Dream Land

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I don’t know about you’s, but I am perplexed with this Trumpty-Dumbty yearn to acquire under the Stars and Stripes the arctic island of Greenland.

Hey pal, good focking luck developing a country-club golf course up there (a wedge from out of the ice trap?), where summertime temperatures have been known to reach 45degrees focking Fahrenheit. Perhaps a ski resort in Tahiti would be more practical?

Anyways, if “diplomatic” “talks” acquire a flat tire on the road to diplomacy, “President” Orange Circus Peanut says he may “take Greenland the hard way.” And with a frozen population of 56,000-57,000, it’d be like putting the boots on the throat of a Racine, Wis., population 78,057, as the mighty military force marches forward intent to siege the Mars Cheese Castle down there in Kenosha (population 99,000 and home of too many Chicago Bears fans) . Easy-peasy, ain’a?

But as our “president” intends to protect and defend government protesters over there in Persia whilst putting the hammer down on such ilk in Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, I grow weary to find words, plus I’ve got a couple, three medical scans I am to be front and center for in the days ahead, what the fock.

So how ’bout this, from behind the scenes:

I plan to publish a heavy-duty treatise about the meaning of mankind’s existence that I wrote for a publication I found out about in the classified section of Bendover.com. The ad said that many people are scholars and don’t even know it, so people should send them a highfalutin thesis on whatever they focking felt like and if their judges deemed it highbrow enough, for $200 they would publish it in a professorial journal somewheres. Lo and behold, they accepted my work and they’re going to charge me $300 ’cause it’s that’s good, but I now offer it to you’s for free, because I can use the dough.

Victims of Circumstance

by Art Kumbalek

As Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl of Roscommon who-the-fock (c. 1633-1685) was famous for telling you: “Choose an author as you choose a friend.” And let me tell you, if our young people in these troubled times that clean the clock of goodness from our American streets would only choose authors as friends instead of the pimply scumbag gang-ridden snotnose jerk-off adolescents they seem to choose to fall in with on this so-called social media, then we as a responsible public who courageously choose obligation over internment wouldn’t have to be constructing all these goddamn jails for juveniles on every other block, what the fock.

But before you choose to read further, a simple choice that might not only affect your entire future but also go down on your permanent record to boot, I’d feel like a totally irresponsible dickwad if I did not choose to relate the following concerning the matter of choice.

So this guy goes to the doctor’s office; he’s not feeling well. “I'm not feeling well,” he says. The doctor does a quick checkup. Seems the guy’s got a carrot in his left ear, a banana in his right ear, a couple of green peppers up his nose and a kumquat up his you-don’t-want-to-know-what but between you and me it’s up his dupa, I kid you not. Guy says, “So Doc, what the heck’s the matter with me?” Doctor says, “Well sir, just off the top of my head I’d say you’re not eating properly.” (… two, three.) Guy says, “Well then the hell with being a vegetarian.”

My friends, so is the conceit concerning the very nature of “choice” proven to be the folly that it is through the story we have just read. The man believes he is wise vis-a-vis his personal wellness by choosing to be a vegetarian as so many seem to choose in these health know-it-all times. However, as the story illustrates, the man is not well. No man with a kumquat up his butt can be well, I don’t care who you are.

But what if he’d chosen a different diet? What then? Would the man in our story feel better if stuck in his orifices were meat by-products instead—baloney? The answer is no. The man in our story can never be better no matter what he chooses because the man in our story is a focking idiot, and not because he stuck a banana in his ear or a kumquat up his heinie. No sir, the man in our story is a focking idiot because his conclusion—“the hell with being a vegetarian”—says to me he is thinking a different choice might’ve kept him out of the doctor’s office that fateful day. It is to laugh.

And so should we take away from our little story the following: Any knucklehead who chooses to believe they got a choice about anything has only proven that the first choice they made was to be a moron.

And so should we disregard the moral prig pigs who spout the latest conservative political fashion, to wit: “Hey, any focking thing bad happens to you it’s your own damn fault, so suck-up and shut the fock up about it and leave the rest of us alone. For christ sakes, somewheres you made a wrong choice all by yourself so learn to live with it, asshole.”

Yeah, right. These pisspots say that we control our destinies, and I say you got to be jerking my beefaroni ’cause the enlightened modern free-thinker would argue that there is no free-thinking, no free-will, no choice; that there exists in the world only unseen and unknown authority, not to mention dogma with a serious case of rabies. The free-thinker would argue that since you don’t choose to be born and you cannot choose not to croak; any piddly so-called “choice” in-between is just a focking joke and if it isn’t, it damn well ought to be.

I’m sure the arguments regarding free-will and choice and responsibility and blah-blah will go on and on, but for my money all questions concerning the significant meaning of mankind’s existence on this planet and in this universe were answered forever but good the day the late philosopher Jerome Howard remarked to his brother Moe following the repeated application of the business end of a ball-peen hammer to his curly pate, “Hey, Moe! I’m just a victim of circumstance!”

So put that in your vape pipe and smoke it, America. But if you still insist on choice, please choose to brush your teeth, stay in school and don’t get your undies in a bundle or your knickers in a twist, and stay warm ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.