Customarily On High

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Cripes, what a focking world, indeed. For starters, I just got off the phone with my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine who graciously informed me that not only was I not chosen as TIME magazine’s person/place/thing of the year, but that yet again “Art Kumbalek” failed even to make the cut for their “short list,” what the fock.

So yeah, you might imagine it’ll be a blue Christmas around the Kumbalek household, since my annual wish to be some kind of Person of the Year will once again not be granted (not to mention my wish that these goddamn scientists find a way to clone Marilyn Monroe and then send one to my doorstep pronto speedy delivery).

And there’s this, again: I understand that for many of you’s the holidays come by but once a year, but as I’ve said many times, many ways, everyday’s just another focking holiday to a guy like me, you betcha. Yes sir, you name the day, and it’s sure-as-hell bound to be some kind of a focking holiday for Mr. Art Kumbalek.

And just so you know, I’m not the type who feels the need to ignore the saintly saviour on my holiday-times-365, no sir. Not a one every-focking-day holiday passes that I do not entreat the Lord one way or another here and there, from “Jesus H. Christ, where the hell is the focking bus?” to when I’m shopping and must proclaim, “Jesus focking Christ, you got to be jerking my beefaroni. You want how much for that piece of crap?”

And yes, I have no ethical situation with regifting at this time of year, so there could be this: Just one more thing for this essay ’cause I know you’re all too busy to read this schmutz anyways, what with the hustle and bustle of the but-once-a-year holiday blah-blah: It’s about the music. The Christmas songs—especially the religious tunes for those who may wonder, and perhaps question, what God’s personal part/stake is in the topsy-turvy what-the-fock events of, lo, these days. I’d like to add a selection to the songlist.

It’s called “Elmer’s Tune,” from a turbulent year we call 1941. For me, I find it to be the most meaningful religious ditty I’ve ever heard, and that’s because I’d like to think God’s name—the one his pals call him—is Elmer. Got a nice, comfortable ring to it, ain’a? I like to call him Elmer because there were gods before “God” and, who knows, in another couple, three millennium, it might be back to a bunch of gods again; so I get confused by who’s-who, what the fock. Besides, as a name, “God” sucks. Always seemed cold, impersonal to me. But Elmer? All I know is that when I sing his tune, I feel a whole lot better and you will, too. Here’s the words. I’m sure you’ve heard the melody before but if you haven’t, look it up somewhere (like on the internet of the YouTube—The Andrews Sisters got a nice snappy rendition, I kid you not). OK, here we go, what’s say a nice, bouncy key of G, the people’s key:

Why are the stars always winkin’ and blinkin’ above?
What makes a fellow start thinkin’ of fallin’ in love?
It’s not the season, the reason is plain as the moon;
It’s just Elmer’s Tune.

What makes a lady of eighty go out on the loose?
Why does a gander meander in search of a goose?
What puts the kick in a chicken, the magic in June?
It’s just Elmer’s Tune.

Listen, listen,
there’s a lot you’re li’ble to be miss-in’;
Sing it, swing it,
any old way and any old time.

The hurdy gurdies, the birdies, the cop on the beat;
The candy maker, the banker, the man on the street;
The city charmer, the farmer, the man in the moon—
All sing Elmer’s Tune.

 

Yes sir, praise be to Elmer. All sing Elmer’s tune whether you like it or not. And don’t forget to enjoy some holiday fruitcake this year, the one so-called food for which the scientist has yet to determine an expiration date, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.