Burnt Weenie Wrap

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as I wrestle if not struggle with the worrisome notion if not off-putting fact that I am now older than a focking pope for christ sakes, my message to you’s and around the world: Good lord, what the fock.

And I’ll also say that I pray the Vatican has better health care than they seem to have in Washington, D.C. Yeah yeah, I hear that our former President Joe (“where am I?”) Biden has come down with a big-time case of the prostate cancer. Never a good thing, just ask Frank Zappa, or me.

What the fock, I had the prostate Big C some years ago. All the schmutz involved with the procedures this-and-that cost a pretty focking penny even with some bullshit “health care” coverage that has led me to the pauperage I wander through each and every day.

And Uncle Joe had no early warning of such a schmutz? A millionaire politician? I can only imagine that Joe’s White House GP was Rodney Dangerfield’s (“get no respect,” like Joe, ain’a) Dr. Vinny Boombotz, famous for this diagnosis:

Dr. Vinny: I’ve got good news and bad news.

Patient: The good news?

Dr. Vinny: You’ve got 24 hours to live, maybe more if you’re behind on your payment.

Patient: Cripes, if that’s good news, what’s the bad?

Dr. Vinny: I forgot to call you yesterday. Ba-ding!

And:

A patient is in recovery after eye surgery. Dr. Vinny comes in and asks, “Would you like the good news or bad news first?” wouldn’t you know.

"Give me the good news,” the patient asks.

Dr. Vinny says, “You’re about to get a new dog.” Ba-ding!

And now, yours truly, got another Big C diagnosis I’m fending with. And yes, of course, I’m investing a couple, three bucks a day into the Powerball, Mega this-or-that and what-not, optimistically hoping to supplement my “health care” monthly boondoggle. Why? Because that’s the kind of guy I am, “consarn” it.

So how ’bout another little story upon the topic at hand:

A man not feeling well, goes to see Dr. Vinny Boombatz. Dr. Vinny examines, and then asks to speak with his wife. Dr. Vinny tells his wife that her husband has cancer. The wife asks “Can he be cured?”. Dr. Vinny says, “Perhaps with chemotherapy and what-not, but you will need to take care of him every day for the next year: cooking all the meals, cleaning up his vomit etc., changing the bed pan, driving him to the hospital for daily treatments, and so on”.

The wife comes out to the waiting room, the husband asks her what the doctor said.

The wife says, “He said that you’re going to die.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I got to go, as I search for the key to happiness that I seem to have misplaced somewheres, which reminds of yet another little story:

In the days of old when knights were bold, this one particular knight was soon to leave his castle so as to pursue a lengthy crusade out-and-about. Before his departure, he called for one of his squires and said, “Trusty squire, I am leaving so as to pursue a lengthy crusade out-and-about. And so I hand you this, the key to my abso-focking-lutely beautiful wife’s chastity belt. Protect this key with your life. If in 10 years, and no less, I have not returned, you may use this key to unlock that belt. So I say farewell, my most loyal squire.”

And so the crusading knight sets out on the dusty road that leads from the castle, armored from head to toe. He turns to take one last look at the castle and in the distance sees one of his squires crossing the drawbridge, shouting and racing toward him. The knight awaits the approaching squire who breathlessly calls out, “Oh sire, thank goodness I was able to catch you. You gave us the wrong key.” Ba-ding!

And in conclusion, allow me to remind you’s it’s that time of year again that finds me pounding the pavement trying to get one of these commencement speaker gigs, what the fock.

So anybody who’s got a bunch of graduates who need speaking to—be they of University; College; High, Tech, Trade, or Matchbook School; Middle School; Academy Charter Institute of Some Learning for Young People; Grade School; Prison Substance-Abuse Good-Neighbor Sanity Program for Early Release; Pre-School; Nursery School; Daycare Center Who Employs a Bus Driver Who Can Conduct a Head-Count—I’m your gasbag. You pony up fifty bucks with a case of ice-cold bottled beer, and I’ll be there, I kid you not.

And even if you already got a mouthpiece for your ceremonial shindig, perhaps you could send fifty bucks my way anyways as a gratuity for my generous offer to you. What with the fabulously administered healthcare system we have in this country, I’ve got medical bills up the jock and back and could abso-focking-lutely put to bureaucratic usage the donation of a Franklin or three.

Thank you for your kind attention, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.