June Bloom and Gloom

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I heard our president, Humpty Dumbty Trumpel-thinskin had a birthday the other day (June 14, to be acknowledged years hence as Goonteenth Day). I thought the least I could do is blow out a candle for the commandeer-in-chief, since he doesn’t seem physically capable of that kind of manual labor, lo, these days. And yes, I did make a wish, which I cannot divulge since then it may not come true as custom dictates, but just let me say that my wish may involve handcuffs and iron bars, what the fock.

Dates. And yes, I am reminded that June 16, Bloomsday, is to celebrate the 116th anniversary of the novelistic day that took an Irish guy by the name of James Joyce practically 10 million pages and who knows how many gallons of whiskey to write about, lo, those years ago—perhaps the greatest focking novel nobody’s never not ever read all the way through.

And yes, I’m reminded of a little story:

Once upon a time and a very good time it was, there was an Irishman, an Italian and a Polish guy in a tavern, sitting around and enjoying a couple, three rounds of cocktails. James, the Irishman says, “Aye, this is a nice bar, but where I come from, back in Dublin, there’s a better one. At Lucky’s, you buy a drink, you buy another drink, and Lucky himself will buy your third drink!” The others agree that it sounds like a nice place.

Then Don the Italian says, “Yeah, that’s a nice bar, but where I come from, there’s a better one. Over in Brooklyn, there’s this place, Pozzo’s. At Pozzo’s, you buy a drink, Pozzo buys you a drink. You buy another drink, Pozzo buys you another drink.” They all agree that also sounds like a great bar.

Then the Polish guy, let’s call him Kumbalek, says, “You’s guys think that’s great? In my neighborhood, there’s this place called Godotski’s At Godotski’s, they buy you your first drink, they buy you your second drink, they buy you your third drink, and then, they take you in the back and get you some action!”

The other two guys are smithied with wonderment. “That’s fantabulous! Did that actually happen to you?” they want to know. And Kumbalek, the Polish guy says, “No, but it happened to my sister!” Ba-ding!

A brief while later, Kumbalek approached a lady named Didi wouldn’t you know, sitting solitary at the end of the bar. A man of direct address, he said he’d been waiting to meet such an attractive gal as she, and told her he’d like to get into her pants. Didi says, “No thanks, there’s an ass in there already.”

These days, the COVID, the racial injustice and murder coming to a boil, and still the gender-issues schmutz what with a Supreme Court case and the recent malarkey from J.K. Rowling, she of the Harry Potter platter. And to that regard, an alert reader, Amy F., sent me a little story that follows, lightly edited for levity with names changed to protect the innocent:

Molly and Leo lived next door to each other and like many kids, they enjoyed practicing a little one-upsmanship from time to time. So on Leo’s birthday, he rushed over to Molly’s to flaunt his new cowhide catcher’s mitt. Surely this was a most impressive item! But Molly went into her house and brought out her own mitt, which was custom made, oiled to velvet perfection and autographed by the entire 2019 Milwaukee Brewers roster.

Disappointed, Leo went home and came back with his brand-new Precaliber 24 “Radioactive Red” 8-speed Trek bicycle. No way could Molly top this, so Leo thought. But Molly wheeled her bike out of the garage, shiny and chromed with 15 gears and a truck horn that went “aroogah” in case anyone got in her way.

Defeated once again but yet undaunted, Leo dropped full trou’ and said to Molly, “I bet you don’t have one of these,” he shouted with wounded pride and frustration.

Molly ran to confide to her mother, Nora. Moments later, Molly stood in front of Leo, pointed toward her crotch and said, “My mother says as long as I’ve got one of these, I can have all of those that I want!” Ba-ding!

And on June 19, Bob Dylan will flip out a new album, Rough and Rowdy Ways, what the fock. “Rough and rowdy,” yeah, tell me about it. Right now I got dogs barking all over my neighborhood and that’s never a good sign for a guy borne to the bone under a sad sign, firing on less than a full regale of piston production low riding down, on and down out here on Highway 2020, passed all the pretty people thinking they got it made, and do they—on top of the world Ma! with my sweet and pleasant dreams in this wonderful life, look for the bridge, fly right over the taking-the-toll Geek chorus uniform wailing to the Hades-in-waiting, meter motor’s running down Desolation Rue de Dei, eyes out for the mystery trend ripping-a-piece of my heart, so take me to the bridge one time, take me to the water, deep, blue, indigo mood blue—indigo one fear, out the other—and every time a bell rings, that piece-a-heart be focking knocking on Heaven’s door, the occasional pit stop, stand and deliver the answer is pissing in the wind but I like to call it irrigation, fire all of your guns at once, heavy mettle asunder, abort to be wild and rule the nature’s child flying that magic carpet shot out into space. Look out kid. You don’t need a weather man. It’s somethin’ you did. Just like it ever was. Except for no sports.

Then there is June 21, Father’s Day. What to do, ain’a? Listen, here’s an idea I had a while back for you’s if you’re too focking cheap to spring for a gift for the old fart. Hey, how ’bout at least make a nice homemade card. I even had a nice sentiment you could write down in it. It’s a quote from no finer writer there ever be again than dear Mr. Yeats from near Dublin, who just celebrated his 155th birthday, June 13:

I have certainly known more men destroyed by the desire to have a wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.

No fake news there, ain’a?

And yes, then, of fathers, of sons, this time of year, I’ll be seeing you, as the song goes, in all the familiar places, in every lovely summer’s day, I remember you, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.