Photo illustration: Dave Zylstra
Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here we be, about to slog through this year’s month of March whose platter this year includes Lenten season; March Madness with the basketball; St. Patrick’s Day; the first day of spring; daylight saving time; International Women’s Day; Purim; a late-winter monumental snow storm; Art Kumbalek rearranging his sock drawer; Harry Hou-focking-dini’s 148th birthday not to mention Mr. Rogers’ 94th. Jeez louise. That’s a chock-packed jam-full calendar load to deal with, I don’t care what month you’re talking about, what the fock.
Yes sir, and yes ladies, it’s the third month of the year, the one that the Romans named “Martius” way back when, named after “Mars,” their god of war, who from the pictures I’ve seen recently, did a pretty good job of wiping the landscape clean out of life from the planet named after him. And such is war, gods and nonesuch be damned.
But it’s March, in like a lion, out like a lamb, goes the March trajectory as they say. Or, is it in like a lamb, out like a lion? And in some quarters, does she go in as a lamb and come out as lamb chops? What with the climate change, who knows from the peculiarities of March anymore, ain’a?
And this month is the daylight saving time where we lose an hour, as if a guy my age can afford to flush a focking hour pinched from out of my life’s dwindling calendar of days. If only there were a saving-time day where instead of pushing the clock back a measly hour, you could push it back, say, 40 focking years and then load up on Microsoft stock at a bargain-basement price. Now that’s the kind of dicking around with time that I could get behind, I kid you not.
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Anyways, that stolen lost hour come the 13th just happens to be the hour I had set aside so’s to finally plow through the Irishman James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake as a tip o’ the hat to St. Patrick’s Day. (I’ve always been curious as to “who done it,” thus the need for a wake. My guess is it’s either the leprechaun or some kind of focking butler, wouldn’t you know.) And so, I am reminded of a little story:
Mary O’Reilly finds Father O’Grady after his Sunday morning service, and she’s in tears. He says, “So what’s bothering you, Mary my dear?” She says, “Oh, Father, I’ve got terrible news. My husband John passed away last night.”
The priest says, “Mary, that’s terrible. Tell me, did he have any last requests?” She says, “That he did, Father.” The priest says, “Pray tell, what did he ask, Mary?”
“He said, ‘Please Mary, put the damn gun down.’” O’ ba-ding!
And can some lass or laddie please tell me how St. Patty’s “Day” has morphed into St. Patty’s Week-and-a-focking-Half over the years, but yet the celebration will be culminated by many the morning after with the “pukin’ of the green” beer into the porcelain Saint Potty—which reminds me of another little story:
Six retired Irish guys were playing poker in O’Leary’s apartment when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest and drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the other five continue playing
A bit of a while later, Michael O’Connor looks around at the surviving five and asks, “Oh, me boys. I believe we have a bit of a situation here. Paddy is dead and someone surely must tell Paddy’s poor wife. Who will it be then?” They draw straws. Brendan O’Gallagher picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don’t make a bad situation any worse.
“Discreet? I’m the most discreet Irishman you’ll ever meet. Discretion is me middle name.” So Brendan O’Gallagher goes over to Murphy’s house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers and asks what he wants. Gallagher declares: “Your husband just lost $500 playing cards and is afraid to come home.”
“Tell him to drop dead!” says the Mrs. Murphy.
“‘To drop dead.’ I’ll go tell him then, ma’am,” says Gallagher. O’ ba-ding!
But St. Patty’s Day arrives mid-March, that time of year you can actually start believing that a winter around here might take up less calendar time than the 100 Years War. But here’s the thing: Yes, winter may suck, but did you forget about what comes next? Sure, you get some kind of spring come in for a week, 10 days, but then you’re right back into hot-focking-humid summertime with all kinds of insects plus youngish chowderheads with no school, no jobs and no taste in music doing their thing and disturbing the peace, what the fock.
And so as we spring ahead into March and toward who-knows-what-the-fock, I wish that “may the road rise up to meet you” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
