Ma Larkey’s Irish Spew

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here’s a “newsy bit” (all respect due to the late Milwaukee Sentinel columnist Alex Thien) to start your read here, a headline from something called IGN.com:

Scientists Have Determined the Likely Origin of the Asteroid That Killed the Dinosaurs

Jeez louise, about focking time I’d say. Without reading further, I played the guessing game and my first choice was it came from Saudi Arabia, probably something to do with that Al Qaeda crowd. I didn’t have a second guess, but my third was… wait for it… Outer Space???

And as I scanned the rest of the article, I learned that the destructive asteroid from some 66 million years ago did indeed come from space. So, now we finally know for certain, what the fock.

Hey, I’m sure our scientists have a lot on their plate these days, but perhaps that they’ve finally figured out where that asshole asteroid came from, I wouldn’t mind if they checked into this: If tin whistles are made of tin, then what are fog horns made of? Concerned citizens of our universe would like to know, ain’a?

Anyways, I’m out of time to whip out a big-time essay this week. Right now, I’m due to get over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school to meet up with my guys so’s to make our Irish Fest plans where each year, when possible, we toast but good our personal heroes of, and with, Irish blood like W.B. Yeats, Buster Keaton and Gotham Police Chief Clancy O’Hara, I kid you not.

Except the Uptowner isn’t open yet, so first I’ll slide over by this 24-hour joint that slings the hash with a cup of Joe whether you like it or not. Come along if you want, but you leave the tip.

Hattie: Well, well. How ya’, Artie, what’s your pleasure?

Art: Hey, Hattie. Hattie Venta, at this time of day? I thought you only worked the graveyard shift. The regular gal, Bea, isn’t sick or something, is she?

Hattie: Oh no, Artie. She wanted the day off so she could take her little nephew to her church where they’re having a food festival with music. Whatever will they think of next—a festival with music and food outdoors. Isn’t that nice?

Art: You bet, Hattie. That’s nice.

Hattie: You don’t say so, Artie. Now let’s cut the chit-chat and get down to business. Are you going to order something, or do I need to call the police on you for loitering?

Art: Jeez louise, Hattie, what’s the hurry? I’m the only customer here.

Hattie: That’s right, Artie. And you know I get flustered when there’s a rush. So what’s it going to be—my way, or the highway?

Art: Calm down now Hattie. I’ll just have a nice cup of the blackest, thickest and cheapest of whatever it is you’re calling plain-old American coffee today, thank you very kindly.

Hattie: Now was that so hard, Artie? I like a customer who knows how to play ball. But aren’t you forgetting something?

Art: I don’t think so, Hattie. I’m fine with just the coffee.

Hattie: The tip! Don’t play games with me, Artie. I need the tip up front just so there’s no shenanigans.

Art: No problem, Hattie. There you go.

Hattie: That’s a nice boy, Artie. But Georgie Porgie Washington needs his twin if you want that cup of coffee, mister.

Art: All right already, Hattie. There. Go get yourself something nice.

Hattie: And here’s your coffee, just like I promised. So what do you hear, what do you know, my little Artie.

Art: I know that August seems to be the only month of the year without a holiday or notable date. So to fix that situation, I figure that since both Babe Ruth and Elvis Presley died on an August 16, why not call that day “Hound Dog Day”?

Hattie: Couldn’t tell you, Artie.

Art: And so I’m thinking that every year on August 16 if some fat-ass Elvis impersonator saw his shadow, then for six weeks all those crappy oldies-rock radio stations would have to cease and desist broadcasting and the Yankees would lose every ballgame, or something like that.

Hattie: And how ’bout if the Elvis impersonator doesn’t see his shadow, then for six weeks you can’t come in here and pester me with your bullshit and cheap-ass tips? You hear me, Artie?

Art: I do, Hattie, I do. And I also hear that we got the Irish Fest finally again this weekend down by the lakefront. You ever go to that fest, Hattie?

Hattie: Not me, Artie. But my father was Irish, he would’ve loved to go. They called him a lay-about because he never worked a day in his life; so I’m sure he would have had the time to go there. Did you know, Artie, that on his tombstone it says, “Curse is the work of the drinking man.” Isn’t that nice?

Art: Sounds familiar, something like Oscar Wilde once sort of said, that “Work is the curse of the drinking man.”

Hattie: Don’t you smart-mouth me, Artie. He passed away when I was just young girl. He had a bad accident when he tried to replace a light bulb all by himself. But I’ll never forget a little story he used to tell his friends when they came back to the house after the taverns closed:

So listen, this Englishman, a Frenchman and an Irishman were at the pub discussing families. The talk turned to children and surprised they are to learn they each have a 15-year-old daughter they struggle to understand. The Englishman’s problem is that he found cigarette butts under his daughter’s bed. “I didn’t know she smoked,” was his complaint. The Frenchman then says that he’d found cognac bottles under his daughter’s bed. “I was not aware that she drank,” he confessed. And the Irishman says his situation is the toughest—he’d found condoms under his daughter’s bed. “Ah lads, what kind of father am I that I did not know my daughter even had a dick?”

Art: Yeah. That’s a nice story, Hattie.

Hattie: I knew you’d like it, Artie. You’re such a good boy.

Art: As always, it’s been a treat, Hattie. I’m thinking I ought to go before you get too busy. So thanks for the coffee—and for bending my ear there, Hattie-licious. See you next time.

Hattie: Oh Artie, you’re a little devil, aren’t you. Take care.

(OK, it’s off to the Uptowner. If you see me there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)