Art Kumbalek - Fourth of July
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Say, can you see it’s July 2026 already, the month we celebrate our nation’s stumbling democracy’s independence from those bastard limey colonialists? Yes, plenty of us will proudly attempt to croon the Anthem, what with its words of “bombs bursting in air” and “ramparts,” ’tis thee.
Hold on. “Ramparts”? I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty if you asked the majority of our country-men-and-women to define “ramparts,” they’d say it’s something you’d find in your gyro sandwich down by that Greek joint, I kid you not, god bless America.
Yeah yeah, July, the month named after that Roman emperor guy Julius Caesar, to be placed as the seventh month on such-a-thing as the Julian and Gregorian calendars (don’t know who made it to the ancient Roman hot-girl swimsuit calendar that month; I’ll check on that ’cause that’s what journalists should do—check on stuff, what the fock).
So, big-shot Caesar got a whole month on our annual calendar named after him in the 44 BCE (any bets on when September becomes Trumptember?), and in a brief time afterwards that same year, got shivved and carved by blade to death by governmental representative-hot shots upon the Roman Senate floor. Ouch! ain’a?
And because it’s that hotcha time of year, seems to me that the only thing people seriously read are the directions on a can of bug spray. So what the fock, I’m declaring my independence from delivering my regular in-depth essay this month so’s to dip into Artie’s Joke Satchel ’cause in the course of the oppressive and depressing human events these days, we could all use a smile, a chuckle, a laugh, I kid you not. So let’s get to dipping, shall we?
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How ’bout this one? A chicken and egg are lying in bed. The chicken’s smoking a cigarette, satisfied smile on its face while the egg is frowning, frustrated. The egg says icily, “Well! I guess that settles THAT question, ain’a?” Ba-ding!
How’s your health care situation? This guy named Jerry was in the hospital, near death, so the family sent for his pastor. As the pastor stood beside the bed, Jerry’s frail condition grew worse, and he motioned desperately for something to write on. The pastor lovingly handed him a pen and piece of paper, and Jerry used his last ounce of strength to quickly scribble a note and then died.
The pastor thought it best not to look at the note just then, so he slipped it into his pocket. Several days later at the funeral, the pastor delivered the eulogy and realized he was wearing the same jacket he’d worn the day Jerry died.
“You know, Jerry handed me a note just before he passed,” the pastor said to the assembled. “I haven’t read it, but knowing Jerry, I believe surely that it would contain a word of inspiration—a word of inspiration for us all.”
The pastor reached into his pocket, unfolded Jerry’s note and read aloud, “Help me! You’re standing on my oxygen tube, jackass!” Ba-ding!
The golden years: Four well-to-do retired guys take an early afternoon stroll in sunny Sarasota, Florida, when they see a sign: “Old Timer’s Bar: ALL DRINKS 10 CENTS!” And so, they enter.
Bartender says “What’ll it be, gentlemen?” They all ask for a martini. In short order, the bartender serves up four iced martinis and says, “That’ll be 10 cents each, please.”
The four retirees can’t believe their good fortune. They pay the 40 cents, finish their martinis, and order another round. Again, four martinis are produced, and the bartender says, “Forty cents, please.” They pay the tab, but their curiosity is more than they can stand. They’ve each had two martinis, and so far they’ve spent less than a dollar. One asks, “How can you afford to serve martinis as good as these for a dime apiece?”
Bartender says: “I’m a retired tailor from Brooklyn and always wanted to own a bar. Last year I hit the lottery for $50 million and decided to open this place. Every drink costs a dime—wine, liquor, beer, all the same.”
“That’s quite a story,” one of the men says. Sipping their martinis, they couldn’t help but notice three other older fellas at the end of the bar who didn’t have a drink in front of them and hadn’t ordered anything the entire time they were there.
One man gestures at the three drinkless guys and asks the bartender, “What’s with them?” Bartender says, “Cheapskates from Milwaukee. They’re waiting for happy hour.” Ba-ding!
Okey-doke, I got to go and secure my case of Old Grand-Dad for the froth of July—talk about a bottle rocket that will give 80% proof through the night ’til the dawn’s early light.
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Hope you have/had spectacular Fourth, that the corn of your choosing is as high as an elephant’s ear and that you be gallant through the perilous fight with the third-world heat and humidity of our Midwestern July so that come August 1, your patriotic digits and assorted body parts remain attached and functional so’s you can reconnoiter a ballot box come November, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
