From The City That Always Sweeps

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Photo by Drazen Zigic

Art Kumbalek Thanksgiving gathering

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it’s November already? For cripes sakes, didn’t we just have the Halloween schmutz with the candy and costumes and now we get the cranberry (ever had it for breakfast? Me neither. Ever want it, anytime of day? Me neither) plus Sahara-dried turkey white meat served with a side-course of political palaver spewed across the gathered-round thankful table from a whiskered aging goofball uncle?

Cliché- touché.

Anyways, here I be with my essay for the Shepherd’s November magazine, which means I had to slap this palaver together back in late September, as deadlines dictate.

So, by the time you peruse these golden words, together we will have experienced Indigenous Peoples’ Day, Hallo-focking-ween and a presidential election, not to mention the possibility of a visitation by aliens from outer space, maybe anappearance of another novel virus that makes COVID seem like an ice-creamed stroll on a brightly colored sea-shelled beach with a balloon, a Brewers World Series Championship.

And as for what I can tell you’s how to feel about 2024’s big-time election, all I can do is to quote the late, great late-night “Dark Side” jazz DJ Ron Cuzner, that being:

I sincerely hope you are warm tonight, and that you are together tonight, and that your cookie jar is filled to the very brim… with the cookies of your choice, of course.

Yeah yeah, November. Astrologically, I got a Scorpion B-day near the top-of-this-month, just so you’s know. And at my advanced age, one of these new-fangled GoFundMe deals sent my way would be much appreciated. I could use a new pair of shoes, a bag of socks, not to mention monetary relief from a boatload of medical $chmutz. Also, I take a 42-44 regular in a nice sports coat, god bless you.

Thanksgiving. As a safety tip, allow me to suggest that wherever you go for the holiday, do not forget to pack a piece of concealed-carry protection in the event some in-law has too much holiday vino, gets a little cranky and all of a sudden whips out a heater and wants to blow your head clean off ’cause he just remembered you didn’t come by to lend a hand and help take his focking pier out up at his crappy cottage by Hayward last Labor Day.

Which reminds me, how ’bout I give you a little something you can take along and share at your gathering of thanks so’s you don’t show up empty-handed like some kind of freeloading fockstick. If you’re too damn lazy to bring a dish or gallon of bourbon, a humorous story would be a nice alternative, you betcha.

There’s this group of hunters who always go up to the same neck-of-the-woods every year for a three-day beer-drinking shootout. Each morning they’d pair off in twos for the hunt. Well sir, one evening one of the guys came back alone, dragging a huge 10-point buck. The other guys wanted to know where Jerry was, and the guy dragging the deer said that Jerry had a stroke or maybe a heart attack, couple miles back. “Cripes, you left Jerry lying there in the cold and the dark and dragged the deer back instead?” And the guy says, “Yeah, it was a tough call, but I figured no one would steal Jerry, so what the fock.” Ba-ding!

Yes sir, that ought to bring down the house gathered ’round ol’ Tom Turkey, ain’a? As for me, I’ll be gathered ’round something other than a turkey ’cause I never touch the stuff, no sir. For my Thanksgiving feast, I enjoy to boil up a nice ring baloney because I cannot eat turkey out of respect for our Founding Fathers who dang near made it our National Bird for christ sakes—I’m guessing because of the turkey’s much ballyhooed beauty and intelligence, what the fock.

And I guess had they made that decision, today we would be basting and carving the traditional eagle come the fourth November Thursday. Well, maybe not necessarily the eagle, but whatever bird it would be, it sure as hell wouldn’t be the turkey ’cause you just don’t cram a thermometer up the butt of the National Bird, I don’t care who you are.

But if it were to be the eagle, you know what? I got a sneaking hunch that it doesn’t “taste just like chicken,” no sir. In fact, I got a funny feeling that the eagle tastes just like a woman’s saddle shoe, size seven, shoelace included. So yes, I’m thankful that the Founding Fathers failed to make the gobbler our nation’s fowl symbol for all that’s noble and strong about our country. Besides, the focking turkey carries enough symbolic weight as it is anyways, witnessed by the fact that we elect so goddamn many of them to Congress every couple years, ain’a?

And in conclusion, let me say that wherever you find yourself this Thanksgiving holiday, god speed and remember to fight the good fight ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.