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Art Kumbalek

Ed. Note: Two analysts/commentators have been assigned to Mr. Kumbalek’s column this week to provide more comprehensive comprehension through the marvel of instant analysis in hopes of attracting more male beer drinkers from ages 18 to 34 to this page. The analysts we chose are former professional writers—one now in advertising, the other fulfilling a lengthy community service obligation. We feel their clear, insightful and fun commentary will benefit both the seasoned reader as well as the casual.

Analyst #1: Hello, and welcome. Before the first paragraph gets under way, I’d like to ask my compatriot here what kind of column—or essay, as Mr. Kumbalek prefers to pretentiously call it—we can look forward to this week.

Analyst #2: With this writer, one never knows. Questions are these: Does he have his essay face on and has he come to write? Or, will he just sputter around in the backfield of his mind until he figures he’s coughed up enough words to call it a day and hit the nearest bar stool. Any given week, it’s a tossup, but let’s turn to the action. Looks like he’s ready to kick it off.

[DROP CAP, PLEASE]

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen...

Anal. #1: Art seems to have called a very early timeout here. Any idea why?

Anal. #2: I think it’s an equipment problem. He stopped to light a cigarette and pour himself another tub of coffee. Right now he’s picking his nose, but I think he’s nearly ready to retake the page.

I was wondering the other day if any of Yo-Yo Ma’s friends ever call him Duncan, like for a nickname, you know?

Anal. #1: Any idea who he’s talking about?

Anal. #2: Not a clue, but an otherwise nice, quick opener.

Anyways, before I get steamrollering Swiftly mine weekly battle against the usual confederate union of dunces, hey, how ’bout this holiday season coming back up like a bad burrito. Here in the States, the season now commences with Columbus focking Day. But in different parts of the world it ain’t the same, like over there by New Zealand, where it starts Oct. 23 this year ’cause that’s their Labour Day, and I got to tell you, I hope their labor situation is a whole lot healthier than the crap sandwich the would-be American workingman is forced to swallow, lo, these days.

Anal. #1: That opening phrase—meant to throw the reader offside?

Anal. #2: Fock if I know. And New Zealand, two questions: One, do we really need to know anything about it; and two, who cares?

Anal. #1: We know that the country was settled by the Maoris, a group principally out of Polynesia, sometime before 1350. And if they were cannibals, they’d enjoy this anecdote: Sitting around after lunch, one cannibal says to the other, “Your wife makes a nice soup.” The other says, “Yeah, I’m sure going to miss her.” Now, back to the page.

I mean, do we even have unions, to speak of, anymore? We were so cock-focking-sure all our problems were on account of the unions, ain’a? Sky-high budget deficit? The unions. Can’t get the goods on pushing goods in foreign markets? Unions. Your focking car’s cigarette lighter doesn’t want to cooperate? Your kid can’t read? Aaron Rodgers’ busted collarbone? You guessed it. The focking unions. Big Business heard the Word and the Word was this: Go Ahead And Squash The Unions ’Cause Who’s Going To Stop You. And the blue-collar man has become the horse-shit-collar man and a buck two-eighty an hour won’t get you a pot to pee in and this sucks, what the fock.

Anal. #1: Believe it or not, Art’s taking a TV timeout. Any thoughts on the action?

Anal. #2: Reasonably coherent approach, an approach Mr. Kumbalek might think of trying more often. The excessive capitalization, too cutesy by half. But here he comes, back from the refrigerator with an ice-cold one in hand, so let’s get what’s left of this page under way.

And speaking of the workplace, here’s one for you: So this hotshot executive has a problem. He’s got to get rid of one of his staff, either Jack or Jill. They’re equally qualified and do excellent work. He decides that whichever one uses the water cooler first would get the heave-ho. So Jill comes in, hung-over to the max after partying all night. She goes to the cooler to take an aspirin. The executive says: “Jill, excuse me, but I need to lay you or Jack off.” Jill says: “So could you jack off? I feel like shit today.” Ba-ding!

Let this story be a warning to what workers we have left working these days: Watch what you say. If our “Jill” had been less a party gal, she could’ve slapped the executive guy so fast with a sex-harassment suit right across the puss as to bring tears to his eyes, I kid you not.

I’m a sensitive guy when it comes to this subject ’cause word-harassment is the solo reason I’m even at a workplace; it’s the butter that pats my toast. Sure, my variety is written ’stead of spoken, but you know what they say: “The pen is more mightily potenter than a focking petard, for christ sakes,” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

Anal. #1: That’s it? Space has ended. Let’s grab Mr. Kumbalek for a comment before his ritual post-essay meltdown at the Uptowner tavern/charm school. Art, this column, this essay. Call it a win, loss, or draw?

Art: Call it focking finished.