Art Kumbalek poker game
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Good lord, it’s the month of March already. And like I always say about this third-month time of year: March, in like a lion, out like a lamb. Or, is it in like a lamb, out like a lion? And in some quarters, does he/she/they go in as a lamb and come out as a prime ingredient stuffed into a tasty gyro sandwich? What with the climate change, who knows from the peculiarities of a March these days, what the fock.
So my friends, as I slap this essay together toward the end of January on account of working ahead for deadline purposes, here is what I project you can brace yourselves for come this year’s edition of the Shepherd March monthly, the month that the ancient Romans named “Martius” way back when, named after “Mars,” their god of war. Swell. So in Russia, is the third month of the year now called “Putin”?
March:
The madness with the college basketball tournament; St. Patrick’s Day; the first day of spring; daylight saving time (as if a guy my age can afford to flush a focking hour pinched from out of my life’s dwindling calendar of days); International Women’s Day; Purim; a late-winter monumental snow storm; a couple, three celebrity deaths; Art Kumbalek rearranging his sock drawer; Franz Kafka’s 140th birthday not to mention Fred “Mister” Rogers’ 95th (March, 1928, wouldn’t you know, who would’ve been a great president but I’m thinking he had more important work to do); our Milwaukee Brewers kicking off another Major League Baseball season vs. the Chicago Cubs, March 30. Yeah yeah, you betcha: Fock the Cubs.
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That’s a chock-packed jam-full calendar load to deal with, I don’t care what month you’re talking about, I kid you not.
And cripes, I almost forgot that in the middle of the month we’ve got Oscar’s Academy Award shebang where once again Art Kumbalek Versus the Martians and Whatever Else You Got: The Musical” failed to nab not nary a single a nomination. Just a guess, but maybe one of these days I ought to whip together a script, film it, and get it into a couple, three theaters. But is it really my fault that I can’t goddamn pin down the finances needed to put this obvious blockbuster up onto the silver screen? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you’s that during this year’s month of March we are stuck but good into the Lenten season, and I’m wondering just when the hell do the local radio stations begin to play 24-hour ’round-the-clock Easter music—haven’t heard any yet, so what the fock is the hold up, ain’a?
But as I observe all that comes and goes during March, seems to me that St. Patty’s Day-and-a-week-and-a-focking-half is the big day many.
And so I will leave you with a little story right after I observe my traditional riddle presented yearly mid-March, which is this: “How many Irishmen does it take to change a light bulb? That’s right, repeat after me: Twenty-three. One to hold the bulb, and 22 to drink whiskey until the room begins to spin.” O’ ba-ding!
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 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!
And so I wish you all the best on your march to the month of April showers, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
