Bread and Salty Tears

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, cripes almighty if people I know and loved, or just thankfully knew of, haven’t been dying left and right this past schmutz of time. And now Gilbert Gottfried at the age of a measly 67—yes, as has been said, “the comedian’s comedian.” And I say, he be the one the phrase “one of a kind” was coined for, what the fock.

And so as a nod from a nobody to Gilbert’s brilliant comedic raison d'être in regards to what-the-fock-does-“taste” mean, I offer a glimpse of me on a stage the other day instead of a website. It goes like this:

“So I got a call from some kind of talent agent. He said ‘Artie, I just got you booked for a three-nighter in Kyiv, Lviv and some kind of joint they call Marsupial, like they got kangaroos there? Anyways pally, could be a tough crowd. Bring a bicycle with you’s so you got transportation from the bomb shelter I got you resided at to the underground bunker beneath the children’s library where you’ll perform. Your material may not nail the sweet spot of the Ukrainian funny bone these days, but if your American ‘comedic stylings’ really suck and you die, I’m good to offer you a shallow unmarked grave—save you on transportation-cost home, OK? Up for the gig?”

Yes, Gilbert. Never too soon, ain’a?

And here, a Gilbert joke for you’s, a joke that’s been around the block for those who tell, and appreciate, flat-out jokes. I’ve used this story in the past—it often needs some good editing—but here’s Gilbert’s take, which I quote here with no doctoring:

An old Jew is taking a walk and sees a lamp, he picks up the lamp and rubs it, a genie pops out. The genie says “I'll grant you one wish.”

The old Jew reaches into his pocket and takes out a crumpled map and says, “You see this area, this is called the Middle East. There’s been nothing but war and bloodshed here for centuries. Can you do something.”

And the genie goes “Even with my power I can’t do anything about that area. Can I grant you another wish.”

So the old Jew says “I've been married for 40 years and my wife has never given me a blowjob. Could you get her to do that for me, just once.”

The genie goes “Can I look at that map again?” Ba-ding!

And there’s this:

“How come Raggedy Ann got banned from the toy chest? ’Cause she kept sitting on Pinocchio’s face, saying, ‘Lie to me, lie to me, damn it!’” Ba-ding!

And I wonder if Gilbert ever used a version of the somewhat aristocratic story that follows. But if he didn’t, I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty he dang well knew it:

So this guy’s in the check-out line at the supermarket when he notices that a really hot babe behind him has just raised her hand and smiled “Hello” to him. He’s a tad taken aback that such a gorgeous gal would be waving to him. Even though she looks vaguely familiar, he can’t place where he might know her from; so he asks her, “Sorry, do you know me?”

And she says, “I may be mistaken, but I thought you might be the father of one of my children.”

His mind races back to the one and only time he had been unfaithful. “Holy shit,” he says, “are you that stripper from my bachelor party that I screwed on the pool table in front of all the guys while your girlfriend whipped me with some wet celery and stuck a cucumber up my butt?”

“Ahh, no,” she says, “I’m your son’s English teacher.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I hear another Earth Day is about to come and go, and what with the ferkakta climate-change weather that’s been going on for at least a couple, three, 20, 50 years, you got to wonder how many more Earth trips around the calendar we may have left, what the fock.

As usual, I don’t do much celebrating of the day and don’t expect to in the future, if there is one. As I’ve said many times, until they make Earth Day the kind of official holiday for which you get a paid eight hours off from your crappy job so’s you can go visit relatives and drink their beer all afternoon, I won’t be putting on the party hat.

And on the local climate front, we had snow the day after Easter and now I hear we’ve got a day soon coming up forecasted to be more than 70-focking degrees, what the fock.

Indeed, “April is the cruellest month,” so said that poet from out of St. Louis, Eliot what-his-name. And I can only agree. It’s cruel in the way it leaves me abso-focking-lutely depressed on account of the joy that my fellow man and woman express with the shedding of their snowpants. Do they not realize that right after our week-to-10 days of springtime—

…breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

—that we, at least me, are smack-dab back into the Dante’s inferno hell of heat, humidity, stupidity, all kind of insects, and chowderheads with no school, no jobs, no shirts, doing their thing and disturbing my peace? I think not.

Anyways, I want to go on record as the first Badgerlander this year to say, “Focking fall can’t come soon enough.” I’ll say it again, what we got up ahead is nothing but heat, noise, bugs, heat, a couple, three metric tons of seagull crap delivered downward indiscriminately daily, and more heat. April’s not even over and already I got the summertime heebie-jeebies, thanks for nothing, what the fock.

Finally, speaking of “one of a kind,” I’m laid well-low by the news that beloved-by-all Pati, Top Bananas compatriot and friend, has departed this mortal coil for where the angels sing, where I’m sure she’ll be asked to sing lead what with that show-stopping inspiringly perfect voice of hers.

And so, dear “Dottie Peroutka,” I more than imagine we will “Face the Dorks” again someday together, but not too soon, please, the Democrats need every vote they can get for the time being what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.