Photo by Ljupco; wedding cake topper by surachetsh - Getty Images
Art Kumbalek with wedding cake
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Cripes, can’t hardly believe it’s June already. And what with the global warming on account of the climate change and the first day of summer coming back up like a bad burrito, we’re into that time of year where my five favorite words are “cool front on the way,” as pronounced by our local TV weather guys and gals, I kid you not. I tell you’s, these next couple, three summertime months during which a guy can’t even blow his nose without some fockstick wanting to foist some kind of outdoors festival about it, do definitely not comprise my favorite time of year, no sir.
And in case you’ve forgotten, our month of June is named after the Roman goddess Juno, and from my toe-tip into the waters of research, she was “the god of marriage and childbirth, and the wife of Jupiter, king of the gods.” Okey-dokey, what the fock.
(No mention of Zeus, Jesus or other kings (Elvis Presley?) hooked-up with the official naming of the month and such. But this Juno must’ve been some kind of hotsy-totsy to be the sixth-month-of-the-year calendar girl for, lo, these thousands of years, ain’a?)
So as I was saying, we’re in the month of June, that favorite time of year for what-you-call traditional young ladies to become new brides; and traditional boyfriends to become new grooms, whether they like it or not. And so June, as the years pass, does become the month for anniversaries, the remembrance pleasant, or bittersweet, as in this little story:
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A doctor at a health conference said, “The material we put into our stomachs is enough to have killed most of us years ago. Red meat is awful. Soft drinks corrode your stomach lining. Chinese food is loaded with MSG. High-fat diets can be destructive, and none of us realizes the long-term harm caused by the germs and shreds of plastics in our drinking water. But there is one thing that is the most dangerous of all and we all have, or will, eat it. Can anyone here tell me what food it is that causes the most grief and suffering for years after eating it?”
After a period of silence, an elderly man in the front row raised his hand and softly said, “Wedding cake.” Ba-ding!
And let us not forget that June also brings us Father’s Day on the 16th, and here’s an idea I had a while back for what you ought to do come Father’s Day if you’re too focking cheap to spring for some kind of gift for the old fart. Hey, how ’bout at least make a nice homemade card. I even got a sentiment you can write down in it. It’s a quote from no finer writer there ever be again than dear Mr. Yeats from near Dublin, who will celebrate his 159th B-day, June 13, as best he can (three days before what would become known as Bloomsday wouldn’t you know, but that’s another story and a triple-half).
I have certainly known more men destroyed by the desire to have a wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.
A-focking-men, W.B. Happy Father’s Day. And if that doesn’t cheer dad up, then relate to him the following little story on the phone when you call him up to tell him you can’t stop by on the Sunday ’cause you got more important things to do:
So this foursome of guys are on the first tee. As the fourth guy is smack in the middle of his backswing, a funeral procession passes by on the road that runs alongside the first tee. The guy drops his club, takes off his golf cap and places it over his heart until the line of cars recedes from sight.
The other three guys can’t believe it and are besides themselves in awe and admiration. After the round was over, one of them says to Mr. Respect-for-the-Dead, “Jeez louise, Hank, that was an honorable thing you did back there on the first tee.” Hank says, “You mean when the funeral passed by? Yeah, thanks, but what the fock, I figured it was the least I could do, after all, I was married to her for 42 years.” Ba-ding!
And as for me, yes, then, of fathers, of sons, this time of year, I’ll be seeing you’s, as the song goes, in all the old familiar places, in every lovely summer’s day; I remember you dearly, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.
