Happy Trials to You

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, just so you know, of the Monday and Tuesday of this very week my name had been included on the Milwaukee County Circuit Court’s list to serve as a reserve jurist, again, on both of those June days, what the fock.

Of course, I was pleased to know that upon opening the envelope I received the other week in the mail with the bold statement, OFFICIAL COURT BUSINESS JURY SUMMONS, that I was not the accused-defendant to be battling some kind of trumped-up criminal charge but rather one of the white people prepared to assist in swinging the guilty-gavel like a TV extra siting in the box of an episode of “Matlock” or “Perry-focking-Mason.”

So I perused the County jury-duty informational website in search of some, any kind, of loophole that I could squeeze through so’s to legally relieve myself of my summoned civic duty; and that’s where I discovered this:

“You will be paid a juror fee of $8 for each morning (8:30 a.m. - 12:30 p.m.) and $8 for each afternoon (12:30 p.m. - end of day) that you are present for jury service.” I stopped reading right there and then, and thought, “Hey, not bad dough if it were 19-focking-68, what the fock.”

Let’s do some math: $8 for four hours of service seems to be about two-bucks each and every hour you’re cooling your heels wondering if some fellow citizen is guilty or perhaps not—$2 bucks an hour. Viva Las Vegas! And back in ’68, the year of the Days of Rage, I was pulling down a cool $1.30-.40 (started at $1.10 an hour, a couple, three years prior) as a summertime Milwaukee County Parks park attendant where I picked up litter, mopped a floor here and there, foot-checked guys and gals into the swimming pool and cleanst shit-smeared “restroom” toilets, floors and walls. Oh yes, Greenfield Park, a virtual Valhalla of what-the-fock.

Anyways, as it turned out the scale of some-kind-of justice tipped toward my favor and I was not called to duty—perhaps it was that upon the Questionnaire the summoned were to return, I had scrawled with a fresh Sharpie: WE ARE ALL GUILTY IN THE EYES OF THE LORD. But yeah, another income-producing opportunity snatched away; although, I was reminded of a little story:

A man is in court on trial for murder. The judge says, “You are charged with beating your wife with a hammer.” A voice from the back of the court yells, “You bastard!”

The judge glares and then continues, “You are also charged with beating your mother-in-law with a hammer.” Again the voice from the back of the court bellows, “You bastard!!” The judge pounds his gavel and says, “We cannot have any more of these outbursts from you, sir, or I shall charge you with contempt. Now, what is the problem?”

And the guy in the back of the courtroom stands and says, “Your honor, 15 years I’ve lived next door to that bastard, and every time I asked to borrow a hammer, he said he didn’t have one!” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I was listening to Frank Sinatra’s croon Cole Porter’s great tune “So In Love” the other day, and with a little research was reminded that it’s been 24-focking-years from last month (May 14, 1998) since the Chairman of the Board (Broad?) got served the pink slip from this life, so as to go serenade the lusher life we expect to enjoy in the Great Beyond. And it’s taken 24 years for me to realize that in his absence, it is now high time up to me, you to save Western culture, if not the whole goddamn civilization. I don’t want to blow my own horn, but you know I always did have an inkling, if not a hankering, it would come to this, I kid you not.

And this torch that I’ve belatedly found, I won’t allow to be drowned. No sir, I’ve got high hopes to care-take the torch so that it continues to burn baby, burn brightly all through these dark ages until things get modern again, when I can pass the focking flame to another smart-mouth wise-ass with a bad attitude who comes down the pike, or something like that.

But to save Western civilization, I’m going to need some start-up scratch; which means here comes my sort-of semiannual summertime pitch so’s to address a word or two to the kids who number themselves as members of my readership family:

“Hey kids, summer’s just begun and I’m pretty focking certain that before you know it, you’ll be good and goddamn bored with shoplifting, stealing bikes or having your own bike stolen. So listen, it’s never too soon to think about the future and just what the fock it is you’re going to do to earn your dime. Hey, maybe you ought to think about being a professional writer like me, and I’ll tell you why.

“For starters, you mostly don’t have to go anywhere to do it. You can just stay home, which is focking great ’cause with no boss around, you can have the TV on all day long if you focking feel like it and an ashtray is always at arm’s length. And it’s the kind of job where there is no limit to the number of excuses that can be used for not doing it and how do you beat that, ain’a?

“Hell, a lot of these writers come out with only one book every other year. That’s 730 days and the book is like 200 pages long. That means, to be a productive writer, you only have to write one focking page every 3-and-a-half days—piece of cake, what the fock.

“And to boot, writers write on a computer, lo, these days, so when you can’t think of what to write, you can while away the hours perusing various free porn sites and learn a thing or two that could help make your first date a rousing success.

“So if you think this lifestyle sounds attractive, tell your mom and pop you want to be a writer, and to send Art Kumbalek a cashier’s check for $250 c/o Shepherd Express, and I’ll get you enrolled in the Art Kumbalek Summer School of Juvenile Writing. In the meantime, don’t forget to never dig a hole too deep that you can’t get out, and never ever mix good booze with soda.”

And in conclusion, it’s time for me to go and get over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school where I shall recruit mine own personal Rat Pack so as to save whatever civilization we got left, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.