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Art Kumbalek football cheering
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it’s now September, and what a song of a month it should be, you think?
For starters, finally, the predicted autumn leaves at some point in time are about to fall, and as I’ve said before, for a guy like me that can only mean that the summertime is finally soon to crumble and about time for crying out loud, what with the heat, humidity/dewpoint, noisy racket and outdoor insects that seem to find their way inside. Can’t use it, I kid you not.
So yes, September already, what the fock. Seems to me like it was just August, and now out of nowhere we’re into the ninth month of the year? (Although, through a tad of research, I found this: As to the “Old English from Latin: the seventh (month) according to the original calendar of ancient Rome, from septem seven.”) That means that September, technically, ought to be the seventh month of the year and not the ninth. Jesus H Christ, my head spinneth, what the fock.
And don’t forget that September marks the return of Lord Football and circled on my South Sea Strumpets monthly calendar is Sunday, Sept. 10, when our beloved Green & Gold are scheduled to storm Lambeau Field so’s to demolish Da’ Bears from out of Chicago, once again.
Which reminds me of a little story, perhaps you’ve heard tell and if so, now you’re going to hear it again:
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So this family of football fans from Chicago heads out one Saturday to do their Christmas shopping. While in the sports store, the young son picks up a Jordan Love Green Bay Packers jersey and says to his older sister, “Hey Sis, I’ve decided to become a Packer fan and I’d really like this for Christmas.” She can’t believe it, smacks him on the head and says, “You better go talk with mom.”
And off he goes with the Packer jersey in hand and says to his mother, “Hey Mom, I’ve decided I’m going to be a Packer fan, and I’d really like this jersey for Christmas.” The mother is outraged, smacks him on the head and says, “Go see your father.”
So the young lad finds his father and says, “Dad, guess what? I’m going to be a Packer fan, and I’d really like this Jordan Love jersey for Christmas.” The father is so beside himself that he whacks his son on the head and says, “No son of mine is ever going to be seen in THAT piece of crap!”
About a half-hour later they’re all back in the car heading toward home. The dad turns to the boy and says, “Son, I hope you’ve learned something today.” The son says, “Yes pop, I have. I’ve only been a Packer fan for about an hour, and already I’ve learned to hate you Illinois sons-of-bitches.” Ba-ding!
There is one downside to September for me, which is when I hear the words “back to school.” To this day, I still get the heebie-jeebies. And I’m a guy who hardly went to focking school even when I was going to school back at Our Lady In Pain Because You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough. I believe it’s called Back-To-School-Syndrome (or BTSS, as the TV commercials for drug-pills would name it), and it’s not uncommon among veteran survivors of the old-school parochial school system, I kid you not.
I’ve been told that a symptom of the syndrome is an overwhelming urge to skip out of doing something you don’t feel like doing. I brought this up to my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine who set me straight and eased my mind. He said, “Artie, I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty that this need to skip out of stuff is some kind of misguided attempt to recapture the temporary joy you experienced as a lad whenever you skipped goddamn school. Yes, you were partaking in at-risk behavior, in that you could’ve been run over by a school bus while attempting to duck the truant officer. But big focking deal. Life is temporary. At least you would’ve died doing what you loved best—focking off.” Thank you, Jimmy.
What a world, what a universe, and as the song says: “When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame,” I hope these precious days serve you well, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
