Art Kumbalek - Summer Heat Wave
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as a guy who said back in May that fall couldn’t come soon enough, I alert you to the fact that we be enwrapped by the month named August in these modern times, and I don’t know what to think about that, I kid you not.
It’s the eighth month of the year according to my “Strumpets of the South Seas” wall calendar, so shouldn’t it be named October, or Octgust?
Cripes, “oct” is the Latin prefix that means “eight,” like an octopus and what-not, what the fock.
So yeah, we got what they call the Dog Days this month—or diēs caniculārēs as they would say in the ancient land of fair Latinus before it sank to the bottom of the sea, I’ve heard.
August, a month chock-packed with 31 days of dwindling yet likely sweltering summertime days with annoying insects a’plenty, a month bereft of not nary one kind of ballyhooed holiday whenst the working-man or woman gets an extra officialized day off from their crappy job so’s to enjoy a couple, three grilled hotdogs with an ice-cold bottled beer outdoors somewheres.
We certainly need an August holiday for all to celebrate. How ’bout Elvis Aaron Presley Day, died on an August 16, and he’s already been on a U.S. postage stamp. Call it National Hound Dog Day, what the fock.
And speaking of dog days, my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine is up by his cold-water cabin there north of Hayward on the Upper Eau Claire Lake. And on his way up just past Black River Falls on Highway 27, he sees this sign near a farmhouse, “Talking Dog for Sale.” Here’s the story:
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Jimmy figures “what the fock,” so he stops and rings the doorbell. Elderly guy says the dog’s in the backyard. So Jimmy goes out back and sees this mutt sitting there in a lawn chair. “You talk?” Jimmy asks. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” the mutt says. “You got to be jerking my beefaroni,” Jimmy says, “so, what’s the story?”
Dog says, “I discovered my gift as a pup and thought maybe I could help the government and earn some nice coin to buy my own food that’d be better than the crap leftovers I’d get from some fockstick owner. So I got in touch with the CIA and in no time they had me flying from country to country, sitting in rooms with spies and world leaders, ’cause no one figured a dumb dog would be eavesdropping the conversations. I was their most valuable spy for eight years—that’s 56, my time. But flying around the goddamn globe all the time got old. I wasn’t getting any younger and wanted to settle down. So I got a job at an airport and did some undercover security work—mostly wandering near suspicious characters, sniffing butts and such.
“Well sir, to make a long story longer, I uncovered a score of nefarious dealings and was awarded a bunch of medals. Settled down with some bitch, had a mess of puppies and now I’m retired.”
Jimmy’s flabber is abso-focking-lutely gasted. He asks the owner how much he wants for the dog. Owner says, “Ten bucks.” Jimmy says “done deal” but asks, “This dog is in-focking-credible, so why the hell on earth would you sell him?” Owner says, “Did that dog talk about the CIA? Yeah, right. That mutt is so full of crap. You can’t believe a focking word he says and I’m sick of it.” Ba-ding!
August. So what with the Irish Fest down by the lakefront (Aug. 14-17), I thought it a nice thing to share a little story with you’s afflicted with affection for “Ye Ole Sot,” and it goes something like this:
Catholic guy enters the confessional box. To his right there’s a full bar with Guinness on tap. To his left is a shelf laden with an array of the finest Cuban cigars not to mention a well-thumbed stack of gentleman’s periodicals of a variety to succor any and all preferential needs. He hears the priest clear his throat from the other side of the confessional window, and so the guy says: “Father, forgive me, for it’s been a heck of awhile since I’ve been to confession, but I’ll admit that the confessional box is much more inviting these days.” The priest says: “Yes, my son. And now you will leave to go say 500 ‘Hail Mary’s’ in penance for trespassing Father’s side of the confessional.” Ba-ding!
Okey-doke, time to let the dog out; so, as the song goes, “See You in September,” when we can say “Go Pack!” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
