Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? For starters, I’m having a hard time believing another month of March is upon us like your live-action news team on a flake of snow. The month that’s supposed to come on like a lion and go out like a lamb, or, show up like a lamb and then tear ass like a lion upon retreat; or is it go in like a lamb and come out like lamb chops? Fock if I can remember.
Anyways, you may perhaps rejoice to learn that I’m cutting this essay off at the knees this week on account of the Daylight Saving Time crock-of-clock sneaking up this weekend to steal an hour from me. And let me tell you, at my age I don’t have a spare hour to pony up with no guaranteed payback. If I go deader than a doornail before October, I’m screwed out of 60 minutes, Jack, and I’m not going to let that happen.
Yes sir, a portion of that lost hour was planned for whipping out a full-blown comprehensive essay and any time left over was to be devoted to finishing off the book-novel Finnegans Wake by the Irish guy what’s his-name. I started it some years ago but got sidetracked. I still got about a 600 pages to go, so please, no one tell me how it turns out, OK?
But before I go, I ought to mention I heard that our President Trumpel-thinskin fired off a couple, three pretty good jokes the other day at the Gridiron Club dinner the other day, what the fock—the Gridiron Club, you may recall, being the longtime D.C. outfit for media types and assorted hangers-on.
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So I put on my thinking cap and thought of two that the orange circus peanut could use the next time he gets an invite to chow down with the enemy, or perhaps to regale his fellow cellmates when he finally winds up where he belongs:
The police arrived and found a woman dead on her living room floor with a golf club next to her body. They asked the husband—who had just returned from a really truly wonderful outing at one of my fabulous Trump golf courses—“Is this your wife?”
And the husband says, “Yes, that’s her all right.” The cops asked the husband if he had killed her, and the husband says, “I believe that I did.” Then the cops say, “It looks like you struck her eight times with this 3-iron. Is that correct?” And the husband says, “That’s technically true, but how ’bout you put me down for a five.” Ba-ding!
Okey-dokey, abuse of women and cheating at golf. Our leader could sure deliver that story, ain’a?
And this one:
So I’m lying in bed with Melania and I say, “I am going to make you the happiest woman in the world.” And she says, “Oh, that’s nice. I’ll miss you.” Ba-ding!
And now, the big finish: When you slide out of bed come Sunday morning and you realize you’ve been heisted of an hour, please remember the words of Sir Groucho Marx: “Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas.” Focking-A, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
