Art Kumbalek Uncle Sam
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hard to believe it’s the month of July 2024 already. Seems to me like it was a scant 69-ish years ago summertime when Mom and Pop splurged on a Stewart-Warner TV that featured a state-of-the-art b&w screen that compared, in width and length, to a men’s dress shoe.
So what the fock, I got to see “Howdy Doody” in the afternoon, and later they got their Jackie Gleason “Honeymooners.” We were entertained as the Cold War proceeded somewheres.
Yes, July, the month named after that Roman emperor guy Julius Caesar, to be placed as the seventh month on such-a-thing as the Julian and Gregorian calendars (don’t know who made it to the ancient Roman hot-girl swimsuit calendar that month; I’ll check on that ’cause that’s what journalists should do—check on stuff, what the fock).
So, yeah, big-shot Caesar got a whole month on our year-after-year calendar named after him in the 44 BCE, and in a brief time afterwards that same year, got shivved and carved by blade to death by governmental representative-hot shots upon the Roman Senate floor. Ouch! ain’a?
And because it’s that hotcha time of year, seems to me that the only thing people seriously read are the directions on a can of bug spray. So what the fock, I’m declaring my independence from delivering a regular in-depth essay this month so’s 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, a chuckle, a laugh, I kid you not. So let’s get to dipping, shall we?
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How ’bout this one? A chicken and egg are lying in bed. The chicken’s smoking a cigarette, satisfied smile on its face while the egg is frowning, frustrated. The egg says icily, “Well! I guess that settles THAT question, ain’a?” Ba-ding!
How’s your health care situation? This guy named Jerry was in the hospital, near death, so the family sent for his pastor. As the pastor stood beside the bed, Jerry’s frail condition grew worse, and he motioned desperately for something to write on. The pastor lovingly handed him a pen and piece of paper, and Jerry used his last ounce of strength to quickly scribble a note and then died.
The pastor thought it best not to look at the note just then, so he slipped it into his pocket. Several days later at the funeral, the pastor delivered the eulogy and realized he was wearing the same jacket he’d worn the day Jerry died.
“You know, Jerry handed me a note just before he passed,” the pastor said to the assembled. “I haven’t read it, but knowing Jerry, I believe surely that it would contain a word of inspiration—a word of inspiration for us all.”
The pastor reached into his pocket, unfolded Jerry’s note and read aloud, “Help me! You’re standing on my oxygen tube, jackass!” Ba-ding!
And this: So there’s this gal who enjoys a gentleman’s company while her husband’s away at work. One day the husband comes home unexpectedly, wouldn’t you know, so she quickly hides her gentleman caller in the bedroom closet, not realizing that her 9-year-old son had already been camped out in the closet during the boudoir proceedings.
The boy says, “Dark in here.” The man says, “Yes, it is.” Boy says: “I have a baseball.” Man says: “That’s nice.” Boy: “Want to buy it?” Man: “No thanks.” Boy: “My dad’s outside.” Man: “OK, how much?” Boy: “$250.”
A few weeks later, it so happens that the boy and his mom’s gentleman again find themselves together in the closet.
The boy says, “Dark in here.” The man says, “Yes, it is.” Boy says: “I have a baseball glove.” Man says: “Let’s cut to the chase. How much?” Boy: “$750.” Man: “Fine.”
Now it came to pass that a few days later the father asks his young son if he’d like to grab his ball and glove, go outside and play catch. The boy, of course, says he can’t because he’s sold them. The father asks for how much and the boy replies, “$1,000.” The father admonishes the lad that it’s sinful to overcharge his friends in the way that he did and that as a consequence he would take the boy to church to confess his transgression.
So they go over by St. Stanislaus and the boy enters the confessional. Boy says, “Dark in here.” Priest says, “Listen, don’t start up with that crap again.” Ba-ring-a-ding-ding!
Okey-doke, hope you have/had a frothful Fourth and that the corn of your choosing is as high as an elephant’s eye ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
