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Art Kumbalek thanksgiving turkey

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here’s a newsy photo to start your day, afternoon or evening:

https://www.npr.org/2025/11/18/nx-s1-5612504/trump-saudi-arabia-mbs-khashoggi

Yes, it’s a grand meeting betweenst political murderer Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman of Saudi Arabia and wannabe political murderer President Donald J(ackass) Trumpel-thinskin.

I saw this photo of their handshake in the Oval Office and imagined the thoughts percolating through their oligarchic brain cannisters:

Mohammed: “Such an idiot dickwad he is, he the bearer of an Americn necktie longer than the Wadi al-Rummah so’s to camouflage the smallness of his Western dick, praise Allah. As we shake hands, I’ve lifted his wallet from his ample fat-ass backpocket and placed it into my robe’s sleeve. When the deal is done, I pray and sentence that his infidel sons’ spend their remaining years as caddies on the Liv golf tour.”

Trumpty-Dumbty: “Look at this guy. He comes in here wearing a bedspread and some kind of Kmart bath towel on his head. And I thought that Ukrainian guy didn’t know how to dress. I ought to deport this guy in a New York minute; although, I do admire a desert despot who can murder a focking journalist and get away with it. Plus, I hear he’s got some big-time dough and my wallet is barking, bow-wow.”

Anyways, recently discovered from the controversial Kumbalek Files, there is this:

Given this time of November, I imagine I ought to cook up a whole lot of blather about all kinds of stuff I’m thankful for through which you’re supposed to soak up some kind of second-hand inspiration. No problemo.

Since my platter’s pretty darn light of that kind of fare, this essay will be short and sweet and we’ll be in and out of here in no time. So OK pilgrims, let’s hop to it.

For those of you who read this before trotting off to your Thanksgiving obligations, let me give you a little something you can take along and share at your gathering so you don’t show up empty-handed like some kind of freeloading fockstick. If you’re too damn lazy to bring a dish to pass, a humorous story would be a nice alternative, ain’a?

Like this one I just heard this morning from the guy who relieves the dumpster outside back of my dinky apartment of aluminum cans and various expired-date sundries. And, by the way, he’s hiring if you’re interested. Come as you are but you got to supply your own Hefty bag and be prepared to work outdoors, but you get to pretty much call your own hours just like a regular big shot. And his story even has the word “turkey” in it, what the fock:

So a bunch of preachers are having a little ecumenical confab in the rectory of a Catholic priest. Just as they’re silently girding up to air out some of their differences, the good father offers each of them a rye whiskey to ease tensions, to clear the air of religious napalm, so to speak.

“Don’t mind if I do, thanks,” says the Methodist vicar, who belts down a good three fingers of Wild Turkey. “And you?” asks the priest of the fire-and-brimstone fundamentalist Baptist Bible-thumper. “What?!?!!” the born-againer shouts. “Drink alcohol? I’d rather debauch in a whorehouse!”

At this, the Methodist spits his whiskey back into the glass and hollers, “Whoa, Nellie! You mean we get a choice?” Ba-ding!

Yes sir, that ought to bring down the house gathered ’round ol’ Tom Turkey, you betcha. As for me, I’ll be gathered ’round something other than a turkey ’cause I never touch the stuff, no sir. For my Thanksgiving feast, I enjoy to boil up a nice ring baloney because I cannot eat turkey out of respect for our Founding Fathers who dang near made it our National Bird for crying out loud—I’m guessing because of the turkey’s much ballyhooed beauty and intelligence, what the fock.

And I guess had they made that decision, today we would be basting and carving the traditional eagle come the fourth Thursday each November. Well, maybe not necessarily the eagle, but whatever bird it would be, it sure as hell wouldn’t be the turkey ’cause you just don’t cram a thermometer up the butt of the national bird, I don't care who you are.

But if it were to be the eagle, you know what? I got a sneaking hunch that it doesn’t taste just like a chicken, no sir. In fact, I got a funny feeling that the eagle tastes just like a woman’s saddle shoe, size seven, shoelace included. And so one of the things I’m thankful for is that the Founding Fathers failed to make the gobbler our nation’s fowl symbol for all that’s noble and strong about our country. Besides, the turkey carries enough symbolic weight as it is anyways, witnessed by the fact that we elect so damn many of them to Congress every couple years.

OK, what else is a guy like me thankful for? Give me a minute. Oh yeah, I’m thankful that I may have finally got struck by a million-dollar idea the other day: The alcohol patch. What’s an alcohol patch? I’ll tell you’s. It’s a spin-off from the nicotine patch. Now how the alcohol patch would work is that say you were somewheres that you couldn’t be holding a cocktail (graveyard burial), with the patch you could still have some kind of hard liquor be absorbed through your skin and leaching into your liver veins so that even if you didn’t know Jack Squat about a topic of conversation, big focking deal ’cause you’d have the boozy balls to pitch your two-cents worth into the pot anyways, and still feel like an adult with something important to say. Even though it’s going to be awhile before I get the patch on the market, I strongly urge you to preorder yours now ’cause these babies are going to go like hot cakes. Just send me a nice, crisp Jackson or three and I’ll make sure to write your name down on a list I’ll keep somewheres in a drawer where I’ll forget about it, what the fock.

In conclusion, a little story you can share right after the toast of grace at the turkey table:

Husband and wife have a big argument on the day of their 25th-wedding anniversary. Husband yells, “When you die, I’m getting you a headstone that reads, ‘Here Lies My Wife—Cold as Ever.’” Wife says, “Fock you. When you die, I’m getting you a headstone that reads, ‘Here Lies My Husband—Stiff at Last.’” Ba-ding!

All right you’s, now go get stuffed with thankfulness that the mid-term elections won’t gobble our peace of mind for another year, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.