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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as I await the arrival of a couple, three members of some kind of bullshit “federal” paramilitary outfit to burst through the door to my dinky apartment and haul my sorry dupa down to some secret location for a little discipline session that would be motivated by my occasional less-than-kind words regarding our “president,” Humpty-Dumbty Trumpel-thin-skin, let me tell you’s that sure-as-shootin’, I plan to read the book everybody’s talking about by psychologist Mary Trump, principally about her Uncle Donald, I kid you not.

I can’t remember the title—An Asshole and a Moron maybe?—but I’ve heard that niece Mary claims that our Stable Genius paid somebody to take his college-admissions SAT test for him. And it’s a damn shame the Orange Circus Peanut hasn’t thought to pay somebody, who would to a better job, to run the executive branch of the U.S. government for him. Cripes, the fockstick should’ve called me ’cause I could really, really use the dough, lo, these days, what the fock.

And now I hear that Uncle Donald says that Uncle Joe will “abolish the suburbs,” as opposed to Uncle Don’s desire to abolish democracy. Mmm, what a choice—no Brookfield, West Allis, Brown focking Deer, or no democracy? Yeah, give me a second.

Jeez louise, those two sure would make a pair at a Thanksgiving dinner table, what the fock. And if I were at that turkey-day table and I got the larger part of the wishbone, I’d wish that come January 2021, besides leaving the White House with the silverware, Uncle Donald also leaves with a charge of involuntary manslaughter as a going-away gift for his genius pandemic leadership.

So, I hear “America’s Pastime” rolls out the barrel this week. Pitchers, catchers and everybody else finally report for active duty to be performed in a 60-game season. Thank you for your sandlot service.

No living, breathing fans will be in the stands, though, for obvious reasons—they’ve got too many damn shows queued up on Netflix they’ve got to get to before the shows disappear.

However, my buddy Frank sent me this, from brewers.com:

Introducing the 2020 Brewers Cutout Crew

While we wish our fans could be with us at Miller Park in 2020, you can still be here with us in spirit...and as a cutout!

Introducing the 2020 Brewers Cutout Crew: several seating sections at Miller Park featuring 2-feet-tall cutouts of fan faces!

For just $50, you can reserve a seat for your cutout—the perfect way to show support for your Crew from a safe distance. Plus, a portion of the proceeds will benefit Brewers Community Foundation.

To learn more about the Cutout Crew and how to submit your photo, visit brewers.com/cutoutcrew today.

Now, I got to tell you’s that I’m a longtime dedicated fan of the game itself and of Milwaukee baseball. First game I ever saw was 1959, our Braves vs. the L.A. Dodgers at good ol’ County Stadium. I saw Spahnie notch his 300th career win in August of 1961 against the then-hapless Chicago Cubs. However, I am not such a fan of the Miller park “experience.” And so, if I had an extra spare Ulysses half-a-hundred (that’ll be the day) to join the Brewer Cutout Crew, the Artie photo would display my index fingers placed deep within each ear to block out the goddamn too-loud focking flame-throwing schmutz racket piped through the LOUD speakers every couple, three seconds, a volume of puerile soundage enough to turn a deaf guy or gal even deafer.

Hey, “play ball,” and the only sound I want to hear is the fabled crack-of-the bat, a hearty ”stee-rike” from the cop behind home plate and the plaintive call of a Pabst Blue Ribbon vendor, couple rows distant, ain’a?

So, I’ve got to go and get back on the phone and see if I can raise someone over at the unemployment bureau from the dead. Weeks and weeks and weeks, no luck, as if the DWD has one solitary phone to service a couple, three million desperate callers, what the fock.

Anyways, I’ll leave you with a nice little story by way of the late, great New Yorker essayist Roger Angell:

A man and his wife tried and tried to have a baby, but without success. Years went by and they went on trying, but no luck. They liked each other, so the work was always a pleasure, but they grew a bit sad along the way. Finally, she got pregnant, was very careful and gave birth to a beautiful eight-pound-two-ounce baby boy. The couple were beside themselves with happiness. At the hospital that night, she told her husband to stop by the local newspaper and arrange for a birth announcement, to tell all their friends the good news. First thing next morning, she asked if he’d done the errand.

“Yes, I did,” he said, “but I had no idea those little notices in the paper were so expensive.”

“Expensive?” she said. “How much was it?”

“It was $837. I have the receipt.”

“Eight hundred and thirty-seven dollars!” she cried. “But that’s impossible. You must have made some mistake. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“There was a young lady behind a counter at the paper, who gave me the form to fill out,” he said. “I put in your name and my name and little Teddy’s name and weight, and when we’d be home again and, you know, ready to see friends. I handed it back to her and she counted up the words and said, ‘How many insertions?’ I said twice a week for 14 years, and she gave me the bill. OK.?”

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

To read past Art Kumbalek essays, click here.