From The City That Always Sweeps

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I can’t believe it’s the merry month of March 2021 already and that the White House still has that new-president smell, god bless America. Yes sir, in like a lion, out like a lamb, goes the March 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? Jeez louise.

And speaking of presidents, I’d like to tell you about my Presidents’ Day experience the other week. And just so you know, Presidents’ Day is the highlight of the year to me and my gang ’cause that’s the day that coincides with our social event of the year—a gala costume confab in which we get masqueraded up as a U.S. president and then convene over by the Uptowner tavern-slash-charm school (this year, socially distanced and masked, ’natch) where a bartender is usually kind enough to award a shot of bourbon for whichever of us guys looks the most like the president he’s supposed to look like. And I tell you, things can get pretty testy ’cause we’re all competitors, what the fock.

There was quite a brouhaha when Little Jimmy Iodine got really upset ’cause he would’ve won but got disqualified on a technicality. What happened is Little Jimmy came as William Henry Harrison, our ninth president who croaked one month after he got inaugurated. It was the best goddamn William Henry Harrison you could ever hope to see ’cause Jimmy came as ol’ “Tippecanoe” a month and a day after the inauguration—he even smelled like a guy who’d been dead for 24 hours, I kid you not.

But when the bartender wanted to know what the hell it was stinking up the place so bad, Jimmy said, “It’s Benjamin Harrison from the Old Dominion state of Virginia, sir!” Little Jimmy had William Henry mixed up with his grandson-president. But in our group, getting mixed up on your presidents is grounds for disqualification from the costume contest. And to make it doubly hard on Little Jimmy, the bartender then had him impeached from the premises ’cause he smelled worse than the election of 1888.

The bartender awarded the winning shot to Ernie, who came as Thomas A. Edison. (Yeah, I know. Go figure.) Some of the scholars in our group questioned the historical accuracy of Ernie’s outfit, not quite recalling ever seeing a photo of Edison wearing knickers, but we were all sick of the contest by then and agreed it was time to stop arguing and to start drinking like Warren G. Harding.

I went as James Polk. I chose Polk, our only president to die from diarrhea as far as I know, ’cause I wouldn’t have to wear a fake beard all night; so what the fock.

And as the distinguished former president from North Carolina, I was honored to field a host of questions and comments from assorted patrons who wandered in and out through the evening. One guy asked what I thought it would take for Art Kumbalek to be elected president. I considered our 45th “president” and wondered how the goddamn that orange bag of clown ever got elected. Eureka! He had a university named after himself. And it dawned on me like the Allies storming Normandy: Art Kumbalek Public University. I had my buddy Herbie Hoover get me another two cocktails ’cause I had a lot of thinking to do, you betcha.

The first thing I had to figure was what Art Kumbalek Public University would stand for, other than grifting a quick buck. I decided the mission of AKPU would be to civilize the wild beast and QAnon acolyte. For christ’s sake, haven’t these creatures ever heard of evolution, or vice-versa? Take these apes, please. Us humans and them started out about the same time some millions of years ago. However, whereas we are sending spaceships into space, these big hocking primates are still spending 36 hours a day in search of bananas, and they don’t seem the least tad embarrassed by it.

And yet, we’re supposed to save the planet for them? Cripes, these animals bear as much brunt for the destruction of Mother Nature as we humans do, especially the ones we keep in our homes and call housepets. I can only imagine how much of our ozone gets spent for the making of squeakies and the manufacture of olive-green plastic water bowls. I’d sure as hell like to know where Fido thinks he’s going to get his rubberized Snoopy squeaky if the Homo sapiens goes the way of the green man from Mars, ain’a? You tell me.

Yeah, there’s a lot to think about when you start a university from scratch, but it would have to wait ’cause right then I had to buy my buddy Chester A. Arthur a nice cocktail as I wished you all the best on your march to the month of April showers, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.