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Art Kumbalek as Mars God of War
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here we be, about to slog through this year’s month of a March whose platter includes a chunk of the Lenten season; March Madness “student-athlete” basketball; St. Patrick’s Day’s yearly availability of a mug of beer’ tis be green boy-oh; the first day (perhaps last) of a so-called southeastern Badgerland spring; daylight saving time (we lose an hour, thanks for focking nothing); International Women’s Day; Purim; a late-winter monumental snow storm (tradition); Art Kumbalek figures how to come up with another rent payment; our Milwaukee Brewers igniting another 162-game season of balls, bats and overpriced beers on the 28th as they traditionally struggle to advance runners in scoring position; Harry Hou-focking-dini’s 150th birthday not to mention Fred “Mister” Rogers’ 96th (who would’ve been a great president but I’m thinking he had more important work to do) and Chico (Leonard) Marx’s 137th. Jeez louise. That’s a chock-packed jam-full calendar load to deal with, I don’t care what month you’re talking about, not to mention we’ve got an Easter Sunday tagged onto the 31st day of this ferkakta span of yearly time, what the fock.
Time for a paragraph break, you think? Swell, I agree. I’ll refresh my cocktail and be right back.
OK. Yes sir, ladies and gents, it’s the third month of the year, the one that the Romans named “Martius” way back when, named after “Mars,” their god of war, who from the pictures I’ve seen, did a pretty good job of wiping the landscape clean out of life from the planet named after him. And such is war, gods and nonesuch to be damned.
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As I’ve said many time, many ways, it’s March, in like a lion, out like a lamb, goes the March trajectory I’ve heard. 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? What with the climate change, who knows from the peculiarities of March anymore, ain’a?
And let’s not forget about the daylight saving time (Sunday, March 10) where we lose an hour, as if a guy my age can afford to flush a focking hour pinched from out of my life’s dwindling calendar of minutes. If only there were a saving-time day where instead of pushing the clock back a measly hour, you could push it back, say, 40-50 focking years and then load up on Microsoft stock at a bargain-basement price. Now that’s the kind of dicking around with time that I could get behind, I kid you not.
Anyways, that stolen lost hour come the 10th just happens to be the hour I had set aside so’s to finally plow through the Irishman James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake as a tip o’ the hat to St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve always been curious as to “who done it,” thus the need for a wake. My guess is it’s either the leprechaun, a rowdy tavern rapscallion or itinerant sheepherder, ain’a?
But can some lass or laddie please tell me how St. Patty’s “Day” has morphed into St. Patty’s Week-and-a-focking-Half over the years, but yet the celebration will be culminated by many the morning after with the “pukin’ of the green” beer into the porcelain Saint Potty.
Tús maith leath na hoibre, St. Patty’s Day arrives mid-March, that time of year you can actually start believing that a winter around here might take up less calendar time than the 100 Years War. But here’s the thing: Yes, winter may suck, but did you forget about what comes next? Sure, you get some kind of spring come in for a week, 10 days, but then you’re right back into hot-focking-humid summertime with all kinds of insects plus youngish chowderheads with no school, no jobs and no taste in music doing their thing and disturbing the peace, what the fock.
And so, I am reminded of a traditional story repeated often only here:
Mary O’Reilly finds Father O’Grady after his Sunday morning service, and she’s in tears. He says, “So what’s bothering you, Mary my dear?” She says, “Oh, Father, I’ve got terrible news. My husband John passed away last night.”
The priest says, “Mary, that’s terrible. Tell me, did he have any last requests?” She says, “That he did, Father.” The priest says, “Pray tell, what did he ask, Mary?”
“He said, ‘Please Mary, put the damn gun down.’” O’ ba-ding!
And as we spring ahead toward who-knows-what-the-fock, I wish that “may the road rise up to meet you” as we march to the month of April showers, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
