I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, to my buddy Mike Pf. down there in Ray-cine and to the rest of you's, no regular essay this week. I'm on my way to meet up with my gang over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school majestically crammed onto the corner of wistfully hysteric Humboldt Boulevard and the fabled Center Street. We plan to have a couple, three nice cocktails and then go gun shopping. A self-medicated militia, that's the ticket. God bless America. Tag along if you like, but you cover the first round. Let's get going.
Ernie: All I'm saying is it's a goddamn shame that Weiner from New York got caught with his pants down. He's one of the few Democrats in Congress to stand up to Republican bullshit and show some backbone.
Herbie: Jesus H. Christ, hotter than a witch's tit out there, ain'a?
Ray: Yeah, but when he showed his frontbone—big mistake.
Emil: “Hotter”? I always heard “colder than a witch's tit.” Witches' tits are cold, not hot.
Herbie: What the fock, here we go again. Common sense and chemistry dictate that witches' tits would be hot—not focking cold. You're telling me if you drank some kind of potion out of a boiling cauldron that you'd been stirring for hours and hours, that your tit is going to be cold? Bullshit. You talk like a focking sausage, Emil.
Little Jimmy Iodine: Any you's guys hear about that worldwide poll the other day that said the Americans were the funniest and most hilarious?
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Julius: Tell that to the Iraqis.
Ernie: I'll tell you who's focking funny. Sarah focking Palin. I swear she must've hired some old fart who used to write for “The Lucy Show” to come up with the idiotic malarkey that comes out of her mouth. Paul Revere took his midnight ride to trash-talk the British about how us Americans were a bunch of pistol-packing badasses? What the fock.
Ray: I'm surprised she didn't mention that she's got his song “Kicks” on her iPod 'cause she admires his patriotic anti-drug message.
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know.
Ernie: I hear the state Republicans want to have fake candidates for the people to vote for in the elections coming up.
Herbie: Why focking bother? They've already been elected. If you accept the American Heritage Dictionary definition of “fake” as an adjective, “Having a false or misleading appearance; fraudulent”; or noun, “A person, act, or thing that is not genuine or authentic; a sham; a counterfeit…,” I'd say our Republicans and their corporately quirky notion of democracy have the market on “fake” cornered but good—from the governorship to the Assembly and Senate knobs in majority, to the general attorney Department of Justice, the Supreme Court, and probably on down to your local dog catcher, what the fock.
Little Jimmy Iodine: So Artie, are you going to buy one gun or two when we go shopping later.
Art: Got to say no guns for me, Jimmy; at least until they ultra-liberalize the legal definition of “justifiable homicide.”
Emil: I'm getting two guns for the conceal and carry. That way if I get held up by gunpoint from behind and the focking robbers take my gun, hey, I still got another one I can whip out and blow away those bad characters.
Ray: Marshal Matt Dillon, rest in peace.
Julius: What the fock is with this governmental training required to use a gun, like I never watched a cop show on TV? It's insulting.
Herbie: Anybody know if this new gun-totin' law includes rifles? I wouldn't mind packing a Winchester on my Downtown daily constitutional and picking off a couple, three of these garbage-ass sea gulls disturbing my peace all the time.
Little Jimmy Iodine: I use to be against everybody having guns, but now I'm thinking I ought to have one for protection when the Republicans come to my door to replace my Medicare with a ticket for a foot massage and free 16-ounce soda of my choice, just so some rich asshole can buy a new yacht.
Ray: “Listen punk, you can have my Medicare when you take it from my cold, dead hands.”
Julius: The lengths some of these politicians will go to avoid laying a fair tax on the more-often-than-not undeservedly rich focksticks, ain'a? I heard of a plan to “save Social Security.” It's a deal where parents could sell the “naming rights” of their kids to participating big businesses. The dough the parents get paid would go directly into a “personal account” that would get invested into the stocks of the companies their kids are named after. So, your Jason could become “Pfizer,” your Jennifer is now “Pampers,” and the bun-in-the-oven will be “WD-40” no matter the sex. You got twins? “Procter” and “Gamble” sounds kind of nice, ain'a?
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Art: More guns, more loss—such a thing we need like a hole in the head. Fellas, a toast, I'm buying. Right here, right now: Memorial/Decoration Day, D-Day anniversary, to Mary Ellen, and 10 years now, to the sweet Lord of Klovaria, our Mr. B. To loss and remembrance: Na zdrowie!
(Hey, it's getting late but thanks for letting us bend your ear, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.)
