Another Meddle

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, no time for a regular brain-busting essay this week, no sir. I’ve got to get over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school where my vice-presidential campaign brain-trust sits-awaiting and imbibing so’s to confab over-under-sideways-down all about my shot at getting picked up as Kamala’s running mate for the 2024 Democratic ticket as your next Veep; and talk about “vice,” I got some history, so consider me experienced, what the fock.

Yes sir, Vice President Art Kumbalek (rolls off the tongue, you think?). I sure as heck would like to famously attach my name to such a memorable who-the-fock list of U.S. Senate tiebreakers that includes the likes of the following who were once a heartbeat-away through the years of this democracy:

Aaron “Locked and Loaded” Burr—1801-05

Elbridge Gerry (Mander)—1813-14 (early douchebag to fock-up voting)

Richard Mentor Johnson—1837-41 (Out of Kentucky, one of the few guys from that period who posed for a portrait tight-ass clean shaven.)

Hannibal Hamlin—1861-65 (Honest Abe’s veep, and who can’t throw down with a name straight out of the WWE?)

Schuyler Colfax—1869-73 (not to be confused with Hall-of-Famer Dodger Sandy Koufax, just so you know, or don’t.)

Levi P. Morton—1889-93 (What, the salt guy?)

Garret Hobart—1897-99 (died whilst in office at the age of 55, as his Oval Office boss William P. McKinley took a fatal bullet two years later.)

Alben W. Barkley—1949-53 (No relation to basketball icon Sir Charles. But I’ll tell you’s, I’d vote for Chuck for whatever he need’s voting for in a heartbeat.)

Spiro Agnew—1969-73 (“resigned on suspicion of criminal conspiracy, bribery, extortion, and tax fraud.” Yes sir, a true politician’s politician he was, ain’a’?)

Art Kumbalek—maybe 2024-? (known for next-to-nothing; but could use a side gig, times are tough, what the fock.)

I could go on with this list of who-the-focks, but I do indeed think the name “Art Kumbalek” would fit in quite nicely with the names listed above. Plus, I could really use the White House back-seat job. Cripes, a Veep these days pulls down about “$284,600 per annum,” I hear. That’s about less than a deep-bench hoopster on an NBA team pulls down these days, but what the fock. Sign me up, Kamala. I know I can score you the Cheese State, I kid you not.

OK, blah-blah. Let’s get going like I said earlier over by to the Uptowner, majestically crammed at the corner of wistfully hysteric Humboldt Boulevard and the fabled Center Street, where today is always at least a day before tomorrow and yesterday may very well be today. Come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round, or three. Let’s get going.

Herbie: Iceland. I shit you not. Iceland got a focking medal in 2008. When they let Iceland into these Summer Olympics and take away a medal that otherwise should’ve gone to one of our American amateurs, then you know the globalization and outsourcing bullshit has really gone too far.

Ernie: And I remember the Chinese got the second-most gold medals in 2012.

Ray: You got to be jerking my beefaroni. They had that many Ping-Pong events then?

Little Jimmy Iodine: Yeah, but still no horseshoes. I’d watch that, you betcha. Those Olympics don’t have enough events the common man can relate to, like poker, ain’a?

Julius: The Commie countries would never let poker in the Olympics—a game about the triumph of the individual who gets to keep all the dough instead of passing it out to every Tom, Dick and Dickless with his hand out? Focking forget about it.

Emil: After these Olympics, you think these athletes might turn pro and get jobs that actually help society—like breakfast cereal salespeople or Walmart greeters?

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.

Art: Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know. 

Emil: I know I went down by the German Fest the other weekend.

Ray: You can’t beat the German Fest. Didn’t they used to have a guy who’d guess your age and weight, but for the ladies the weight would always be the same—“she’s too fat for me”?

Herbie: Kraut Fest is always at the Milwaukee’s Summerfest grounds. I don’t understand why some of the other towns around our area don’t make a bid to host the Fest, say your Germantown, your New Berlin.

Ernie: I remember seeing some bullshit list some years ago—Best 100 Places to Live, or maybe America’s Best Small Towns—and New focking Berlin clocked in at number 34. What the fock?

Little Jimmy Iodine: Number 34? Must have some pretty fancy strip malls out that-a-ways, ain’a? Never been to New Berlin, but I hear some people call it the “new West Allis,” but without all the white trash.

Herbie: Sounds nice. Diversity’s overrated anyways, what the fock. Had a brother-in-law pass through there once on his way to Dodgeville Correctional. Told me that if a slice of your future-heaven was never-ever again having to sit next to a fat guy with bladder issues on the bus, New Berlin would be a final resting place for you. They don’t have buses. And on top of that, things are so spread out, you got to get into a car and drive just to go take a leak, I kid you not.

Julius: Fock ’em. It’s no Cudahy, and never will be. I can’t imagine being a kid and not able to focking walk to the diamond of my Little League game and then afterward visit the Layton Avenue liquor store on the way home for an ice-cold bottle of Squirt and a pack of 1960 Topps baseball cards, with no adult supervision involved besides the asshole behind the counter. 

Herbie: Yeah, that’s a nice youthful remembrance, Juley. What, all of a sudden you’re Ray focking Bradbury and next you’re going to tell us your ma and pa are carnival magicians from Mars? What the fock.

Little Jimmy Iodine: So Artie, you got plans yet how you’ll spend all that vice-president dough you’ll be making?

(Hey, it’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)