It’s no piece of cake on the beachtrying to find a greeting card these days, I kid you not. Fortunately, I’vestill got one I bought for a rainy day that’s got a glum bulldog wearing aparty hat on the cover, and the inside says, “In dog years, you’re dead.”
So my day shall be full with the effortto find a nicer, better card I can hand to Little Jimmy when we get together totoast a’plenty his one-year-closer-to-death anniversary over by the Uptownertavern/charm school later.
But it’s early, so I’m thinking of anice relaxing breakfast ala caffeine du jour over by my favorite open-daily23-hours and 59-minutes restaurant. Come along if you want but you leave thetip. Let’s get going.
Bea: Hey there Artie, niceto see you. What’s your pleasure?
Art: How ’bout a nice cup ofthe blackest, thickest and cheapest cup of whatever you’re calling plain-oldAmerican coffee today, thank you very kindly.
Bea: Coming right up. Sowhat do you hear, what do you know.
Art: I know I’m going tohave to cancel my imagined overseas vacation to Iceland, what with their volcanosituation.
Bea: That’s a shame, Artie.
Art: On the other hand, Ican always get my fill of volcanic ash-holes by checking out a tea-partyconvention here in the homeland, so what the fock. Cripes Bea, ifyou only had all the time in the world, you could accomplish anything, I kidyou not. But instead, each and every single day that comes around, you get ameasly 24 hoursthen subtract 8 hours right off the bat ’cause evolution hasdecided to dictate that a guy’s got to get some sleep, and now you’re down to16 hours for the day before you’ve even started, ain’a?
Bea: I suppose you’re right,Artie.
Art: You betcha, Bea. Now,with the meter running down from 16 hours, you climb out of bed and have acouple, three cups of coffee, peruse the sports section in the papers, stare outthe kitchen window, plop your butt on the porcelain throne for your morningconstitutional, then search for a pair of mostly clean, matching socks, schlepto your crummy job to suffer 8 hours of disrespect if not downright abuse, thenschlep back to your dinky apartment except you probably got to stop off at thesupermarket on the way back ’cause you’re out of lunch meat or some goddamnthing. By now your hours-in-a-day are down to a mitt-full.
Bea: Life can be difficult,can’t it now, Artie.
Art: So you make it home, youcrack open a nice ice-cold bottled beer and start fielding the phone callsthosethat suck each and every drop of juice from the jug that holds your creativityby making you fess up a dozen different ways as to how come you don’t have themoney yet. After about an hour of this aggravation, you yank the cord from yourphone jack, just so you can prepare your TV dinner in peace, warm up theMagnavox ’cause maybe there’s a ballgame on, glance at a magazine or two andDING-DING-DING-DING-DINGthat’s all she wrote. The previous bunch of hours arehistory and it’s time to slip into your Dr. Denton’s so as to blow off the next7, 8 hours sawing wood, then get up and endure the interminable hodgepodge ofyour waking hours all over again. I ask you, Bea, from riding such a freighttrain day-in, day-out, from where are you to unload the time you need to workon what you really should be working on?
Bea: Couldn’t tell you,Artie. And just what is it are you supposed to be working on?
Art: My movie, Bea“ArtKumbalek vs. the Focking Martians and Whatever Else You Got.” A surefireblockbuster.
Bea: Lordy. Got a lot ofaction in it, does it?
Art: Bea, I don’t get out tothe theater very often, but I’m guessing that an action motion picture starringsome kind of superhero is going to be bigmaybe not today, maybe not tomorrow,but soon, and for the rest of our lives. Plus, my picture is politicallycorrect with the violence. It’s not like I’m slaughtering Indians or Mexicans,fock noI’m ripping the focking Martians a new asshole, and who couldcomplain about that?
Bea: Couldn’t tell you,Artie.
Art: Come to think of it,now that some court said our Wisconsin highschools can’t use Indian names for their sports teams, why not use “Martians”?If you’ve seen the movies I’ve seen, you know these Martians are kick-assmotherfockers. So if Menomonee Falls can’t beknown as “Indians” now, why not they be the “Martians”? And I’ll tell you, thelast time I was out there in Monotony Falls some years ago, Imight as well have been on Mars, what the fock.
Bea: I wouldn’t mindvisiting, but I could never figure a transfer from the No. 30 to a route outthere.
Art: And you never will. Forsome of us, we only get there if that’s where the cemetery is, otherwise forgetabout it. God bless America.ButI got to run, so thanks for the coffee and for letting me bend your earthere, Beautiful. See you next time.
Bea: Mypleasure, Artie. Always nice getting talked at by you. Take care.
(Okey-dokey, off to the Uptowner. If Isee you there, then you buy me and Little Jimmy one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek andI told you so.)
