Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, as the late, great Alex Thien would say, here’s a newsy bit to start your day, a headline out of The Washington Post that reads: “Portrait artist says he painted Monica Lewinsky reference in Bill Clinton’s official painting.”
In the painting, Bill is standing next to a fireplace—probably waiting for Mrs. Claus to sneak down the focking chimney—and there’s a shadow on the mantle to Bill’s right. Here’s what the brush man who slapped the paint onto the canvas had to say about the shadow: “If you look at the left-hand side of it there’s a mantle in the Oval Office and I put a shadow coming into the painting and it does two things,” he said. “It actually literally represents a shadow from a blue dress that I had on a mannequin, that I had there while I was painting it, but not when he was there. It is also a bit of a metaphor in that it represents a shadow on the office he held, or on him.”
How ’bout that, a shadow of Monica’s jizzy blue dress right there in the National Portrait Gallery, hotcha-cha. I took a gander at a photo of the painting and the shadow looked to me more like Hillary coming after Bill with a big honking knife like Tony Perkins stalking Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower, but what the fock.
I’ll tell you, when it comes to world-wide movers and shakers, Bill’s little hum job is nothing compared to former Italian Premier Silvio “Bunga Bunga” Berlusconi getting convicted for paying an underage prostitute for some hoochie-coochie time, or former International Monetary Fund honcho Dominique Strauss-Kahn “charged with aggravated pimping” by way of the group sex parties he enjoyed throwing for his cronies and assorted ass-lickers.
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Often during my own many campaigns seeking higher office I have been asked, “What is it about powerful men and illicit sex?” My answer has been that I haven’t a clue, but that if I were to be elected I’d do my gosh-darndest to find out. What I do know, having been raised Catholic, is that “illicit sex” is one of those oxy-focking-morons—“illicit” and “sex” are one and the same goddamn thing, hail Mary.
It must be quite the life to be able to afford these high-priced hookers and their shenanigans. Cripes, I’ve heard some of these gals bill-out at about $5,000 an hour, I kid you not. (Riddle break: Why did the top-dollar call-girl wear high heels? ’Cause she didn’t want to sell herself short. Ba-ding!)
For kicks, I checked my last bank statement and did some math. Charging $5-grand an hour is like $83 bucks-and-change a minute. Even considering my meager finances, I could probably swing a good couple-three minutes with one of these concupiscent party ladies, which more than likely is all I’d have the stamina for anyways; so if I had paid this go-go gal for a whole hour, what would we do with the extra 57-58 minutes? Talk, about things? Fock that, especially at those prices. No sir, after my couple-three minutes of carnal congress expired, I’d either want to take a nap or turn on a ball game, but now I’m forking out big-time dough for this young professional woman to simply sit on her sweet ass and do nothing? Forget about it. Since, technically, she’d still be in my employ, I could maybe have her do the dishes, take out the trash, dust or rearrange my sock drawer so’s to fill-out the hour of her hire. But considering the prices those hot-shot prostitutes charge, I could do all that stuff myself, start to finish, and save myself a pretty penny to boot, what the fock.
But back to Bill Clinton, let’s close with a little story I happen to remember: So former President Bill Clinton took to jogging whilst staying in a fine Downtown hotel as he campaigned for his wife. And wouldn’t you know, on each run he happened to jog past a working gal standing on the same street corner, day after day. Every time he passed her, she’d call out to him, “Fifty dollars!” And the former president would respond, “Hell no. Five dollars and you got yourself a deal!”
Every day, he’d run by, she’d yell “Fifty dollars!” and he’d say, “Five dollars!” Toward the end of the week, Hillary blew into town from campaigning out in O-focking-hio and decided to accompany her husband on his jog. As the couple neared that street corner, Bill prayed that for once the hooker would not be there.
But sure as shootin’, as he and the former first lady neared that corner, the working gal was there and as Bill and Hill jogged by she yelled, “Hey Bubba, what the fock. Is that what you got for five bucks? You got screwed—in your dreams!”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
