Art Kumbalek - Basketball
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And just so you’s know, here we be, about to slog through this year’s month of March whose perennial platter includes the interminable Lenten season; March Madness with the college basketball; St. Patrick’s Day; the first day of spring; daylight “saving” time; International Women’s Day; Purim; a late-winter monumental snowstorm; bon vivant Art Kumbalek rearranging his sock drawer; Harry Hou-focking-dini’s 152nd birthday not to mention saint Mr. Rogers’ 98th. Jeez louise. That’s a chock-packed jam-full calendar load to deal with, I don’t care what month you’re talking about, what the fock.
March, already? And like I always say about this third-month time of year from what historical research tells me: March, in like a lion, out like a lamb. Or, is it in like a lamb, out like a lion? And in some quarters of the world, does the lamb go in and then comes out a prime ingredient stuffed into a tasty gyro sandwich? What with the climate change, who knows from the peculiarities of a March these days, what the fock.
Yes sirs and ladies, it’s March, the one that Romans named “Martius” way back when they had gladiators rather than the NFL, named after “Mars,” their god of war, who from the pictures I’ve seen, did a pretty good job of wiping the landscape clean out of life from the Red Planet named after him. And such is war, gods and nonesuch be damned.
And cripes, I almost forgot that in the middle of the month we’ve got Oscar’s Academy Award shebang where once again Art Kumbalek Versus the Martians and Whatever Else You Got: The Musical” failed to nab not nary a single a nomination. Just a guess, but maybe one of these days I ought to whip together a script, film it, and get it into a couple, three theaters. But is it really my fault that I can’t goddamn pin down the finances needed to put this obvious blockbuster up onto the silver screen what with the health insurance cash registers ka-chinging down my neck? Hey, you tell me.
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And then I’ll tell you’s that during this year’s month of March we are stuck but good into the Lenten season, and I’m wondering just when the hell do the local radio stations begin to play 24-hour ’round-the-clock Easter music—haven’t heard any yet, so what the fock is the hold up, ain’a?
But as I observe all that comes and goes during March, seems to me that St. Patty’s Day-and-a-week-and-a-focking-half is the big day for many.
And so I will leave you with a little story right after I observe my traditional riddle presented yearly mid-March, which is this: “How many Irishmen does it take to change a light bulb? That’s right, repeat after me: Twenty-three. One to hold the bulb, and 22 to drink whiskey until the room begins to spin.” O’ ba-ding!
Six retired Irish guys were playing poker in O’Leary’s apartment when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest and drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the other five continue playing.
A bit of a while later, Michael O’Connor looks around at the surviving five and asks, “Oh, me boys. I believe we have a bit of a situation here. Paddy is dead and someone surely must tell Paddy’s poor wife. Who will it be then?” They draw straws. Brendan O’Gallagher picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don’t make a bad situation any worse.
“Discreet? I’m the most discreet Irishman you’ll ever meet. Discretion is me middle name.” So Brendan O’Gallagher goes over to Murphy’s house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers and asks what he wants. Gallagher declares: “Your husband just lost $500 and is afraid to come home.”
“Tell him to drop dead!” says the Mrs. Murphy.
“‘To drop dead.’ I’ll go tell him then, ma’am,” says Gallagher. O’ ba-ding!
And a friendly heads-up reminder: March is the month of daylight saving time where we lose an hour, as if a guy my age can afford to flush a focking hour pinched from out of my life’s dwindling calendar of days. If only there were a saving-time day where instead of pushing the clock back a measly hour, you could push it back, say, 40-50 focking years and then load up on Microsoft stock at a bargain-basement price. Now that’s the kind of dicking around with time that I could get behind, I kid you not.
One more friendly reminder: Thursday, March 26, 1:10 p.m., our Milwaukee Brewers destroy the Chicago White Sox at American Family Field, opening day that begins the march to a 20226 World Series championship, finally.
Go Brewers!
And so I wish you all safe travels on your march to the month of April showers, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
