Da Doo Ron Dumb

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, about this summer solstice we had on the June 21, it’s a bad news/good news deal to me. Bad news: June 21 is the first—not the last—focking day of summer with way too many to follow, chock-packed with heat, stupidity, racket and bugs. Sucks. Good news: The days become shorter as they say, which means a couple, three more spins of the moon around the Earth and fall, with its more civilized seasonal sanity, will be upon us. And it can’t come soon enough, you betcha.

Anyways, my head’s a’ spinning and not in a good way, and it’s not all account of this puking Venusian hell-heat we’ve been served a heap of, lo, these days here in our Upper Midwest neck-of-the-woods.

It’s also on account that I’ve been watching and listening to these U.S House Select Committee hearings about the Jan. 6 lying-ass cuckoo-coup criminal construction so’s that Trumpel-thinskin could become our American overlord forever until the day he choked to the graveyard by taking too large a slobbering bite from his Big focking Mac. What the fock, we’ve got a shortage of country club prison cells for these anti-democracy Republican focksticks? “Lock him up,” I’d say, a phrase I’ve heard used in the past, or gender-wise, perhaps it should be “lock them up,” and the sooner the better, I kid you not.

And then there’s our Badgerland U. S. “senator,” “Da Doo Ron Dumb” Ron Johnson, that from out of his office a staffer was ready to slather the senator’s anti-democracy dick with a slate of fake electors to be given to Mike “The Fly” Pence for the Jan. 6, ’21 shebang. Sounds about right, bullshit electors from a bullshit senator, what the fock.

And so another U.S. Open golf ordeal has come and gone, and yeah, I had it on the TV last Sunday afternoon. Exciting? You bet, providing you’re the kind of a guy who can get a boner from listening to paint dry.

One thing you can say about those golfers though, you never much hear about them getting arrested for waving a gun around at 3 a.m. in the parking lot of some hotsy-totsy discotheque, nor do I read in the papers where any of these well-compensated duffers get pulled over for a routine traffic stop that culminates in the discovery of a crack pipe under the front seat and a 100 pounds of pot in the focking trunk. Cripes, I don’t even recall any of these hackers getting busted on a domestic abuse charge—the “charge du jour” for the professional athlete involved in one of the less gentile sports.

Although, I suppose if a golfer ever got mixed up in some kind of domestic case, it might go something like this:

So the cops get called to this condo and find some gal who’s holding a bloody 9-iron and standing over a lifeless guy. The detective asks the gal if that was her husband. The lady says, yeah, that’s my husband there on the floor.

Detective asks her if she hit him with the golf club. She starts sobbing away and ’fesses up that she nailed him with the club. “And how many times did you strike this man?” detective asks. Lady says, “I don’t know. Five, six, maybe seven times… but what the heck, just put me down for a five.” Ba-ding!

So yeah, Father’s Day, and I’m watching golf on TV ’cause I figured that maybe a nice way to honor all the dads amongst us would be to do something I’ve often heard they like to do. After fifteen-focking-minutes, five words popped into my head: “I am such an idiot.” Off went the TV, and for information and entertainment I cracked open my latest issue of Bendover magazine (yes, there still are magazines), what the fock.

The big feature was a historically pictorial spread called “The Tarts of the House of Hohenzollern.” I never knew the box camera had already been discovered by the 1700s. Plus they had an interesting scientific article about Father’s Day. Sometimes their research articles seem a little shaky, like the time they said that scientists had discovered a food that diminishes a woman’s sex drive by more than 90%. So I’m reading and reading, and it turns out the food is wedding cake, holy cow.

But in this issue, the article said that a bunch of scientists whipped out some newfangled research on the male line of this DNA stuff that led them to surmise, if not downright deduce, that all beings of human actually have the same one-kind-of father (or was it mother?) from ’round about 250,000 years ago, give or take a couple, three millenniums.

Imagine that. One dad, lots of kids. Me and you and Plato. Me and you and Marie focking Antoinette. Me and you and Fyodor Dostoevsky. Malcolm X. Pinky Lee. Peggy Lee. Lee Marvin. Marvin Gaye. Faye Throneberry. Fay Wray. Martha Raye. Martha Mitchell. Billy Mitchell. Billy Martin. Martin Heidegger. Dean Martin. Dean Wormer. Dizzy Dean. Daffy Dean. Muammar al-Qaddafi. Al Jolson. Prince Albert. Princess Grace. Gracie Allen. Allen Toussaint. Eva Marie-Saint. St. Guy of Pomposa. Guy de Maupassant. Buddy Guy. Buddy Hackett—all right, you get the picture.

You and me and everybody, past present and future, we’re all honest-to-gosh related. One big happy family, ain’a? And still people wonder why there’s war all the time all over the world? Give me a focking break. Like they say, you can pick your friends, you can pick your nose; but you can’t pick your relatives, so it looks like we’re stuck but good. Have a nice day.

The one thing that bugs me about Bendover is they got too many advertisements featuring some kind of semi-celebrity douche bag or knobshine—none of whom is me. HEYYY! I’m available anytime, anywhere to push your line of crap, so just call me. It’s time these big corporation companies and marketers start coming up with big dough to writers for endorsing their focking products. I dream of the day BiC Pen comes to ink some several 100 dollar exclusive endorsement deal contract—name, image and likeness, you betcha. I even got the magazine ad already played out in my mind. Picture the picture:

Caption: “Art Kumbalek, Newspaper Hack.” I’m sitting on a stool in some swanky cocktail lounge with two showgirls on each knee. Art’s saying, “Yeah gals, not only am I glad to see you but that is a BiC in my pocket. It’s the only pen I’d use to sign the check for the tab we’ve run up the last couple days. Fock, the check will bounce but you two, and my BiC, are coming back with me to my place.”

Or how ’bout Kraft Macaroni & Cheese (“Breakfast, lunch, dinner—I live on the stuff, America!” Or baloney: “Not only do I write it—I eat it, too. Get Real!”) And of course, any kind of liquor you got.

Which reminds me, during some research I stumbled across a headline from a story in The New York Times a while back: “Study shows some health benefits from alcohol.” What the fock, let’s say we go up to the Uptowner tavern/charm school and get healthy big-time, but you buy the first round ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.