I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, I got to tell you's I'm a tad torn about what kind of essay I ought to slap together here, this being the Thanksgiving week. Naturally, I feel like blowing the whole damn thing off 'cause that's the kind of guy I am. Besides, I'd hate to think that people might be reading my essay instead of using that time to be actively engaged with their families, friends and assorted hangers-on of whom they may hobnob with but once a year come the holidays.
And then there are those of you's who see the focking family every time you turn around and have just about had it up to here with that crowd. Yes, you would welcome any excuse at all for a little private time, even if that means having to lock yourself in the commode, sit on the crapper and peruse my essay, ain'a.
You might feel like I do, that there's just too much family-this, family-that, “for the entire family” these days. Jesus H. Christ, you can't go anywhere any more without getting handed a balloon and a health snack right after some knob in a costume paints your face, what the fock.
Anyways, I suppose I could blather on about things I'm thankful for, but believe me you, my platter's pretty gosh darn light on that kind of fare this year. Yeah, I could be thankful that us Dairylanders can now pack a piece by way of our “more guns for everybody” law we got going now, I kid you not.
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What the fock, a little concealed-carry self-protection seems kind of practical during this, the holiday season—like when some in-law at a get-together has too much eggnog, gets a little cranky and all of a sudden whips out a heater and wants to blow your head clean off 'cause he just remembered you didn't come by to lend a hand and help take the focking pier out up at his crappy cottage by Crivitz last Labor Day.
And, of course, another year has come and gone where I can be thankful that I never had to hear myself say, “But she told me she was 18, your honor. I swear.”
OK, here's the least I can do for some of you: 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, you betcha.
And if your inviters hold you in such esteem that you find yourself seated at the plastic card-table in the kitchen, here's a nice story you can share with the youngsters, black sheep, slackers and fellow losers that they're sure to enjoy:
So this kid walks into his new classroom, and the teacher says, “Hello, young man. And what is your name?" And the kid says, "Jerry Cockout.” The teacher tells him that she doesn't allow that kind of language in her classroom. Jerry tells her that his last name is really "Cockout" and that she can go ask his little brother in kindergarten if she doesn't believe him. So the teacher tells her class to read Chapter 4 while she goes to find Jerry's little brother. She walks into the kindergarten class and asks, "Excuse me, is there a Cockout in here?" And one of the kids says, “Heck no, lady. There's not even a cookie break.” Ba-ding!
So wherever you find yourself this Thanksgiving holiday, god speed and remember to fight the good fight 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
