Baste Not, Want Not

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Photo illustration: Dave Zylstra

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So yeah yeah, here we go again. It’s that time of year: Tradition. And as I try to conjure up something, anything, that I can be thankful for, it’s tradition that the only thing I can think of is that I’ve never had to hear myself say in a court of law, “But your honor, she said she was 18, I swear.” Ba-ding!

OK, what else is a guy like me thankful for? Give me a minute. Oh yeah, I’m thankful that I once got struck by a million-dollar idea: The alcohol patch. What’s an alcohol patch? I’ll tell you’s. It’s a spin-off from the nicotine patch. Now, how the alcohol patch would work is that say you were somewheres that you couldn’t be holding a cocktail; however, with the patch you could still have some kind of hard liquor be absorbed through your skin and leaching into your veins so that even if you didn’t know Jack Squat about a topic of conversation, big focking deal ’cause you’d have the boozy balls to pitch your two-cents worth into the pot anyways, and still feel like an adult with something important to say. Even though it’s still going to be a while before I get the alcohol patch on the market, I strongly urge you to preorder yours now ’cause these babies are going to go like hot cakes on a Black Friday. Just send me a nice, crisp Jackson or two and I’ll make sure to write your name down on a list, I kid you not.

And it’s also a yearly tradition of mine to provide to those of you’s who read this page before trotting off to your Thanksgiving obligation, a little something you can take along and share at your gathering so that you don’t just show up empty-handed as the free-loading fockstick your relatives, friends and acquaintances have come to expect, if not dread. So, if you’re too damn lazy or depressed to bring a dish to pass, a humorous story would be a nice alternative, ain’a?

How ’bout this appetizer?

Husband and wife have a big argument on the day of their 25th-wedding anniversary. Husband yells, “When you die, I’m getting you a headstone that reads, ‘Here Lies My Wife—Cold as Ever.’” Wife says, “Fock you. When you die, I’m getting you a headstone that reads, ‘Here Lies My Husband—Stiff at Last.’” Ba-ding!

And this, for the main course:

So, this middle-aged guy and his wife are run off the road about three miles shy of the junction of Highway 52 and Peckerwood Road one afternoon by some stupid drunk-ass farmer in an old pickup truck who had swerved into their lane for no apparent reason. The guy’s killed instantly but the wife survives.

So, he gets up to the Pearly Gates where stands St. Peter barring the door. St. Peter says to the guy, “My son, you may pass through these gates into Heaven if you are able to spell one simple word for me, and that word is ‘love.’”

The guy thinks this must be some kind of trick ’cause it really couldn’t be this easy to get into Heaven, could it? But the guy plays along and says, “‘Love.’ L-O-V-E. Love.” And St. Peter says, “Yes. That is correct. You are free to pass through the gates.” Whammo! The gates open and the guy’s home free.

But St. Peter has a request to make. “My son, I beseech thee to cover for me here at the gate for a moment. I’ve been here since early morning and am in dire need to tap mine kidney for a monster leak. All you need to do, should anyone approach, is to ask them to spell one simple word, and that word is ‘love.’”

The guy consents and wouldn’t you know, the first person to approach is his wife. The guys, “What the flock are you doing up here? I thought you survived the accident.” And she says, “Boy-o, I did, but what with the hemorrhaging, I was dead in a few minutes. So, is St. Peter around?”

And the guy says, “He’ll be back soon, but I can let you into Heaven where we can spend all eternity together provided you can spell one simple word, and that word is ‘Deoxyribonucleic.’” Ba-ding!

For dessert:

There’s this group of hunters who always go up to the same spot every year for a three-day beer-drinking shootout. Each morning they’d pair off in twos for the hunt. Well sir, one evening one of the guys came back alone, dragging a huge 10-point buck. The other guys wanted to know where Jerry was, and the guy dragging the deer said that Jerry had a stroke or maybe a heart attack, couple miles back. “What the fock, you left Jerry lying there in the cold and the dark and dragged the deer back instead?” And the guy says, “Yeah, it was a tough call, but I figured no one would steal Jerry, so what the fock.” Ba-ding!

All right you’s, now go get stuffed ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.