Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, no hard-provoking, thought-throbbing essay on the schmutz of our times this week, no sir. It’s back to the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the corner of Hysteric Center Street and Humboldt for more political campaign planning with my so-called brain trust. Come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.
Julius: All I’m saying is maybe Trumpel-thinskin talks and acts like a fockstick ’cause he’s got syphilis from one of those siliconed porn stars.
Ray: I’ve heard the reason Trump wants a government shutdown is he thinks that means he doesn’t have to sit in his office for work—like a kid getting a snow day from school.
Emil: So the wife wants me to go out and get either a dog or a gun for the home security deterrence.
Herbie: Go for the gun, Emil. Low maintenance. Plus, you’re white and a focking idiot. I’m thinking the Republicans might even pay guys like you to have a gun.
Little Jimmy Iodine: And with a dog, when a stranger comes to the house, you don’t know if Fido might bark and scare the person off, or instead perform a quick crotch-sniff and go straight to the leg-humping welcome.
Ernie: I’d sure like to know who the first knucklehead was who had the focking stupid bright idea of taking an otherwise productive animal from out there in the wild and, instead, keep it in his hovel or yurt and call it a pet, where its job would be to do abso-focking-lutely nothing.
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Herbie: Anthropologistically, I’d say it would be some kind of king or liege lord suffering from the effects of too many generations of royal inbreeding and too much time on his hands.
Julius: Animals belong either in the woods or on a menu, but not in my living room going nuts trying to get at something that rolled or crawled under the sofa. Like Artie says, until the free enterprise system can put a house-pet on the market that can operate a microwave, flush a toilet and clean a handgun, you can forget about me having something with four legs in my apartment besides a coffee table or, god willing, twin 21-year-old blonde pole dancers, what the fock.
Ray: And speaking of focking idiot…
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey, gents. What do you hear, what do you know.
Ernie: I know the wife’s all upset since she thought she read on the internet that the astronomers have discovered that the stars have shifted alignment, and so everything you thought you knew about the science of astrology is bullshit.
Emil: You got to be jerking my beefaroni. Astrology is bullshit?
Ernie: All I know is that she thought she was a Virgo and now she’s Leo.
Herbie: It happens. Do we ever really know who we are? I knew a guy married to a nice gal named Lenore, cooked and cleaned to beat the band. She got a little bored with the domestic life, took a night course at a women’s college. Next thing you know, she cleaned out the bank account, took a trip to Sweden, and when she returned Lenore was now Leon.
Ray: So he’s married to a guy now?
Herbie: Yeah, but he says it’s no big deal. She likes football a lot more than she used to. And because they’re still married, sex remains a non-issue and there’s never, ever a domestic dispute about whether the goddamn toilet seat is up or down. They seem happy.
Little Jimmy: Cripes, our astronomers must be working overtime these days ’cause the other week I heard they discovered another new planet out there in space somewheres, and that this one might actually be able to have some life on it, maybe even like ours.
Julius: It’s about time. We all know that someday our sun is going to go kaput and we’re going to have to move somewhere else on another planet. So far we’ve only been to the moon—a place that looks just like Nevada minus the gambling and legalized prostitution. Who in their focking right mind would want to live there?
Herbie: OK. OK. OK. Let’s keep cool heads about moving to a new planet. Obviously, us Americans need to get their first and get things organized, especially if this new planet is just like Earth. Like, what are we going to do about the people in North Korea who try to survive on one bowl of porridge per year? If you don’t think they’re going to want to live in “New Las Vegas” and get in on those daily all-you-can-eat breakfast buffets for $4.95—think again.
(It’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
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