KAnon

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear that another mid-term election has come and gone and once again yours truly was not chosen for some kind of political office whose yearly salary would have certainly boosted up my monthly Social “Security” stipend so’s to be able to afford an extra couple-three four-pack of Jello-O lemon lime containers each and every month in hopes to stave off a depressing health diagnosis from the Doc due to this-or-that, you betcha.

But it was not to be. Apparently, senatorial candidate Art Kumbalek did not receive enough write-in votes from the hoi-polloi to finally put the two-terms devil mega-rich nimrod Da Doo Ron Dumb Johnson deep down in the hole. And yes, what the fock.

I’m now thinking that maybe I ought to start some kind of a conspiracy bullshit theory movement-deal to raise my political prospects because for christ sakes, insane white undereducated nimrod non-felon nutbags get to have a vote, too (what a world).

So, welcome to KAnon. You got an itch in your BVD’s? KAnon’s here to scratch your bogus patriotic ass, you betcha.

This: Donald focking Trump is a Democrat mole. Obvious, ain’a? The strategy being that he would destroy the GOP for the rest of eternity. His mission was to destroy the Republican GOP—the Democrat’s numero uno objective. The Dems recruited and groomed Trumpty-Dumbty years ago, when the witch Secretary of State Hillary Clinton put a spell on him when she invited him to a dinner held in the basement of a pizza place in D.C. where the entrée was a carefully roasted 3-year-old American toddler.

some so-called “dick pictures.” She chuckled—“that’s a ‘dick?’ I’ve got dildos that would make that look like an uncooked elbow macaroni noodle. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Donald. I won’t release these photos to the media provided you are the Republican nominee for president in 2016. Then, I’ll run a bumfock campaign so that you can win the White House. I’m convinced if that were to happen, soon down the road the Republican Party will be no more.”

And even with getting shellacked in the 2022 midterms, Trumpel-thinskin has announced that he will seek the presidency in ’24. Yes sir, it seems that the Dems crafty plan is all falling into place, ain’a?

OK. I’ll keep you posted on the latest conspiratorial theories that this KAnon outfit uncovers, such as a dunce-cap coterie of professional athletes and entertainers who believe that Jews came to Earth from Jupiter and that one of the Gas Giant’s moons is where Albert focking Einstein was born ’cause how else could he know so much about space and stuff? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you’s that I got a couple, three things that could stand some reiterating, such as holy focking schnikes, how ’bout the premature frigidity of this weather we’ve had around here for christ sakes. Jeez louise, and for those of you’s who got caught with your winter pants down and now got the heebie-jeebies, wondering how the heck you will ever persevere as if you just sucked down a warmed-over mug of gluten-full Ebola? I simply advise you to do what me and my crowd do to get through the winter weather. Two things: Crank up the thermostat and mix another hot focking toddy. Survival guaranteed.

For me, I have only perennially fond regards for our winter season—late October through maybe the first half of May—and you should too. To wit: No goddamn insects to bug the bejesus out of you just because you stepped outdoors, and no jagamuffins driving around town with the windows rolled down so as to blare and share their particularly poor taste in music with me, the pedestrian. If only we could make it be winter each and every day of the year, I kid you not.

Allow me to interrupt myself to say that now that we’ve got the Fiserv palace up and running for the basketball and loud-music crowd and other entertainment emporiums on the way, it’s time to again look toward the future. How ’bout to make Beer Town winters more enjoyable if not tolerable for the weather whiners, I propose a grand project whose completion would make the Great Wall of China, the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Mausoleum of Mausolus at Halicarnassus look like beanbag, what the fock.

I propose the construction and erection of a nice climate-controlled dome to envelope the City of Milwaukee proper. It would put a lot of people to work, be a destination point for tourists and retirees and attract a lot of favorable press. With a climate-controlled dome, there would’ve been no need for a $500 million basketball joint. The hoopsters could’ve played on an outdoor court that would’ve cost about a buck two-eighty. And the suburbs can build their own domes, screw ’em.

Anyways, what with the state of the world these days, I began to think of starting a support group for those sick to death of trying to look on the bright side of things, who are tired of hoping for good things to happen.

You see, I, Art Kumbalek, am a recovering blue-sky high-octane sunshine on your lolli-focking-pop kind of kitten-up-a-tree optimist. How ’bout that? And I have to live each day the rest of my life knowing that at any time I could slip and have a cheery thought powerful enough to send me back through that door of insanity and unreality, making my life unmanageable.

So I’m starting a support group called Art’s Doom of Actual Reality Group, and I’ll be the first to testify that the road to my recovery has been long. It was 1959, I was a lad when our Milwaukee focking Braves lost a one-game playoff to the L.A. Dodgers for the opportunity to go on to third consecutive World Series. It was then, simultaneous with the final out, that I made a searching and fearless inventory of myself and the real world I lived in and realized that maybe life does suck after all. A little more than a year later, when the Packers, charging down the field, lost 17-13 ’cause time ran out to the Eagles in Philadelphia with the NFL championship on the line, there was no “maybe.” Life sucked, not to mention Richard Nixon tipping Hubert Humphrey in the ’68 presidential election.

And just so’s you know, my support group would not be just some kind of men’s thing ’cause really, how far can you really get sitting around complaining about how there’s no topless hardware stores and how they keep jacking up the fine for parking in handicap zones? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that Art’s Doom of Actual Reality Group is for everybody of a sex—there’s plenty of snuggling room under my big top. Come one, come all, and repeat after me: “Expect to lose, expect the worst, and you can never be disappointed.” And if that doesn’t make you feel better, then the hell with you’s ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.