I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I heard a story on the radio the other day, could’ve been on NPR (god bless ’em) about loads of savvy savers here in the land of purple majestied spacious skies who are buying and raising chickens so’s to provide the eggs they need at a more economic price for their morning omelet with shredded ham before they leave for their essential job which Elon Musk and his gang has already flushed down Trumpel-thinskin’s golden toilet.
And so I’m reminded of a little story:
Farmer Alfalfa buys a rooster to service his 200 hens. He gets the rooster into the barnyard and whispers, “Randy, I want you to pace yourself now. You’ve got a lot of chickens to impregnate here, and you cost me a lot of money. Go for it, but please take your time.”
(Must’ve been a gol’ darn multi-lingual cock to understand English since roosters hail from southeast Asia somewheres, ain’a?)
Farmer Alfalfa escorts Randy to the henhouse and the rooster takes off like a hunk, a hunk of burning love.
WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU MA’AM. Randy nails every hen in the henhouse, a couple, three times to make sure. Randy exits and sees a flock of geese down by the lake. WHAM! He nails all the geese. Randy runs to the pigpen, the cow pasture—soon, every single animal on the farm has been reproductively serviced.
Farmer Alfalfa is distraught, worried not only that Mrs. Alfalfa is due back from church service and may be next on Randy’s itinerary, but that the costly rooster won’t even last the day from the effort.
Stay on top of the news of the day
Subscribe to our free, daily e-newsletter to get Milwaukee's latest local news, restaurants, music, arts and entertainment and events delivered right to your inbox every weekday, plus a bonus Week in Review email on Saturdays.
Sure enough, Farmer Alf arises the next morning to find Randy laid out flat on his back in the middle of the yard, buzzards circling overhead.
Alf shakes his head and says, “Cripes, Randy, I told you to pace yourself.”
Randy opens one eye, winks, and nods towards the sky, “Shut up, redneck, they’re getting closer.” Ba-ding!
Anyways, briefly referred to in the amusing story above, chickens and roosters are not native to the sea-to-shining-sea now referred to as America. They arrived here from some other part of the world. I’ve done my research. So how ’bout this tidbit:
…chickens are not native to the United States. They were introduced to the Americas, likely by European explorers in the 15th century…
Or:
New DNA analysis shows that Polynesians introduced chickens to South America well before Christopher Columbus first set foot in the New World.
Cite my sources? Abso-focking-lutely: The Internet, ’natch.
So now we’ve got 522.58 million chickens (2023 statistic, I’ve done my research) who have infiltrated our country for hundreds of years spreading this-and-that flu and non-Biblical sexual engagement whilst finding work in the oven or on a griddle just so we can have a fast-food joint down the block? Talk about an invasion of foreign fowl, and Trumpty-Dumbty can’t do anything about this invasion? What the fock.
Goddamn it, hold on. I got a call ringing on the land-line and I’m hoping it’s from my “health care” provider telling me I don’t owe the ton like they said. Be right back.
“Hey, Artie. You busy?”
Cripes, it’s my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine, I better take this.
“Hey Jimmy, if by busy you mean I’m slapping together a brain-busting essay to go around the world for the sake of truth, justice and the former American way?”
“Sorry to interrupt. But I got to tell you’s, I got my undies in a bundle about this ferkakta U.S Immigration and Customs Enforcement gang.”
“What’s to worry for you, Jimmy? You’re not a so-called immigrant.”
“But my grandparents were, Artie. And this “Customs” deal? Custom? What the fock does that mean? I have a custom of putting three ice cubes in my early afternoon waker-upper tub of bourbon and tap water. I have a custom of switching on the closed-captions for the TV shows I’ll fall asleep to in the early evening. Could they come and deport me for that?”
“I’ll tell you’s, Jimmy, I have a custom of always voting Democrat and never approaching anywhere close to FOCKS News on my channel guide. These days, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything. Keep a suitcase packed is what I’ll tell you and anybody. Gotta go.”
OK, one more thing. Speaking of impregnating (see: above), there’s been a lot of gab from a lot of honcho Republicans about how the USA! USA! USA! needs to increase the birth rate so as to remain competitive with the Ethiopas of the world or somewheres, what the fock.
And so I was reminded of a Time Magazine article about a breast-feeding brouhaha in the modern age a handful of years back. And so this about that: Noted expert Sir Rodney Dangerfield once said, “I was such an ugly baby. My mother never breast-fed me. She told me she only liked me as a friend.” Ba-ding!
|
|
Yeah yeah, I should get serious for a moment, about the nurturing of our future American species. And so I consulted this world-wide Internet, again, for tips you future moms out there perhaps unsure of exactly when the breast-feeding ought to be nipped at the nozzle; unsure because, really, who can afford to go to the goddamn doctor these days even if you’ve got some kind of focking health insurance unless you’re a member of Congress?
In my research, I found a couple, three indications that it may be time to pack up your breast in your ol’ tit bag:
- The kid can now open your blouse by himself.
- He’s slipping dollar bills in your belt during the feeding.
- He’s developed a habit of flicking his tongue.
- Beard abrasions on the boobs.
- After each session, you both have a smoke.
Anyways, I got to go so’s I can hone my annual commencement address to our newest batch o’ graduates who’ve been painstakingly educated to the point they couldn’t find their butt on a map even if they were focking sitting on it. America: We’re Number One! Want some fries with that?
