Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, today’s the day of the week I’m supposed to fork over a block-blustering essay so’s they can get it printed by the deadline, but I just remembered we got an election for Milwaukee county sheriff coming back up like a bad burrito next year, and I haven’t even begun to figure if I aim to dip my beak into this race as a candidate for the people who have difficulty remembering the phone number for 911, what the fock.
So forget the essay ’cause I’ve called for a cocktail conclave of the brain trust I always rely upon to guide me in my grab for higher office; called it for over there by the Uptowner tavern/charm school at the wistfully historic corner of North Humboldt & Center, where the trust shall help me sift and winnow choices I need to make, especially whether I ought to first order a bloody focking mary or a bottle of Pabst with a Beam sidecar considering it’s yet nearly noon (although the chance of me getting a bloody mary at The Up are about the same as me going home with Lola focking Falana come closing time later). Hey, tag along if you’d like, but you buy the first round.
Herbie: No, I do not give a flying rat’s ass who’s in the focking Super Bowl, goddamn it. Those games ten-times-out-of-nine are the most butt-boring ones of the year. Call it the Stupor Bore—a game that goes so on and on and on that by the time it’s over, not only is your kid out of diapers but his voice has changed and his second divorce is almost final. The only thing that could be better than the sound of the final gun is if it’s also pointed at my aching forehead.
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Little Jimmy Iodine: I liked the commercial they showed in the game the other year that had the monkeys in it. I wish they would’ve said what the commercial was for. Maybe they did, but I don’t remember—except for the monkeys.
Julius: There’s science researchers out there who say the chimpan-focking-zees have 99 percent of all the same genetic genes that the human being does. Niney-nine percent, I shit you not.
Ray: That’s even closer to humans than the jackass Republicans in the state Legislature, ain’a?
Emil: You got to give those chimps a lot of credit. There’s nobody I’d rather have on my side in a cafeteria food fight than a chimp, I kid you not.
Ray: Speaking of jackasses…
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey gents, what do you hear, what do you know.
Ernie: I heard Easter’s early this year, and that some Italian atheist guy is taking a priest to court ’cause the guy says the priest is unlawfully asserting that Jesus Christ existed.
Emil: You got to be jerking my beefaroni. Some guy believes that the Babe Ruth of organized religion never swung a rosary? So if he wins the case, what’re they supposed to do—put an asterisk next to Jesus’ name in the Bible and say all his records are a crock?
Herbie: Come to think of it, that court’s got a handful in its hands. How you going to technically prove that the Jesus did exist? As far as I know, there’s no photos of the guy, no legal documents like the deed to a three-bedroom Cape Cod or a car-rental contract with his John Hancock on it. He’s like an old school Mafia don—didn’t want to leave a traceable trace that the Feds could nail him on.
Julius: Yeah, but what about all those paintings, the ones where he looks like a roadie for the Allman Brothers Band? Are you telling me that’s all bullshit?
Ray: Speaking of Jesus, here’s a little story: A very spiritual and holy priest dies and is swept up to heaven. St. Peter greets him at the Pearly Gates, and says, "Hello Father, welcome to Heaven! You are very well known here. As a special reward because you are such a devout man, you are granted anything you wish even before we enter the Kingdom. What may I grant you?"
And the priest says, "I am a great admirer of the Virgin Mother. I've always wanted to talk to her." St. Pete nods his head to one side, and lo and behold who should approach the priest but the Virgin Mary!
The priest is overcome with joy and says, "Mother, I admire you greatly and have followed your life as best I could. I have studied everything about you—every painting and portrait ever made of you, and I've noticed without fail that you are portrayed bearing a wistful expression. Forever I’ve wondered what it was that made you seemingly so melancholy." And Mother Mary says, "Honestly, I was really hoping for a girl." Ba-ding!
(It’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
