Bull and Arrows

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Art Kumbalek Valentine heart

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, right now, here in the middle of Valentine’s month, I’m hunkered down in the hermitage of my dinky apartment mixing up another hot-focking-toddy and cranking up the thermostat due to our Uranusian temperatures of late (wishful thinking, there’s no thermostat by me, just a couple, three radiators with a mind of their own, radiators that must have been delivered to the New World via the Mayflower, maybe even the Santa María, and somehow centuries later have found their way to be appointed to my dinky apartment, what the fock).

As I mix another hot-focking-toddy and imagine to crank the thermostat, I am listening to the live NPR’s broadcast of the kick-off of Trumpel-thinskin’s second impeachment trial over there in D.C. I was surprised that before the event began, I heard no overwrought singer torture one of the most worst musically national anthems on this planet—that being “The Star-Spangled Banner.” There were no flyovers by military aircraft over the U.S. Capitol before the beginning of the proceedings, I kid you not. Cripes, this is the second impeachment proceedings against a douchebag president and there is no flashy schmutz to introduce and surround the event so as to fascinate the TV viewers? I’ll tell you’s, next time we got an impeachment event, these news networks got to throw in some amusing advertisements like the Super Bowl does, like maybe a Panda bear decides to compose sexual overtures for the benefit of a Hollywood actress trollop’s ear ’cause some kind of rip-off insurance/investment company thought that would be cute—and effective.

So yeah yeah, the focking Republicans will argue that you can’t constitutionally nail a former president for high-shenanigans he might’ve whipped out when he was whipping out high-shenanigans when he was in office because now he’s no longer in the office, so what the fock. Brilliant? Hey, you tell me. And then I’ll tell you that you can bet a buck two-eighty that business-office embezzlers across our great land of purple-mountained majesties are mightily relieved by this Republican logic—“Listen flatfoot, maybe I lifted a $100 grand from Shpilkes & Sons and put it into my personal account, and maybe I didn’t. But you got nothing on me, ’cause I quit a week ago and don’t work there no more, see?”

And then I’ll tell you that since another Super Sunday has come and gone, the next holiday we got coming up the jock is this St. Valentine’s Day—the day for lovers, most of whom will soon be losers. Which reminds me that I’m heading towards 35 focking years of mulling the malarkey for you’s in this here Shepherd Express. You newcomers know me as the thought-invoking brain-inducing essayist whose words harmonize the tenor of our times, or something like that. But a lot of you’s don’t realize that I started at this rag as the Shepherd’s advice-to-the-lovelorn columnist. Don’t believe me? Then try this on for size, a blast from those glorious salad days of years past, perhaps some of you’s remember, and if you don’t, now you will:

Hey, Dickweed:

I’ve been having this problem of hearing voices in my head. For example, just the other night I’m in bed lying next to a certain female, and a voice inside my head says, “Relax... you’re not the first doctor to sleep with one of his patients.” But then a few minutes later, I hear another voice reminding me, “Robert, you’re a veterinarian for crying out loud.” Can you please make these voices stop?

—Doctor Doolittle

So listen up, pally. Hearing voices can be a bitch, I tell you, ’cause who the heck knows where that kind of nutbag stuff may lead, ain’a? In far, far too many cases of voice-hearing I’ve heard about over the years, seems one day some guy’s hearing voices, the next day he’s out carving up Cub Scouts, I kid you not. I’m no expert when it comes to hearing, but I got two words for you: Ear focking plugs. OK, maybe that’s three words, so sue me.

But Robert, before you get the earplugs please allow my voice to remind you that no matter what one’s profession may be, remember that one is allowed to have a personal life. From your letter, I can only assume that yours includes a sexual attraction to—perhaps even preference for—another species. In this conservative Christian voodoo age that can make a regular guy feel like he ought to get fried at the stake just for checking out the latest bra ad from JCPenney, I admire the courage inherent in the matter-of-fact manner in which you describe your problem—that is, you understand that your problem is not the fact that you’re boning a Doberman, or sheep, or even a goddamn chimpanzee for all I know, no sir that’s not your problem. Your problem is simply only with these voices you hear. Good.

Man oh manischewitz, I know that I for one don’t think I could take the raised eyebrows the New Puritans would give me if I showed up at a cocktail party or after-hours business function and my date was a focking barnyard animal. And you must remember this: If you ever begin to feel blue from any kind of harassment like that, I can only suggest patience.

Remember that medical science makes a bunch of breakthroughs every day, even as I speak. It may seem like only yesterday when, in fact, it wasn’t, that it seemed really unusual and focking weird that guys could go to Sweden and come back gals. So hey, stick to your peccadilloes Robert ’cause one day doctors will perfect the species-change operation and then Robert can be Rover and everybody’ll say big focking deal. Now roll over and play dead ’cause I got one more paragraph and it’s got nothing to do with you ’cause it’s for the normal people.

Speaking of Valentine’s Day, what with our current economic times I figure some of you’s may not be able to afford to give your sweetie a nice box of chocolates, a rose dozen, a diamond pendant. So, I suggest you give the gift of laughter. Here’s a little story you could gift, free for the taking, with love:

So this guy goes to the doctor ’cause he’s concerned about the lack of lead in his pencil that his wife’s been complaining about lately. Doctor gives him one of those turn-your-head-and-cough exams and says to the guy, “Well sir, I’ve been able to determine that your male member has but twenty-five erections left in it. I suggest you use them wisely.”

So the guy gets home and tells the wife what the doctor had to say. “Only twenty-five? Oh my. We better save them for special occasions, like anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine’s Day. Let’s make a list.” And the guy says, “Forget about it. I already made a list, and your name’s not on it.” Ba-ding-ding-ding!

And finally, as we march toward the future please remember that while most football fans ’round the country say “boo-hoo” at the conclusion of the Super Bowl signifying the end of the football season, in America’s Dairyland, we say “Go Pack!” yesterday, today and tomorrow, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.