In Depends Day

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? All right already, hey, don’t get your escalating undies all bollixed up in a bunket of tro’ for crying out loud. The answer is “yes,” abso-focking-lutely I am mulling my druthers for another presidential run. There, feel better?

Now, what do I have that the already denounced candidatial clowns do not? I’ll tell you’s: A nose for the concerns of Joe Blow Citizen and I give not the rat’s ass for which way the political winds do blow. So let me here take issue on a couple, three issues of our day, ’cause what the fock.

Environment and Health Care: I love the Earth. In fact, I’ve often said that as far as planets go, it’s right up there near the top of my list. Now, you should know that I’m not an outdoors kind of a guy. You won’t see any snapshots of me marching around with a shotgun through some focking farm field in search of the elusive quail. You ever see one of those goddamn birds? Cripes, looks like you’d have to bag a couple dozen of those little fockers just to make half a sandwich.

Anyways, I’d rather visit an un-credentialed dentist than spend an afternoon out in the focking woods somewheres. I mean there you are, wishing you wouldn’t have forgotten your cigarette lighter, and then after about 10 minutes it’s like, “OK, now what?” No sir, I’ve always found that a nice issue of National Geographic fulfills my outdoor needs quite satisfactorily and environmentally responsibly, thank you.

And let me also add that besides sheer boredom, I shun woods-stuff on account of a personal safety concern I file under “wildlife,” ’cause they don’t call them wild-life for nothing. There’s no telling what those four-footed fockers might do at any given moment since there’s no telling what they’re thinking ’cause what they’re thinking is nothing since they all got a brain the size of a dried walnut, and probably ridden with rabies to boot. Jeez louise, the only time I want to see wildlife is at the dinner table I got in my front room, right after said wildlife has logged a well-spent 30 to 45 minutes at about 350 degrees in the stove I’ve got in my kitchen.

But don’t let me be misunderstood. I understand the important role our animals have played in the medical research for solving diseases; so I guess there’s at least one reason the good lord’s made us have to share this planet with them.

And yes, I realize there’s a scatterbrained quotient to the human equation that believes experimenting upon our four-legged furry or hairy neighbors is not the correct answer to the question of “Why don’t a lot of focking diseases just go away all by themselves?” But let me tell you’s this: If the hypo and scalpel were in the other paw, any chimp in the world would be carving up you and me faster than you can say “J. Fred Muggs.”

Education: Our American system is what St. Peter the Fisherman would call “bass-ackwards.” As president, I would insist that none of your regular school-learning would commence before the age of 18, maybe 16—I’ll need further study on that. It’s come to my attention that a lot of these little kids are starting school at an age when they still pee their pantaloons as a semi-hourly regimen. You cannot be learning goodly if you’re sitting around the classroom wearing urine-soaked trousers or leotards, I don’t care who you are.

These little kids ought to just stay home, watch TV and play with some toys. When they get to be 9 or 10 and a little stronger and taller, they could then go to work in the service sector or light-industry. They’d be really good at putting computer stuff together ’cause those parts can be really gosh-darn dinky, just like their hands and fingers. They’d learn punctuality or they’d get shit-canned. And since they still lived at home, employers could pay them in candy, what the fock. Everybody wins.

Then, let’s say compulsory school at age 15-16, the age where under our present method, many would otherwise be entering the adult justice system. And we need more and better sex education, as evidenced by the following anecdote:

So this little kid walks into the kitchen where his Ma is cooking dinner and says, “The last couple of nights I woke up to this loud thumping coming out of your bedroom and when I peeked to see what it was, you were sitting on top of Pop and bouncing up and down. Why were you doing that?” And the kid’s Ma stammers and says, “Your Dad is a little bit overweight and I’m trying to get him back to his normal size. I bounce on him to get all the air out.”

The little kid shakes his head and says, “I think you’re wasting your time. When you go to work, the lady next door comes over and blows him back up!” Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.