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Art Kumbalek scientist

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I heard that this Hunter Biden has received a get-out-of-jail-free card from his pop, the president. Must be nice to have a dad who’s the leader of the land, I kid you not. 

I’m sure that Don Jr. and Eric Trump, not to mention son-in-law Jared, will appreciate having such a potent paterfamilias to cover one’s ass in the year(s) ahead.

But, “Hunter.” I never went to school in the class with a kid whose name was Hunter, ain’a you?

Those many years ago, the names repeated in my school classes over by Our Lady In Pain Because You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough, were Richard (Dick), Michael (Mike), David (Dave), James (Jim), Stuart (haven’t heard that name lately, maybe only as a character in a Pixar movie?), Kenneth (Ken, my best friend), Robert (Bobby), Frederick (Freddy), Alan, Joe, John, Steve, Vince and we had a Floyd.

On the other end side of the other gender aisle we had the Donnas, Carols, Barbaras, Sharons, Janices; but then there was sweet Ardella, my first school-boy crush, the first to whirl my world that girls weren’t icky, back there in 2nd grade or such. 

Ardella.

I interneted the name. Seems to be not a popular for the mom, pop and whomever to saddle with these days. “Ardella” was ranked 10,463 on the list of names you’d give a lady kid to. 

Ardella. You’re number one for me wherever you are.

We had music-time once a week, whence we were given hard-bound songbooks filled with the collected works from the Stephen Foster oeuvre. Within the songbook, there was no Gershwin, no Irving Berlin, no Jerome Kern, no Harold Arlen.

We had Stephen Foster (1826-1864).

And so us kids sang “Old Black Joe.” Then we would join our voices for a rousing “Camptown Races” or a demure “Beautiful Dreamer.”

I’m thinking these days back to those days that the Sisters could’ve/should’ve included a Fats Waller (1904-1943) tune or two.

How ’bout “Ain’t Misbehavin”? How could they miss the lyrical undertone:

No one to talk to / all by myself/ no one to walk with / but I’m, happy on the shelf / ain’t misbehavin’ / I’m saving my love for you (“you,” meaning the much fabled Jesus, maybe, ain’a)

But, “Hunter.” I never had a class with a kid whose name was Hunter. Which reminds me of a little story that perhaps you can bring to your soon holiday gathering rather than a candied yam. Here, hot off the presses, haven’t had time to edit:

So this duck hunter was out enjoying a nice morning on the marsh when he felt the need to empty his urinary bladder. He walked over to a tree and propped up his gun, just as a sudden gust of wind blew. The gun fell over and discharged, shooting him smack-dab in the genitals. Several hours later, whilst lying in a hospital bed, his doctor approached.

“Well sir, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that you are going to be OK. The damage was local to your groin, there was very little internal damage, and we were able to remove all of the buckshot.’’

The injured duck hunter, naturally, then asked for the bad news. And the doctor said, “‘The bad news is that there was some extensive buckshot damage done to your penis. I am going to have to refer you to my sister.” And the hunter said, “I assume your sister is a plastic surgeon?” To which the doctor replied, “No sir. She’s a flute player in the Hayward Symphony Orchestra. She’s going to teach you where to put your fingers so you don’t piss in your eye.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, stop me if you’ve heard this, but it’s that time of year when your neighborly folks on the TV local news begin to dish out handy tips on how to handle the seasonal stress of the holiday season, so that you don’t find yourself come Christmas morning barricaded inside your abode, gazing out your living-room window through the sights of a high-powered rifle, ready to dampen the Yuletide spirit of anything that moves. 

Now as some of you’s know, my personal solution to holiday stress is to have another hot focking toddy and crank up the thermostat. Don’t forget that stress is the silent killer, and if you’re so inclined, nothing puts a quick kibosh on stress like a nice square, so always be aware to smoke ’em if you got ’em. And if you don’t got ’em, get ’em.

If you feel that you still got stress coming out your dupa even after doing what I just told you to do, you may have “the kind of stress where you wake up screaming and you realize you haven’t fallen asleep yet.” This is not good and I don’t know what the fock to tell you, I kid you not.

Except that my ol’ late buddy Jay U., some years past, sent me an eight-step technique for stress management. It’s nice to know you can accomplish something in only eight steps. Here’s the technique. Maybe it can help you out, what the fock.

1. Picture yourself near a stream.
2. Birds are softly chirping in the cool mountain air.
3. No one but you knows your secret place.
4. You are in total seclusion from the hectic place called “the world.”
5. The soothing sound of a gentle waterfall fills the air with a cascade of serenity.
6. The water is crystal clear.
7. You can easily make out the face of the person you’re holding underwater.
8. See! You're smiling already... spread the joy!

Come to think of it, there’s one more thing you could do for stress, something you could do any ol’ time of year and you don’t need a damn license or a whole lot of expensive equipment neither: Take off work and go beer hunting. In fact, I’m going out right now to see if I can bring down a 24-can pack with as many shots as I can stand ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.