June Bugged Redux

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, if you’re a cheap-ass like me who may be looking for free focking things to do indoors during these hellacious days of summertime—especially now that things are kind of open again—you may consider a stroll (or couple, three transfer bus ride) over to your nearest air-conditioned Motor Department of the Vehicles and take the test you have to write with a pencil like I did the other day when the thermometer mercury read like the surface of Mercury.

And if you do, you’re in for a surprise ’cause I tell you’s, it sure as hell isn’t the test I remembered from the last time I flunked it way back when only foreigners drove foreign cars. They’ve made it damn difficult, I kid you not. Yes, I understand our great state hankers for a higher educational standard for all Dairyland school kids, but I think they’re getting a little radical extremist when they expect these standards to carry over to a test for driving, for christ sakes.

For example, I thought I did alright on the matching section only to find out later I’d mixed up the Treaty of Ghent with the Treaty of Nystad, what the fock. And essay questions? You got to be jerking my beefaroni. That’s the kind of thing you expect from the government when you take the test to be ambassador to Timbuk-focking-tu or somewheres, not when all you want to be is legal so’s to drive down to the 7-Eleven for a six-pack and hot dog, ain’a?

For the essays, you could choose from one of three questions: “Compare and contrast the Neolithic Revolution with the Counter-Reformation”; “Describe in detail your favorite color”; and “Which is preferable: drinking and driving, or, drinking while driving.”

That last question I thought was easy for me. I explained how messy and potentially dangerous it was to try to mix a proper bourbon Manhattan while behind the wheel. Common sense, then, would suggest that you have a couple, three before you drive. Guess what? Yeah, I flunked. But big focking deal. The DMV air conditioning was free, and besides, I haven’t owned a car that moved since 1976, so what the fock.

Listen, kind of got my hands full here, so how ’bout a couple stories my buddy Ray recently relayed to me whilst I check on the progress of a couple, three ice-cube trays I’d like to harvest. What a life that guy leads:

So, Artie, I was sitting next to this older woman at the tavern once. She looked pretty dang good for being 60, I kid you not, and I would’ve bet that if she had a daughter, she’d be a real dish, too. So we’re going to order another round and she asks me if I ever had a “sportsman’s double.” Never heard of it, so she tells me it’s a mother-daughter threesome. Holy cow, if the daughter is a forty-years-younger version of this gal, I really ought to try a “sportsman’s double,” what the fock. So we go back to her place, she flips on the hall light and shouts upstairs, “Ma! You awake? Company!!!” Ba-ding!

So, Artie, I’m at this wedding ’cause you know, it’s June. The guy and gal are standing at the altar, about to get pronounced by the pastor, when the bride-to-be looks at her soon-to-be groom and sees that the knucklehead has a set of golf clubs with him.

“What in the world are you doing with those golf clubs in church?” she says.

“Well,” he says, “this isn’t going to take all afternoon, is it?” Ba-ding!

OK, I’m back. So, I hear our Trumpist Supreme Court is soon to take a gander at the Obamacare Affordable Care Act. Focking swell. Considering the make-up of the current court, I’m betting this can’t be a good thing for the poor, sick and elderly, no sir. And if this somehow leads to Republicans getting their mitts on crafting a health-care plan, you just know it’s going to include everything but health care, what the fock.

And speaking of poor, sick and elderly, I’m about to cover that trifecta right around the corner, you betcha. But I’m not worried, no sir, ’cause I’m thinking of cooking up a brand-new religion for the people of the world to rally ’round, and soon I’d be a rich guy who didn’t have to pay taxes. I could live with that, and it’s something I’ve been working on whenever I got some spare time, what the fock.

But I’ll tell you’s, dreaming up a religion out of the clear thin blue air is no piece of focking cake. First thing with a religion before you can start collecting money is you got to have a handbook that’s got all kinds of rules, routines and dogma—not to mention dictums—that people need to memorize ’cause you just can’t have people making stuff up as they go along or before you know it they’ll be at each other’s throat.

And yes, the dictums. You got to have good dictums and they goddamn better be set in stone from the get-go, and you know what? You just don’t come up with a bunch of dictums overnight. Dictums are a bitch. I spent all last week considering dictums and I’m still a day late and dollar short on dictums for my religion.

I did come up with three, though: Good deeds; kind words; let a smile be your umbrella. But if that is to be the holy trinity of my own religion, I may as well consider myself already excommuni-focking-cated. What a world.

Anyways, the least I can do is to perform a miracle, and so shall I visit the Uptowner tavern/charm school and change a recently found Hamilton sawbuck (found in the pocket of a rarely worn pair of pants) into bourbon. God bless America, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.