Dictum of Circumstance

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear Our Town will soon be in need of a new mayor now that our past and present head honcho, Tom Barrett, is apparently soon to be shipped off as an U.S. ambassador to some country overseas known as Luxembourg.

What the fock. Until I did some googling, I had always thought that a Luxembourg was one of those ultra-fancy 1930s luxury automobiles and not a tiny landlocked Western European democracy headed by a constitutional monarch—who “exercises authority in accordance with a written or unwritten constitution” (Donald Trumpel-thinskin, eat your focking heart out).

I got to tell you, I always fancied an ambassadorship for myself someday. I figure that the pay is more than the buck two-eighty an hour I’m accustomed to, plus you get to live in a swanky embassy rent-free with a bunch of servants named Jeeves who’ll whip up a nice grilled-cheese sandwich for you any time you ring their bell.

And I’m guessing that your main responsibility is to go to banquets, and then the rest of the time you conduct yourself like a regular Santa Claus from America who’s come to some godforsaken part of the world to bring glad tidings of a better way of life, toss some dough around, be nice to the kids and just plain spread a little good cheer each and every day—especially in those places where the people seem that they just can’t get enough of slaughtering each other, what the fock.

But first, I probably ought to run for mayor of the City That Always Sweeps, a position I have often been a candidate for in the past. I won’t say those elections were stolen from me, but I will say my vote total came near to cracking double digits, I kid you not

Mayor Art Kumbalek, sounds kind of nice, ain’a? And with a salary of just about $150 grand each and every year, I could finally afford that new pair of walking shoes I’ve been needing for a while, not to mention a reasonably and rationally priced Medicare supplement insurance program.

So, my hat’s in the ring and I think I’ve got a shot at the title, you betcha. But I’ve perused the local media as to the likely top-dog candidates for the big burgomaster gig and nowhere was the name “Art Kumbalek” to be found. You got to be jerking my beefaroni.

That’s right, no mention: Me, drizzled veteran of political wars waged ’round our vicinity, having mounted nearly several half-assed campaigns for all kind of elective offices over the years: senator, county sheriff, president, governor, mayor, commissioner of baseball, Tahitian overlord. Hey people, I’m James Dean come back as a political candidate. Ask me what I’m running for, my answer would be this: “Whatever you got.” What the focking fock.

Now, if I was one of those nutbag religious Christian candidates, I would tell you’s that me being elected Milwaukee mayor would be God’s will, or perhaps God’s wrath, or some such bullshit. But I won’t tell you that. Instead, I will tell you’s 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; which is to say that if all of a sudden some morning you 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 think 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).

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 Dictum, 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 Dictum—“Hey, I didn’t ask to be born so eat my focking shorts,” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.