Deliver the Letter, the Sooner the Better

×

Expand

Photo illustration by Melissa Johnston

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So, our “president,” Humpty-Dumbty Trumpel-thinskin, who, let’s not forget, lost the 2016 presidential popular vote by dang near 3 million ballots, thinks that absentee ballots are copacetic, but mail-in ballots suck ass, even though they are the same damn thing, what the fock. Yes, Mr. President, I get it. Cars are wonderful but automobiles are garbage; monkeys are swell but simians can go to hell; I like me some underwear but underpants stink. Hey, I’ll tell you what’s apples to orange circus peanuts: A president of the United States and Donald J. Trump. Come November 2, it’s got to be heave-ho, mateys, the US Democracy needs this nitwit shoved overboard, you betcha.

Anyways, time to turn to some correspondence I’ve received of late whilst the “president” still deigns to allow such a thing as correspondence. Got a message from my friend, German Joe from over there in the Vaterland, expressing disappointment that he cannot come to Our Town so’s to assist his Milwaukee daughter in moving to a new place of residence. Now that’s what I call a good father, ain’a? As for me, I’ve always found that an excuse to avoid assistance with a move to be one of the sweet pleasures in this life. Moving, be it one’s own or lending a hand for someone else’s, is a circle of hell that somehow Dante focking forget to mention. I plan and pray that my next, and last, move will be to the crematorium—no stuff to schlep but me, relatively light lifting there for those who’d care to be involved, what the fock.

And think just how tough moving must’ve been way back in the really olden days years ago before the hand-truck was discovered, and whole groups of people would decide to pick up and move all their stuff thousands and hundreds of miles to countries that didn’t even have names yet, so that once you got there you didn’t even know where the heck you were, ain’a?

Think of those people 30-50,000 years ago who moved from Siberia across that land bridge up over there by the Bering Strait you know, then decide to trudge all the way down to your South America—on focking foot, to boot! Jeez louise, can you imagine if you hired movers, even just for the heavy stuff, for a distance like that, what that would’ve run you per the hour? Siberia to South America is not exactly next door. And cripes, with all the mountains involved—that’s a hell of a lot of up-and-down. I figure you’d have to pay those movers at least double-time for that. But hey, compared to Siberia, once you finally got to Rio, even undeveloped as it must’ve been back then, you’d still say it was worth every focking penny, I kid you not.

Now, imagine this: You finally get there and the wife’s unpacking to set up housekeeping, and she says, “Hon? Do you remember which sack you packed the dung serving dish my mother gave us when we got married?” Yeah, you remember all right. You remember that you forgot it back at the old yurt now about fifty-focking-thousand miles away and if you don’t walk back and get that goddamn dish, you will never have another moment’s peace the rest of your livelong life, which, granted, was probably about a day and a focking half compared to the modern times, but still, who needs the aggravation, ain’a?

And I received a nice card from my pal, “Free State” El Jefe over by the Maryland there, who refreshed my memory of the exotic allure of Hayward, Wis., while clarifying that it was Andy Warhol who said, “Art is anything you can get away with.” Amen. The Jefe’s card also reminded me to inform one and all that campaign donations to Art Kumbalek are welcome and most appreciated, what the fock.

I also got a letter from someone apparently under the impression that I’m some kind of advice columnist. It read as follows:

Recently, my wife and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary privately, at home with a couple bottles of champagne. We were feeling quite intimate and so I asked her if she had ever been unfaithful to me. She said she had been unfaithful on only three occasions. At first, I was quite upset. But I calmed down and realized that three times in 25 years wasn’t the worse thing in the world, so to increase our intimacy and trust I asked her about them. She said, “The first time was just after we married and you needed the open heart surgery. Since we didn’t have the money, I slept with the surgeon so he’d operate for free and we could use the money for a down-payment on our first home.” I thought that was quite noble and self-sacrificing of her, and asked about the second time. “Remember that VP of Sales promotion you wanted?” she asked. “Well, I went to bed with the company president so he’d think about you for the job.” Now I actually felt grateful to her for that, so I asked her about the third, and last time, she had been unfaithful. “Remember last month when you wanted to be president of the golf club but were short 53 votes?” Is there any reason for concern on my part?

And if I were an advice columnist, my advice would read as follows:

You got to be jerking my beefaroni. Fock if I know. But if you think you really need an answer from me, I’ll need to speak to your wife first.

And my advice to the rest of you’s is this: September’s almost here so ask for your ballot soon and mail that demagogue-destroyer back early ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

To read more Art Kumbalek essays, click here.