Beneath an Amber Moon

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Photos: George Marks, _Aine_ - Getty Images

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, our beloved Green & Gold kick-off their NFL season this week down there in Brazil (“The Sleeping Giant,” as described by Mr. Golnick during a unit on South America back in my sixth grade as I surveyed the classroom, making a list of which Linda, Kim, Jodie I’d most like to kiss.)

And so I’m reminded of a little story:

A gal tells her sister, “Just so you know, I slept with a Brazilian.” 

Sister says, “You slut! So how many is a Brazilian?” Ba-ding!

Anyways, here we be, 60-ish days before the Orange Circus Peanut (AKA Trumpel-thinskin) raises his ample hindquarters and blows out his crap about yet one more “stolen” election, what a deluded dick that guy is.

Fact: In his two previous “I’ve got the runs” for the presidency, 2016 and 2020, the fockstick lost the popular vote by a combined 11 million votes (three mill in ’16, seven mill in’20). “Popular” at the national ballot box he is not, you think?

Fact: November, 1960, little more than a year after Alaska and Hawaii had been declared official states of the union (still waiting on the Puerto Rico, por favor), the whole goddamn prez election was flipped by a mere 112, 827 votes, as some of you’s may recall.

So yeah yeah, the back-and-forth race for the Oval Office is on. And how has the Trumpty-Dumbty “campaign” battled the spot-on “weird”-ass tag the Democrats have pinned? They’ve doubled down to celebrate their endorsement from the Kooky Kennedy (who’d love to be Secretary of Health and Human and Dead Bear Services, I’ve heard), one of the focking weirdest guys on the public stage (a list that includes Tiny Tim, Emo Phillips, Professor Irwin Corey…) or holding a chainsaw on a beach standing next to a whale, what the fock.

And at an Arizona rally the other day/week, when the ex-“president” brought to the stage his latest trophy butt-kisser, RFK Jr. said something blah-blah about this-or-that “free from corporate corruption,” I just knew that the Orange Circus Peanut was standing to the side, thinking “You sorry ass loser, and what’s with the goofy voice? I am throwing you under the bus just as soon as I suck from you every single thing you can give me.”

God bless America.

Anyways, now post Labor Day, as a civic duty I feel an obligation to publish my kind-of annual gala back-to-school address to my young readers, the unruly rabble of any age who, for certain, will be harassing one poor, underpaid teacher or another if by nothing else than their mere presence whenever they do bother to show up. (If you’re not a continuing student or school-board member, you may want to skip the following ’cause there’s nothing in it for you’s. Thank you for your patience and consideration.)

Art’s Annual Address to All You Matriculators and What the Fock, You Fatriculators to Boot

Hey, a big shout-out to all you young knucklehead Einsteins, nice to see you’ve come to this page where you might learn something practical; so I suggest you park your butts and pay attention. And that means right now.

I’d like to kick-off my remarks with the following anecdote: The other mid-morning—the first day of school for at least the secondary-education students in our community, by the way—I was seated on an uncomfortable metallic chair in the Plankinton Arcade area of our Downtown Grand Avenue what-the-fockawaiting the opening of the adjacent T.J. Maxx store so’s to investigate the possibility of new sweet deals on a 3-pack of boxer shorts. A school-age boy sauntered by and I addressed him with the following query: “My son, aren’t you supposed to be at school?” To which he replied: “Go fock yourself, grandpa.”

I nearly took umbrage with his comment, but his apparent familiarity with the gadgets of weight-lifting technology cooled my temper and instead forced me to reflect on the far-sighted wisdom of his comment.

“Go fock yourself.” A cool trick if you could actually pull it off, I kid you not. But upon further reflection, I realized that if one could actually fock one’s self, that deed sure-as-shootin’ would diminish the rigmarole a guy’s got to go through just to even get a shot at dipping his wick, ain’a? No flowers, no dinner, no dancing, no dimming the lights to the point where a gentleman can’t even find the focking ashtray, no meeting the parents, no long walks on the goddamn beach or in the focking woods, no excruciating dialogues about “What are you thinking?” and no boring-ass movies with subtitles, no remembering bullshit anniversaries and the hell with birthdays, no blather chatter on the telephone or whatever. No sir, none of that malarkey, because now sir, you can fock yourself. Praise the lord. 

And if you could truly fock yourself, hey, it’s your place, who needs underwear, to bathe, to brush your teeth, pick up the place, aftershave, focking condoms, turning off the TV. Yes sir, if you could just simply fock yourself—ooo-la-focking-la! Welcome to the jungle, 24-hours a day, baby. Go time is any time. Let’s get IT ON! Ride ’em cowboy. And the only question you’d ask is this: “Whoa Nellie! Is there anything I/you won’t or don’t do?”

But alas, a guy or a gal can only dream ’cause I’m thinking that the ability to fock one’s self is something only our distant descendants will be able to enjoy, far off in the future when the gosh darn practical and common-sense nature of such a relationship forces the evolutionary process to give up the goods.

And so in conclusion, I’m betting that the most important thing for all students to have, young and old, is to have a dream and maintain it, repeatedly. My dream is that I could fock myself literally (virtually, hey, been there, done that, it’s old); your dream may involve some other kind of maneuver or outcome. And that’s swell. Just dream of something, anything, that’ll help you get up the next morning/afternoon/whatever, even if that dream is as perfunctory as to the reason you can’t turn in your homework to teacher is because your dog ate it.

Other than that, the only other kind of advice I have for you’s is to brush your teeth and stay in school, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.