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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So with the religiously Lenten season coming up like a bad burrito, I’m wrestling with the yearly question of what the fock to give up. I’m leaning toward giving up filing any kind of tax return. Separation of church and state you betcha, and god bless America.

Anyways, not much to report, my time’s been spent wondering how to cash in on the recent Olympics just like every other Tom, Dick and Dickless is. I thought of maybe slapping together a nice, souvenir coffee-table keepsake book: “The 2014 Winter Games with Art Kumbalek.” Photos, you bet: me asleep on the couch during Pairs figure skating; me at my fridge searching for another nice ice-cold bottled Pabst; me on the couch working the remote like a banshee to see if there was anything better on.

And speaking of books, did I ever tell you about the time some years ago when in the mail I got advertised a “remarkable collection of valuable information available only in ‘THE NEW WORLD BOOK OF KUMBALEKS’.” It promised me that my flabber would be gasted by “historic Kumbalek facts” from “actual immigration records,” that I’d “discover never-before-published facts about the Kumbalek population,” that I’d learn about family crests and blah-focking-blah-blah plus there’d be historic wood-cuts and archival photographs, I kid you not.

Normally I wouldn’t suck at an outside pitch like this ’cause I’m betting that just like anybody else, nine out of ten ancestors were jags and knobshines when you average out the course of human history starting from your cave-man fore-fore-fore-father, and who wants to pay for what you already know, ain’a?

But I thought maybe there’s an out-of-the-park shot that some focking fossil of a Kumbalek somewheres sometime hit the big big-time, and maybe I could search out some upper-crust branch of descendants and knock them up for a buck two-eighty or three, what the fock.

So I sent in for the guaranteed money-back trial order. Time passed, and I got the first installment of my “custom made to order” first edition book of all things Kumbalekian, and I got to tell you’s it was surprisingly not too shabby. It even had an archival photo of some antediluvian Kumbalek standing around watching the Magna Carta get John-Hancocked by King John back there in June of 1215, how ’bout that?

Now, the question of how a Polish guy from whatever constituted “Poland” in the 13th century could be found shining around in the background at the signing of Limeyville’s most historic document must have an answer, one that sadly has been lost to history. But perhaps if I’d order the second installment of “THE NEW WORLD BOOK OF KUMBALEKS,” the answer would be revealed to have been discovered, but if this relative’s at all like me, I’m guessing he showed up to crash the after-party for the free hors d’oeuvres, motivated by the notion I’ve heard that hunger was widespread if not rampant in the olden days.

As I studied this nearly 800-year-old photograph, so as to determine if this lower-limbed Kumbalek was the one who sat on the branch of the family tree from which my chiseled yet manly good looks sprouted, I discovered the old fart was wearing a wristwatch, I jerk your beefaroni not. And here I thought wristwatches were not de rigeur du jour until at least the inventions of Sir Isaac Newton and Ben Franklin.

So what the fock, now I can only think to conclude that some Kumbalek must have discovered the wristwatch way back in the 1200s and then either lost the goddamn thing or was too focking lazy to get a patent on it. Hey, I’d be on Easy Street for life if I didn’t have such a focking nitwit for an ancestor.

The only other thing I got with the first installment was some moldy document that showed that when a couple, three Kumbaleks finally found Ellis Island years and years after the wrist-watch fiasco, around the time Grover Cleveland Alexander was president the second time, persnickety immigration officials with a yen for copy editing decided to shorten the name from the original KumbalekarwiczchowiakensteinvilleDeLiaccO’Rodriguezbergchan’elSharmasseinskisonski. Sure got a nice ring to it, but how the hell you ever going to fit that on the back of an athletic jersey? Fortunately, I never had to find out.

Anyways, if I did tell you’s about that before, now I’ve told you again, so what the fock. Also I’ll ask you not to forget once again some words from the old Greek philosopher Anonymous: “More important than where we’re from is where we’re going.” And where I’m going is to grab a nice cocktail up over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school, where today is always at least a day before tomorrow and yesterday may very well be today ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.