I Should Live So Long

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I cannot remember if I reminded you’s within my assuredly soonish-to-be award-winning essay from just last week; but hey, we got a big-time voting election—Senate, House, Executive, School Board, Dog Catcher, Who In The Household Has To Take Out The Goddamn Garbage—that commences not long after we’ve welcomed another so-called focking “New Year,” one sure to be from hell (as always) and to be numerized in our modernized eon as 2024, or something like that.

So allow me this retrospect: 

And of course, I’ve tossed my orange hat into the ring so as to become America’s Big Chief, as always (I’ve been a candidate since 1986, back when Ronald focking Reagan could still recognize some of his marbles) so’s I can be awarded the golden ticket that would present me the big-boy seat on a comfy big-time chair snug to the Oval Office desk. 

Could a Pulitzer Prize for-whatever-literature-I-come-up-with show up in my mailbox, you think? I hear they fork out $15-grand for such a thing, the cheap bastards, but they do also give you a certificate, which I may be forced to wipe my butt with when soon the very next Big-Time mega-COVID comes a’ knocking, as it will, and your local Piggly Wiggly has diddly with the issue of the tissue, again.

Come to think of it, given my dire financial needs these “retirement minutes, hours, days”, perhaps best I should pursue the chase of one these MacArthur Genius grants: $800,000 no-strings-attached. Sign me up. Viva Las Vegas, you betcha!

Anyways, like I said, we got elections coming up around the corner of Auld Lange Syne, as long as the furshlugginer Republicans allow the people who don’t agree with them the privilege to mark a ballot.

And speaking of elections for this and that, how ’bout a little story that goes like this:

So this guy rubs a genie out of a lamp who says he’ll grant one wish. “I want to live forever,” the guy says. “No can do,” genie says. “I’m not allowed to grant wishes like that.”

“Jeez louise. OK, then I wish that I want to die after Congress gets their heads out of their asses,” the guy says.

“You crafty bastard,” so says the genie. Ba-ding!

As I mentioned above somewheres, I am running for president once again ’cause what the fock else do I have to do. Hellzapoppin’, I might even pull in some campaign donations that could help maintain the rent on my dinky Downtown apartment copacetic. And presidentially, just so you’s knows, I’m all for the vaccines, cripes, sign up for a couple, three of each and you might live long enough to see me enjoy a nice bourbon-and-water whilst seated at the Oval Desk as I John Hancock an executive order commanding extended cocktail-lounge hours from sea to shining sea, I kid you not.

OK. And where do I stand on respect for, and protection of, our Constitution, you may ask? I’ll tell you’s that I shall listen to the gas that the American public has to bag. For example, this, from a couple of guys who sometimes number themselves as members of my campaign brain trust and with whom I often confab over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school:

Little Jimmy Iodine: So, then what about our U.S. Constitution in the modern day, now when politicians wearing schoolboy knickers with powdered wigs and sideburns down to their ankles is not such the cat’s meow? Hey, we got some original judicial nutbags say our country can only be about what’s mentioned in it. There’s nothing in the constitution about how focking drunk I can, or cannot be, to drive a car or operate heavy machinery. They don’t even mention cars at all in that gosh darn document; so tell me how shortsighted is that?

Herbie: Yeah yeah, and they call them the “founding” fathers, and yet what did they find and know about space travel, TV, or computer stuff? Fock the Constitution. This is America. We ought to be able to do whatever we want and when we want as long as all the super-rich guys keep getting tax cuts. I figure that the more money the rich guys have, maybe the more likely some of us poor peons might get a mention in their will. Call it a dream, but it’s an American one, you bet.

Okey-dokey. All I can say is that an educated American public is our salvation, I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think down there in Florida (Florida: Spanishfor serial killer of books).

So, looks like we may be done here; but… oops… I just discovered a thought-fragment from my notes that I intended to screw into and expand upon within my above soon-to-be award-winning essay. This: 

“…provided they pack-a-piece to the polls and are locked and loaded to gun down anyone not sporting a wanna-be Nazi bullshit MAGA cap…”

Huh! Look for it next week, my dear, constant reading Fockettes—in radio-show bullshit parlance, that’s called a “tease,” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.