Father Knows Jest

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, this current heat wave around here has distinctly discombobulated the keen thought/word process I rely upon so’s to slap out these weekly essays that I pull out of my dupa from off the top of my head, what the fock.

So let’s start here. We’ve got Father’s Day coming up like a bad burrito. Sure, you’d like to present a gift to the old fart on his day but you’ve got no dough to waste; besides, he’s already got more ties, fish lures and packages of flat-head nails than he can use in a lifetime. So how ’bout this, you give him the gift of laughter, call them “Dad Jokes,” that he can use over and over again so’s to antagonize friends, relatives, neighbors and co-workers, I kid you not.

You think? OK. Let me dip into Art’s Joke Bag for a couple, three that you can gift Pop when/if you see him, and they’re definitely cheaper than a six-pack of Old Style.

A guy walks into a tavern and there’s a horse behind the bar serving drinks. The guy just stares at the horse, so the horse says, “Hey buddy, what’s the problem? You never seen a horse serving drinks before?” The guy says, “No, it’s not that. It’s just that I never thought the parrot would sell this place.” Ba-ding!

Maybe you’ve heard this one before, but I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty that maybe he hasn’t: There’s this guy struggling to decide what to wear to a fancy costume party when suddenly he has a bright idea. Later, when the host answered the door, she found the guy standing there with no shirt, no socks and no shoes on. The host says, “And just what the fock are you supposed to be?” And the guy says, “A premature ejaculation—’cause I just came in my pants!” Ba-ding!

Here’s one definitely for Pop: One day, during a lesson on proper grammar, the teacher asked for a show of hands for who could use the word “beautiful” in the same sentence twice. First, she called on little Suzy, who responded with, “My father bought my mother a beautiful dress and she looked beautiful in it.”

“Very good, Suzy,” the teacher says. She then called on little Michael. “My mommy planned a beautiful banquet and it turned out beautifully,” he said. “Excellent, Michael!”

And then the teacher called on little Johnny. “Last night, at the dinner table, my sister told my dad that she was pregnant, and he said, ‘Beautiful. That’s just FOCKING beautiful!’” Ba-ding!

And one more ’cause what the fock: A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel sticking out of his pirate pants zipper. Bartender says, “Hey, Long John Silver! Did you know you have a steering wheel attached to your dick?” And the pirate says, “Aye! It’s driving me nuts!” Ba-ding!

That ought to do it, ain’a?

But don’t go yet. Since it’s that time of year where once again you got summertime outdoor “music” everywhere you turn around, allow me to present the following recording that’s been long out of print but that is now available for a short time only via the remastered version that goes something like this:

“It’s very clear to me that, lo, these days do conjure words from a George & Ira croon tune that begins, “The more I read the papers, the less I comprehend, the world and all its capers and how it all will end. Nothing seems to be lasting…” Jeez louise, ain’t that the truth. Yeah, the song’s chorus veers into a boy/girl with-the-hots lyrical deal, but what the fock. It’s still got a damn nice melody though, not like these songs I got to try to hum today that sound like some kid’s crammed his cat into the Veg-O-Matic and cranked it up to puree for christ sakes.

“Cripes, did the goddamn Congress pass some kind of amendment when I wasn’t looking to make it against the Constitution for musicians these days to put out a song with some focking melody to it once in a while? I got the radio on, and I wish I was deaf.

“Which reminds me that commencing soon is the perennial Summerfest down by the shore of the great Lake Alewife. Some of you’s can probably guess what I have to say about that, which I’ll express as an equation: No Bourbon Tent + No Topless Tent= No Art Kumbalek.

“The music? No thank you. I’m guessing Mr. Porter, Mr. Arlen, Mr. Kern, Mister Ellington, Mr. Berlin, misters Rodgers and Hart will be absent from the grounds; so, so will I. A guy like me desires to walk away from a music event on some enchanted evening and be able to carry a tune or two inside his head that he might feel like humming a couple, three bars of later whilst patronizing a couple, three bars.

“Listen, I’ve got a theory of American popular music history that I call My Theory of American Popular Music History that seeks to help explain why a guy like me has a tough time getting his hum on.

“My theory says it started back when they gave the goddamn 1971 Academy Award to “Theme From Shaft” for Song of the Year. That was no song. That was some guy cranked clean out of his ever-loving gourd dicking around with one of those guitar wah-wahs of equipment. And ever since, anybody with a hankering for a little melody with their music has been getting the musical shaft uptight and clean-out-of-sight over under sideways down.

“And not only no melody, but how ’bout those lyrics, ain’a? Let’s see if I can recall: “Shaft. John Shaft” That’s the short and long of it, yes? Hold on. Later, I think there were some more lyrics: “Shaft. John Shaft” and “shut your mouth.” Yeah, that’s it. (Not exactly “You are the promised kiss of springtime/ That makes the lonely winter seem long. You are the breathless hush of evening/ That trembles on the brink of a lovely song,” what the fock.)

“Now I ask you to tell me how the hell some show-biz greaseball out Vegas-way circa ’70s was supposed to sing “Theme From Shaft” when he was ready to bring down the house with his show-stopping Oscar-song medley? I tell you, “Theme From Shaft” wrote “yesterday’s news” all over the careers of great crooners like your Andy Williams, your Dinah Shore, your Jerry focking Vale, I kid you not.

“Yes sir, used to be years ago you’d hear these songbirds on the radio and on the TV, every day of the week—but now, you got to haul your sorry ass down there to Branson, Mo. and try to get a seat at the Great American Washed-Up Entertainment Good Ol’ American-Style Our Specialty Theatre to essence a previous generation’s musical greatness, ’cause they sure won’t be at Summerfest. “

Okey-doke, genug ist genug. But, again, I must wrap up this special Father’s Day essay with this: And of remembered fathers, and remembered sons, this time of year, I’ll be seeing you, as the song goes, in all the familiar places, in every lovely summer’s day somewhere over the rainbow, I remember you ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.