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, I’ve been checking my list and checking it twice, and yes, indeed, this here December appears to be the very last month concluding the worst 12 months since one of those plague years back during the olden times before the flush toilet was discovered, or perhaps that year when our jackass Supreme Court handed the Oval Office over to the most-not gifted George W. Bush, what the fock.

But regardless, it is the holiday season so I hear what you hear. And so it’s that time of year once again to fling the doors open to Art’s Ba-ding! Boutique for those of you’s struck dumb by your Christmas shopping monetary obligations.

You betcha, ABB is the shop that answers this question: Why not give everyone on your goddamn list the gift of laughter ’cause it’s a gift that won’t cost you a focking dime? You can then use those savings on a big ol’ bottle of holiday cheer all for yourself and drown your seasonal depression like a bag of cats over the bridge.

What follows are a couple, three items that may interest you. Feel free to stroll around the page and choose whatever catches your eye.

So it’s springtime and the young bear comes out of his cave. His knees are knockin’ and he’s a wreck—just skin and bones with deep, dark circles under his eyes.

His mother says, “Junior! Did you hibernate all winter like you were supposed to?”

And Junior the bear says, “HIBERNATE??!? Cripes Ma, I thought you said masturbate!” Ba-ding!

Alright already, yeah, it’s not the best joke in the world so sue me, but I bet you a buck two-eighty there will be at least one knobshine at the socially distanced Zoom office party who will swear it’s the funniest focking joke he’s ever heard, and then proceed to completely screw it up in retelling it to everyone by trying to jazz up the punch line, as in “HIBERNATE??!? Cripes Ma, I thought you told me to jack off!”

And you yourself might even get a good laugh if you stick around the shindig long enough, because by then after a tubful of hot focking toddies, this life-of-the-party jackass will really be on a roll and the punch line will have evolved into near fire-his-ass gibberish: “HIBERVENTILATE??!? You got to be jerking my beefaroni, Ma. I thought you said you wanted me to spank my monkey!” Wait, wait. It gets better. So the mother bear says, “What monkey?” The monkey looks at her and says, “Organ grinder? What do I need an organ grinder for when I’ve got a right paw?” And the bear says to the monkey, “So, I guess you don’t come here just for the hunting, do you?”

What, wild animals engaged in the art of self-administered sexual satisfaction is not exactly the seasonal material you’re looking for?

OK, try this on:

In a recent ruling the divorce court judge said, “Mr. Krockakowsky, I have reviewed this case very carefully, and I’ve decided to give your wife $275 a week.” The husband rose and said to the judge, “That’s very fair your honor. And every now and then, I’ll try to send a few bucks myself.” Ba-ding!

Got one more, here in the showroom. Cookies. That’s seasonal, ain’a?

A very old man. There he is upstairs, lying in his bed at death’s door—he’s ready to kick—and he smells the aroma of his favorite chocolate chip cookies wafting up from the kitchen. With all the strength he has left, he pulls himself out of the bed, leans against the wall and slowly makes his way out of the bedroom to the stairs, grips the railing with both hands and somehow makes his way downstairs. He’s weakened and exhausted, but he’s got to make it to the kitchen where that delicious smell is coming from. So he gets on his hands and knees and crawls all the way down the hall to the kitchen where he sees a sight that if he wasn’t still breathing—he would’ve sworn he was in Heaven. There on the table, all spread out on waxed paper are literally hundreds of those chocolate chip cookies, obviously one final act of love from his devoted wife; so that he would die surely a happy man. He painfully pulls himself across the kitchen floor to the table, his lips parched and parted; the wondrous taste of a chocolate chip cookie already in his mouth seemingly bringing him back to life. His aged and withered hand trembles as he reaches for a cookie at the edge of the table. WHACK! He takes a wooden spatula right across the knuckles and the wife says, “Stay out of those, mister! They’re for the funeral.” Ba-ding!

Okey-dokey, time to close up shop. Hope you found something you liked, you cheap bastards, and happy holidays to you’s ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.