From The City That Always Sweeps

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, hard to believe it’s another full month of January already. Didn’t we just have a January last year, that one when a contagious clique of pale Trumpian anarchists sought to bring in the New Year by bringing down the U.S. Capitol Building? Still hoping the Department of Justice will not forget all those old acquaintances and raise a cup of whup-ass, finally, what the fock.

Yeah, so January, again, for cripes sakes—that time of year that reminds me of what Roald (The Magic Finger, The Twits) said: “If I had my way, I’d remove January from the calendar altogether and have an extra July instead.” Amen, I’ll buy that, and I might also put a down payment on this, from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: “You should never, never doubt something that no one is sure of.” Could be, ain’a?

And so here we go again, now that it is January 2022, good lord, I ask you’s: Do I dare offer my traditional top-of-the-year Look Back/Watch Out Ahead essay, once again?

To refresh the memories of you constant, if not exactly gentle readers, to wit: In early January 2021, I wrote:

And now, without further ado, my “Look Back/Watch Out Ahead” essay, and remember that pithiness is the soul of brevity; so here it is for you to pith on:

The Year 2020: Sucked, but good, major big-time.

Watch Out Ahead, 2021: Will suck, even more. Hard to believe, ain’a?

No sir, retrospectively not hard to believe at all and so not possible to argue that kind of accuracy, what the fock. And just so you know, I’ve been putting out these essays for more than 30 years and dag-focking-nabit if I’ve ever been off the mark. For example, here from Dec. 30, 1993:

1993: Sucked.

1994: Will suck

And let’s go back to Dec. 30, 2004, when I opined:

The Year 2004: Sucked.

A Look Ahead, 2005: Will suck, even more.

And what about January 2017? Here:

The Year 2016: Sucked, but good.

Watch Out Ahead, 2017: Will suck, even more. Can you believe it? And the only surefire thing I predict is that there will be a sucker born at least every minute.

As you can see, when it comes to flinging the soothsaying, who else deserves one of those Noble prizes but me? Hey, you tell me. And then I’ll lay the new sooth thusly:

2021: Sucked, jeez louise, I’m telling you, and now we got the inflation while millions of yahoo wannabe fascists still turn down the vaccine???

2022: Will suck humongously when/if these knobshine Republicans regain top-dog control of Congress.

There you go. Clean, economical and near-elegant with the pith, ain’a? And that’s all I’ve got to say about that ’cause I’d like to break this off right here, right now, and do something nice for myself like crank up the thermostat and mix another hot focking toddy, after all, it’s focking January again.

But before I go, perhaps we can look at January as a month-long holiday from the holidays, that period we’ve needed to suffer through since, what, Halo-focking-ween, Columbus Day, United Nations Day, way back in October, which seems to be but a dream ago, I kid you not.

But January? Focking holidays are done and done, finally, unless us current and lapsed (my hand is raised) Catholics go all out for the Epiphany on the January 6, which according to my memory and sources on the internet is this: “Christian holiday commemorating the first manifestation of Jesus Christ to the Gentiles,” represented by the Magi (yeah, those guys, with the one carting around the ferkakta myrrh).

I don’t remember ever getting candy or any kind of present on this such a holiday, but I do recall a little story, here in my later age:

Imagine the shy young man’s surprise when Pope Francis sat down in the seat next to him for the flight destined for New York City. Shortly after takeoff, the pope began a crossword puzzle. “This is really swell,” the young man thought, “I’m really good at crosswords and if the pope gets stuck, perhaps he’ll ask me for assistance and I’ll get a gold pass to heaven.”

Shortly thereafter, the pope turned to the young man and said, “Excuse me son, but I seem to be blocked on this puzzle. Do you happen to know a four-letter word that ends in ‘unt,’ u-n-t, and that refers to a woman?” Only one such word leapt to mind, a word the young man felt should not be uttered in the pope’s presence. He thought a moment, and as a bolt from the blue, turned to the pope and said, “I believe your holiness, that it is the word ‘aunt’ you seek—a-u-n-t.” And the pope said, “Of course, my son. ‘A-u-n-t.’ God bless you. I don’t suppose you happen to have an eraser?”

Ba-ding! So I wish you’s all a happy new year—hey, at my age I still do like to think anything’s possible, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.