Charge of the Blight Brigade

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear that weatherwise it is now to be spring, the season of which English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson, back in 1842, wrote this: Snake Plissken.

Oops!

(Hold on a sec, seems my copy & paste deal is a tad laggard. Let’s try this again.)

I hear that weatherwise it is now to be spring, the season of which English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson, back in 18-focking-42, wrote this: In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

Tra-la-la-la-la.

But if I, Sir Arthur Kumbalek, 2025, were to rephrase that famous sentiment from 183 years ago, how ’bout this: In the spring or whatever season you got, a dude’s raison dêtre is to pound his rock’s off as often as possible 24/7, I kid you not.

Which reminds me of a little story:

Cubby Bear emerges from his cave. His knees wobble. He’s a wreck of skin and bones, large circles under his eyes. Mama Bear says, “Junior, what’s wrong! Did you hibernate all winter like I told you to?” Cubby says, “Hibernate? Dang it, Ma! I thought you said masturbate!” Ba-ding!

Yeah yeah. Mid-April already. Got your taxes done and filed?

I’ll tell you’s, fock taxes. Being a guy who over the many years has discovered that he’s barely got a pot to pee in, me and taxes don’t go so well together.

And why should I pay “income” tax anyways? I already gave, each and every day of the year. What I cough up on the so-called “sin” taxes for mental health products like Old Crow and Pall Malls has just got to be more than any two rich Republican knobshines pay on income their entire focking lives, I kid you not.

I will maintain to my dying day (date not so to be determined) that the government ought to do their fundraising like National Public Radio and have pledge drives. The people decide how much dough they want to chip in to keep the three guv branches fit, and if it’s a nice enough amount they’ll send you something in the mail, like a tote bag for your tote, an Uncle Sam T-shirt, a James K. Polk coffee mug and maybe a CD boxed set of the U.S. Navy Marching Band from Sousapalooza ’95, what the fock.

I remember a conversation that me, as a perennial political candidate, had with my campaign brain the other day over by the Uptowner Tavern/Charm school. Here’s a snippet:

Emil: I don’t remember from school, does it say anything about income taxes in the Constitution?

Herbie: The U.S. Constitution in the modern day is a bone ready to be picked. We got some nutbags who say our country can only be about what’s mentioned in it. And there’s nothing in the Constitution about how focking drunk I can, or cannot be, to drive a car. They don’t even mention cars at all in the goddamn document; so tell me how shortsighted was that?

Ray: Yeah, and they call them the “founding” fathers, and yet what did they find about space travel, TV, or computer stuff? Fock the Constitution. This is America. We ought to be able to do whatever we want, when we want, as long as all the super-rich guys keep getting tax cuts. I figure the more money the rich guys have, maybe the more likely some of us poor peons might get a mention in their will. Yeah, call it a dream, but it’s American, you bet.

Emil: Maybe if we had more stuff about Jesus in the Constitution things would be better, ain’a? And they could put some stories in it to make it more interesting so more people would read it. Put the story of Nimrod and his ark in the Constitution, just like I hear some schools will have stories like that in their textbooks now for the science, what the fock.

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.

Art: Hey gents, what do you hear, what do you know.

Julius: I know that when I went to vote the other week, I didn’t see your name anywheres on the ballot for the Wisconsin Supreme Court.

Art: And that was a problem, don’t I know it—plus I did not get the same kind of media exposure like the other guy and gal did. Seems the only way I’d get some campaign face-time on TV was to be arrested for something and show up in one of their ads.

Ernie: I’ll tell you’s, Artie, loitering, jaywalking or stealing a bike won’t cut it. And you can’t get arrested for drunk driving three-times-over-the-limit ’cause you don’t have a car. Misdemeanor battery? Yeah, like you’re ever going to get in the first punch on anybody, I don’t care who they are.

Little Jimmy Iodine: That’s right, Ernie. Artie’s no criminal I’d like to think; he’s a victim—like maybe each and every one of us: “A victim of circumstances.”

Herbie: I got a tax plan for you, Artie. You say “no taxes no more ever again.” That’s what they like to hear. Tell the people that, hey, it’s your goddamn dough not the government’s, ain’a? Fock ’em. But in the future, when you got a problem with your street, go buy your own jackhammer and bucket of road tar so’s you can fix it yourself smart-ass, ’cause after all it’s your street, your cul-de-focking-sac, your sidewalk, not the government’s, and don’t you focking forget it.

But before I go, what with the Passover and Easter family get-togethers that may be on your docket, here’s a little story you might want to bring and share:

So a priest and a rabbi are seatmates flying the friendly skies. The priest opens the conversation by saying, “I know that in your religion, you are not supposed to eat pork, but have you ever tasted it?” And the rabbi says, “I must tell you the truth. Yes I have, on the odd occasion.”

It was now the rabbi’s turn. “Your religion, Father, I know that you are to be celibate, but...” Interrupting, the priest said, “I know what you’re going to ask, Rabbi. Alas, I have succumbed, once or twice.” There was silence. And the rabbi said, “Better than pork, am I right?”

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