America the Futile-ful

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I can’t believe that our fair city hosted the Republican party(?) national “Welcome Fascist Douchebags) convention here but a year ago. Remember?

And as a Downtown resident, I can’t believe I have yet to receive my check-in-the mail representing my share of the economic boon/boom the shebang was to provide, what the fock.

Yeah yeah, lots of things I can’t believe, like upper-case God, like how a guy like me given occupational/lifestyle choices isn’t croaked yet, or how the 2014 Green Bay Packers with a record of 15-1 lose in overtime the NFC Championship game to the Seattle Sea-focking-Hawks.

Also unbelievable, that Donald J(ackass) Trumpel-thinskin is president for a second term, not to mention the first focking one.

And speaking of Downtown, sacré bleu! It’s that time of year for the Bastille Days Drink Beer in the Street and Oui-Oui in Les Boulevard Fest.

And as in the past, this French fest coincides with the running-of-the-bulls-shit they got going over in your Pamplona, Spain. And what explains this bull-running’s near religious appeal? A writer in The New York Times once said, “… the festival is one of the few occasions in the modern world where the average person can confront death in such a short, sharp and concentrated way.” So why not during the Bastille Days we periodically let loose a couple, three rampaging bulls at the swell corner of Jefferson & Wells so as to attract the wealthy international traveler bent on confronting death? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you if that’s not exciting enough for the thrill-seeking travelers in this modern world, how ’bout we strip naked the adventurer to Our Town and then tape hundred-dollar bills to his forehead and bare-butt as he meanders quaint East Brady Street at 4 a.m. Olé!

And so I remind you’s that here we be mid-July so my monthly wall calendar, “Strumpets of the South Seas,” tells me. Seventh month of the year, the traditional time of year for the workingman to take a piss-ant seven days off from labor-hell and blow it away on a so-called vacation, vacances, pardon my French.

But as a guy my age I no longer “vacation” these days. My excursions currently are limited to, and do not exceed, a trip to the bathroom, kitchen sink, couch, search for the TV remote and a periodic trek to a nearby food mart for a slab of baloney, a loaf of white bread and box of popsicles; although, there is the occasional county bus or Uber-ride schlep to some kind of doctor’s office for an unexpected costly case of what-the-fock.

Anyways, I got to go. But I can’t believe I should remind you of this: As a perennial candidate to be your next office-holder for whatever office needs holding here in the United Grains of Amber, I’ve heard tell that our Badger State is one of these so-called “swing” states that could flip either way come the election of this-and-that. And so I remembered a years-ago campaign tour I undertook of outposts like your Ladysmith, Cadott, Cornell, Black River Falls, Solon Springs, Crandon, Town of Barnes, where I attempted to bamboozle the bumpkins with my glad-hand just like a regular P.T. focking Barnum.

But I’ll tell you from that past experience, “swing” is not the first word that comes to mind during a jaunt through these hinterland haunts, unless come late Saturday night you hang yourself from a beam in the basement, just for something to do.

And it’s a mystery to me that candidates for office believe that a quick stop here, a pop-in there, can do very much to jack-up the opinion of elected representatives held by the bucolic wing of the electorate. Cripes, I remember a story from ago that shows just how much work needs to be done to improve a would-be statesman’s standing with the cornfield Bessie-milking lumber-cutting crowd. I don’t know if this story’s true but here it is anyways, what the fock.

On Friday afternoon, the entire state legislature of a state located not-even-close to either coast was aboard the official state bus touring a remote rural area when the driver lost control and crashed the bus into a ditch. Sometime later, a local farmer sauntered by and upon finding the politicians lying in the road, buried them.

It was reported that county sheriffs then arrived on the scene just as the farmer finished tamping the dirt down over the last member of this state’s legislature. Upon questioning the farmer about the wreck, a sheriff asked, “So you buried ALL the politicians? Were they all dead?”

The farmer reportedly answered: “Well sir, some said they weren’t, but you know how them politicians lie.” Ba-ding!

God bless America, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.