Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, how ’bout we start this week’s excursion on a musical note, sent to me from my professor buddy out of Deutschland across the ocean, courtesy of the Raging Grannies of Tuolumne & Calaveras Counties and their spin on 1850’s number one hit with a musket, god bless each and every one:
Doo-dah, indeed. “Camptown Races,” takes me back to maybe my 3rd-4th grade music periods that consisted of belting out the best from the Stephen (“The Father of American Music” so-called, died at age 37 in 1864 whilst George (“Rhapsody in Blue,” “Summertime,” Gershwin died at 38 in 1937) Foster songbook. How heartwarming it may have been for the occasional passerby, on their way to Lu-Genes gift shop to purchase a nice card and/or pair of earrings to settle things with the Mrs., along South Packard Avenue down there by Cudahy ’round about 1957-58 to hear us youthful white songbirds at Washington Elementary Grade School (before I got sent over to Our Lady In Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough) give a rousing rendition of “Old Black Joe” from within the concrete confines of a primary educational institution, what the fock.
Then was then, and now is now, and I’m thinking the paragraph above tended toward the bloated side, ain’a?
Hold on, I hear my land-line a’ ringing.
Cripes, it’s from the oncology department I lately frequent who call to let me know when I need to show up for this or that.
Stay on top of the news of the day
Subscribe to our free, daily e-newsletter to get Milwaukee's latest local news, restaurants, music, arts and entertainment and events delivered right to your inbox every weekday, plus a bonus Week in Review email on Saturdays.
Seems I may have some chemo brain fog going on, like I need that as much as our Milwaukee Brewers need another frontline player placed on the injury list, I kid you not.
But wait! Hope you got your vote in the other day for the primary extravaganza, and hope you got out to the State Fair, the greatest spectacle on Badger earth, and I may remember this little story, perhaps you do as well:
A man took his wife to the State Fair and one of the exhibits is that of breeding bulls. They visited the first pen where a sign said, “This bull mated 50 times last year.” The wife poked her husband in the ribs and said, “You see that? He mated 50 times last year.”
They walked a little farther and saw another pen where a sign said, “This bull mated 120 times last year.” The wife nudged her husband, “That’s more than twice a week!”
And a sign on the third pen said, “This bull mated 365 times last year.” The wife said, “That’s once a day! You could REALLY learn something from this one.” The husband looked at her and said, “You think? Go up and ask if it was with the same cow.” Ba-ding!
Good lord. And don’t dearmad a dhéanamh ar, we’ve got the Milwaukee Irish Fest down by the lakefront this weekend, which reminds me of a little story:
Six retired Irish guys were playing poker in O’Leary’s apartment when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest and drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the other five continue playing
A bit of a while later, Michael O’Connor looks around at the surviving five and asks, “Oh, me boys. I believe we have a bit of a situation here. Paddy is dead and someone surely must tell Paddy’s poor wife. Who will it be then?” They draw straws. Brendan O’Gallagher picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don’t make a bad situation any worse.
“Discreet? I’m the most discreet Irishman you’ll ever meet. Discretion is me middle name.” So Brendan O’Gallagher goes over to Murphy’s house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers and asks what he wants. Gallagher declares: “Your husband just lost $500 and is afraid to come home.”
“Tell him to drop dead!” says the Mrs. Murphy.
“‘To drop dead.’ I’ll go tell him then, ma’am,” says Gallagher. Ba-ding!
Anyways, I got to go. But in closing up shop I ought to mention that I heard some scuttlebutt that the Israelis and Palestinians might start some peace talks again for the umpteenth time—seems to remind me of a little story, and if you heard it before, now you’ll hear it again:
In Jerusalem, a TV journalist heard about a very old Jewish man who had gone to the Wailing Wall to pray, twice a day, every day, for a long, long time. So she went to the Wailing Wall to investigate and there he was. She watched him pray and when he turned to leave, she approached him for an interview.
|
|
“I’m Missy Blondie from FOCKS News. Sir, how long have you been coming to the Wall and praying?”
“Sixty-seventy years. Oy!”
“That’s incredible. And what is it you pray for?
“I pray for peace between the Christians, Jews and the Muslims. I pray for all the hatred to stop. I pray that our children grow up in safety and friendship.”
“And how do you feel after doing this for 60-70 years?”
“Like I’m talking to a focking wall.” Ba-ding!
Okey dokey, got to take off for another exam so’s to keep our health care system’s cash registers cha-chingin’, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
