 and Green lines. Hey, one of my favorite movies all-time is Tod Browning’s Freaks, but I’d rather watch it than be in it, I kid you not. How many times I got to tell you that, what the fock.)
Or maybe you’re mixing another hot focking toddy and are too goddamn drunk to read whatever I got writ, or maybe you’re up to your hinder in holiday cookie dough. But regardless of whatever kind of holiday bug you may have up your butt, I know for many of you’s it just wouldn’t be the Christmas without the once-in-a-while annual retelling of a Christmas classic you first read here—a traditional holiday treat not unlike the pinching of the Yule log Christmas morning and the hot focking toddy slam-binging to come later in the day, ain’a? And what is tradition but the same goddamn thing over and over? You tell me.
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And then I’ll tell you that TV has its “Charlie Brown Christmas,” the performing stage has its Nut-focking-cracker and A Christmas Carol, the city has its property tax bills, every dog has its day, and “Art for Art’s Sake” has one version or another of what follows for you and the family, guaranteed to roast the cockles of your god-blessed chestnuts.
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OK, story has it that these three so-called kings loaded up with a bunch of gifts are from out of this place called Orient Are, wherever the fock that was supposed to be. To this day I still can’t find it on a map, I kid you not. But you got to remember, this was way-back-when in the olden days when wise men knew the world was flatter than a ballerina, so what the fock.
Anyways, these three guys were traipsing to and fro, checking out all the towns of the then-known world in search of an infant recently conceived out of thin air, a child who was not only rumored but also proclaimed verily to those on high to be the son of god.
One of the kings queried, “Which god?” One of the other king guys says, “What, like I should know from ‘which god’? A god is a god is a god. Who cares which one, for crying out loud.” And the third wiseguy said, “Yeah, forget about it. I don’t care if he’s the focking son of the god of focking rodeo clowns for focking crying out loud, we still got to go pay our respects on general principles. It’s the right thing to do, understand?”
So they’re carting these gifts all over creation, gifts that even a kid back then would think sucked ass. I mean “frankincense,” an aromatic gum resin? Give me a break. Eventually, these three guys came across a lowly stable and decided enough’s enough. They asked a guy who was hanging around there if he’d like some gifts ’cause they were sick of carrying them all over creation. The guy says “you betcha” and invites them in for a nice hot focking toddy.
The wise men waltz into the stable but the guy with the myrrh, who was a bit taller than the other two Einsteins, cracked his head on the top of the doorway. “Jesus H. Christ!” he shouts. The stable guy, whose name was Joseph, calls out to the wife, “Hey hon! You hear that? ‘Jesus H. Christ.’ I like that a lot better than Leonard, ain’a?”
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Ba-ding! So there you go, as do I. One last thing, again: Remember, one and all, to 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.
