From Out of the End Zone

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, about this Groundhog Day hoopla. Last Tuesday it was reported the official Pennsylvania hog due to the lack of sunshine thus some kind of lack of shadow bullshit was said to have predicted another six weeks of winter, what the fock.

Hey, Tuesday, February 2, it’s wintertime. I did some meteorological research, thank you, and was reminded that the springtime is scheduled to commence on Friday, March 20, pretty much as usual, ain’a?

February 2 through March 20 covers a good six-and a half weeks of winter to spring, that’s how it goes. Six more weeks of calendar winter is coming our way no matter what. So the hell with this ground hog, which I’ve heard that after the ceremony back in the 1880s, the lodge members would slaughter, cook and serve for lunch the celebrity rodent of the day. Good riddance.

Speaking of which, any of you’s ever notice groundhog as an entrée on their menu at these hotsy-totsy restaurants springing up around our town all over the place? Me neither; although, my experience of fine dining these days is cutting-the-film-to-vent on a Stouffer’s Swedish Meatballs entrée I hauled out of the fridge’s freezer to be micro-waved and then served alongside a slice or two of buttered Butternut white bread, all carefully timed to arrive on my TV tray for “Jeopardy,” 6 p.m., CBS, I kid you not.

But as my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine likes to remind that the first three letters of “diet” are “die,” so bon appétit.

Anyways, about the “non-climate change” humongous snow and freeze storms here and around the country from top-to-bottom lately, how ’bout I give a reminder to our TV weather guys and gals: You’re jerking my beefaroni when you describe the storm as of “Biblical proportions.” Hey, the people who first dreamed up the Bible wouldn’t have known “cold” if it came up and took a big honking bite right out of thine beatific robed butts. Give me a focking break. You ever hear of Jesus shoveling snow? You ever hear Him telling his flock to wear a hat “cause you lose 90% of your body heat out the topsides of your heads, so it is written?”

They were all tenting in some kind of sandish desert. They knew about as much from the cold and snow as they did about the Earth being round for christ sakes, so focking forget about it.

And now we got another Super Sunday football “chicken wings and beer with a military flyover” holiday come Sunday and I’m left wondering based on the last couple, three of these shindigs as to where the hell has gone all the so-called “creative talent” charged with the responsibility to slap together the ne plus ultra TV commercials that then become the talk of the town for a focking day or two—the reason for millions to tune in who could otherwise give a flying crap as to the champion.

According to my rate card, last year it was a mighty piss-poor lot that hit the air in betweenst every goddamn handful of Eagles-Chiefs back-and-forths—a commercial collection best summed up by a snappy catchphrase, like “Nothing to See Here.”

I can’t understand why no big-time agency gave me a holler to lend a hand with these TV super ads, given my track record of proposed 30-second spots for my various political campaigns stretching back to 19-focking-86.

Cripes, I’ve got a boatload of scenarios that would grab the football viewers’ attention by the balls and not let go ’til the final product-pitch crossed the goal line—scenarios camera-ready and one-size-fits-all for any product or service you got needs pitching.

Truth is, nobody can recall what bullshit product the ad pitched by the next day; they just want to be entertained.

And so, I offer a couple, three suggestions here, and see if you don’t agree:

For boner pills or one of those new-fangled camera/phones:

Leo finds a lady friend he likes and it’s pretty serious to where he’s staying by her place a lot. One night after some hootchie-cootchie, Leo wants a cigarette but he can’t find his lighter. He asks this gal if she had a BIC handy, and she says no but maybe there’s some matches in the bedside-table drawer.

Leo opens the drawer and there’s a box of matches sitting on top of a framed picture of some guy. He grabs the photo and says, “Who the fock is this? Your husband? You seeing another guy?” Leo’s gal starts rubbing her hand up and down his leg, nibbles on his ear lobe and says, “No silly, don’t get all worried. That’s me, before the operation.” Ba-ding, ka-ching!

Here’s a cute one, maybe for some kind of insurance company:

A man notices a small boy wearing a fireman’s hat, sitting in a cart being pulled by his pet dog. When he gets closer he notices that the cart is tied to the dog’s testicles. “That’s a nice fire engine,” the man says, “but wouldn’t the dog pull faster if you tied the rope to his collar?” And the boy says, “Probably, but then I wouldn’t have a siren.” Ba-ding, ka-ching!

Wouldn’t be a Super Bowl game without a beer ad, ain’a? Here, with a subtext for the need to drink responsibly, what the fock:

OK, so you’ve got three dickweeds talking about how wasted they got at a party the night before. The first guy says, “I drank so much of that good beer last night, that I got pulled over on my way home, couldn’t remember the alphabet so I got a DWI.” Second guy says, “That’s nothing. I drank so much of that good beer that when I was driving home, I picked up a prostitute and my wife caught us in bed.” Third guys says, “Big focking deal. I drank so much of that good beer last night that when I got home, I blew chunks.”

Now you cut to a shot of a German Shepherd standing in front of a doghouse. Camera pans up to the top of the doghouse where there’s this nice, homey sign that says “Chunks.” Ba-ding, ka-ching!

Why breakfast at family-friendly McDonald’s might be a good idea:

A couple is married 60 years. They’re sitting at their breakfast table-nook and the wife says, “Just think, sixty years ago we were sitting here at this breakfast table together.” And the old guy says, “And we were probably sitting here naked as jaybirds those years ago.”

The old gal says, “What’s say we relive some old times, ain’a?” The two strip buck-naked and sit back down at the table. “You know, honey,” the old gal says, “if I’m not mistaken, my nipples are as hot for you today as they were way back when.” And the husband says, “Could be, ’cause one’s in your coffee and the other’s in your oatmeal.” Ba-ding and ka-ching!

God bless something, please, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.