Dog-eared

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Painting image by sedmak - Getty Images

Art Kumbalek angel

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, what’s say we start with a little story of which if I were to relate anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of a Florida schoolground (“Florida,” Spanish name for serial killer, not to mention winter home for creepy circus clowns who hold heavy juice for the bearded ladies, what the fock), could get me locked up in the hoosegow, I kid you not.

Yes, I’m talking about an informational sex-education story that will never ever be related in the Sunshine State whilst Gov. Ron De-Fascist remains prince of America’s penis peninsula.

And so, the story, as such, follows, Twainish, in its way, and set in a mythically recent, but distant, past (and yes, indeed, I did find a good deal, on Amazon, for a box of discount commas):

Ain’t no matter, but Jezebel and Cooter were third-graders over by Stonewall Jackson Elementary. They lived next door to one another, and like many kids, they enjoyed a little one-upmanship from time to time. So on Cooter’s birthday, he rushed over to Jez’s to flaunt his new cowhide catcher’s mitt. Surely, this was the most impressive item anyone had ever seen! But Jez went into her house and brought out her own mitt, which was custom made, oiled to velvet perfection, and autographed by the entire 2019 Tampa Bay Rays’ roster.

One-upped, Cooter went home, thought for a minute, then came back with his new bicycle, which had six Pokémon cards attached to the wheel spokes as well as a large basket to accommodate his soon-to-be lucrative Uber Eats route. He abso-focking-lutely bet she couldn’t top that! But Jez wheeled her bike out of the garage—shiny, chromed, with 37 gears and a fire-truck siren in case anyone got in her way.

Defeated again, but still undaunted, Cooter dropped his Stars & Bars gym trunks, grabbed ahold of his prepubescent wanger and said to Jez, “Bet you ain’t got one of these,” he rebel-shouted with wounded pride and frustration.

Jezebel, sauntered over to where her ma was hanging up the wash out back. They spoke for a minute. Jez returned, stood in front of Johnny, and pointed downward to her pelvic girdle.

“Listen up, Cooter. My ma says as long as I got one of these, I can have all those of yours that I want!”

Ba-ding-dong-ding!

So, I hear we’re into the so-called Dog Days, this being the August time. So how ’bout a story related to such a thing; and if you’ve heard it before, now you’re going to hear it again, what the fock: 

So there’s these three dogs cooling their paws in a kennel at the city pound. Great Dane asks the Terrier, “So, what’re you in for?” Terrier says, “Fock, crapped all over the house, and I mean ALL OVER the house. There wasn’t a room, stretch of carpeting or piece of upholstered furniture I missed. Hey, what do they expect? Leave me home all day alone inside, plus the leftover chop suey they fed me the night before had gone bad? Give me a focking break.”

Great Dane asks, “They sentence you yet?” Terrier says, “Yeah, they’re putting me to sleep in the morning.” Dane says, “Yeah, that’s tough. Sorry to hear it.”

Then the Great Dane asks the Chihuahua what he’s in for and the Chihuahua says, “I chewed up to hell and back every goddamn piece of footwear in the house I could find while my owners are downstairs having an early retro ’60s sock hop with their loser guests.”

Great Dane says, “No shit.” Chihuahua says, “That’s right. No shit, just a lot of chewed up shoes.” Great Dane asks, “What’re you getting?” Chihuahua says, “They’re putting me to sleep in the morning.” Dane says, “Yeah, that’s tough. Sorry to hear it.”

So then the Terrier says to the Great Dane, “Hey buddy, you didn’t tell us what you’re in here for, yet.” The Dane says, “Well there I was, up in the master bedroom, minding my own business, not bothering anybody, just working over one of those pissant rubber Garfield squeakies, you know? Boy, that’s a load of laughs, ain’a? Christ. So in walks my owner’s wife and the next thing I know, she’s taking off all her clothes right there in front of me, I kid you not. Then she turns on this exercise music—‘ching, ching, chinga-chinga’— and she’s jumping up and down all over the place, bending over, bending backward, squatting down, squatting up and she’s getting all sweaty like.”

Chihuahua says, “Ay, Chihuahua.” Terrier swallows hard and asks what happened next.

“Well sir, this goes on for like a half-hour. All the time she’s looking over at me, eyes all wild like a rabbit’s just before you get it cornered in the garage, saying, ‘Good boy, you’re such a good boy, I love you,’ over and over. And I’m just lying there, eyeing her up and down, chewing on my Garfield squeakie, harder and harder ’til it’s ready to burst wide open.

“Then she squats down right in front of me on her knees and starts stroking my ears, my back, all the time with the ‘good boy this’ and ‘good boy that,’ ‘roll over, that’s right.’ She gets up, sashays over to the bathroom, turns around to give me one last look, and goes inside. I want to follow her real bad. I could use a good, stiff drink out of the toilet right about now, I kid you not. I hear the sound of the shower, her, standing under the nozzle, all alone getting all clean and soft. The shower stops and I picture her patting that purple bath towel all over her pink skin, up, down, all around, finding places a dog can only dream about.

“And then, I thought I heard her call my name. Now maybe it was a tree branch blown against the bedroom window, maybe the postman ringing the front bell not once, but twice—I really got to chew that knobshine a new one, one of these days—or maybe it was fate, but I swear I heard her call my name, and I did the only thing any dog would do under the circumstances.”

“You come when you’re called,” the Terrier says, barely able to get the sounds out.

“Did I ever. Bingo! Bango! Bongo!” says the Dane. “Next thing I know, she’s reclined on the bed smoking a cigarette and I’m sitting here in the joint, shooting the shit with you guys.”

The Chihuahua and Terrier are silent. They stare at the Dane with a look a dog would put on only when in the presence of a Cujo, a Lassie, a Rin-Tin-focking-Tin. Finally the Chihuahua asks the Dane, “So, what’re you getting?”

“I’m getting my nails clipped and she’s picking me up in an hour.” Ba-ding!

OK, enough, I know. One last thought: The Dog Days signify that back-to-school time be right around the corner. And for you’s moms and pops down there in the Alligator State, rest assured there’ll be no need to spend hard-earned dough on book bags for the youngsters, since all the books will have been banned or burned.

God bless America, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.