June Buggy

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as the late, great Alex Thien would say, here’s a newsy bit to help you start the day:

So this guy is walking to his car after work and notices a gorilla up in a tree. He hauls out his cell phone, calls “animal control” and asks them to send over a gorilla expert. The expert arrives carrying a shotgun, a Chihuahua and a pair of handcuffs.

The guy asks what’s with all the stuff, and the gorilla expert says, “Here’s the deal. I’m going to climb the tree, knock the gorilla down, the dog will bite him in the nuts, and then you slap the handcuffs on the gorilla.” The guy says, “OK, but what’s the gun for?” And the expert says, “If I fall first, shoot the dog!” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I hear another Memorial Day weekend has come and gone, which means we’re now into that time of year where my two most favorite words are “cold front” as pronounced by our TV weather guys and gals, I kid you not. I’ll tell you, these next couple, three summertime months during which a guy can’t even blow his nose without some fockstick putting on a festival about it, do definitely not comprise my favorite time of year, no sir. 

It’s all the time too noisy no matter where you go. Makes it difficult for a guy like me to collect his thoughts. And the weather? Forget about it. On those days that could even make Satan suffer (in my book, anything above a nice 73 degrees), I suppose I could echo the party line and agree that “it’s not the heat; it’s the humidity.” But I won’t. Because it is the heat. And it’s the stupidity, of you’s who spent the quiet winter months indoors in climate-controlled comfort whilst all-the-time longing to feel like a focking pig hoist on a spit and rotated over a steam-furnace flame come the summer.

Cripes, I got myself all lathered up just thinking about the hellacious hell about to be encountered. I need to relax, as in right now. Besides, instead of slaving away at slapping together an essay that nobody’s going to read ’cause they’re too busy welcoming the Lord of Hades into their midst, I really ought to be carefully honing my annual “Art Kumbalek Gala Address to Our Current Raft of Graduates” that I’m wont to deliver this time of year to our former matriculators—and yes, sometimes by request.

And another reminder to all you school administrators: As I noted, here, last week, and just like every year come early June, it is still not too late to hire my services to be the keynote gasbag at your institution’s commencement sheepskin giveaway. Fifty bucks and a case of ice-cold bottled beer says I’ll come by and deliver a talking-to your kids won’t soon forget. Give me a jingle. And I’ll need the case of ice-cold bottled beer up front, just so’s you know.

And the theme I’d like to cram into my address this year is the “realization of potential,” as perhaps illustrated in the following parable:

So this kid comes home from school with a writing assignment. He asks his father for help. “Dad, can you tell me the difference between potential and reality?”

His father thoughtfully looks up from perusing the evening’s newspaper and says, “Son, this I can demonstrate for you. First, I would like you to ask your mother if she would sleep with George Clooney for a million dollars. Then go ask your older sister if she would sleep with, let’s say, Brad Pitt for a million dollars. Then come back and tell me what you’ve learned.”

The kid is somewhat puzzled, but decides to ask his mother. “Mom, if someone gave you a million dollars, would you sleep with George Clooney?” And the mother says, “Don’t tell your father, but yes, I would.”

He then goes to his sister’s room. “Sis, if someone gave you a million dollars, would you sleep with Brad Pitt?” The sister says, “Duhhhh!”

The kid goes back to his father. “Dad, I think I’ve figured it out. Potentially, we are sitting on two million bucks, but in reality, we are living with two whores.”

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.