March of the Sodden Soldier

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, people right and left have been asking me lately about what I’ve given up for the Lent. I got to tell you’s, here we be a couple, three weeks into the season and I’ve yet to declare my sacrifice. And as a candidate for president, I really ought to come up with something 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 listen, as we approach my gala 30th anniversary year with one newspaper, all I got to say is I can’t believe it’s the merry month of March already, I kid you not. Yes sir, in like a lion, out like a lamb, they say. Or it’s in like a lamb, out like a lion. And in some quarters she goes in as a lamb, comes out as lamb chops. 

Hold on. All this talk of young sheep reminds me of a question I wanted to ask you’s: Why do Scottish sheepherders wear kilts? (Give up? OK.) ’Cause zippers can get stuck. Or is it, “’Cause kilts don’t have zippers”? Cripes, now I can’t remember. It might not even be either one of the two. Whatever the correct answer is, the point is that kilts make it easier and more convenient for Scottish sheepherders to schtup a member of the flock when the spirit moves than if he’d been wearing a pair of trousers, what the fock.

And don’t take me wrong: I sure as heck don’t mean to imply that inter-species mating is any less frowned upon—or any less enjoyed, for that matter—in Scotland than it is in any other nook and cranny of the globe. Anthropologists worth their salt probably know more about this kind practice than I do, but I suspect it’s a practice that goes on every day somewheres in the world and involves not just your usual suspects like sheepherders, itinerant farmhands, right-wing radio talk-show hosts and circus people, but cuts across all kind of socioeconomic (not to mention biologic) strata.

Also, I don’t mean to reinforce the ages-old stereotype of animals as only mere sex objects. Heck, no. Not in this day and age when their instrumental, if not gladly given, assistance to our scientists in medical research should serve as an inspiration, if not aspiration, to us all. And speaking of inspiration, to help combat this vicious stereotype of the animal as always the victim, be it of sex or be it of what-have-you, I got to relate the following account:

A beleaguered American farmer needed to expand revenue from his chicken farming in order to save the family farm. To do so required acquiring a stud rooster, birth control be damned. He asked around and the consensus was that the best rooster in the tri-county went by the name of Randy and resided in a neighboring town. The farmer traveled to meet with Randy’s owner and dicker for the fowl’s services. The owner confirmed that Randy was indeed top cock, and after much deliberation, a deal was done. 

When the farmer returned home, he explained to Randy the importance of the service he needed, but also stressed how necessary it would be for the cock to pace himself because job burnout was an ever-present danger. Randy gave a thumbs-up, and so the farmer released him into the henhouse. So much for burnout. Randy went about his business like Sir Ron Jeremy shagging a shagged bevy of beauties hopped up on birth-control pills. Feathers flew like wind-driven snow accompanied by a din of clucking to wake the dead. After a couple, three hours, each hen in the house had been serviced not once, not twice, but fice.

The next day, the farmer reiterated to Randy the importance of pace, to no avail. Randy not only went carousing through the henhouse, but also went after the dog, the cat, the sheep, the farmer’s daughter, a nearby spectating fox and pretty much all else that moved. The farmer was outraged. “Randy,” he said, “you can’t possibly last at this pace. Slow down—I need you for a long time.”

Twenty-four hours later, the inevitable happened. Randy was lying in the middle of a field, looking like death warmed over. Buzzards were circling, dropping altitude with each pass as the farmer watched his prized cock slowly dying. He dragged himself up to Randy and said, “How could you? I begged you to pace yourself. Didn’t I tell you how important you were?”

Randy popped one eye open, looked at the farmer and whispered, “Yeah, so shut up already. Look. They’re getting closer.”

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