A Shot in the Arm

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as we approach my gala 35th anniversary date of scribing for just one great newspaper/website, I got some good news to tell you’s for a change of pace, and that is that I’ve secured an appointment for one of these vaccination shots for the COVID that I’ve been hearing about, you betcha.

I don’t know what took so long—I certainly qualify age-wise, unless some health department fitness nut has decided that 70 is the new 25—but maybe the hold-up was concern over “character issues,” like I was a young guy in the National Football League draft. I can only wonder if the vaccination people took a gander at my dossier and thought, “Do we really want or need this guy to live longer? Cripes, we give this guy the vaccination and I guarantee you that we will have some kind of situation down the road. He writes for this Shepherd Express, not the New York Times. An obvious underachiever, of which this country already has too many. I suggest if he shows up for his appointment, we tell him that we’re all out of vials for today but we’ll be happy to get in touch with you at a later date; and then we lose his phone number.”

Yeah, maybe I’m a tad paranoid, but it’s 2021, so sue me. But I will shine around on time for my shot appointment (fingers crossed), ’cause I wouldn’t mind at least a couple, three more weeks of life. Hey, I got a boatload of TV shows I’d like to catch up on, so what the fock. And I pray that these medical people understand that whenever I am poured and distributed a shot, I demand an ice-cold Pabst Blue Ribbon alongside with a clean ash tray nearby. Maybe I should’ve mentioned this when they called about the appointment, but I figure that since they’re professionals, they’ll know what I need and expect.

Anyways, before I go to check my calendar for the exact date of my vaccination appointment and then a look-see into my closet for something nice to wear (I don’t get out much, never have, this could take some time), I got to tell you’s about these newfangled so-called algorithms and an island-in-the-sky called Amazon, you might know about them, what the fock.

I don’t visit the Amazon often, perhaps on occasion to purchase a book or two (since there’s hardly any bookstores Downtown anymore), an extension cord or cable, and some socks (since there’s hardly any department stores Downtown anymore). But the Amazon seems to really value my meager patronage. I often receive a message from them via my email setup—out-of-date already when it came over onboard the Mayflower, I kid you not—a message that announces: “We found some items we think you might like.” Swell. I enjoy items, especially ones I like. So I scrolled through the message. Amongst “Items I might enjoy,” missing in this message were a busload of Vegas showgirls, free delivery; winning lottery ticket for the contest of your choice; robot housekeeper, chef and haberdasher.

However, one “item we think you might like” was the “RAIDEE Dog Muzzle Nylon Soft Muzzle Anti-Biting Barking…” Huh! Really? About as useless to me as a deal on hipwaders or exercise work-out equipment, what the fock

Jeez louise, I’ve never had a dog. I don’t care for pets. I look at dogs the way a wolf would: “You focking house pussy. Fetch? ‘Roll over and play dead’? ‘Who’s a good boy!’ A squeakie toy instead of tearing a raccoon a new one so’s you can have a nice snack? Trying to hump the misses’ leg ’cause you can’t get some on your own? Get the fock out here. You are an embarrassment to the storied history of canids. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Which reminds of a little story:

So this young Ivy Leaguer from the city goes down South to visit a distant great-uncle on his farm. For the first few days, the uncle shows him the usual things—chickens, hogs, the cotton crop. After three days, it was obvious that the nephew was bored on his ass, and the uncle was running out of things to amuse him with. The uncle has an idea: “Listen son, why don’t you grab a gun, take the dogs and go shooting?” This cheers the nephew up and off he goes with the dogs. Couple, three hours later, the nephew returns. Uncle says, “So, y’all have a good time?” Nephew says, “Absolutely great! Hey, got any more dogs?” Ba-ding!

And speaking of farms:

A beleaguered American farmer (aren’t they all these days?) needed to expand revenue from his chicken farming in order to save the family farm. To do so required, acquiring a stud rooster, birth control be damned. He asked around and the consensus was that the best rooster in the tri-county went by the name of Randy and resided in a neighboring town. The farmer traveled to meet with Randy’s owner and dicker for the fowl’s services. The owner confirmed that Randy was indeed top cock, and after much deliberation, a deal was done.

When the farmer returned home, he explained to Randy the importance of the service he needed, but also stressed how necessary it would be for the cock to pace himself because job burnout was an ever-present danger. Randy gave a thumbs-up, and so the farmer released him into the henhouse. So much for burnout. Randy went about his business like Sir Ron Jeremy shagging a shagged bevy of beauties hopped up on birth-control pills. Feathers flew like wind-driven snow accompanied by a din of clucking to wake the dead. After a couple, three hours, each hen in the house had been serviced not once, not twice, but fice.

The next day, the farmer reiterated to Randy the importance of pace, to no avail. Randy not only went carousing through the henhouse, but also went after the dog, the cat, the sheep, the farmer’s daughter (of course), a nearby spectating fox and pretty much all else that moved. The farmer was outraged. “Randy,” he said, “you can’t possibly last at this pace. Slow down—I need you for a long time.”

Twenty-four hours later, the inevitable happened. Randy was lying in the middle of a field, looking like death warmed over. Buzzards were circling, dropping altitude with each pass as the farmer watched his prized cock slowly dying. He approached the bedraggled Randy and said, “How could you? I begged you to pace yourself. Didn’t I tell you how important you were?”

Randy popped one eye open, looked at the farmer and whispered, “Yeah, so shut up already. Look. They focking buzzards are getting closer. And I’m Randy ready.” Ba-ding!

All right, genug ist genug for this week. Next week, who knows from what, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.