Fockistocracy

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Art Kumbalek with love balloon

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as our Constitution begins to be toasted light brownish at the edges like a fluffy marshmallow stabbed on a pointy stick so’s to be soon roasted to hell and back over a big-time flame courtesy of chief camp counselor Trumpel-thinskin and his ferkakta underling kakistocrats, seems we’ve got a situation on our hands, I kid you not. 

And what is a kakistocrat, you may wonder?  

I’ll tell you’s, free of charge: 

A kakistocrat would be a member of a kakistocracy, duhh. And what is a kakistocracy? It would be this: government by the worst persons; a form of government in which the worst persons are in power. (Hello Trump administration 2025, what the fock.) 

And this: The word kakistocracy comes from the Greek words kakistos (worst) and kratos (rule), just so you know. 

Yeah yeah, those ancient Greeks, discovered democracy ’round about 2,500 years ago, lasted almost for 200 years back then, and since, today they’re known for mossaka, Oakland Gyros, Zorba, saganaki, Yanni, the best basketball player in the world, Michael Du-focking-kakis, Telly Savalas and some nice beaches here and there. What a world. 

Anyways, I heard that over by the National Prayer Breakfast the other day over in D.C. (Dear Lord, I beseech that the pancakes placed before me through your grace do not suck the devil’s ass through sogginess and what not).  

Yeah yeah, our “President” Humpty-Dumbty had one of his conniption-fits at the event, and it sure as heck didn’t sound like he was doing much praying in between the Cheerios and burnt toast at that morning’s repast. 

Check it here: 

msnbc.com/opinion/msnbc-opinion/trump-national-prayer-breakfast-christian-task-force-rcna191020 

And so as a perennial candidate to be your El Jefe come whatever November you got and whatever November I’ve yet to live, I’d like to remedy that lack of spirituality. And so here at the top of this week’s essay, let us pray: 

“Lord, it behooves me to beseech thy graceful means at the start of this wordfest to wonder if you couldn’t manage to concoct some kind of way whereas the granting of me suddenly coming into some serious dough through very little, if any, of mine own effort could be accomplished by your handiness of miracles of which we’ve all heard so much about but of which I, sheepish servant surely, have seen but little evidence of lately, if ever, in a personal kind of way—catch my draft? 

“And to please grant anybody whosoever reads the words I am about to nail to this very page safe and glorious passage whilst reading the inscribed wisdom I shall purvey for one and all, young and old, so that they don’t croak through no fault of their own before they’ve reached the final word. Praise be to you and the high horse that brought you.” 

A-focking-men, and women, and all the rest of you’s, god bless. 

So’s to catch you up to date, there I was last Sunday evening with my gang, eyeballing our country’s Super Bowl extravaganza as my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine (“Who’s hungry?”) applied the finishing boil to his famous ring baloney as us guys snacked on a package of Goldfish cheddar crackers that Ray discovered beneath the backseat of the Yellow Cab he acquired for transportation so’s to participate in our yearly shindig hullaboo. 

And oh yeah, just so you’s know, Herbie’s son-in-law from a previous marriage brought over a couple, three cases of |Rhinelander brewski just to make sure us guys would stay hydrated. A wonderful thing it was, even if it was his ferkakta idea of fulfilling court-ordered community service somehow, jeez louise. 

And so it came to pass that Jimmy’s five-pound baloney was boiled ready to serve from a Macbeth witch brew, when commenced the halftime entertainment and all I could say was this: “What the holy fock.”  

Another big-time musical shebang with not nary a tune I would find myself humming the next day, truth. And I’ll tell you’s, if I’m not elected your president come November 2028, the next thing I’d most like to be is the guy in charge of appointing the headline “talent” for a Super Bowl spectacle, you betcha. 

And I would address this egregious fock-up and anoint The Beach Boys (or what’s left of them—are there any?) for the top-dog spot at next February’s affair. For christ sakes, there have been 50-plus of these Super Bowls and not once has America’s greatest musical group shown up onstage between the 2nd and 3rd quarters, what the fock, fock, fock. 

We’ve had Carol Channing, Up with People, marching bands and the Ma-focking-roon 5 but never The Beach Boys? Justice must be served and I’m just the guy to dish it out whenever you want it and however you need it, wouldn’t that be nice? 

And then remember, while most football fans ’round the country say “boo-hoo” at the conclusion of the Super Bowl signifying the end of another NFL football season, in America’s Dairyland, we say “Go Pack!” yesterday, today and tomorrow. 

In conclusion, if you happen to find my name on your “loved ones” list come Cupid Day, you can skip the candy, fock the flowers, kibosh the rhinestone tie clasp—I’d prefer a wad of cold-hard cash, thank you, sweetests. Got it? Good, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.