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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So, “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea—let's go to press!'”

And what the fock, seems Humpty-Dumbty Trumpel-thinskin is all hell-bent to send to Our Town some kind of honking squad of federal agent G-Men, because, well, fock if I know. Maybe it’s on account of that now-August Democratic National Convention and all the undesirables such a thing would otherwise attract. Except the Donkey clan really won’t be here in the City That Always Sweeps ’cause they’ll mostly be having their confab up in that internet cloud with the zooming, I kid you not.

But still, I imagine there may be a couple, three misinformed Democratic stragglers who do find their way to Beer Town and Trumpian/Republican logic would dictate the need for the Feds to crackdown on that corrupt Democrat gang, so well-known for bootlegging, racketeering, organized child prostitution and illegal gambling enterprises not to mention goddamn support of secure voting rights for all participants in a democracy, ain’a?

Cripes, I need a break. Yeah, I know, who couldn’t these days, what the fock. Can’t get up by Hayward with the fellas what with this virus that’s going around I hear, and that sucks. Yeah, OK, some sports are back for your TV perusal, but I’ve come to not really miss their absence, and this from a guy who semi-co-wrote, for a handful of gala years, the late, lamented Shepherd sports column, “The Fairly Disinterested Observers” with the estimable Frank Clines, my friend and monumental mensch.

But having sports back for consumption is going to cut into my book-reading time as well as my hours spent on-hold with the State of Wisconsin Department of Workforce Development unemployment what-the-fock. (Speaking of book-reading time, I much recommend What Is the What by Dave Eggers, a novel/autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng, one of the Lost Boys of Sudan from late-last century. This book ought to be on the Orange Circus Peanut’s reading list when it comes to refugees and immigration, except I know he’s too busy these days trying to identify what a focking elephant looks like.)

Oh, yes, and good news for a change. I just heard that flu and pneumonia vaccines can reduce the risk of the Alzheimer’s. And I now know that over the past years I should’ve taken a couple, three of these shots at a crack ’cause now I can’t remember where I planned to go so’s to finish off this fakakta essay.

So how ’bout this, let’s get on out of here with a couple, three little stories that may put a slight smile on your mopey mug during these focked-up times. And if it doesn’t, oh well, as recently late Peter Green would say: “… don't ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to.” Let’s go:

This guy rubs a genie out of a lamp who says he’ll grant one wish. “I want to live forever,” the guy says. “No can do,” genie says. “I’m not allowed to grant wishes like that.”

“Dang. OK, then I wish that I want to die after Congress gets their heads out of their asses,” the guy says. “You crafty bastard,” says the genie. Ba-ding!

OK, how ’bout this one:

A thief sticks a pistol in a swell-dressed guy’s ribs and says, “Give me your money.” The swell guy, shocked by the sudden attack, says, “You cannot do this. I am a congressman.” And the thief says, “In that case, give me my money.” Ba-Ding!

Or:

A homeless guy walks up to a rich-looking woman shopping on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills and says “Excuse me, ma’am, but I haven’t eaten anything in four days.” She looks at the guy and says, “God, I wish I had your willpower.” Ba-Ding!

Of course, this wealthy Republican clueless fockstick probably sees a psychiatrist on a regular basis, so there’s this, an oldie but goodie, please memorize by next week so’s to use at your next social gathering whenever that may be feasible:

This gal goes to her psychiatrist ’cause she’s having big problems with her sex life, wouldn’t you know. The psychiatrist asks her lots of questions but wasn’t getting a clear picture of her problems. So finally he asks, “Do you ever watch your husband’s face while you are having sex?” And she says, “Well, yes, I did once.” The psychiatrist asked her how he looked and she said, “Very angry.”

The psychiatrist felt he was finally getting somewhere: “That’s very interesting but we must look into this further. You say that you have only seen your husband’s face once during sex, which seems unusual. How did it occur that you saw his face?” And she says, “He was looking through the window.” Ba-ding!

And for those of you’s who lament the absence of German Fest down by the lakefront this summer, and know that if you got the lederhosen, cultural tradition has it they are not to be cleaned (here’s one for you, Joe):

So this guy from Bavaria goes to the doctor for a checkup. Doctor examines him and says that he needs to give a blood sample, a semen sample, urine and stool sample, so that further tests can be run. The Bavarian nods, removes his lederhosen and hands them to the nurse.

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

To read more of Art Kumbalek's "Art for Art's Sake" essays, click here.