Flame My Votive

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Art Kumbalek wrapped in the American flag

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, just so you’s remember:

Our ferkakta president Trumpel-thinskin won that top job election in 2024 by 1.5% of the vote. In 2016, he lost to Hillary by almost 2.9 million votes, but by the bounce of a couple balls by the bullshit Electoral College (yet to gain a seed in the NCAA’s basketball March Madness bracket, yet come a November election playoff, they are nothing but the madness) he was able to cut down the nets and grab the Oval Office trophy.

2020: Trumpty Dumbty lost by over 7 million votes, and this time the Electoral College figured that the guy was a loser, despite his claims that uncertified votes by left-leaning radical remnants of inhabitants from Mars and Venus were put in the hopper. What the fock.

Why do I bring this up, like a bad burrito I had the night before?

Voting! It was Wisconsin primary election day, Tuesday, Feb. 17, for christ sakes. Not many primetime positions on this ballot. You had your unopposed this-and-that and school board schmutz, here and there, and what not.

I just got back from voting, and I’ll tell you’s if crowds or standing-in-line is not your cup of tea, then this was the election for you.

Talk about democracy-friendly. No muss, no fuss. I was in, then out of that ballot booth-thing like a regular Harry Houdini. It was so easy that to tell you the truth, next time I might even ask one of the kind election people checking IDs and passing out ballots to handcuff and blindfold me first to see if I can make it out in less than fifteen seconds, just to add a little challenge to the process, I kid you not.

Now if you’ve never voted before but have always felt like giving it a shot, a local small-potatoes election is a good place to get your feet wet and feel good about your performance. You see, a lot of rookie voters tend to choke under the pressure when they encounter the booth for those big-time national elections like come a November when the fate of the free world may hinge on a voter’s ability to follow simple instructions, which these Republican days may include accurately numbering the jellybeans contained in a large glass jar whilst standing on one’s head. It’s called the Florida syndrome and the results can lead to disaster, so I recall.

But all the air’s out of the ballot balloon when what’s up for your “yea or nay” is a school-board seat whose job may to boss around the teachers whose job is to boss around the kids. And what in that formula could possibly lead to catastrophe that affects us all as surely does electing a president who doesn’t know his Bozo from his Clarabelle? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that seasoned voters understand that there are times when practicalities dictate that you got to settle for a baloney sandwich even though you hanker a nice hunk of Châteaubriand. It’s like tickets to a Milwaukee Bucks game. You may prefer to see Golden State, but the only seat you can score is of a distance from the action that if you don’t carry-in an iron lung and the Hubble telescope, hey, focking forget about it. So instead it’s the Nets out of New Jersey for you. Plenty of empty seats. And parking? No problemo.

But let me tell you that a school board brouhaha is a thing of beauty to the true election aficionado. It’s the synchronicity of form and function, that the percentage of eligible voters who actually turn out for one of these shebangs to choose citizens to help run the schools is nearly identical to the percentage of eligible students who actually show up for class any given day of the school year.

I’ll tell you’s, if I wasn’t so goddamn busy running 24/7/12/52/365 for president of this used-to-be sort of fine country, I might myself cotton on one of these school-board gigs. Heck, sit around and bitch about schools, teachers and the jackass kids. That’s exactly all what I did during mine own glorious school days and the only thanks I ever got then was a time-out in the hallway, the occasional slap to the face and escorted march to the principal’s office, what the fock.

Better yet would be to start my own damn school now that all kind of governments seem to be righteously ready to take money away from the public school people and hand it over to any Tom, Dick or Dickless whose got a notion to change his concrete-laden basement into some kind of institute for this or that, praise the lord.

I’m not exactly sure what I’d try to cram down the throats of the students at Art Kumbalek’s Excellent Academy, but I better come up with something if I’m going to get in on this state-and-wherever dough they’re passing out hand over fist. I do know I’d like some kind of discipline on the premises, so school uniforms might be a practical start, as long as they display a Green Bay Packer or Milwaukee Brewers logo.

My curriculum will be strong on teaching the good ol’-fashioned values: Let a smile be your umbrella; never, ever mix good booze with soda; if you hear of a book that was banned somewheres, go find it and focking read it pronto; brush your teeth and stay in school.

And there’d be plenty of memorizing stuff, you bet, ’cause while the kids are busy memorizing, I could step outside the classroom and have a nice smoke in my faculty lounge (the alley out back).

The most important thing I’d have them memorize would be any and all parts in the Constitution that talk about the right to vote. As soon as any student showed me they had those parts down cold plus swore up and down they’d vote in every election no matter how stupid or trivial, I’d stamp them straight-A ready for the real world work of these United States

Class dismissed. Now go out and get a focking job ’cause I remain Art Kumbalek and I told you so.