I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, I hear we got another Labor Day coming up, the holiday when we honor the workingman by pissing the day away drinking beer in the backyard or a park somewheres. Yes sir, the last extended weekend of the summer; and just so's you know, I happen to believe that a free-will choice that involves the secluded spectacle of outdoor camping somewhere out in the boon-focking-docks is a notion that not only flies in the face of the natural course of human evolution, but may also be some kind of unnamed perversion to boot.
I also hear that Dick “Darth” Cheney says that his new memoir will have “heads exploding all over Washington.” Yeah, I guess heads exploding all over Baghdad wasn't enough for this fockstick. Hey, my own head explodes every time I wonder how come this draft-dodging lying sack of shit isn't in prison yet for war crimes and who-knows-what, I kid you not.
And speaking of delusional nutbag politicians, Michele “Le Grand Flake” Bachmann indicated that the combo platter of earthquake and hurricane recently served was ordered by God, or it was God's wrath, or some such bullshit. She later said she was joking, but the 40-some people killed still didn't get it, what the fock.
About that I'll say this: Some heavy-thinking people would have you swallow the notion that every goddamn thing that happened, happens, and will happen in the whole wide universe has already been determined and decided from Day Numero Uno Big-focking-Bang; and if you, say, all of a sudden some morning decide to switch your breakfast cereal from Frosted focking Flakes (good) to Shredded Wheat (stinko) 'cause you think you'll live longer, these heavy-thinkers would tell you's that you got another thing coming, Buster, because back on the Day Numero Big-focking-Bang Uno (mentioned above), your switch of breakfast cereals was already in the focking cards: So in effect you are still going to focking croak same date, time and place no matter what kind of crap you eat for breakfast 'cause it's in the universal blueprint, a blueprint that's impossible to dick with (just like the fact that it just occurred to me that this has been one hell of a way-too-long run-on sentence inside a way-too-long paragraph is not something that just occurred to me this second, no sir; it's something that was set in stone billions of focking years ago, Jack).
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OK, got it? (And those of you's wondering why a guy like me might need to take a couple, three days off once in a blue moon, I suggest you re-read the above paragraph. I dare you.) Let us continue.
And then there are thinkers of a much less heavy status who think that scientists doing a Dr. Frankenstein experiment on the animals in order to discover ways to prevent the sapiens Homo from getting puking sick to the death before our time is akin to messing with God's will (see “universal blueprint”), and they're agin' it, what the fock.
For example, say you slice your pinky on a Pabst Blue Ribbon pop-top and she's a' bleedin' like a banshee; now some would have you believe that slapping a Band-Aid on your pinky is tantamount to dicking with “God's will” and that it's better you should let the pinky get all infected and fall off than fool around with the will o' the Lord. (Why? Beats the hell out of me. Like what, you focking address your wound and God will be pissed to the point of coming to smite you down but good? I think not. And even if He focking did, what's the focking difference between Him smiting you down and you letting your pinky get all infected 'til it focking falls off and then you focking croak from the blood poison? Hey, you tell me.)
And then I'll tell you that you got your science and you got your religion, and to figure where the twain shall meet can send a fella into a hellzapoppin' hodgepodge that only a couple, three days off can clear.
In the meantime, I guess I'll stick by what I call the Kumbalek Credo, which is this: If you make some kind of mistake, pull some kind of boner (your own, natch'), or just plain fock-up royally, you ignore it and not do a focking thing about it. It's full-speed ahead as you fire off the one and only canon of the U.S.S. Kumbalek Credo—“Hey, I didn't ask to be born, so eat my focking shorts,” 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
