Photo by Drazen Zigic
Art Kumbalek Thanksgiving gathering
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear it’s already the 11th month of this year, the one we ought to call November. For christ sakes, didn’t we just have the Halloween schmutz and now out-of-the-gray we got this month to deal with?
Cripes, the passing of Halloween reminds me that another wintertime is right ’round the corner. This season, I’d like to practice what-you-call your “safe winter.” You can bet your bottom’s dollar that no focking way am I leaving the house without my rubbers ’cause you never ever really do know when Old Man Winter will rear his frosty head and administer one of his patented massive snowjobs, and that sure as hell is no time to be caught with your pants down, you think?
How time flies, what the fock. But as the august philosopher Groucho Marx, circa 20th century, once opined: “Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.”
So true, and “so it goes”; to borrow a phrase from the treasured soothsayer, Kurt Vonnegut, birthdate, the 11th of a November—the month I’m aiming to talk about here, I kid you not.
But allow me to borrow another quote from the WWII veteran, prisoner-of-war (thank you for your service in every way) and survivor of the needless Dresden (Florence on the Elbe), Germany, Allied-bombing destruction:
“A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.” (From The Sirens of Titan, 1959.)
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And so now, this year 2023, Veterans Day falls on November 11; so it goes to remember.
But as I scan my “South Seas Strumpets” yearly calendar for other important dates within this 11th month, I do notice another birthday, that being for yours truly (as a gift, a load of cold cash enclosed within a bullshit Hallmark card sent to the Shepherd Express would be appreciated as would a personal hand-written check not to mention personal ID info so’s I could access your credit/debit card whenever I ran a bit short on paying off a no-miss sports bet; so’s to thank you.)
And before I begin to forget, to those of you’s who plan to jump the gun on the holiday shopping season: I take a 42-44 regular in a nice sports coat; also, I’m running low on wearable socks, god bless you.
Hey, speaking of November, I’m reminded that we’ve come upon your orange-clad deer-hunting season. And so for our valiant big-buck hunters up a tree or scattered to and fro across Badgerland’s hills and dales presently, here’s a little riddle that never fails to put the guys in the mood for a night of beer-bingeing after a day outdoors shooting at each other before they snore the walls off their cozy deer camp:
What’s the difference between beer nuts and deer nuts? Give up? OK. Beer nuts can run you a good buck two-eighty out of pocket, but deer nuts are always under a buck. Ba-ding!
Anyways, I got to go but here’s the least I can do: For those of you who read this essay before trotting off to your Thanksgiving obligations, let me give you a little something you can take along and share at your gathering so you don’t show up empty-handed like some kind of freeloading fockstick. If you’re too damn lazy or broke to bring a dish or gallon of bourbon, a swell little story would be a nice alternative, you betcha.
So this young Ivy Leaguer from the city goes down South to visit a distant great-uncle on his farm. For the first few days, the uncle shows him the usual things—chickens, hogs, the cotton crop. After three days, it’s obvious that the nephew was bored on his ass, and the uncle ran short of things to amuse him with. The uncle has an idea: “Listen son, why don’t you grab a gun, take the dogs and go do some hunting?” This cheers the nephew and off he goes with the dogs. Couple, three hours later, the nephew returns. Uncle says, “So, y’all have a good time?” Nephew says: “Fan-focking-tastic! Hey, got any more dogs?” Ba-ding!
And so in conclusion, I wish for you’s that wherever you find yourself this T-giving holiday, god speed and remember to fight the good fight. And whilst gathered ’round the turkey table, perhaps take a moment to perhaps toast, perhaps pray, for the couple-three thousand-year veteran ingenious Indigenous stewards and protectors of this land. May their service be so honored, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
