March in With the Lyin’

×

Expand

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I heard that the Conservative Political Action Conference 2023 (acronym CPAC, or as some in my neck-of-the-blue-woods would understand to represent this: Corrupt/Pathological-Lying/Asshole/Conspiracists) recently held their annual confab over there out East in National Harbor, Md. (surprised that Florida was not chosen for the shebang’s location once again, that being with my limited knowledge of the Spanish language, I seem to recall that “Florida” is the Spanish word for “winter home of circus clowns,” what the fock). 

And speaking of clowns, wouldn’t you know that Donald Trumpel-thinskin shined around to harangue a harangue for more than an hour-and-thirty focking minutes during which he informed us that with the prospect of four more years of a puerile presidency protecting American democracy, he offered this: 

“In 2016, I declared: I am your voice… Today, I add: I am your warrior. I am your justice. And for those who have been wronged and betrayed: I am your retribution…”

Oh boy-oh, but I’m thinking he forgot to add this: “And I am your guy to put this country back on the map, like that guy they called Mussolini… Mussolini. From Italy I hear. People don’t know about Italy except that they have good spaghetti noodles, maybe the pizza pie and some old buildings. 

“And eventually he was shot dead and hanged upside down from the roof of a gas station by radical left Democrats because these communists didn’t like what he could do for their country. Nancy Pelosi? She’s way old enough. She’s also Italian, I hear. She’s a radical left Democrat. Could she have knotted the noose around the neck of a man who only wanted the best for his country? You tell me. You tell me.”

Okey-dokey. Forward. Choosing not to appear at this CPAC confab was fascist nutball-Republican-darling Florida Gov. Ron “De-Praying-Mantis” (how ’bout that for a swell nickname you have yet to conjure, Mr. Trumpty-Dumbty, ain’a? You suck.)

And what do I know about this focking insect called the praying mantis? This: “these insects are voracious predators… ” Focking swell. Also, due to my diligent research, I learned that the mantis family of creepy insects (please excuse the redundancy) are closest relatives with termites and cockroaches (aka focked-up radical Republicans—excuse again my redundancy), for christ sakes. Two focking insect intruders you don’t want to see in your house nor on your election ballot when you show up to vote at your local precinct provided you are even allowed to belly up to the ballot what with the Republican this-and-that to keep you at home.

So, where was I? I’m confused, and natch’, 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.

Little Jimmy Iodine: Any you’s guys see that article a while back about some big-time rich guy who offered a million bucks for a husband and wife to go on a 16-month space 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.

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 thus losing track of the time on the day and night 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 or whatever it is these days that the people would like for the Lent season:

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.)