Gerry Manders as the Cleaver

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’m all akimbo this week on account that I was otherwise bollixed up but good with trying to figure out how the hell to help my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine to secure transport for his young nephew out to a far, faraway burg called Mequon so’s he could be on the receiving end of an unexpected puss-filled emergency root canal, on account of a boatload of infected pus in the tooth socket. What the fock.

That’s right, “Mequon,” the Native American moniker for “poor people who live in the city and count on a Milwaukee County bus for hauling their sorry asses to and fro are screwed sideways whenever they necessarily got to book passage el pronto to a white Republican’s paradise like a Honky-sha simply because that’s where the doctor is.”

Fock.

Sure, you got your Ozaukee County Express (used to, anyways), which lets you off at a godforsaken corner up north and east there a few times a day, but let me tell you, Ozaukee County is larger than a corner. And that corner may not be exactly within miles of the business you need doing business with. And the next “Express” back to regular civilization could be a stay of six hours (pack a lunch and dinner). And I’m sure there’s nothing that Ozaukee County law enforcement enjoys more than contemplating the wherewithal of a guy or gal sporting shades of color standing on their corner waiting hours for a so-called bus. Tasers, deportation, anyone?

Yeah yeah, call Uber? Forget about it out. Jimmy and me are economically dedicated land-line phone guys ’cause that’s what we know, can afford, and we’re sticking to it. Cripes! A cell phone with all the thingamajazz? These days we can’t even find the number for time-and-weather on the Graham bell. It’s a problem, I kid you not.

This newfangled technology. Magic?

Anyways, I got to cut this blather short ’cause right now I got to go meet with my trusted non-funded campaign brain trust so as to discuss my political future vis-à-vis my soon-to-be runs for governor, state attorney general and who knows what the fock else.

So, we’re to meet up over by that tavern called The Uptowner charm school, majestically crammed at the corner of wistfully historic Humboldt Boulevard and the fabled Center Street, to be found over by west of the Milwaukee River there down from Locust Street. Come along if you like but you buy the first round. I’m already late from my blather, so let’s get going.

Ernie: This government shutdown bullshit. I don’t see that in the Constitution, ain’a? Although an executive branch shut-the-fock-up Donald Trumple-thinskin ordinance should’ve been included.

Herbie: Indeed. And about our U.S. Constitution in the modern day now? We got some nutbags say our country can only be about what’s mentioned in it. There’s nothing in the constitution about how focking drunk I can, or cannot be, to drive a car or helicopter. They don’t even mention vehicles at all in the goddamn document; so tell me how shortsighted was that?

Ray: Yeah, and they call them the “founding” fathers, and yet what did they know about space travel, hi-def TV, or computer stuff? Fock the constitution. This is America. We ought to be able to do whatever we want and when we want as long as all the super-rich guys keep getting tax cuts. I figure that the more money the rich guys have, maybe the more likely some of us poor peons might get a mention in their will. Yeah, call it a dream, but that’s what Americans do. Dream. you bet.

Julius: Politics are the magic of bullshit. Last weekend, me and the grandkids were up to visit that Harry Houdini museum up by Appleton there.

Little Jimmy Iodine: I heard they’re giving away all his magic trick secrets, ain’a?

Herbie: No focking kidding. I got to get up there. Maybe they can tell me how to make the wife disappear.

Ray: The regular magicians are really jacked-off. The hocus-pocus crowd really hate for their secrets to get out. I was down by Branson the other years with the in-laws. We couldn’t get tickets to Glen Campbell, so we went to this magical illusion show. This guy does an abso-focking-lutely amazing trick with a deck of cards, a pigeon and a meat cleaver. Some guy in the back of the audience yells out, “Hey, how’d you do that?” Magician says, “I could tell you sir, but then I’d have to kill you.” A guy in the back says, “OK then. Just tell my wife.”

Julius: Hey, anybody got a light I can borrow? Time for me to step outdoors and burn down a Pall Mall filter.

Emil: Yeah, my face and your ass… Wait.

Herbie: For christ sakes. You’re supposed to say that when somebody asks for a match, not a light, you dipshit. Somebody asks for a match, you say your face and my ass.

Ray: And here comes the face of an ass

Little Jimmy: Hey, Artie! Over here.

Art: Hey guys, what do you know, what do you hear.

Emil: Artie, I’m not a gambling guy, per se, but I’m hooked up with an offshore wagering site from out of this country called Pookania, and they’re offering me an over/under bet on the number of times you use the word “fock” in your next little article for that Shepherd what-the-fock.

Art: Gambling problem, Emil? Let me help you out, I’d go with the over, always, and I’m not focking kidding, what the fock.

(Yeah yeah, hey, this is going late and I know you got to go but thanks for letting us bend your focking ear ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)