Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So, here we be at that time of year for my annual much-ballyhooed Look Back/Watch Out Ahead gala essay, the one where I whip out my crystal balls (I always use two to beef up the accuracy) and soothsay the hell out of the approaching shitstorm that will go down in the history books as the year A.D. 2013, what the fock.
But the olden last year? Abso-focking-lutely Job-like for yours truly, I kid you not. You remember Job, don’t you? Yeah, the poor schnook out of the Bible who really took the shaft up the dupa sideways on account of this bet the Lord and Satan cooked-up to test Job’s faithfulness, and by “shaft” I mean he loses all his dough, his kids die and he comes down with a bad case of boils all over his biblical body—ouch! you bet. Job got a tad PO’ed, which caused the Lord to speak to Job and really chew him a new one. Which reminds me of a little story about hearing voices:
So there’s this guy who lives in Ala-focking-bama. One morning, he hears a voice in his head. The voice says, “Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.” He ignores the voice. Later in the day, he hears the voice again. “Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.” Again, he ignores the voice. Soon he hears the voice every minute of the day: “Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.”
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The guy can’t take it anymore. He believes the voice. He quits his job, sells his house, takes all his money, and flies to Vegas. As soon as he steps off the plane, the voice says, “Go to Caesar’s Palace.” He goes to Caesar’s Palace. The voice says, “Make your way to the roulette table.” He goes to the roulette table. The voice says, “Put all your money on RED 23.” He puts all his money on RED 23. The dealer spins the wheel. It comes up BLACK 17. The voice says, “Damn.” Ba-ding!)
And speaketh-ing of the Bible, now that we’re actually getting a little goddamn snow ’round these parts, I pray that none of our TV weather rocket-scientists suffer a case of boneheaded-ness this winter and refer to either a cold spell or snow job as being of “biblical proportions,” because that would be a load of crap and I’ll tell you why.
The people who first made up the Bible wouldn’t have known “cold” if it came up and took a big honking bite right out of their beatific butts, I kid you not. And give me a break, you ever hear of Jesus shoveling snow? You ever hear of Him telling his focking flock to wear a hat ’cause you lose 90% of your body heat out the topsides of your dome, so it is written? Hey, they were located all in a kind-of desert. They knew about as much from the snow and cold as they did about the Earth being round. I rest my case.
Anyways, we got a goofy deadline at this paper what with the so-called holidays. I got to file this load of palaver some days before the Eve’s bacchanal, but by the time you’s take a gander we’ll all be launched into the Dirty Baker’s Dozen new year. And so I pray that you have not been a fool’s fool and made a declaration of any of those facacta New Year’s resolutions. As I am obligated to mention each and every year: Resolutions are for quitters, and quitters never win. So don’t be a loser. Screw all those New Year’s resolutions and be a winner, capiche?
OK, in regard to the theme of this essay, remember that pithiness is the soul of brevity; so here it is for you to pith on:
The Year 2012: Sucked, but good.
Watch Out Ahead, 2013: Will suck, even more. Hard to believe, ain’a?
Yeah yeah, you’s have a happy new year—hey, at my age I still like to think anything’s possible, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
