I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’ve got no available time to flip toward my essay malarkey this week, and you can thank last weekend’s daylight-saving time blarney for that, what the fock.
Sixty minutes, gone poof!never to return, like a guy’s retirement “portfoolio” entrusted to the investment ingenuity of Bernie focking Madoff. Gosh darn, sure is a shame our last president never got his way to privatize the Social Security, ’cause why should the government have your money when it would be better off in the pocket of some fat-cat Republican Wall Street knobshine? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you’s that a good and seemly portion of my lost hour was to be spent on whipping out this essay; the rest of the time I was going to devote to dreaming how I was going to spend the extra $13 bucks a week I got coming from Washington’s GOP watered-down stimulus-package-bonanza. That’s an extra $1.85 a day. Cripes, I’m no economic Einstein, but I’m thinking I might have to move that private jet I had my eye on to the back-burner for awhile. However, I have been pricing shoelaces not to mention investigating the latest in toothbrushes and with this extra dough, I may decide to take the plunge and upgrade. If increased consumer spending is the ticket to our economic turnaround, then ring me up, baby. Me, always a social liberal, but now a fiscal radical to boot? God bless America.
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Even if I had that time back so’s to knock-off this essay in a thoughtful fashion, I probably wouldn’t be able to on account of being sort of depressed by the fact that it’s almost mid-March and you can actually start believing that a winter around here might take up less calendar time than the 100 Years’ War. But here’s the thing: Yes, winter may suck, but did you forget about what comes next? Sure, you get some kind of spring come in for a week, 10 days, but then you’re right back into hot-focking-humid summertime with all kinds of insects plus youngish chowderheads with no school, no jobs and no taste in music doing their thing and disturbing the peace.
Yes, and speaking of mid-March, ’tis the Irish writer Sam “Chuckles” Beckett who wrote the heart-warming Waiting for Godot, but it will be me who will write upon the first day of the year the temperature hits 80 degrees that I’ll be waiting for fall. And speaking of the Irish, whose big day is coming up Tuesday as will be the gallon of green beer from the sour stomachs of our collegians on Wednesday, a little story for the celebration of this debauched day:
Six retired Irish guys were playing poker in O’Leary’s apartment when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest and drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the other five continue playing.
A bit of a while later, Michael O’Connor looks around at the surviving five and asks, “Oh, me boys. I believe we have a bit of a situation here. Paddy is dead and someone surely must tell Paddy’s poor wife. Who will it be then?” They draw straws. Brendan O’Gallagher picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don’t make a bad situation any worse.
“ Discreet? I’m the most discreet Irishman you’ll ever meet. Discretion is me middle name.” So Brendan O’Gallagher goes over to Murphy’s house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers and asks what he wants. Gallagher declares: “Your husband just lost $500 and is afraid to come home.”
“Tell him to drop dead!” says the Mrs. Murphy.
“‘To drop dead.’ I’ll go tell him then, ma’am,” says Gallagher.
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
