Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, now that fall with the tumbling autumn leaves has finally come to town, how ’bout I start this slog with a little something for the young kids who might stumble upon my online essay whilst searching for something more entertaining, informative, titillating:
Knock, knock
Who’s there?
Equi.
Equi who?
Equinox.
Ba-ding!
OK, then maybe this one:
Knock Knock
Who’s there?
A little old lady!
A little old lady who?
I didn’t know you could yodel!
Ba-ding!
But for you older folks who may be monitoring internet content for the safety and well-being of your kids or grandkids, here’s one that historically old-school never failed to raise the roof down by the Saturday night men’s smoker over at St. Stanislaus, I kid you not:
Knock, knock
Who’s there?
Ben Dover.
Ben Dover who?
Ben Dover and I’ll give you a big surprise!
Ba-ding-ding-ding!
And for you art lovers, there is this:
A married couple visits an art gallery and gaze upon a painting of a naked woman with her privates covered with leaves. The wife doesn’t care for the painting and moves on, but the husband continues to stare. The wife asks, “What are you waiting for?” Husband says, “Autumn.” Ba-ding!
And speaking of “the arts,” I noticed the other day that Broadway passed out their Tony Awards for best plays, musicals and what-not. So, considering that theatrical companies across the land seem to be finally back in show business, I thought it high time that perchance yours truly break into the stage racket and exercise some of what-you-call First Amendment rights and free speechifying (although I’d rather get paid), and write a play all by myself, what the fock.
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And so I did.
Now, what I wrote is not your usual theater play with a gang of thespians crying up a forsoothing storm for a couple, three hours ’til the crows come home to roast, no sir. And it’s not one of those plays where the actors, when they hit the stage, instead of wondering “To be, or not to be?” ought to wonder “Where the fock is everybody?” And that’s a question I can answer: Everybody is elsewhere ’cause all these plays charge too focking much to see, last too focking long and never have as many laughs and gorgeous gals and guys as they ought to, so’s to keep those turnstiles humming a $nappy tune.
My play runs about a good 10 minutes, so you’re in and out of the theater before you even know it. And if you have kids, you wouldn’t have to add the expense of a babysitter—you could easily be back home before the katzenjammers had a chance to be abducted or light the house on fire and still have had an enjoyable theatrical experience, no focking sweat.
What follows is my play for you’s sweet princes and princesses to take a gander at, and yes, Pulitzer Prizes will be welcome.
Also, this play is dedicated to my too-recently late compatriot and friend, Sir Michael Neville. And this: Warning! The following may contain adult content that once upon a time was deemed suitable in the manner of a Bob Hope TV special or Tommy Noonan picture you may have paid money to witness at our Downtown Princess Theater sometime in the ’60s (See: 3 Nuts in Search of a Bolt).
OK. At this time, please close your playbill, maintain your zippers in an upright position, and break a leg.
The Focking Playboy of the Western (and Eastern) World, Waiting for Deliverance
(Setting: Art Kumbalek’s penthouse living room with fully stocked bar—and none of that fake stage-prop crap neither, capiche? Art’s reclined on battleship-sized sofa, having a cocktail, smoking a cigarette, talking on the phone. Art K. must appear as himself—no focking actors, please.)
Art: Yeah, large, everything on it ’cept nothing that’s even close to being a vegetable. The only vegetable I want connected to this pizza is the guy who delivers it, and if there’s even so much as one anchovy, I’ll come down there and personally focking kill you myself. You got that?
(Enter Lola, abso-focking-lutely knockout swanky gorgeous dame. She sits on the sofa and plants one heck of a juicy smacker on Art’s lips that lasts for about 10% of the show’s running time)
Art: (Rising) Holy moley, you busy after the show?
Lola: I just don’t know, Artie. There’s so much trouble in the world today. Everywhere I go, there’s people with no money, full of hopelessness, full of hate…
Art: Sounds like you’re hanging with the wrong crowd.
Lola: You know what I mean, Artie. (Lola rises, puts her arms around Art and draws him close) I see people homeless, hungry…
Art: (Shakes cocktail glass) And thirsty.
Lola: (Whispering into Art’s ear) What’ll it be?
Art: I was having Manhattans, but now I’m thinking Sloe Screw.
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Lola: (Draws Art even closer) Can I make it straight up?
Art: You always do, baby.
Lola: (Goes to bar to fix drink) So Artie, what do you want to do for dinner tonight?
Art: (Reclines on sofa) I thought we’d hang around here tonight, have some drinks, a few laughs; so I called for a pizza.
Lola: (Returns with drink, and plants juicy smacker on Art—even longer than the first one) When’s it coming?
Art: Any second, and if it doesn’t, no tip or maybe I’ll take him to the woodshed for a little discipline session. What time does your husband need you back?
Lola: Soon. The nurse called in sick, so I’ve got to give him his medication. (Phone rings) I’ll get it. Hello? What? Who is this? (Hangs up)
Art: Who was that?
Lola: (Hysterical) I don’t know. They just said they were coming right over. And they were going to kill you.
Art: (Grabs Lola) Don’t sweat it, baby. The play’s almost over, then we can be alone. (Banging at door, Art rises)
Lola: Don’t get it, darling.
Art: Why the fock not?
Lola: That knock symbolizes one of two things: Our pizza or your death. If it’s our pizza, OK, I’ll only have one slice. I’m watching my figure.
Art: So am I, doll. Believe me you.
Lola: But if that knocker means your death, it’s my death, too, for I could never live without you, or without me. Behind the door, noisy but unknown, that knowledge must always remain so, noisy but unknown, for us to exist, ignorant angels bathed in bliss we are.
Art: Whatever you say, baby. Let’s get blissful. Our time is brief. (More knocking. Lola pushes Art down on sofa. And Art and the free-spirited gal Art chose to cast for the role of Lola get down to some really serious focking business, I kid you not, as lights fade)
There you go, 10 minutes or so of show, about as much time as it took to write, what the fock. And god rest you merry Sir Michael, memory brings me tidings of comfort and joy ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
