Art Kumbalek - Holidays
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, do you hear what I hear, that another long stressful wallet-emptying holiday season has finally come and gone—for most of you’s, but not for me, no sir. As I’ve said many times, many ways, everyday’s just another focking holiday for a guy like me, so the celebration continues each and every day of any year, I kid you not.
But here we be that time of a new year that demands my annual much-ballyhooed Look Back/Watch Out Ahead gala essay, the one where I whip out my crystal balls and soothsay the hell out of the approaching perennial shitstorm that will go down in history books as the year A.D. 2026, what the fock.
But about the olden last year? Abso-focking-lutely Job-like for yours truly, you betcha. You remember Job, ain’a? Yeah, the poor schnook influencer out of the Bible who really took the shaft up the dupa sideways on account of this bet the Lord and Satan cooked-up to test Job’s faithfulness, and by “shaft” I mean he loses all his dough, his kids die and he comes down with a bad case of boils all over his biblical body—ouch! Job was a tad pissed off, which caused the Lord to speak to Job and really chew him a new one. Which reminds me of a little story about hearing voices:
So there’s this guy, Joe Bob, lives in Ala-focking-bama. One morning, he hears a voice that says, “I am your guardian angel: Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.” Joe Bob ignores the voice. Later in the day, he hears the voice again. “Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.” Again, Joe Bob ignores the voice. Then he hears the voice every minute of the day: “Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.”
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Joe B. can’t take it anymore. He now believes in the wisdom of the voice. He quits his job, sells his house, takes all his money, and flies to Vegas. As soon as he steps off the plane, the voice says, “Go to Caesars Palace.” He goes to Caesars Palace. The voice says, “Make your way to the roulette table.” He goes to the roulette table. The voice says, “Put all your money on RED 23.” He puts all his money on RED 23. The dealer spins the wheel. It comes up BLACK 17. The voice says, “Damn.” Ba-ding!)
And now, without further ado, my Look Back/Watch Out Ahead essay, and remember that pithiness is the soul of brevity; so here it is for you to pith on:
The Year 2025: Sucked, but good.
Watch Out Ahead, 2026: Will suck, even more. Easy to believe, ain’a?
And speaking of voices, I remember a conversation me and my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine had just a couple, three weeks ago following the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, one of our favorites ’cause we are huge Lionel Barrymore fans, always have been. I’m sure you know the movie, the one where George Bailey plays the character who wants to see the world but every time he tries to leave town, someone or something chews him a new asshole and he’s forced to stay in Podunkville.
Anyways, after a couple, three hot focking toddies, we decided the big focking deal isn’t what the world would be like if you’d never been born—it’s what the world is like if you haven’t been born yet. You’re always luckier if you can get born as far into the future as you can. Focking-A, those poor slobs who got born a couple, three thousand years ago as opposed to today sure got the Jobian shaft up the butt sideways, ain’a?
There’s just more to do today in your spare time, for starters. Three-thousand years ago or so, you wouldn’t even have spare time on any kind of regular basis ’cause you were too busy working, fixing something, starving, getting slaughtered or sleeping. And when maybe you did have a little spare time, once every couple years, all there was to do was paint reindeer on a wall inside some cave. Focking swell.
Eking out a life in the past was not much a wonderful life compared to the future. The future’s just always got to be better, ’cause if it isn’t, what’s the point? What the fock is the focking point? You tell me.
So, tradition: I wish that you’s all have a relatively copacetic new year and make a resolution that we may—lo, these days of age and rage—believe that one of these days “We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet / For the sake of auld lang syne ”—hey, at my age I still like to think anything’s possible, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
