Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear another Memorial Day weekend has come and gone, which means we’re now into that time of year where my two most favorite words are “cold front” as pronounced by our TV weather guys and gals, I kid you not. I’ll tell you’s, these next couple, three summertime months during which a guy can’t even blow his nose without some fockstick wanting to put on an outdoors festival about it, do definitely not comprise my favorite time of year, no sir.
It will be all the time too noisy no matter where you go, now that social gatherings are once again getting the thumbs-up. Makes it difficult for a guy like me to collect his thoughts. And the weather? Forget about it. On those days that could even make Satan suffer (in my book, anything above a nice 73 degrees), I suppose I could echo the party line and agree that “it’s not the heat; it’s the humidity.” But I won’t. Because it is the heat. And it’s the stupidity, of you’s who spent the quiet winter months indoors in climate-controlled comfort whilst all-the-time longing to feel like a focking pig hoist on a spit and rotated over a steam-furnace flame come the summer, what the fock.
So as I was saying, here we are in the month of June, that favorite time of year for young ladies to become new brides; and their boyfriends to become new grooms, whether they like it or not. And so June, as the years pass, does become the month for anniversaries, the remembrance pleasant, or bittersweet, as in this little story:
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So this guy goes to the Wizard to ask him if he can remove a curse he has been living with for the past 40 years. The Wizard says, “Perhaps, but you will have to tell me the exact words that you believe were used to put the curse on you.” And without hesitation, the man says, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Ba-ding!
Or this one:
A doctor at a health conference said, “The material we put into our stomachs is enough to have killed most of us years ago. Red meat is awful. Soft drinks corrode your stomach lining. Chinese food is loaded with MSG. High-fat diets can be destructive, and none of us realizes the long-term harm caused by the germs in our drinking water. But there is one thing that is the most dangerous of all and we all have, or will, eat it. Can anyone here tell me what food it is that causes the most grief and suffering for years after eating it?”
After a period of silence, an elderly man in the front row raised his hand and softly said, “Wedding cake.” Ba-ding!
And let’s not forget that June also brings us Father’s Day on the 20th, and here’s an idea I had a while back for what you ought to do come Father’s Day if you’re too focking cheap to spring for a gift for the old fart. Hey, how ’bout at least make a nice homemade card. I even got a nice sentiment you can write down in it. It’s a quote from no finer writer there ever be again than dear Mr. Yeats from near Dublin, who will celebrate his 156th birthday, June 13, as best he can:
I have certainly known more men destroyed by the desire to have a wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.
A-focking-men. Happy Father’s Day. And if that doesn’t cheer dad up, then relate to him the following little story on the phone when you call him up to tell him you can’t stop by on the Sunday ’cause you got more important things to do:
So this foursome of guys are on the first tee. As the fourth guy is smack in the middle of his backswing, a funeral procession passes by on the road that runs alongside the first tee. The guy drops his club, takes off his golf cap and places it over his heart until the line of cars recedes from sight.
The other three guys can’t believe it and are besides themselves in awe and admiration. After the round was over, one of them says to Mr. Respect-for-the-Dead, “Jeez louise, Hank, that was an honorable thing you did back there on the first tee.” Hank says, “You mean when the funeral passed by? Yeah, thanks, but what the fock, I figured it was the least I could do, after all, I was married to her for 32 years.” Ba-ding!
And as for me, yes, then, of fathers, of sons, this time of year, I’ll be seeing you, as the song goes, in all the old familiar places, in every lovely summer’s day; I remember you, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.
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