Blonded by the Light

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, thanks for asking, and my answer is that I am full-up with the bee’s knees and hotsy-totsy that the focking Windy-shitty football Bears still SUCK! Ding-ding-focking-ding!

OK, so now we will jump into the responsible, trusted and valued journalism not to mention respected reportage that these essays from off the top of my head be clamored for, week-after-week, year-after-year, decade-after-decade, wherever the four winds blow worldwide and a rudimentary handle on the which-ways of the English language as one navigates their way through the storm-tossed paragraphs that can arise out of focking nowhere uponst these pages. Or something like that.

And so here we are, mid-September, but since it’s 2023, the campaign for president is now on the front burner with the heat cranked to high with a never-depleted mountain of recomposed bullshit to be shoveled, like this from Trumpty-Dumbty (“The Bodyguard of Western civilization”) in 2020: “He’s (J. Biden, duh) following the radical left agenda: take away your guns, destroy your Second Amendment, no religion, no anything, hurt the Bible, hurt God,” Trump said. “He’s against God, he’s against guns.” What the fock.

“Hurt God?” Every Tom, Dick and Dickless knows it’s the other way around, for christ sakes. And if the Orange Circus Peanut is supposed to be some kind of “bodyguard,” I truly hope he’ll be like one of those guys on “Star Trek” who wear the red shirt so’s to be oblivionized, ain’a? Which reminds me of a little story:

McCoy: “I’ve borrowed Mr. Scott’s bagpipes.”

Kirk: “But you can’t play them.”

McCoy: “Yes Captain, but while I’ve got them, neither can he.” Ba-ding!

OK, one more, a Trekian twist on an old chestnut:

Dr. McCoy finished his examination of chief engineer Scott and shook his head. “Scotty, I can’t find any reason for your stomach pains. Frankly, I think it’s due to drinking.”

“In that case, Bones,” Scotty says, “I’ll come back when you’re sober.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, it was early, early last Monday morning and I abso-focking-lutely could not fall asleep ’cause for the life of me I could not remember if on the old TV series “Hawaii Five-O,” Kam Fong was what’s-his-name, the character Chin Ho, or if Chin Ho played the character Kam Fong. And there was no good goddamn way I could satisfy my curiosity seeing as how the computer I use for important research is on the fritz. (Yeah, I know, who the hell ever heard of a mucked-up computer? Inconceivable.)

So yeah, my Monday was a waste. A tossed-and-turned night will do that to a guy. I barely had the energy to crack open the newspaper that I still get delivered and check the Megabucks results, which confirmed the fact that I was never good with numbers. 

Then I thought maybe I should get off my sorry ass and actually go out and see a movie in a motion-picture theater with a crowd now that Führer Covid doth temporarily slink in the weeds. Cripes, I haven’t been in theater for a moving picture since Leaving Las Vegas around 1995. I always enjoy a movie with subject matter that’s near and dear to my heart. So, I checked the listings and yeah, there was the Oppenheimer, a movie apparently longer than the life I have remaining. And Barbie, which reminded me of a little story:

Once upon a time, a blonde, a brunette and a redhead were crossing an enchanted bridge in Magical Fairyland when they ran into a fairy, wouldn’t you know. The fairy told the gals that they would be granted a magical transformation if they jumped off the bridge and called out their wish. The brunette immediately jumped off the bridge and yelled “Eagle!” She turned into a beautiful bird of prey and flew away. The redhead jumped off the bridge and called out “Salmon!” She turned into a gorgeous shimmering salmon and swam upstream to spawn. The blonde was so overcome with excitement that she jumped off the bridge without thinking of her wish. She panicked: “Crap!” And so was of a piece, ever after. Ba-ding!

And I’ll tell you’s, I do enjoy and appreciate blonde dolls on film—Marilyn Monroe, Elke Sommer, Anita Ekberg—but I checked my bus schedule to figure how the fock to arrive at the nearest theater with the least amount of transfers from my dinky apartment Downtown, and decided that tomorrow will be another day.

And so, I thought best to maybe apply a modicum of effort toward my trusted and valued journalism not to mention respected reportage, what the fock.

From the depths, I surfaced this: 

What with the school days back on the docket for our youth, I surely do hope that the Badger State educational standards for our young Einsteins includes those grim Grimm brothers’ fairy tales for the learning now that truthful American history seems to be out the window. The cat’s pajamas they were for me back when I was an occasional attendee at Our Lady In Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight to Hell But Not Soon Enough.

And so now would be the time to again recall that once upon a time, shortly after Dr. Seuss left us for the big Whoville in the sky surely, I recalled reading the good-doing Doctor’s books to the kids and thinking how I sure would like to get ahold of whatever it was that guy was on. 

I recalled that actually my favorite reading is kid books. There’s pictures. They’re never long enough to get boring. It doesn’t take you a day and a focking half just to read one tiny printed page of pure eyeball strain. Sure, they’re a little light on the sex parts, but you can’t have everything. And you also don’t get depressed the same as like reading a regular adult book about some miserable knob when you realize no matter how wretched this jag gets in the story, he’s still better off than you are.

That’s because reality sucks big time, no if ands or butts, doubts or questions about it, no sir. But kids, from Day One get read a dream-stream full of talking dragons, magic lamps and magic carpets, secret passageways, guys who can see for miles and they think, “Yes! What a groovy world of ours this is.” And then quicker than you can say “Sam I Am” things take a turn, a dive, a spill and it’s “Sam, what’s with the sham?” Oh boy oh boy, kids get geared for living in cool castles with the mega-babe princess and a boatload of wishes, and then—KABOOM! Instead of “…happily ever after,” it’s “Chapters 5 through 32 by Monday… Get a job… Your application has not been accepted… We also found something with the driveshaft… Due to an increase in our cost for materials… The doctor called, the results came back, he wants to see you immediately…” Focking swell.

So of course, kids hate school ’cause by that age they’re getting a pretty good clue as to the low lowdown, don’t like it one bit and I can’t blame them. Yeah, “growing up”—the polite way of saying “getting the focking shaft sideways,” ain’a?

When the kids learn there’s no castles, no princess babes, no bag-o’-wishes, the first thing they do is turn on a drug. Maybe our kids would be better off if we read to them tractor manuals or 1040 long-form instructions instead of this jive about Oobleck and giants. Yes sir, that might maybe cut down on some of that ol’ imagination, but hey, when was the last time you ever heard or read a help-wanted ad that said, “Only the imaginative need apply”?

Beats me, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.