Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’ve got to send out a season’s greeting and jolly thank you to my friend, benefactor and reader El Jefe out there on the East Coast for shipping me a boatload of holiday cheer, which arrived at my humble door the other day. Yes sir, while Badgerland’s goofball senator, Ron Johnson, suggests using mouthwash to ward off the COVID, I prefer using what I call “liver-wash” to amend any and all ailments, past, present or future. Thanks again ’Jef, and all my very best to you and yours.
Anyways, as the late, great Alex Thien would say, here’s a newsy bit to start your day this holiday season, from Newsweek recently:
Two monkeys have been captured by authorities in India after they killed around 250 dogs in “revenge” attacks following the death of a baby monkey.
Here’s the entire story so’s to provide you with perhaps your first good goddamn “what the fock?” of the day:
newsweek.com/monkey-kill-dogs-puppies-revenge-india-captured-1660998
And speaking of dogs, I got an email from my buddy Ernie yesterday who had a question: “Hey Artie, the wife wants a new puppy for Christmas. I know they don’t sell them at your Best Buy or Old Navy. Any idea where I should go?”
Being the kind of guy who’s always willing to help a friend in need, I responded:
“You betcha I know where you should go, Ernie. How ’bout Divorce Court? Full disclosure: My scariest thought is whether or not animals get to go to heaven. For christ sakes, that’s all a guy needs is to spend his entire focking life busting his butt, finally gets puking sick, croaks, walks through the Pearly Gates and the first thing that happens is he steps right smack-dab into one heaping, heaving pile of dog-doo. Praise the lord.
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“And this is supposed to be for eternity ever-after? I’ll tell you’s, I want to be buried with a rolled-up newspaper so that when I’m shaking hands with St. Peter and some canine starts humping my leg, I can give it one good ol’ whack right across the goddamn snout.
“I pray they must go to the other place, ’cause spending a couple, three eternities in the company of household pets and assorted animals sure sounds like focking hell to me. Or at least that these creatures would have their own animal heaven where they could all go and sniff each other’s butts and leave mine alone. That I could live with ’cause when it comes to other species—your animal and insect societies to name two—you can call me a ‘speciest,’ but I firmly believe in a ‘separate, the hell with equal’ kind of arrangement. So Ern’, instead of a dog, how ’bout you get the wife some doilies and a new pair of house slippers? Merry focking Christmas.”
And speaking of willing to help, I’m guessing that some of you’s, even at this late date, still have some holiday shopping to do and you’re feeling like a tight focking rubber ball wrapped in panic. HEY! Relax. I’m here to tell you that once again I’ve flung the doors open to Art’s Ba-ding! Boutique for those of you’s struck dumb by your Christmas shopping monetary obligations.
For those who may have forgotten, let me remind you that ABB is the shop that answers this question: Why not give everyone on your goddamn last-minute list the gift of laughter ’cause it’s a gift that won’t cost you a focking dime? You can then use those savings on a big ol’ bottle of holiday cheer all for yourself and drown your seasonal depression like a bag of cats over the bridge.
My supply is a tad light this year, but I’ve still got a couple, three items that may interest you. Feel free to stroll around the rest of this page and choose whatever catches your eye.
A very spiritual and holy priest dies and is swept up to heaven. St. Peter greets him at the Pearly Gates, and says, “Hello Father, welcome to Heaven! You are very well known here, and as a special reward because you are such a devout man, we’re going to grant you anything you wish even before we enter the Kingdom. What can I grant you?”
And the priest says, “I am a great admirer of the Virgin Mother. I’ve always wanted to talk to her.” St. Pete nods his head to one side, and lo and behold who should approach the priest but the Virgin Mary!
The priest is overcome with joy and says, “Mother, I have always been a great admirer of yours and followed your life as best I could. I have studied everything I could about you—every painting and portrait ever made of you, and I’ve noticed without fail that you are portrayed bearing a wistful expression. Forever I’ve wondered what it was that made you seemingly so melancholy.” And Mother Mary says, “Honestly, I was really hoping for a girl.” Ba-ding!
Not quite right? OK, try this on:
This rich guy with a load of health insurance was having heart trouble so he goes to the doctors to see what his options are. Naturally, the doctor recommends a heart transplant. The patient reluctantly agrees, asking if there were any hearts immediately available since money’s no issue with him.
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Doctor says, “I’ve got three hearts. The first is from an 18-year old kid, non-smoker, athletic, swimmer with a great diet. Shark attack but the heart’s perfect. It’s $100,000. The second’s from a marathon runner, 25 years old, great condition, very strong. He got hit by a bus. It’s $150,000. The third is from a self-serving hypocritical liar whose job was to make his cronies rich. Costs $500,000.”
Patient says, “Hey, why’s that heart so expensive? Guy sounds like an asshole who lived a terrible life!”
“True, but it’s from a Republican member of Congress. It’s never been used.” Ba-ding!
Oops! Here’s one I almost forgot I still had in stock—let me blow the dust off. This one may be out of fashion these days, especially if you gave it on a company conference call. But at a holiday shindig after everybody’s had a couple, three hot focking toddies, I think you can make it work:
So this gal walks into the local dry cleaners. She places a garment on the counter and says, “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to pick up my dress.” The clerk, cupping his ear says, “Come again?” And the gal says, “No. This time it’s mayonnaise.” Ba-ding!
Okey-dokey, Santa’s on his way and it’s time to close up shop. Hope you found something you liked, you cheap bastards, and happy holidays to you’s ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
