The Bull’s I

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, right now I don’t have the time to whip out a big honking essay for you’s that’s going to match up with the goddamn deadline I’m supposed to cram up my dupa week-to-focking-week; so sue me.

Besides, I’m due for an Uptowner tavern/charm school dalliance, but since they’re not open yet, I’ll swing by my favorite open-24/7 G-Webb where a guy like me can get a jump-start on girding his loins in preparation for the day’s daily shit-storm to follow. Come along if you want but you leave the tip. Let’s get going.

Bea: Hey there Artie. What’s your pleasure?

Art: How ’bout a nice hunk of the blackest, thickest and cheapest cup of whatever you’re calling plain-old American coffee today—and by thick, Bea, I mean you don’t measure this coffee in fluid ounces, you measure in inches.

Bea: Can do, Artie. So what do you hear, what do you know. You got any Valentine’s plans coming up?

Art: Heck no, Bea. I’ve been trained to stay away from what-they-call the relationships. Used to be come the Valentine’s, I’d always give the gal the box of some kind of candy and a nice daffodil. But I guess maybe ’cause I always spent so much time in the dog-house, in return I’d get a new flea collar and a bath. Yeah yeah, I’m always reminded of the words of the great Greek philosopher from the olden days—Socrates, Anonymous, I forget which—when one day with his students, he was having one of his famous dialogues about the relationship between men and women. To hit the bull’s-eye with a point he wanted them to absorb, he asked of them a riddle, which was this: “What is the difference between a tornado, and an ex-wife?”

Bea: Lordy.

Art: Know the difference, Bea?

Bea: I do not, Artie. What’s the difference between a tornado and an ex-wife?

Art: None. They both get the house.

Bea: Does seem to be that way, Artie.

Art: Just goes to show you, Bea, that even thousands of years ago divorce was no cakewalk on the beach. But the difference is that in the day and age of the modern times, divorce is no more uncommon than the common cold. And times change quickly. For crying out loud when I was a kid, the word “divorce” was so scary that whenever you heard it, the first thing you had to do was put on clean underwear.

Bea: It can be scary, all right.

Art: But to the kids today, seems like parents getting the divorce is no big deal. It’s just another routine ritual of growing up, like First Communion, eighth-grade graduation, the first time you got to call your pop from the police station. How ’bout you carve me out another cup of that coffee there would you, Bea?

Bea: My pleasure, Artie.

Art: Trust, Bea. Trust. That’s what makes a relationship work.

Bea: That’s what I hear.

Art: Trust in your spouse as you would your doctor, Bea. But that’s easier said than done, like this couple I knew once. The guy hadn’t been feeling so hot for a while, so the wife takes him to see the doctor. Doctor examines the guy every which way and tells him he’s got a very serious condition of which he needs to speak to his wife about in private.

Bea: Oh dear.

Art: So the doctor says to the wife, “Your husband’s condition is so serious that he could die any day. However, there is one way you can save his life. For six months, you must cook three extremely well-balanced meals a day for him, vigilantly keep the house spotless from dust, and energetically and creatively cohabit the connubial nighttime boudoir—spiked heels and fishnet stockings a plus. And madam, if you perform these three tasks in full throttle, your husband will recover to lead a rich and full life.”

So the wife thanks the doctor and meets her hubby in the waiting room. Naturally, he wants to know what the doctor said. She takes a deep breath, looks deeply into his eyes and says, “The doctor said you’re going to die.”

Bea: Isn’t that something.

Art: And understanding each other’s needs is a big deal to boot, Bea. Like the philosopher Henny Youngman said: “My wife and I have the secret to making a marriage last. Two times a week we go to a nice restaurant, a little wine, good food. She goes Tuesdays; I go Fridays.” Ba-ding! Well, I got to run, so thanks for the coffee and for letting me bend your ear there, Bea—utiful. See you next time.

Bea: My pleasure, Artie. Always nice getting talked at by you. Take care.

(It’s off to the Uptowner. If I see you there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)