Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, considering that just one week ago rather than meeting my deadline obligations for this here page I instead was forced to make an unexpected visit to the local hospital’s emergency room, I’m not feeling too half-bad and I’ll tell you why.
First, I have renewed faith in the power and economical effectiveness of word-of-mouth publicity. This past Halloween, I had no trick-or-treaters come begging by me. Seems that year after year of offering the costumed katzenjammers nothing but mashed potatoes and gravy turned the no-show trick for me, and I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty it could turn it for you. (And if you’re an adult who made a big deal about the Halloween with all kinds of plans—take a good look in the mirror and maybe think about seeing somebody who’s dressed up like a psychiatrist.)
And secondly, I just renegotiated my contract here at the Shepherd, how ’bout that. Added five to ten years, with time off for good-enough behavior. Haven’t hammered out all the details, but the entire package is worth somewheres in the neighborhood of an estimated $103.47. The business sharpies here wanted to make it for more focking dough, but I said no focking way—$103.47 was all I could afford to pay them. (I don’t come cheap ’cause I don’t have to. I’m already there.)
Plus, I got a performance clause written into the dang thing: As long as I can pen these essays whilst standing up with my nose touching my knees and no focking words misspelled for the proofreader, they’ll let me keep hacking away here, what the fock.
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Anyways, the Halloween always reminds me that another wintertime is right around the corner down the block. And this season I plan on practicing what-you-call your “safe winter.” You can bet your bottom’s dollar that no focking way am I leaving the house without my rubbers ’cause you never ever really do know when Old Man Winter will rear his frosty head and administer one of his patented massive snowjobs, and that sure as hell is no time to be caught with your pants down, as they say.
And come to think of it, I’m still not sold on this “safe sex” ba-focking-loney. Everybody says you ought to “practice” it. OK, I’m practicing, I’m practicing, but heyyy, when the hell’s the actual ballgame supposed to start, I’d like to know?
What the fock, maybe I’m better off riding the bench after all ’cause “safe sex”?—talk about your oxymoron. “Safe sex” is like saying “protected skydiving with no chute.” One way or another, it’ll kill you but good for sure.
“Safe”? No way such a thing in a million years. Seems to me now, that the sisters back at Our Lady In Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough were right. Sex is stupid. It’s nothing but some kind of bad drug that people with no esteem take. It’s some kind of weird-ass plug-in tool for knobs of either sex who are into power manipulation, I kid you not.
And who in the gosh darn heck ever decided that sex is some basic human need of life, like eating and drinking? You got to be jerking my beefaroni. If that were so true, how come married people aren’t dropping like flies right and left and right? Let’s put it to the test: Half of you’s don’t eat for six months and the other half of you’s forego the conjugular hoochie coochie of the consenting adult. Be a wiener-free winner: Celebrate the celibate.
In the olden days, they didn’t have sex. They had fornication. It was a noble thing, like your barnyard animals. But then your artists dreamed up this sex stuff to sell their art. Then advertising shysters came up with even more sex so you’d watch stupid TV shows and buy stupid crap.
But today with the sex, you’ll either die from it, or possibly even worse, have kids from it and you know what that’ll cost on a yearly basis? Now you can’t afford food or drink, so you’re still going to die, what the fock.
Oh yeah, and speaking of the coupling in marriage:
A wife goes to see a therapist and says, “I’ve got a big problem, doctor. Every time we’re in bed and my husband has the climax, he lets out this ear-splitting yell.” Therapist says, “My dear, that’s completely natural. I don’t see what the problem is.” The wife says, “The problem is this, doctor: It wakes me up!”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
