I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I really ought to take a moment and thank those of you’s who ought to be thanked for your support thus far vis-a-vis The Art Kumbalek Democracy Express 2008 For Any and All Political Office. And just so you know, I thought for sure that I’d have some kind of official nomination for the office of the presidential Oval Office in the White House locked up by now; yes sir, locked up like a man-of-color guy with a right rear directional blinker that goes busted whilst negotiating the mean streets that lie north of Hampton Avenue and east of Port Washington Road, what the fock.
But even considering the piss-poor meager support for my candidacy that I’ve so far been able to stash in my hip pocket, I intend to persevere my quest. And I can promise you that no matter what happens during the rest of this campaign, I’ll always be the same guy I always was, as opposed to the former first lady running for the president, who would tell you now that when she wakes up in the morning she’ll be “the guy she always wanted to be.”
What’s going on with her? And the way she talks as a gal who grew up in nice-suburban Chicago, went to all the finest schools including Yale, elected senator from New York City? Out of the blue during the campaign for the Pennsylvania primary she picked up some kind of trailer-park accent, like she was auditioning for the role of Stella Mae in a community theater production of “Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean” rather than the role as most powerful person in the free world? What the fock, fock, fock.
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And on top of that, now I’m hearing all kind of goofballs talking about her “testicular fortitude.” I don’t mean to bring up some kind of gender card ’cause I don’t have to, and soon neither will she. I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty she’s already got planned a trip to Sweden sometime before the Democratic National Convention for a little surgical procedure that will then allow her to accept the nomination as “Larry” Clinton. The pants suits will still work, but they’ll need to be taken out a bit in the crotch, I figure.
Well, god bless her. When you run for the highest office in the land, you got to do what you got to do. And some people thought that Barack was the “change” candidate. Hey, guess again.
And even though last month was National Poetry Month, I still feel behoovedeth here in the merry month of May to offer this following brief ode to those who enjoy the meter of verse no matter what time of the election it is:
Hillary, she sure has some sass
her balls are made out of brass
when they jingle together
they play “Stormy Weather”
and lightning shoots out from her ass
And speaking of the testicular; two questions:
What has 75 balls and screws old ladies? and
What did the veterinarian say to the dog who kept licking his balls?
Answers: Bingo! and Thank you.
Ba-ding!
And so I offer myself once again as the candidate who believes that common sense is a more electable bona fide than is a Scandinavian sex-change operation. Say, common sense directed toward this recent uproar about drinking out of plastic containers ’cause if you do, you’ll get cancer on account of all the chemicals these bottles contain, as if the human body can’t take a little extra chemical action once in a focking while. Hey, what the hell do you think you’re made up of anyways in the first place? I’ll tell you this, it is not tofu, yogurt and bright shiny soy balloons.
When, and if, you ingest expensive “health food” stuff that all winds up in the same stomach, guess what? Your body breaks it up and turns into some kind of chemical anyway, so what’s the focking problem.
No, I’ll bet you’ve always thought “Chemicals? Are you kidding. I heard they’re bad for me. I get any chemicals in me, before you know I’ll be doing the dance with the Big C and puking my everloving guts out broadside.”
Ha! That’s what you thought, ain’a? Well, guess again, ’cause you and me as the apple of god’s eye are walking, talking chemical factories to begin with; so face the music, there’s nothing we can do about it. What, you going to get the Environmental focking Protection Agency to shut down the human race ’cause it could be hazardous? Forget about it.
As your next president, I suggest we grow up and learn to dance, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
