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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, Attention!

Given the recent schmutz regarding a big-time change to Badgerland’s political landscape, I must announce that I’m mulling an announcement that would announce my intention to announce my candidacy so’s to be your next governor of this state that’s now 177-years-old, come 2026, what the fock.

Yes, you betcha, I would be honored to add my name to the list of our governators that includes Arthur MacArthur, William Dempster Hoard, Cadwaller Colden Washburn and Albert G. Schmedeman.

So why should you vote to add Art Kumbalek to the august list above—if you were to vote at all, you lazy ass motherfockers?

Thanks for asking, so I’ll tell you why.

I could really, really use the gig. For starters, Wisconsin’s top dog pulls down $165,568 each and every year in office. To me, that kind of chunk of change would be like winning some kind of lottery, and could greatly begin to chip away at the unopened medical billage I’ve got piling upon the northside corner of my dinky kitchen table.

Secondly, I wouldn’t mind residing in Mad-Town for awhile, which surveys say is a top spot to reside.

Cripes, the last time I did many years ago as a young man, I got tear/peppered gassed by our National Guard/police for a free speech infraction. Thank you for your service in protecting free speech; not.

But as your next governor, I’d be on top of border security ’cause I hear that’s a hot topic amongst the hoi polloi, you betcha.

A money-making tariff idea off the top of my head:

Any Fib Flatlanders traveling north from the Land of Lincoln (hey, just so you’s know, Abe was born in Kentucky, duhh!) to attend a ballgame ’tweenst the Brewers and suck-ass Cubs at American Family Field will need to fork over at least a hundred bucks for legal passage to cross the border into America’s Dairyland

And up there in the northwest, all Minnesotans, what with their hoity-toity bullshit ways, will be tariffed to the tune of $10,000 dollars for even thinking of crossing the border into Cheeseland up around River Falls and where-not.

“Land of 10,000 Lakes,” my aching hinder. According to my research, Badgerland is home to more than 15,000. Suck it, Gophers.

So, if I’m to be our fair state’s next governor, I ought to haul my sorry ass out onto the campaign trail.

First stop I figure: The Wisconsin State Fair, kicking off on the Thursday, July over there by “Wes Stallis” (“Gateway to West Milwaukee”).

Yes sir, there amongst the fairgoers full of hoopla, I shall gladhand whilst rifling pocketbooks for campaign donations and a couple, three bucks extra so’s to afford a poor man’s purchase of something fried served on a stick, what the fock.

Yeah yeah, me and my aging buddies, who form my campaign brain trust, love the Fair, all the way back to when Ike Eisenhower ran the White House in a respectfully patriotic fashion and we believed snot to be a snack food.

You betcha, love the Fair, we do, will do, always, forever. And it seems every year, after healthfully chowing down on all kind of fried matter served whichever way on a paper something, me and the guys gravitate to the Midway, where the amusement rides are guaranteed to be well-maintained and operated by the finest staff of tattooed, toothless safety experts this side of a halfway house for Nazi bikers from hell.

No sir, just can’t beat those games of skill the Midway offers, I kid you not—where the 120-pound guy of short stature wearing the frayed, used-to-be-green tank-top blows $50 focking bucks in the attempt to topple the tripod of bottom-weighted faux milk jugs, so’s to win the buck two-eighty stuffed Garfield/Snoopy inflatable for his abundantly zaftig lady friend.

These are my people. My base.

Of course, as tradition would have, there is the clairvoyant sharpster who attempts to guess your age and/or weight for a small stipend; your reward for his failure being a cracked Whiffle ball or listless goldfish. (Personally, I more admire the guy at Polish Fest who attempts to ascertain the number of consecutive consonants in your surname.)

Me and my gang like to play our own game of skill, which is to guess which carny/associate technician appears to be the responsible party for the most bodies buried in shallow graves to be found in remote locations above and below the Mason-Dixon Line, east to west, north to south. Don’t forget, nearly all these crackerjacks spend the off-season in Florida, which just happens to be Spanish for “serial killer” by-the-by, so what the fock, ain’a?

Anyways, I got to go to start hammering together some kind of campaign platform along with a snappy slogan.

So far, what I’ve got is this:

Go Brewers! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.