Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, by now you’s most likely have heard that yours truly did not fare well in the primary elections for top shout-out for gubernatorial approval a week or so back. Cripes.
How did this happen? You tell me.
And then I’ll tell you that maybe the fact my campaign financial war chest consisted of found couch-cushion coins and profits accrued from a couple, three Hefty bags chockful of recyclable aluminum cans after I presented my receipt of delivery to the bursar seated behind a window of bullet-proof glass at my nearest junkyard. Good lord.
I need to do better than this, you think?. And I promise to do so as your perennial political candidate since the ’80s determinedly pledged to encourage truth, justice and the American way. I kid you not.
Artie Kumbalek for president, 2028? Sounds OK to me; so start flipping some dough my way to make an American dream a reality. USA!
Where was I?
Oh yeah, I hear the Wisconsin State Fair extravaganza 175th year celebration has come and gone, and who knew that this year you could get a cream punch alongside the much ballyhooed cream puff.
Now, if we ever had a bare-knuckled donnybrook at a fest or fair, I’d bet my bottom feoirling it would be at the Irish Fest, which wrapped down there by the lakefront this past weekend. Ever heard the moniker “The Fightin’ Irish”? What the fock.
But no, last weekend when we tipped a pin tor three to all things Emerald Isle, so I’m told, was nothing but peaceful uilleann pipes, tin whistles, circle-skirted red-wigged lassie dancers, meaty stew, Guinness and plenty of poetic wistfulness, you betcha. Tá grá agam duit.
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Yet, I’m reminded of the following wee story:
Two Irishmen, named Paddy and Mick (wouldn’t you know) get into a bloody fistfight outside a local pub, rolling in the dirt and throwing wild punches.
After several minutes of brutal fighting, they tumble to the ground, exhausted, bruised, and gasping for air.
Mick spits out a tooth, looks over at Paddy, and wheezes, “Paddy... what the fock are we even fighting for?”
Paddy lies back on the pavement, stares at the sky, and says, “I do not know, Mick. I forgot. Go home, ask the misses, and if you get an answer, come back and tell me.” Ba-ding!
(And as I try to pad my word count for this essay, here’s a bonus story—feel free to change names and ethic identity as you see appropriate.)
Young Molly brought her new boyfriend Seamus home to meet her parents. Seamus strolled into the house and Molly’s parents were not pleased to see that he was rather rough looking what with the soiled T-shirt with slogans they didn’t understand, along with torn jeans, numerous tattoos and body piercings. Molly’s mother pulled her daughter aside and said to her quietly, “Darling, you know your father and I love you and we only want the best for you. This boy, he just doesn’t seem very… nice.” “Oh please, mom,” Molly protested. “If Mick wasn’t nice, why would he be doing five hundred hours of community service?” Ba-ding!
OK, one more:
O’Malley calls O’Doul (wouldn’t you know) to his deathbed and hands him a very fine, old bottle of the grandest. He says “O’Doul you are a friend and brother to me all my life. We drank together in times of plenty, and fought side by side for more when it wasn’t.”
O’Malley sighed. “I’ve saved this one bottle, all that time, but I guess I won’t be drinking with you, after all. I want you to come to me funeral, and when they are done, with all the talk, I want you to pull this cork and pour this bottle into the grave with me. Can you do that for our friendship?”
“I do promise,” he said, taking the bottle into his coat pocket “and I swear to filter it first, through my tired kidneys, for the sake of our friendship.” O’ba-ding!
And speaking of wistfulness, I remember the days when I was as a sidekick to the great writer, editor and Paddy’s bon vivant Frank C., where he headlined the late, lamented sports column for the Shepherd entitled “The Fairly Detached Observers.”
A fact I may have mentioned whilst whipping out a column back then during a baseball season is this:
“On July 2, 1963, the Milwaukee Braves otherworldly lefty, 42-year-old Warren Spahn, tossed 201 pitches over 15 and a third innings in a 1-0 loss to a future hall-of famer, 25 year-old Juan Marichal of the San Francisco due to a walk-off home run in the bottom of the 16th from ol’ number 24, Willie Mays.”
Those were the days, ain’a? And as for myself, I’m hoping I’ve got at least couple, three of those left in my hip pocket, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
