I’m Not Dead Yet

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear we got big-time elections for this-and-that heading toward the latter part of this year, 2024, whilst “our” former “president” is legally required to plant his fat lyin’ ass on a hard chair in a New York courtroom on account of at least double-digit felony charges.

Lock him up, what the fock.

Yeah yeah, we got our presidents going toe-to-toe, senators, U.S. reprehensatives, state legislative focksicks, school board “Karens”—all ready to wield some kind of power within their dunderhead domain.

But I kid you not, whenever you go to place your vote somewheres, provided you’re allowed to these days, it’s not a bad thing to be educated of the past, present and likely future of the knobwad you may select to secure the office of his/her choice.

Example: Wisconsin. So-called purple swing-state according to political bullshit. We got a U.S. senatorial campaign up ahead. The Republican douchebag on the platter, million-billionaire by the name of such a Eric Hovde, who sports the mustachial facial hair akin to a late ’70s VCR porn dude, had this to say about one’s right to place a vote in a box somewheres:

(From newsweek.com the other couple days ago)

Republican senate candidate Eric Hovde suggested most nursing home residents should not be voting because they only have “five, six months life expectancy.” (See: Monty Python’s Holy Grail—“I’m not dead yet!”)

OK, more. Here, from wpr.org (Wisconsin Public Radio, just so you’s know): 

U.S. Senate candidate Eric Hovde said recently most nursing home residents are not “at a point to vote” because of limited life expectancy…” 

Perhaps it bears repeating, this: (See: Monty Python’s Holy Grail—“I’m not dead yet!”)

Anyways, as a bona fide candidate for whatever office you got needs candidate-ing, rather than finish off a blockhead-busting essay full of pith and vinegar, I decided to make a morning campaign appearance over by my favorite open-daily 23-hours and 59-minutes restaurant for a relaxing breakfast ala caffeine du jour, seeing as how it’s a tad early for a nice cocktail over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school. Come along if you want but you leave the tip. Let’s get going.

Bea: Hey there Artie, nice to see you. What’s your pleasure?

Art: How ’bout a nice cup of the blackest, thickest and cheapest cup of whatever you’re calling plain-old American coffee today. Coffee with a gravitational force of its own, thank you kindly.

Bea: One cup of “Black Hole” coming right up, Artie. So what do you hear, what do you know.

Art: I hear there’s a lot of dough in the private prison racket these days. They could make a movie—call it Field of Cons. A guy clears his backyard, puts up Century fence all ’round it, gets a Doberman or three and all of a sudden Al Capone comes waltzing out the unattached garage and says to the guy, “Build a prison and they will come, capisce?”

Bea: Lordy, I almost forgot. Here. I got you a card—for Earth Day. I would’ve mailed it to you, but I don’t know your address.

Art: And hopefully the MAGA crowd and the IRS don’t know the address neither. But Jeez louise, since when are you supposed to exchange cards for the Earth Day? I tell you, Bea, the greeting card industry has got to be stopped before it’s too late. What’s their industry slogan—“Deforestation is just another way of saying ‘Thinking of You’”?

Bea: I’m told not one single twig went into the making of this card and envelope, Artie. It’s composed of some kind of all-natural multi-purpose recyclable high-tech product. They also make a brand of walking shoes from the same material.

Art: Oh yeah, I bought a pair of those babies once. Walking back from the store was a religious experience. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. They recycled themselves back to Mother Earth before I even got halfway home. 

Bea: You do believe in the value of recycling, don’t you Artie?

Art: Are you kidding, Bea? Cripes, as an imagined world-class essayist, that’s the bread and butter of my beeswax. So who exactly told you this card is made of some all-natural high-tech schmutz?

Bea: The people at the Earth Day convention I went to the other week.

Art: I went to one of those once years ago. Some of those people need to do more research for their literature, like this pamphlet I got called “Facts You Should Know About Wildlife.” It had this fact and that fact, but they forgot the most important fact.

Bea: Which fact is that, Artie?

Art: “Best served at 350-400 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour or until tender.” No Bea, I can’t celebrate any Earth Day until it becomes an official regular holiday, one where you get a paid day-off from your crappy job so’s you can go visit relatives and drink their beer all day.

Bea: Aren’t you going to open the card, Artie?

Art: Abso-focking-lutely, Bea. Let’s see here… Good lord! Look at this cover.

Bea: It’s a bonobo chimpanzee.

Art: And is this chimp doing what I think he’s doing to the guy wearing the lab coat around his ankles and bent over the examining table?

Bea: Seems to be, Artie.

Art: Serves him right. Monkeys and chimps aren’t meant to be stuck full of electrodes and needles in a laboratory somewheres. They’re meant to wear bellboy outfits and roller skates at the circus and on TV so’s to entertain the Homo sapien. Bea, read the note inside you wrote, would you? I recently lost my reading-glasses during the twists and turns of a bar bet.

Bea: “Dear Artie, don’t forget to cultivate your garden in this, the best of all possible worlds. Signed, Bea.”

Art: The best of all possible worlds? Now I’m really depressed. But let me be candid, Bea—without you in it, this world would sure be a lot worse, I kid you not. But I got to run, so thanks for the coffee and for letting me bend your ear there, Bea—utiful. See you next time.

Bea: My pleasure, Artie. Always nice getting talked at by you. Take care.

(Okey-dokey, off to the Uptowner. If I see you there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)