Kickin’ Ash

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hope your Lenten season got off to a hell of a lot smoother start than mine own did. I’ll tell you’s, the third Wednesday evening of this February month from hell it dawned on me: “Hey nitwit, it’s been Ash Wednesday all day long and you haven’t even begun to think about what to swear off all the way ’til Easter, for christ sakes.” Yeah, I may be a way-out-of-practice Catholic, but the one practice I still show up for is the practice of giving up some penny-ante practice or two for Lent in hopes my piddling sacrifice may be enough to leave Heaven’s door cracked at least an iota or two, what the fock.

So there I was, Ash Wednesday, 9 p.m.—the only mark on my forehead being a purplish bruise delivered by the edge of a kitchen cabinet door as I reached for my two-ounce shot glass—hankering to give up something, pronto. And as a candidate for some kind of political office come the 2022 midterm election (U.S. senator, maybe governor?), I really ought to come up with something to sacrifice if for no other reason than to maybe score a point or two with the right-righteous Christian voters, ’cause I got a feeling my support amongst the Jesus-hadists tends toward the flaccid at best, you betcha.

So, what to put aside for a couple, three-or-more weeks? Smoking? Yeah, fat focking chance. I was already into my second pack that day, Jack. Drinking? That’s a good one. Like I said, I was aiming for leaving the Pearly Gate cracked, not sainthood. My weekly essay for this here newspaper/website? Ding-ding-ding-ding!

Which is to say, unless I fall off the writing wagon or am threatened with duty dismissal for focking following my religious beliefs, you won’t see me shining around this webpage ’til after Easter, April 4 (with a paid leave, I would demand and expect), praise the lord.

But I’m thinking you’s Badgerlanders really need me to be your next governor. Not that Tony Evers has done a ferkakta job—far from it—it’s just that I’m thinking I could use the yearly paycheck of $121,307 more than he could (take that dough to the Potawatomi Bingo, and I could be easily on Easy Street for the rest of my few-to-a-handful of years remaining, what the fock).

And just so you know, my first order of biz as your new state overlord—just as it’s been for my last several candidacies for the office—would be to reduce the law-abiding age from 21 to 16 for when a Badgerite could plant his or her booty atop a barstool, order a nice bourbon and tell the bartender to leave the bottle, and I’ll tell you why.

Like I’ve said in the past, having a couple, three belts never fails to make me feel like a focking adult with something to say, and I can’t imagine it also wouldn’t turn the same trick with any snotnose katzenjammers currently ’neath the age of 21; and lord knows they sure as hell can use any passkey to adulthood we can give them, what with their delinquent ways and inability to afford higher education. The sooner we get them into the world of adults where we can keep a focking eye on them, the better. That’s why.

As Guv, I’d choose to put kids in bars instead of behind bars. Let them come down to the tavern to sit down with the regulars, the men and women who belly-up to the bar day in, day out; let these kids sit down, have a few and listen to the voice of smoky experience, the voice that says, “Kid, you’re not so focking tough. For starters, you’re mixing good booze with soda. I could drink you under a table anywhere, and still be able to adjust the color on my TV. To hell with your flat screen.”

And then these young people could take this alcoholic knowledge and stamina with them when they might get carted overseas to fight with terrorists and what-not. I ask you: These acts of terror around the world these days, here, there and everywhere? The work of sober people, plain and simple. Uptight, cork-in-the-butt, sober people.

Let me reiterate: It’s been said that alcohol loosens the inhibitions. No focking kidding, why else to drink it, ain’a? All I’m saying is that if these terror nuts drank, maybe it’d loosen their inhibition toward acting like regular normal sane people who, if nothing else, know that bombs, mortars, fire-weapons, Confederate flags and children don’t mix.

I believe that enforced mandatory drinking ’cross the globe might be the real key to combating nut-terror activity. The drinking man knows that no matter what abso-focking-lutely needs to be done can always wait ’til tomorrow, or the day after or even the day after that, what the fock, what’s the hurry.

Should everybody drink as much as they can, all the time? Perhaps not. Brain surgeons and bus drivers spring to mind; also, the so-called “mean” drinker, often called a “domestic terrorist.” Yea verily, not much a threat on the worldwide terrorist scene since the asshole is usually too busy taking it out on “loved” ones to mess with the outside impersonal world, but I can’t believe we couldn’t find room at Guantanamo for knobs like those.

Anyways, I forgot what my focking point was, so let me just say that our worldwide sober nuts need to relax, have a cocktail, so that the only inner-voice they hear is the one that tells them not to blow-up a bunch of kids and people, but instead whispers into a red-eyed ear, “Hey, it’s OK. Have another. You still got tomorrow, and so should everybody else,” Remember? ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.