From Off the Dribble

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as a guy of Polish plus who-knows-what-the-fock heritage, you did not catch me blowing my party horn the other days, there in the throes of St. Patrick’s Week-and-a-focking-Half, I kid you not.

And for personal health reasons, neither did you catch me pissing and moaning about all the blarney, malarkey and Irish hoopla in my groundbreaking essay from last week. I figured my blood pressure would be blessed if I were perhaps a wee more charitable toward those who fancy the Emerald Isle for whatever reason. And so here in the aftermath of the shillelagh shebanging, I will not whip out my familiar chestnuts; such as the reason the Irish are known as great storytellers is for the centuries-long need to dream up yet another excuse for being late to work. Nor will I query the riddle as to why the Irish have all the potatoes, and the Arabs all the oil. (FYI: Shortly after the Lord banished mankind from Eden, he offered the Irish first pick.)

Nae, instead I offer the following story so as to assist, rather than hinder, in fertilizing the garden of cultural unity (and if you’ve heard it before, now you’ll hear it again, what the fock):

John O’Reilly hoisted his beer and said, “Here's to spending the rest of me life, between the legs of me wife!” And that won him the top prize for the best toast of that night at the pub. He was so thrilled that he went home and told his wife, Mary, “Good news! I won the prize for the best toast of the night!” And Mary asks, “Aye, and what was your toast, husband?” John said, “Here's to spending the rest of me life, sitting in church beside me wife.”

“Oh, that is very nice indeed, John!” said Mary. The next day on the street, Mary ran into one of John’s toasting buddies. The man chuckled leeringly and said, “Did you know, Mary, that John won the prize the other night with a toast about you?”

And Mary said, “Aye, and I was a bit surprised me’self! You know, he’s only been there twice! Once he fell asleep, and the other time I had to pull him by the ears to make him come.” Ba-ding!

HEY, hold on. It’s my land-line phone a’ ringing. I’m guessing it could be either one of the doctors ready to order this-or-that kind of scan or maybe that Publishers Clearinghouse out of Nigeria or somewheres as to where and how they can send me the $100 grand I just won. Be right back.

OK. It’s not my doctor or the healthcare collection outfit. It’s my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine. I’ll be off in a second. Promise.

OK. It’s not my doc. It’s my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine. I’ll be off in a second.

“Cripes, Jimmy. I can’t talk now. I got to crank out my essay and I only got couple, three minutes ’til they got to have it for some reason.”

“Yeah yeah, Artie. Listen, I’m in this pool for the basketball where these kids in the college have a tournament. Sixty-four focking schools. And I got to fill out this big honking chart where I’m supposed to choose who the heck’s going to win each and every game. I might even win a buck two-eighty. I remember one year there was a team nicknamed the Aztecs. The Aztecs, I shit you not. You think they sacrifice a virgin cheerleader for good luck before every game, Artie?”

“Couldn’t tell you, Jimmy. College kids can get pretty wild and cavalier.”

“Anyways, I’m working on this chart with the brackets. I’m figuring this, I’m figuring that. Hours and hours and hours. I finally work my way to the last game of the Final Four, where they play for the championship. Guess what? I got Lipscomb up against High Point, what the fock.

“That would be a long shot, Jimmy.”

Lipscomb. High Point. Cripes, are these colleges or the names of rip-off senior retirement enclaves, ain’a Artie? Jeez louise, now I got to go back and do the whole dang thing over, ain’a? At least it gives me something to think about at work, shoveling snow for the alter-kockers next door or running errands for tips before Elon fires me. OK, Artie, see you.”

And speaking of madness in March, this week Our Town over at the Fiserv will again play host to the first couple rounds of the so-called Big Dance, ka-ching!

And so welcome,  you Cyclones, Bisons (they had these in Tennesee? It’s like the Wisconsin would be known as the Sea-Monkeys rather than the Badgers), Rebels (cripes, ’enuff said), Tar Heels (smoke ’em if you got ’em) Wildcats, Trojans, Fighting Illini (Illini?—“a confederation of Algonquian-speaking Native American tribes who inhabited the Mississippi River Valley,” it is said, and Marquette isn’t allowed to be the “Warriors”? Fock Illinois.) Musketeers and Longhorns (named after a Manhattan NYC traffic jam, I’m guessing.)

Anyways, you’s visitors need to remember two things as you visit Brew City for your madness. One: This is not New York, the City that Never Sleeps. This is Milwaukee, the City that Always Sweeps. So, after you puke your nacho-beer guts out on the sidewalk, be it on North Water Street or Old World Third Street, please mop up your mess—and that goes double for you’s knobshine candy-asses from Illinois—thank you.

Two: Just so you know, that any one of you eight jag teams here in Our Town trying to make a basket will soon down-the-line get your student-athlete ass reamed but good if you should come up against our Badgers or our Golden Eagles (Warriors), I kid you not. Book it and bet it .

And yeah, I filled out a bracket this year. Like always, I might’ve over-thunk it. Somehow I got Electoral College going up against House of God Academy and Bible College Online out of South Carolina and winning by a bucket or two, what the fock ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.