Flocked and Loaded for Santa

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And just so you know, numero uno on my Christmas wish list this year is some kind of COVID virus variant that instead of making the people deadly puking sick, makes people more intelligent, along with a couple, three extra contagion variants for compassion, empathy and an appreciation for scientific truth-telling (bet you a buck two-eighty that if such a “virtue virus” ever shined around, those knobshine Republicans couldn’t line up around the block for a vaccination fast enough, the bastards). So is that too much to ask for? Hey Santa, you fat fock, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you’s that the remainder of my wish list is filled with my annual yule staples: Busload of Vegas showgirls, carton of Pall Malls, case of Old Crow, etc., what the fock.

Speaking of holiday cheer and wish lists, I recommend that you check this out:

cnn.com/2021/12/05/us/thomas-massie-kentucky-representative-guns-family-photo

Who the focking fock are these people. Hey, where’s the family dog in this photo? Don’t all gun-toting families have at least one dog these days, for christ sakes? If they have one, it’s got to be a schnauzer, ain’a? Ba-ding!

Anyways, I choose not to belabor the craft of a finely honed essay for you’s this week ’cause I’m guessing you’re just too damn busy to read anything important I got to tell you this time of year, what with your holiday this and your holiday that. Yeah, you’re probably getting ready to go out and do some shopping right now, what the fock.

Or maybe you’re mixing another hot focking toddy and are too goddamn drunk to read whatever I got writ, or maybe you’re up to your hinder in holiday cookie dough. But regardless of whatever kind of holiday bug you may have up your butt, I know for many of you’s it just wouldn’t be the Christmas without the once-in-awhile annual retelling of a Christmas classic you first read here—a traditional holiday experience not unlike the pinching of the Yule log Christmas morning and the hot focking toddy slam-binging to come later in the day, ain’a? And what is tradition but the same goddamn thing over and over? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that TV has its “Charlie Brown Christmas,” the performing stage has its Nut-focking-cracker and A Christmas Carol, the city has its property tax bills, every dog has its day, the Milwaukee Brewers have questions at first and third base, and “Art for Art’s Sake” has one version or another of what follows for you and the family, guaranteed to roast the cockles of your god-blessed chestnuts.

OK, story has it that these three so-called kings loaded up with a bunch of gifts are from out of this place called Orient Are, wherever the fock that was supposed to be. To this day I still can’t find it on a map, I kid you not. But you got to remember, this was way-way-back in the olden days when your average wise man thought the Earth to be flatter than a ballerina, so what the fock.

Anyways, these three guys were traipsing to and fro, checking out all the towns and what-not of the then-known world in search of an infant recently conceived out of thin air, a child who was not only rumored but also proclaimed verily to those on high to be the son of god.

One of the kings queried, “Which god?” One of the other king guys says, “What, like I should know from ‘which god’? A god is a god is a god. Who cares which one, for cripes sakes.” And the third wiseguy said, “Yeah, forget about it. I don’t care if he’s the focking son of the god of focking rodeo clowns for focking crying out loud, we still got to go pay our respects on general principles. It’s the right thing to do, capiche?”

So they’re carting these gifts all over creation, gifts that even a kid back then would think sucked ass. I mean “frankincense,” an aromatic gum resin? Give me a focking break. Eventually, these three guys came across a lowly stable and decided genug ist genug. They asked a guy who was hanging around there if he’d like some gifts ’cause they were sick and tired of carrying them from hell-and-back. The stable guy says “you betcha” and invites them in for a nice hot focking toddy.

The wise men waltz into the stable but the guy with the myrrh, who was a bit taller than the other two Einsteins, cracked his head on the top of the doorway. “Jesus H. Christ!” he shouts. The stable guy, whose name happened to be Joseph wouldn’t you now, calls out to the wife, “Hey hon! You hear that? ‘Jesus H. Christ.’ I like that a lot better than ‘Leonard,’ ain’a?”

Ba-ding! So there you go, as do I. Happy holidays, merry Christmas, joyous whatever-it-is-you-got-deserves-celebrating. And to all: I hope you get what’s coming to you, right here, right now, and I mean that in the best way, whatever that means, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.