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Art Kumbalek wrapped in the American flag
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here we be into the hotsy-totsy/bugsy month of July, the center-core of the brief extravaganza of what we call summertime here in the upper Midwest belonging to the country of amber waves of spacious skies filled with waves of grain in a fruited plain to crown thy good with brotherhood (yeah, good luck with that, what the fock.)
I’m talking that patriotic hymn “America the Beautiful,” which really ought to be the national anthem rather than that musically un-hummable Spangled Banner hodgepodge full of ramparts and red-glaring rockets bursting in air (we gol’ darn must’ve had a topnotch air defense system back then somehow during the War of 1812, I’m thinking. But you don’t hear much about that, do you?)
Another thing you don’t hear much about is that the lyrics to “America the Beautiful” comes from a poem written by Katharine Lee Bates (1859-1929). Yes sir, Katharine. And I’m guessing that would indicate she was female, since I don’t recall that pre-Civil War Families (North or South) would often moniker a male child with the name of Katharine. You think?
But oh my, Katharine: “Thine alabaster cities gleam / Undimmed by human tears!” Not so much these days, I got to tell you. Come back from the dead and take a tour of your Baltimores, Philadelphias, Chicagos, Milwaukees—all dimmed but good by a waterfall of tears, I kid you not.
And from your original 1893 poem, the closing three lines being these:
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God shed His grace on thee
Till nobler men keep once again
Thy whiter jubilee!
Ouch! “Whiter jubilee”? That doesn’t sound exactly copacetic, does it?
Oh! Also, this from Katharine’s original poem and subsequent song if anyone over the many years crooned it to its climax: from the second stanza:
O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern, impassioned stress
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
Whoa, Nelly—stern pilgrims beating their feet across the wilderness with impassioned stress? Hey, Geronimo, you got a shitstorm coming your way, and if you think I’m kidding, take a look at how these English focks treat their witches. Your peace pipe will soon be losing its smoke, you betcha.
Anyways, it’s sizzle-time in BeerTown and I’m declaring my independence from delivering a regular essay this month so as to dip into Artie’s Joke Satchel ’cause in the course of the oppressive and depressing human events these days, we could all use a smile, chuckle or laugh, ain’a? Let’s get to dipping, shall we?
Four retired guys are taking an early afternoon stroll in Sarasota, Fla. when they see a sign: “Old Timer’s Bar... ALL DRINKS 10 CENTS!” And so, they enter.
Bartender says “What’ll it be, gentlemen?” The men all ask for a martini. In short order, the bartender serves up four iced martinis and says, “That’ll be 10 cents each, please.”
The four retirees can’t believe their good fortune. They pay the 40 cents, finish their martinis, and order another round. Again, four martinis are produced, and the bartender says, “Forty cents, please.” They pay the tab, but their curiosity is more than they can stand. They’ve each had two martinis, and so far they’ve spent less than a dollar. One asks, “How can you afford to serve martinis as good as these for a dime apiece?”
Bartender says: “I’m a retired tailor from Brooklyn and always wanted to own a bar. Last year I hit the lottery for $50 million and decided to open this place. Every drink costs a dime—wine, liquor, beer, all the same.”
“That’s quite a story,” one of the men says. Sipping their martinis, they couldn’t help but notice three other older fellas at the end of the bar who didn’t have a drink in front of them and hadn’t ordered anything the entire time they were there.
One man gestures at the three drinkless guys and asks the bartender, “What’s with them?” Bartender says, “They’re from Milwaukee. They’re waiting for happy hour.” Ba-ding!
So, I got to go and secure my case of Old Grand-Dad for the froth of July—talk about a bottle rocket that will give (80%) proof through the night, what the fock. And let us be gallant through the perilous fight with the third-world heat and humidity of our Midwestern July so that come Aug. 1, our patriotic digits and assorted body parts remain attached and functional, god bless America, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
