A Redshirt Year

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear another Labor Day holiday has come and gone, that day when we honor the workingman by pissing the day away drinking beer—socially distanced, of course—in the back yard or a picnic park somewheres. How ’bout next year instead we pay tribute by working twice as hard and twice as long that day? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

And so here we are, September, but since it’s 20(The Year From Hell)20, the campaign for president is now on the front burner with the heat cranked to high with a never-depleted mountain of bullshit to be shoveled, like this from Humpty-Dumbty “The Bodyguard of Western civilization” Trumpel-thinskin: “He’s following the radical left agenda: take away your guns, destroy your Second Amendment, no religion, no anything, hurt the Bible, hurt God,” Trump said. “He’s against God, he’s against guns.” What the fock.

“Hurt God?” Every Tom, Dick and Dickless knows it’s the other way around, for christ sakes. And if the Orange Circus Peanut is supposed to be some kind of “bodyguard,” I truly hope he’ll be like one of those guys on “Star Trek” who wear the red shirt so’s to be oblivionized, ain’a? Which reminds me of a little story:

McCoy: “I’ve borrowed Mr. Scott’s bagpipes.”

Kirk: “But you can’t play them.”

McCoy: “Yes Captain, but while I’ve got them, neither can he.” Ba-ding!

OK, one more, a Trekian twist on an old chestnut:

Dr. McCoy finished his examination of chief engineer Scott and shook his head. “Scotty, I can’t find any reason for your stomach pains. Frankly, I think it’s due to drinking.”

“In that case, Bones,” Scotty says, “I’ll come back when you’re sober.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I’m thinking that at this late date maybe 2020 has taken a better turn, finally, and I’ll tell you why. Michael Cohen, Trumpster-fire’s former clean-up/fixer personal mouthpiece has unleashed his book, Disloyal: A Memoir, in which he calls the commander-of-grief of the United States a racist “cult leader,” which marks the very first time any fockstick connected to the Trump “administration” has uttered a truth. (Although, I wish he had adden-dumbed “Cult leader” with “of a confederacy of focking dunces,” what the fock.)

So as I was saying, I hear we got an election coming up right around the bend and that the Democrats have a shot at taking back control of the Congress’ Senate chamber, oh happy day, which reminds me of a little story:

So this guy rubs a genie out of a lamp who says he’ll grant the guy one wish. “I want to live forever,” the guy says. “No can do,” genie says. “I’m not allowed to grant wishes like that.”

“Dang. OK, then I wish that I want to die after Congress gets their heads out of their asses,” the guy says.

“You crafty bastard,” says the genie.

Anyways, my time here this week is tighter than Superman’s leotard. Next week I plan to dish out some sound advice as to which way you ought to vote come November. And if you don’t think I’m able to pass out swell and constructive advice, let me give you an illuminating example from some years back when I was the Shepherd’s advice columnist for one week. It went something like this:

I’ve been having this problem of hearing voices in my head. For example, just the other night I’m in bed lying next to a certain female, and a voice inside my head says, “Relax...you’re not the first doctor to sleep with one of his patients.” But then a few minutes later, I hear another voice reminding me, “Richard, you’re a veterinarian, for crying out loud.” Can you please make these voices stop?

Doctor Not Feel Good

Jeez louise, pally. Hearing voices can be a bitch, I tell you, ’cause who the heck knows where that kind of nutbag stuff may lead, ain’a? In far, far too many cases of voice-hearing I’ve heard about over the years, seems one day some guy’s hearing voices, the next day he’s out carving up Cub Scouts, I kid you not. I’m no expert when it comes to hearing voices, but listen up ’cause I got two words for you: Ear focking plugs. OK, maybe that’s three words. Sue me.

But Richard, before you get the earplugs, please allow my voice to remind you that no matter what one’s profession may be, remember that one is allowed to have a personal life. From your letter, I can only assume that yours includes a sexual attraction to—perhaps even preference for—another species. In this conservative Christian voodoo age, a regular guy can feel like he ought to get fried at the stake just for checking out the latest bra ad from T.J. Maxx.

I admire the courage inherent in the matter-of-fact manner in which you describe your problem—that is, you understand that your problem is not the fact that you’re boning a Doberman, or sheep, or even a goddamn chimpanzee for all I know; no sir, that’s not your “problem.” Your problem is simply only with these voices you hear. Good.

Cripes, I know I don’t think I could take the raised eyebrows the New Puritans would give me if I showed up at a cocktail party or after-hours business function and my date was a focking barnyard animal. And you must remember this: If you ever begin to feel blue from any kind of harassment like that, I can only suggest patience. Remember that medical science makes a bunch of breakthroughs every day, even as I speak. It may seem like only yesterday—when, in fact, it wasn’t—that it seemed really unusual and focking weird that guys could go to Sweden and come back as gals.

So hey, stick to your peccadilloes, Richard, ’cause one day doctors will perfect the species-change operation and then Richard can be Rover and everybody’ll say big focking deal. Now roll over and play dead ’cause I got to go, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.