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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 before absorbing the following words, me the masked scriber of such schmutz is not only immunized but fully focking vaccinated, you betcha. And to boot, just last week I traipsed a couple, three blocks to get briefly impaled with the COVID booster plus the flu shoot; so please feel that you are safe to continue on, what the fock.

And first, I’m telling you even at my age and health-consciousness, I could’ve gone to Kansas City (might take a plane, might take a train) and substituted for our misguided MVP with the Green & Gold last Sunday afternoon and I’ll tell you’s that if I had, in your Monday morning newspaper, you would’ve eyeballed this bold headline:

Kumbalek—Adams! Touchdown!! Packers Win!!!

Yes sir, last weekend I had my hands full of up-to-here. Not only did I need to contemplate the fact that I had become another year older and deeper in debt, but I had to reconnoiter the Daylight Saving Time sorcery when we’re all blessed by the boon of an extra 60 minutes. And each and every year, I always try to put this free hour to some gosh darn good and beneficial use as you may recall—consume The Martin Buber Reader: Essential Writings; darn a couple, three socks; blow the dust off my old Buffet clarinet and re-memorize the Mozart Clarinet Concerto in A major, K. 622; brush up my résumé and fire it off to Joe Biden in regards to vacant ambassadorships—you betcha.

And in the end, what did I accomplish with that free 60 minutes? Nothing. Abso-focking-lutely nothing. I failed. I overslept. And now in deep despair, all I can do is piss and moan, supine on the davenport nursing an economy-size crock of Old Crow so as to restore my strength and sunny outlook, what the fock.

I have nothing against turning back the clock, but now at my age only one-pissant-hour simply won’t do. I need to spin that timepiece back by about 40 to 50 years, I kid you not.

So I got up from my davenport and began to rummage through a tack of folders and papers on my kitchen table, hoping I might find a forgotten personal check I had neglected to cash. Found no check but did come across my Don’t Try This at Home file, which contained an Associated Press story out of Waco, Texas from a couple, three years back: “A pastor performing a baptism was electrocuted inside his church Sunday morning when he adjusted a nearby microphone while standing in water, a church employee said.”

As I read on, I learned that this man of the Lord down there at University Baptist Church was not unwittingly standing in a small puddle on the floor when he grabbed the mike, no sir. He was waist deep in the wet stuff. Listen, I don’t recall “electricity” being discussed much, if at all, in the Bible, so maybe they don’t teach about it in science class down there in God-fearing Waco; but it strikes me that perhaps baptism ought to be added to some kind of list of what rightfully ought to be an outdoor event, such as a professional football game and the canine’s bowel movement, what the fock. Which reminded me of a little story:

So this guy who’s had a couple, three too many stumbles along a baptismal service on a Sunday afternoon down by the river. He proceeds to stumble down into the water and ends up next to the minister.

The minister notices the old drunk and says, “My friend, are you ready to find Jesus?” And the besotted fellow says, “Yes sir, I am.” The minister then dunks the drunk under the water and pulls him right back up. “Have you found Jesus?” the minister asked. “No sir, I have not!” says the drunk. The minister then dunks him under for a quite a bit longer, brings him up and says, “Now brother, have you found Jesus?” Again the drunk says, “No sir, I have not!”

Now the minister is a tad perturbed, so he holds the man under for at least a minute this time, brings him up and demands, “For the love of God, have you found Jesus yet?!” And the old fellow wipes his eyes and pleads, “No I haven’t. Hey, are you absolutely sure this is where he fell in?” Ba-ding!

And then I came across my That Time of Year file, and I saw that we got the holidays coming up, so I thought maybe I ought to go get a nice haircut for the season; since I’ve always been a big believer in the notion that when you look good, you feel good. But instead, I figured I’d keep my hat on and save the buck two-eighty I’d have dropped at the barber’s and rather visit the Uptowner tavern/charm school and invest my hard-earned dough in support of an even more foolproof notion than the one I just mentioned, which is: When you drink good, you feel good.

I ordered an ice-cold bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon and wouldn’t you know, sort of like Marcel focking Proust when he took a bite from a piece of tea-soaked toast those years ago, I took one sip from the PBR and involuntarily the past became present and the present, past.

And so I remembered that haircuts are stupid ’cause after you get one, there is no way not to look like an absolute dick—if not the second you climb out of the chair, then five-ten-fifteen years down the road when some kid sees a photo of you with that haircut and says, “Jeez, they actually wanted their hair cut to look like that? What a dick.”

And that’s why I always wear the orange hat. No one can see what kind of haircut I’ve got on ’cause the one thing a guy who’s big in the public eye like me can least afford is to look like a dick. Sure, an Adolf Hitler was able to pull off looking like a dick and yet maintain some kind of credibility with his crowd but that was 60-70 years ago for christ sakes, back when people were more accepting of the “dick look” worn by members of their families or race than they are in today’s hopped-up fashion-crammed times.

Back then, seems to me most people maintained a quaintly cavalier attitude toward the importance of fashion—it was what was underneath the bad haircut and crappy taste in wardrobe—not the other way around—that was cause for concern, that got one’s dander up to go grab for the lickin’ stick.

But today, ignoring your own appearance seems to be the very first surefire way to get a taste of whup-ass from the can labeled “Public Weal.” Come to think of it, “when you look good, you feel good” is an old-school notion. The new school says, “When you look good, I feel good. When you look bad, I feel like kicking your butt.”

Could it be this attitude comes from the same place that the “road rage” hysteria comes from, which is the notion that your business just happens to be also the business of any Tom, Dick and Dickless who feels like making it their business ’cause they think they can do it better? And the reason people think they can do your own business better than you can goes back to all this claptrap about positive self-image and “feeling good about yourself” that those godless hippies began brainwashing our young people with in the early ’70s ’round about the time Earth Day started, maybe.

Hey, what we got now is a society in which each individual member has such a robust and positive self-image since they’ve always been told how special and one-of-a-kind they are, that they believe they are in-focking-fallible and that any perceived bonehead blunder by somebody else is received as a sarcastic spit-in-the-eye to the beholder’s sense of self-perfection; but rather than turn the other cheek, the chosen would prefer to run the bastard off the road and into a tree, or at least punch his daylights out.

So, in reflecting upon the religious holidays to be celebrated during the coming weeks, I’m saying we’d have a much more civil society we could all enjoy if instead of walking around with this puffed-up feel-good highfalutin positive self-image baloney, we would tread more carefully if we all were to cart a heavy load of guilt for every goddamn thing under the sun—past, present, future—destined to die too soon on an inevitably doomed planet, to all be forgotten, forever, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.