From The City That Always Sweeps

Cripes, do I sniff a possible conspiracy concocted by Big Gift so as to empty our wallets and bank accounts to their benefit for, perhaps, sinister purposes?

by

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear it’s already the month of December—hot focking toddy time—that includes the Christmas day. Yes, December, the so-called 12th, and last, month of the year according to experts who track this kind of stuff, what the fock. 

But hold on St. Nick, and is that your real name? Didn’t we have a “December” just a year ago about this time? Cripes, do I sniff a possible conspiracy concocted by Big Gift so as to empty our wallets and bank accounts to their benefit for, perhaps, sinister purposes? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you’s that this can be a stressful time of year, like you didn’t know that already, ain’a? Jeez louise, you’ve got holiday gift decisions to make during these economic times: Could good ol’ great-Auntie Helen really use some nice new doilies again or would a $1 dollar gift card from Yoga You Betcha be more practical. And there’s Uncle Chester, what, a gallon of Old Crow for him under the tree? Yeah, that’ll be gone by the time Christmas dessert is served, I kid you not.

December: the month of the winter solstice, the day and then a season with the fewest daylight hours, certainly a boon to vampires all over the Northern Hemisphere; so I suggest to you holiday gift-buyers out-and-about that you keep a keen eye out for fellow shoppers who may appear to be bat-crazy (numerous, they are). 

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So many questions, but that’s why I’m here to help you with some answers.

Like the other day, my buddy Ernie gave me a call and asked, “Hey Artie, the wife wants a new puppy for Christmas. I know they don’t sell them at your Best Buy or T.J. Maxx. Any idea where I should go?”

And so I said to Ernie, “Yeah, how ’bout Divorce Court?”

Full disclosure: My scariest thought is whether or not animals get to go to heaven. For christ sakes, that’s all a guy needs is to spend his entire focking life busting his butt, finally gets puking sick, croaks, walks through the Pearly Gates and the first thing that happens is he steps right smack-dab into one heaping, heaving pile of dog-doo. Praise the lord. 

And this is supposed to be for eternity ever-after? I’ll tell you’s, I want to be buried with a rolled-up newspaper so that when I’m shaking hands with St. Peter and some canine starts humping my leg, I can give it one good ol’ whack right across the goddamn snout.

I pray they must go to the other place, ’cause spending a couple, three eternities in the company of household pets and assorted animals sure sounds like focking hell to me. Or at least that these creatures would have their own animal heaven where they could all go and sniff each other’s butts and leave mine alone. That I could live with ’cause when it comes to other species—your animal, insect societies and what-not—you can call me a “speciest,” but I firmly believe in a “separate, the hell with equal” kind of arrangement, what the fock.

And speaking of hot focking toddies, allow me to provide a public service to you’s with a nice recipe that will allow you to carry through the perhaps dark and cold weeks/months ahead:

Art Kumbalek’s Hot Focking Toddy Recipe

  • 1½ jigger (or half-pint, or gallon) of bourbon or whiskey
  • 1 lump sugar, or teaspoon of honey
  • 2 cloves
  • Pinch of nutmeg
  • Stir ingredients with hot water in 5-ounce glass or jumbo mug (your call)
  • Stick in a cinnamon stick
  • Decorate with twist of lemon rind
  • Take shoes off, hum “Blue Christmas,” crank thermostat to 83 degrees and get ready to mix up another couple, three, six hot focking toddies. (The nights will be long and dark. Often, I’ll forego the nutmeg, cinnamon stick, lemon rind etc. and just head to a full pour from the Early Times gallon.)

So, there you go. I wish you’s all happy holidays, merry Christmas, joyous whatever-it-is-you-got-deserves-celebrating. And to all: I hope you get what’s coming to you, right here, right now, and I mean that in the best way. Be damn sure to celebrate this holiday time of year good and plenty. You just can’t ever be 100 per-focking-cent sure that it may not be the last one you’ll get; so make it a good one, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.