Critical Gun Theory

×

Expand

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, just as soon as I mix another hot focking toddy and crank up the thermostat, I’d like to once again borrow from the late, great Alex Thien of the former Milwaukee Sentinel, and present a newsy bit to start your day, this headline from January 24 that I noticed on salon.com, what the fock:

Wisconsin Republicans pass bill allowing some high school students to bring a gun to campus

And here’s the link to the article for you’s, god willin’ it works, like I’m some kind of IT savant:

salon.com/2022/01/24/wisconsin-pass-bill-allowing-some-high-school-students-to-bring-a-to-campus

Focking swell. I guess the next step will be to change the Badger State’s motto from “Forward” to “Duck!!!” Ba-ding!

Good lord, our scholastic young Einsteins being allowed to pack a concealed piece within the halls and classrooms of our secondary institutes of reading, writing and ’rithmetic. Cripes, I pity the school culinary cafeteria cook/server who fails to put a satisfactorily number of pigs into the blanket so that the disgruntled gun-toting student feels obliged to shoot her hairnet clean off her middle-aged head because the scholastic teen is, well, dietetically disgruntled.

Anyways, I’ve got to cut the essay short this week since I’m due to get up over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the corner of Hysteric Center Street and Humboldt for what seems now to be an annual commiseration confab with my guys on account of another disappointedly premature denouement to a Green Bay Packers’ football season. Come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.

Julius: All I’m saying is that if Christian Yelich can throw a football, trade Aaron Rodgers to the Milwaukee Brewers for Yelich and then there’s no question about facing Rodgers in a Super Bowl.

Ray: Or, we could keep Mr. Immunity and still not worry about a Rodgers’ Super Bowl ’cause it just won’t happen, ain’a?

Emil: So the wife wants me to go out and get either a dog or a gun for the home security deterrence.

Herbie: Go for the gun, Emil. Low maintenance. Plus, you’re white and a focking idiot. I’m thinking the Republicans might even pay guys like you to have a gun.

Little Jimmy Iodine: And with a dog, when a stranger comes to the house, you don’t know if Fido might bark and scare the person off, or instead perform a quick crotch-sniff and go straight to the leg-humping welcome.

Ernie: I’d sure like to know who the first knucklehead was who had the focking stupid bright idea of taking an otherwise productive animal from out there in the wild and, instead, keep it in his hovel or yurt and call it a pet, where its job would be to do abso-focking-lutely nothing but chew the bejesus out of a squeakie.

Herbie: Anthropologistically, I’d say it would be some kind of king or liege lord suffering from the effects of too many generations of royal inbreeding and too much time on his hands.

Julius: Animals belong either in the woods or on a menu, but not in my living room going nuts trying to get at something that rolled or crawled under the sofa. Like Artie says, until the free enterprise system can put a house-pet on the market that can operate a microwave, flush a toilet and clean a handgun, you can forget about me having something with four legs in my apartment besides a coffee table or, perhaps, twin 21-year-old blonde pole dancers, what the fock.

Ray: And speaking of focking idiot…

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.

Art: Hey, gents. What do you hear, what do you know.

Ernie: I know the wife’s all upset since she thought she read on the internet that the astronomers have discovered that the stars have shifted alignment, and so everything you thought you knew about the science of astrology is bullshit.

Emil: You got to be jerking my beefaroni. Astrology is bullshit?

Ernie: All I know is that she thought she was a Virgo and now she’s Leo.

Herbie: It happens. Do we ever really know who we are? I knew a guy married to a nice gal named Lenore, cooked and cleaned to beat the band. She got a little bored with the domestic life, took a night course at a women’s college. Next thing you know, she cleaned out the bank account, took a trip to Sweden and when she returned, Lenore was now Leon.

Ray: So he’s married to a guy now?

Herbie: Yeah, but he says it’s no big deal. She likes football a lot more than she used to. And because they’re still married, sex remains a non-issue and there’s never, ever a domestic dispute about whether the goddamn toilet seat is up or down. They seem happy.

Little Jimmy: Cripes, our astronomers must be working overtime these days, not only with that big honking James Webb space telescope, but I heard the other week they discovered another new planet out there in space somewheres, and that this one might actually be able to have some life on it, maybe even like ours.

Julius: It’s about time. We all know that someday our sun is going to go kaput and we’re going to have to move somewhere else on another planet. So far we’ve only been to the moon—a place that looks just like Nevada minus the gambling and legalized prostitution. Who in their focking right mind would want to live there?

Herbie: OK. OK. OK. Let’s keep cool heads about moving to a new planet. Obviously, us Americans need to get their first and get things organized, especially if this new planet is just like Earth. Like, what are we going to do about the people in North Korea who try to survive on one bowl of porridge per year? If you don’t think they’re going to want to live in “New Las Vegas” and get in on those daily all-you-can-eat breakfast buffets for $4.95—think again.

(It’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)