Court and Snark

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen…wait a second…allow me to freshen my cocktail here so’s I’m able to complete the task ahead. Thank you. Bourbon is something I have not given up for Lent, just so you know. Paying any attention to Republican bullshit, that I have kiboshed for the time being, what the fock.

So how’s my college tournament basketball bracket doing? Thanks for asking. I’ll tell you’s, I could’ve chosen Trump University to go up against the Electoral College in the national championship game and my goddamn bracket would be none worse for wear than it is right now, what the fock.

Anyways, from where I’m sitting here and now good lord, I see that the first day of spring has already come and gone. Focking swell. All it means to me is one step closer to summer’s hot and humid, sticky suck-ass insected weather that makes me feel like I’m living in some Fourth World sweatshop of a country instead of being an upper-Midwestern American. So spring, thanks for nothing.

Yes sir, March 20, one of only two days in the whole year when lightness and darkness slug it out to a standstill. A tie, a draw—what they call in the sportsworld “kissing your sister.” And in the olden, olden days when there were even more weird-ass religions afoot than there are today, this day was marked as one of a handful of rites those people had during the year where they’d take the day off to celebrate by slaughtering a barnyard animal or three as some kind of nutty sacrificial offering to the deities du jour.

Now, I’m no religious expert but I’m telling you, just imagine if those wacky ancestors were on to something, that maybe they knew something we don’t know or have forgotten—that hacking up a perfectly good goat or cow on the first day of spring actually did buy you a couple extra days of sunshine during the year or relieve your toothache or provide some other kind of beneficial good.

Come to think of it, maybe my NCAA bracket would be more successful, perhaps even perfect, if before filling it out I had first sacrificed a couple, three goats over by Cathedral Square Park. After all, college basketball is like a religion to some, so what the fock. March madness, indeed.

But here we be, smack-dab into the confirmation hearing for a Supreme Court justice nominee held by the officially named Senate Committee on the Judiciary—yeah, I know, the spelling of “Committee,” what the fock, two “m’s,” two “t’s,” two “ee’s.” Hey, whatever happened to the second “c,” ain’a? Don’t look right to me, and I’m a guy who prides himself on judicious spelling, what the fock.

But some of this half-assed tendentious grilling of Uncle Joe’s nominee—the skilled, experienced and fan-focking-tabulous Ketanji Brown Jackson—to be a member of the so-called “Supreme” Court. Hey, give it up. She’s got the goods, so let her in. I mean, really, court members Samuel Alito and Clarence Thomas? Give me a focking break. Those two douchebags would serve the country better if they were supremely working the register at a Wendy’s somewhere or bringing back the carts from the parking lot to a more accessible location over there at your focking Walmart, I kid you not.

As you know, in the past I’ve thought about tossing my cap into the ring for election to America’s Dairyland state Supreme Court. But now I’m thinking why would I choose to serve only Badgerland as a state Supreme Court justice for about $176-grand a year when maybe I could serve the nation as a U.S. Supreme Court justice for about $268-grand each and every year for the rest of my life? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that it’s in the realm of possibility that Joe Biden could get another shot at filling up a hole on our country’s high court before he heads off into the Delaware twilight whenever that may be, and my right hand is raised.

But regardless, when that time comes that any president seeks an appointee to the S.C., I hope he or she recalls that I was nominated for Milwaukee County reserve juror duty the other year. I never did get called, but I’m thinking that my willingness to serve, so as to dispense some hardline justice at the drop of a hat will have caught that president’s eye.

(Sidebar: You know, you don’t have to be lawyer to be on the U.S. Supreme Court. And even if you were, let me ask you this: What do you call a lawyer who doesn’t know the law? A judge. Ba-ding!)

As a service to our country, number one on my agenda as a justice would be to seek a way to remove all members of the Republican Party from political office. My judicial philosophy would be “Constitution, Schmonstitution!” The same philosophy a bunch of Supreme Court justices used to put George W. Bush’s bumbling lying ass in the White House a while back.

And speaking of lawyers, I’m reminded of a little story:

The madam opened the brothel door and an elderly man asked to see Nadine. The madam said, “Sir, Nadine is one of our most expensive ladies, perhaps someone else...” But the man interrupted and insisted to see Nadine, who happened to appear and announce to the old man that she charges $1,000 per visit. The man immediately reached into his pocket and handed her 10 $100 bills. The two went up to a room for an hour, after which the man calmly left.

The next night, he appeared again, demanding to see Nadine. Nadine said that no one had ever come back two nights in a row and that there were no discounts—it was still $1,000 a visit. Again, the elderly man took out the money, the two went up to the room, and an hour later he left.

Of course, he showed up a third consecutive night. He handed Nadine the money, and up to the room they went. At the end of the hour, Nadine was curious: “No one has ever used my services three nights in a row. May I ask where you are from?” “Kalamazoo,” the man said. Nadine said, “Really? I have family there.” And the man said, “I know. Your father died, and I’m your sister’s attorney. She asked me to give $3,000 to you.”

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