I’m Art Kumbalek and man ohmanischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear there’s been a loadof scuttlebutt all over, under, sideways and down America’s Dairylandlately about whether or not yours truly ought to take an electoral stabat being our state’s next governor. Yeah,go figure. But I guess when you consider the tired names of thehonky-dorky nutbag losers our Republicans are throwing up for yourconsideration, a Governor Art Kumbalek must sound mighty nice, what thefock.
Anyways, Ibetter skip writing an essay for you’s this week and instead get overby the Uptowner tavern/charm school where I can meet up with mycampaign brain trust to discuss certain particulars, like just when thehell this election is supposed to take place in the first place, forchrist sakesexcept they’re not open yet; so first, I’ll slide over bythis 24-hour joint that slings the hash and Joe whether you like it ornot. Come along if you want, but you leave the tip.
Hattie: Oh my, look who’s here. It’s my little Artie come by to see his dear old Hattie.
Art: Hattie, how’ve you been? I sure as heck haven’t seen you for a while. I thought maybe you retired.
Hattie: And you thought wrong, mister. So let’s cut the sweet talk and get down to business before I have to shoot you.
Art: Holdon, Hattie. Cripes, that really is a gun, and here I thought you werejust glad to see me. I’ll have a nice cup of what ever it is you’recalling plain-old American coffee.
Hattie: Now, was that so hard, Artie? And I’ll need the tip up front, so there’s no shenanigans.
Art: All right already, Hattie. Here’s a buck. Go get yourself something nice.
Hattie: You’re such a nice boy, and here’s your coffee. So what do you hear, what do you know, my little Artie.
Art: Jeez louise, Hattie. When the heck did you get a gun?
Hattie: Igot a gun as soon as I heard that when the government makes people haveto get health care, the president could put all the white people intoconcentration camps. And then the people could be Hooverized into theDemocrat vacuum cleaner of death, like a retroactive abortion, if thefeds decided that they didn’t really want these people. Can you imagine?
Art: What the fock, where’d you hear that?
Hattie: Atmeetings and on the Internet, Artie. Did you see that story about a107-year-old woman in Malaysia who’s worried that her husbandnumber22may have left her for a younger woman?
Art: Idid see that. They said the husband was like 70 years younger. My guessis that he didn’t leave, but that she kicked him out the day she wasstanding nude in front of the bedroom mirror and said to him, “I feelhorrible. I look fat, ugly, and really old. A compliment sure wouldmake me feel good.” So the husband says, “Your eyesight’s damn nearperfect.”
Hattie: Isn’tthat something, what you can learn on the Internet. The other day Iread a story about this man who was sunbathing in the nude on a privatebeach when he saw a little girl coming toward him, so he coveredhimself with the newspaper he was reading. The girl came up to him andasked, “Are you hiding something under that newspaper, mister?” And theman said, “Nothing, really. Just a stupid bird, I guess.” So the littlegirl walked away and the man fell asleep. When he woke up, he was in ahospital in tremendous pain. When the police asked him what happened,the man said, “I don’t know. I was lying on the beach, this girl askedme about my newspaper, and the next thing I know is I’m here.”
Sothe police went back to the beach, found the girl, and asked her if shedid anything to the man with the newspaper. And the girl said, “Ididn’t do anything to him. But after he fell asleep, I was playing withthe bird he had under his newspaper and it spit on me, so I broke itsneck, cracked its eggs, and set its nest on fire.”
Art: Ouch!Got to hope that guy had health insurance, ain’a? Just like I hopeBrett Favre’s got to dip into his deductible after he plays the Packerscome Monday.
Hattie: Oh,Brett. If that Cajun bitch he’s married to ever set him free, I’d loveto make him hubby number five. You know, Artie, whenever I get an itchdown there, I always imagine he’s the nice, rough and tumble Johnny Rebcountry-bumpkin come to scratch it.
Art: And who’d want to intercept that play? Not me, I kid you not.
Hattie: Oh Artie, you’re a little devil, aren’t you. Take care.
(OK, it’s off to the Uptowner. If you see me there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
