And Then We Dissed Him

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, the sweetest words I’ve heard in a very long focking time were the ones I heard just the other day: “President Trump’s last day in office.” And the next sweetest words I’d like to hear would be these: “Former President Donald Trump spent his first day as an inmate of the federal penitentiary at…” Hallelujah and about time.

And, of course, on the way out the door the Trumpel-thinskin just had to pardon a whole raft of deplorables. Steve Bannon? You got to be jerking my beefaroni. I’ve checked his pardon list, and I checked it twice, and I’m somewhat surprised the orange fockstick had not granted posthumous pardons to James Earl Ray and Timothy McVeigh so’s to keep his untethered base well-supplied in dog whistles, I kid you not.

So, for many Americans their favorite show has been canceled by power of the ballot box. I do have some empathy here, I got to tell you’s. I remember as a 9-year-old back in the fall of 1960 when TV’s great and popular “Howdy Doody” got itself canceled. But we survived then, so’s that some years later we were big and strong enough to raise some hell against a bullshit war armed with less-than-the-equivalent of torches and pitchforks compared to those bullshit white-militia “anti-government protesters” armed with state-of-the-art military hardware today, what the fock.

OK, hold on, I lost my rickety train of thought, maybe because right now it’s Wednesday, Jan 20, in my dinky apartment and I just heard Justice Sonia Sotomayor swear in Kamala Harris as the next vice president of the United States. Now I got a chill, a watery eye or two.

Jeez louise, reminds me of the time a couple, three years ago some guy says to me, “Hey Artie, writing those essays of yours must be good therapy, ain’a?” And remember I told him that if it’s such good therapy, I wish President Orange Circus Peanut would start writing newspaper essays instead of sending those stupid-ass tweets all the time ’cause if ever there were a candidate-elect ready to be a throw pillow on a therapy couch, it would be our “president.” Which reminds me:

Psychiatrist’s receptionist says, “Doctor, there’s a patient here who thinks he’s invisible.” Psychiatrist says, “Tell him I can’t see him right now.” Ba-ding!

Man walks into a psychiatrist’s office, completely naked except for a layer of Saran Wrap. Psychiatrist says, “I can clearly see you’re nuts.” Ba-ding!

Why can’t you hear a psychiatrist using the bathroom? Hey, because the ‘p’ is silent. Ba-ding!

Man goes to a psychiatrist. Psychiatrist says, “What do you do for a living?” Man says, I’m an auto mechanic.” Psychiatrist says, “All right, get under the couch.” Ba-ding!

So you betcha, if whipping out these essays off the top of my head is good therapy, I guess that makes Artie his own therapist, how ’bout that. By cutting out the middleman, I figure I’m saving myself about a $200 bucks an hour; so the drinks are on me. And as a therapist, one thing I know is that we can all use an extra pat on the back. Actually, I got a better idea. More than an extra pat on the back, we could all use an extra $Jackson in the backpocket, ain’a? Hold on, I got an even better idea. How ’bout, say, you go see one of these psychiatric guys for a little shrink rap and at the end of the session he gives you a crisp $100 instead of the other way around—“Hey doc, gosh. Thanks for the dough. I’m feeling better about myself already.” And isn’t that the point?

Fock if I know, but I sometimes do wonder what things would be like these days if there had been an outbreak of the psychology racket in the olden days. Say back in the year 0027 or something, they pull Jesus in for a psych session: “Well, Mr. Christ, to me it looks like we’re dealing with a pattern of self-destructive behavior here. I’d say you were clinically depressed, but that hasn’t been invented yet. This savior thing. It’s a grand idea, but practically speaking, what about the future? Do you actually see yourself doing this at age 40, 50? And you say one thing, but then do another. ‘Love thy neighbor,’ fine. But then you go bust up their money-changing temple. What I’d like to do is see you weekly for the long-term. Who is your health care provider, Mr. Christ?”

I’ve heard that some psychiatrists like to quiz their patients about their dreams. If I were seeing a shrink instead of seeing myself, I’d tell him about the one I had just the other night that goes something like this:

Vladimir Putin, Art Kumbalek and Donald Trump were set to face a firing squad in a small Middle-Eastern country. Vladimir Putin was the first one placed against the wall, and just before the order was given he yelled out, “EARTHQUAKE!” The firing squad fell into a panic and Vlad jumped over the wall and escaped in the confusion.

Art Kumbalek was the second one placed against the wall. The squad was reassembled and Artie pondered what he had just witnessed. Again before the order was given, Artie said, “Gentlemen! SANDSTORM!” Again the squad panicked and Artie slipped over the wall.

Now it was Donald Trump’s turn. He was thinking, “I see a pattern here, oh boy, I’m so hugely smart.” He confidently refused the blindfold as the firing squad reassembled. As the rifles were raised in his direction, he gave a thumbs-up, stuck out his chin and yelled, “FIRE!”

OK, genug iz genug. A final note: A nod to the passing of record producer Phil Spector, another “stable genius” out of New York City. Here’s a big wish that soon the Trumpists will come to their senses so that the only song Donald J. Trump can play at empty arena rallies is The Righteous Brothers’ classic, “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.”

And speaking of music, there’s this about Trumpty-Dumbty’s departure from D.C., this from the New York Daily News: Trump and First Lady Melania then left for an Air Force One flight to Florida as the Village People’s “YMCA” played incongruously in the background. As the plane took off, Frank Sinatra’s version of “My Way” played as a backdrop.”

What the focking fock? “YMCA”? Yeah, that’s what I was humming as he departed, only in my version, “YMCA” stood for You-Motherfocking-Callous-Asshole, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.