I’m Art Kumbalek and man ohmanischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I choose not tobelabor the craft of a finely honed essay for you’s this week ’cause I’mguessing you’re just too damn busy to read anything important I got to tell youthis time of year aren’t you, what with your holiday this and your holidaythat. Yeah, bet you a buck two-eighty you’re probably getting ready to go outand do some shopping right now, ain’a?
(Just so you know, I take a 38-40regular and I can always use some socks, but cash always makes for a nice gift,you betcha. But what I could really use is my own private compartment on allcounty buses that run the No. 30, No. 10 and No. 11 lines. Hey, one of myfavorite movies all-time is Tod Browning’s Freaks, but I’d rather watchit than be in it, I kid you not. How many times I got to tell you that, forchrist sakes.)
Or maybe you’re mixing another hotfocking toddy and are too goddamn drunk to read whatever I got writ, or maybeyou’re up to your hinder in holiday cookie dough. But regardless of whateverkind of holiday bug you may have up your butt, I know for many of you’sit just wouldn’t be the Christmas without the once-in-awhile annual retellingof a Christmas classic you first read herea traditional holiday treat notunlike the pinching of the Yule log Christmas morning and the hot focking toddyslam-binging to come later in the day, ain’a? And what is tradition but thesame goddamn thing over and over? You tell me.
And then I’ll tell you that TV has its“Charlie Brown Christmas,” the performing stage has its Nut-focking-cracker and AChristmas Carol, the city has its property tax bills, every dog has itsday, and “Art for Art’s Sake” has one version or another of what follows foryou and the family, guaranteed to roast the cockles of your god-blessedchestnuts.
[[ Insert Holiday-ish icons HerePlease, sir, what the fock]]
OK, story has it that these threeso-called kings loaded up with a bunch of gifts are from out of this placecalled Orient Are, wherever the fock that was supposed to be. To this day Istill can’t find it on a map, I kid you not. But you got to remember, this wasway-back-when in the olden days when wise men knew the world was flatter than aballerina, so what the fock.
Anyways, these three guys weretraipsing to and fro, checking out all the towns of the then-known world insearch of an infant recently conceived out of thin air, a child who was notonly rumored but also proclaimed verily to those on high to be the son of god.
One of the kings queried, “Which god?”One of the other king guys says, “What, like I should know from ‘which god’? Agod is a god is a god. Who cares which one, ain’a? And the third wiseguy said,“Yeah, forget about it. I don’t care if he’s the focking son of the god offocking rodeo clowns for focking crying out loud, we still got to go pay ourrespects on general principles. It’s the right thing to do, understand?”
So they’re carting these gifts all overcreation, gifts that even a kid back then would think sucked ass. I mean“frankincense,” an aromatic gum resin? Give me a break. Eventually, these threeguys came across a lowly stable and decided enough’s enough. They asked a guywho was hanging around there if he’d like some gifts ’cause they were sick ofcarrying them all over the place. The guy says “you bet” and invites them infor a nice hot focking toddy.
The wise men waltz into the stable butthe guy with the myrrh, who was a bit taller than the other two Einsteins,cracked his head on the top of the doorway. “Jesus H. Christ!” heshouts. The stable guy, whose name was Joseph, calls out to the wife, “Hey hon!You hear that? ‘Jesus H. Christ.’ I like that a lot better than Leonard,ain’a?”
[[ Insert Holiday-ish icons HerePlease, sir, what the fock]]
Ba-ding! So there you go, as do I. Onelast thing, again: Remember, one and all, to be damn sure to celebrate thisholiday good and plenty. You just can’t ever be 100 per-focking-cent sure thatit may not be the last one you’ll get; so make it a good one, what the fock, ’causeI’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
