I Wish Fest

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as the days dwindle down toward the blessed time of fall, I’m reminded of the passings round ’bout this time of year of those who notched their final day upon this mortal coil: Babe Ruth (8/16/1948), Elvis the Pelvis King (8/16/1977), city of Nagasaki (8/9/1945), Groucho Marx (8/19/1977), Aretha Franklin (8/16/2018) Roman Emperor Augustus (8/19/0014), Bela Lugosi (8/16/1956), Peter focking Fonda (8/16/2019)…

Pleased to say that I had not noticed “Art Kumbalek” on that list, yet, for this month. Come September, who the fock knows?

Anyways, let us not forget that I’m an announced candidate so’s to get my butt parked into the Oval Office come 2024, and I am attempting to dig a last-ditch effort at attracting the potentially huge youth vote. With that in mind, I’d like to propose that as a nation, we drop the legal drinking from age 21 to, say, 14? How ’bout we put our American kids in bars instead of behind bars, what the fock.

Let these katzenjammers come down to the tavern and sit down with the regulars—the men and women who have the stamina to belly-up to the bar day-in day-out—let these kids have a couple, three cocktails and listen to the voice of smoky experience, the voice that says: “Kid, you’re not so focking tough. For starters, you’re mixing good booze with soda. I could drink you under a table anywhere, and still be able to locate the closed-captioning thingamajig on my TV remote thing, I kid you not.”

So I got to get over at the Uptowner tavern/charm school to run this idea by my campaign brain trust, except they’re not open yet. So first, I’ll slide over by this 24-hour joint that slings the hash with a cup of Joe whether you like it or not. Come along if you’d like, but you leave the tip what the fock.

Hattie: Hello there, Artie, what’s your pleasure?

Art: Hey, Hattie. Hattie O’Venta, at this time of day? I thought you only worked the graveyard shift. The regular gal, Bea, isn’t sick or something, is she?

Hattie: Oh no, Artie. She wanted the day off so she could take her little nephew to the Zoo or somewheres by a church where they’re having a food with music festival. Whatever will they think of next—a festival with music and food outdoors. Isn’t that nice? 

Art: You bet, Hattie. That’s nice. I myself stopped eating food at the Zoo years ago, ever since I noticed what seemed to be a statistical anomaly that involved the number of pepperoni pizza slices sold and the population of Monkey Island.

Hattie: You don’t say so, Artie. Now let’s cut the chit-chat and get down to business. Are you going to order something, or do I need to call the police on you for loitering?

Art: Jeez louise, Hattie, what’s the hurry? I’m the only customer here.

Hattie: That’s right, Artie. And you know I get flustered when there’s a rush. So what’s it going to be—my way, or the highway?

Art: Calm down now Hattie. I’ll just have a nice cup of the blackest, thickest and cheapest of whatever it is you’re calling plain-old American coffee today, thank you very kindly.

Hattie: Now was that so hard, Artie? I like a customer who knows how to play ball. But aren’t you forgetting something?

Art: I don’t think so, Hattie. I’m fine with just the coffee.

Hattie: The tip! Don’t play games with me, Artie. I need the tip up front just so there’s no shenanigans.

Art: No problem, Hattie. There you go.

Hattie: That’s a nice boy, Artie. But Georgie Porgie Washington needs his twin if you want that cup of coffee, mister.

Art: All right already, Hattie. There. Go get yourself something nice.

Hattie: And here’s your coffee, just like I promised. So what do you hear, what do you know, my little Artie.

Art: I hear we got the Irish Fest this weekend down by the lakefront. You ever go to that fest, Hattie?

Hattie: Not me, Artie. But my father was of the Irish, he would’ve loved to go. They called him a lay-about because he never worked a day in his life; so I’m sure he would have had the time to go there. Did you know, Artie, that on his tombstone it says, “Curse is the work of the drinking man.” Isn’t that nice?

Art: Sounds familiar, something like Oscar Wilde once sort of said, that “Work is the curse of the drinking man.”

Hattie: Don’t you smart-mouth me, Artie. He passed away when I was just young lass. He had a bad accident when he tried to replace a light bulb whilst his compatriots cheered him on. But I’ll never forget a little story he used to tell his friends when they came back to the house after the taverns closed: So listen, this Englishman, a Frenchman and an Irishman were at the pub discussing families. The talk turned to children and surprised they are to learn they each have a 15-year-old daughter they struggle to understand. The Englishman’s problem is that he found cigarette butts under his daughter’s bed. “I didn’t know she smoked,” was his complaint. The Frenchman then says that he’d found cognac bottles under his daughter’s bed. “I was not aware that she drank,” he confessed. And the Irishman says his situation is the toughest—he’d found condoms under his daughter’s bed. “Ah lads, what kind of father am I that I did not know my daughter even had a dick?”

Art: Praise be. That’s a nice little story, Hattie.

Hattie: I knew you’d like it, Artie. You’re such a good boy.

Art: As always, it’s been a treat, Hattie. I’m thinking I ought to go before you get too busy. So thanks for the coffee‑‑and for bending my ear there, Hattie-licious. See you next time.

Hattie: Oh Artie, you’re a little devil, aren’t you. Take care.

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