Hot Air Balloonatic

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek (a.k.a. “His Toddyness” out East) and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as I whip up a couple, three hot focking toddies so’s to stave off the February frigid, let me mention for the benefit of you’s who may have eye-witnessed last week’s online effort (the much ballyhooed “Blowhard Advisory”) and had not nodded off mid-read, you may have noticed that the discourse was inexplicably chopped-off before its intended grand denouement. A shame, and what the fock.

To recap, I was pitching million-dollar TV advertising can’t-miss commercial ideas (’cause who doesn’t love a crafty TV ad on Super Sunday, ain’a?)

So here’s finally the gut-busting finale to last week’s essay, in full:

“Why breakfast at McDonald’s might be a good curveball idea:

A couple is married 50 years. They’re sitting at the breakfast table and the wife says, “Just think, fifty years ago we were sitting here at this breakfast table together.” And the old guy says, “And we were probably sitting here naked as jaybirds fifty years ago, those were the days” 

The old gal says, “What’s say we relive some old times, ain’a?” So the two strip buck-naked and sit back down at the table. “You know, honey,” the old gal says, “if I’m not mistaken, my nipples are as hot for you today as they were way back when.” And the husband says, “Could be, ’cause one’s in your coffee and the other’s in your oatmeal.” Ba-ding and ka-ching!”

Okey-dokey, so, onward.

The State of the Essay 2023 (Today, anyways, what the fock)

Thanks for coming to this page and god bless you. As your loin-girded anointed local knucklehead essayist, I would be a derelict from my duties if I did not deliver my annual address about what a good focking job I’ve been doing; about how we as a peoples are way better off than we’d be if I were not doing the job of whatever the fock the job is I do; about tossing a limp bone to knobshines who’d say perhaps I’m not performing up to the snuff; and blah blah, focking blah.

Before I launch into my prepared remark from over the years of my fond due diligence on the job, I begin with this anecdote:

Guy goes to the dentist. Dentist examines the guy’s mouth and says, “These are the worst teeth I’ve ever seen. Do you ever floss?”

Guy says, “Flossing’s a big pain in the ass.”

Dentist says, “Then obviously you’re doing it wrong.” Ba-ding!

Thank you. Please be seated. We shall begin.

Yes, “You’re doing it wrong.” Boy-oh, when haven’t I heard that exact phase more than once and plus a hundred times weekly during my administration of this essay. When I awaken, “You’re doing it wrong,” be the first words I hear through my head. When I go to bed in the nighttime, “You’re doing it wrong” be the last words I imagine to hear before dreaming of better essays.

And what can I pledge to do about this? Fock if I know. So now I sit with thumb up dupa and wonder, hey, how many of these essays do I have left in me, anyways? Could it really be some kind of what-you-call finite number, or do I possess the kind of potency to keep pumping these babies out ’til they got to haul me out the door feet first come doomsday? Again, fock if I know.

But I do know I’d like to have a word with the smokers in the audience. You are true Americans, what with the exorbitant amount of taxes you ship to the governments on an hourly basis so that our elected politicians can enjoy the Cadillac of all health plans while your crappy health plan is now ready and willing to chew you a new one because you might be a so-called health risk for no reason other than the exercise of freedom to make a personal choice, or something like that.

I’m just not buying the science of the health malarkey that the anti-crowd chooses to use to douse your enjoyment of a fine tobacco product. According to a study I personally slapped together years ago, I learned that the average life span of the average Tom, Dick or Dickless got one hell of a lot longer after Sir Walter Raleigh discovered the cigarette than it was before the cigarette, so put that in your peace pipe and smoke it, mister.

Hey, you can look it up yourself if you don’t believe me. Back in the olden days of the Dark Ages, long before your regular Joe Blow could take a break and blow a square, civilized people lived in dank castles, grew old and croaked by the age of thirty-focking-five if not sooner, I kid you not. Today in the modern time following the advent of the tobacco product, you can find guys at the age of 35, chewing the chaw and playing competitive ball on major league baseball teams to the tune of a couple, three million bucks a year. Funny you don’t hear more about that connected to the so-called “evils” of tobacco, ain’a?

Now I’m not saying that cigarettes are the only reason people live longer today than they used to—indoor plumbing’s probably helped some—but I am saying that you never hear about the connection between smokes and longevity. Kind of makes a guy wonder what else he might not be hearing about, what the fock.

And “what else” you won’t be hearing is more from me. It’s cocktail time, so I’ve got to go.

So in conclusion to this address, I must say that if you happen to find my name on your “loved ones” list come Cupid Day, you can skip the candy, fock the flowers, skip the rhinestone tie clasp—I’d prefer a wad of cold-hard cash, thank you, sweetest. Got it? Good, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.