Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, right now I’m all confused with trying to figure out and remember if our month of March this year has come in like a lion or a goddamn lamb, what the fock.
And whenever I can’t figure out how I’m confused, I immediately head over there by the Uptowner tavern/charm school at the wistfully historic corner of North Humboldt & Center—where today is always at least a day before tomorrow, and yesterday may gosh darn well be today—for a heady sit-down with my personal brain trust to get myself all straightened out. Hey, tag along if you’d like, but you buy the first round.
Emil: I’m not kidding. I swear the wife must have some French blood in her.
Julius: What the fock, I thought her maiden name was something like Grzecyszceszycskowski?
Emil: It is. But if that’s not part French, how do you explain that she won’t let me make a decision by myself ’cause she hates my guts?
Ray: Because you’re a knobshine who can’t identify shit from shinola?
Little Jimmy Iodine: I read the other day about some big-time rich guy who’s offering a million bucks for a husband and wife to go on a 16-month voyage together around Mars and back.
Emil: Sounds swell to me. I’d volunteer the Mrs. to be the wife and let some other husband go with her. She’s always bitching how I never take her anywhere. So what the fock, if some other schlemiel wants to take her to focking Mars, I could live with that but good.
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Herbie: No husband-wife relationship is without its moments of hell-to-pay. Take your Jesus, for example. There’s been a lot of historical scuttlebutt over the years that the guy was indeed married, god bless him. I’m sure there must’ve been times he had to take his sandals off outside the door late at night and then tiptoe toward the boudoir, to be greeted with a wifely “DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, MISTER?”
Ernie: Amen!
Herbie: And what, then, is your excuse? That you got tied up changing water into wine and lost track of time? Good luck with that. Many a time have I found myself in a similar dilemma, having been tied up changing dollars into bourbon, and thus losing track of the time on the day of an apparent anniversary or birthday, and never once did the lady find that to be an acceptable excuse for my tardiness, what the fock.
Ray: Speaking of unacceptable excuses…
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey gents, what do you hear, what do you know.
Ernie: I know I left a message the other week with that sports super-agent Drew Rosencrantz ’cause I’m looking for a new deal. I haven’t heard back from him yet, though.
Julius: What “new deal”? You don’t even have an old deal. You don’t even have a focking job, you focking idiot.
Ernie: Doesn’t hurt to try though, ain’a?
Herbie: What I’d like to know is just what the hell is it these rich American sports athletes feed their families anyways, ain’a? Every time they start crying about not making enough money, they got to let us know they got a family needs feeding and they got to put food on the table, for christ sakes.
Ray: Yeah yeah, what the fock, when the kid wants a snack they call a caterer? Too tired to cook, so they call for pizza delivery from that little Italian joint, the one just around the corner from the pope’s house—in Vatican City?
Little Jimmy: Hey Artie, I got a nice story maybe you can put in your little newspaper that the people would like for Lent:
One time in heaven, Saint Peter said to Jesus, “I’m going out for a pizza pie and I want you to watch the pearly gates. Everybody who comes up, you ask the questions and decide if they may enter.” And Jesus said verily, “No problemo.”
So Jesus was conducting the interviews when he spied a blind and very old man coming toward him. And Jesus said unto him, “Que pasa. Tell me about your life.” And the old man said, “I remember next to nothing about my life, except that I had a son who was very famous on Earth and that I was a carpenter.”
Jesus thought, “A son, very famous, and he was a carpenter. This must be Joseph.” Jesus, with his eyes full of tears, said, “Father?” And the old man, touching the face of Jesus said, “Is that you, Pinocchio?”
(Ba-ding! Hey, it’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
