Master of the Johnson

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, besides the fact that I’m down with this big, bad honking cold that I swear could turn into pneu-focking-monia at the drop of a snotrag, I’m not feeling too half-bad and I’ll tell you why.

First, I have renewed faith in the power and economical effectiveness of word-of-mouth publicity. I had no trick-or-treaters come begging by me this year. Year after year of offering the costumed katzenjammers nothing but mashed potatoes and gravy did it for me, and I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty it can do it for you. (And if you’re an adult making a big deal about the Halloween and all kinds of plans—take a good look in the mirror and maybe think about seeing somebody who’s dressed up like a psychiatrist.)

And secondly, I just renegotiated my contract here at the Shepherd, how ’bout that. Added five to ten years, with time off for good behavior. Haven’t hammered out all the details, but the entire package is worth somewheres in the neighborhood of an estimated $97.55. The business sharpies here wanted to make it for more focking dough, but I said no focking way—$97.55 was all I could afford to pay them. (I don’t come cheap ’cause I don’t have to. I’m already there.)

Plus, I got a performance clause written into the dang thing: As long as I can pen these essays whilst standing up with my nose touching my knees and no focking words misspelled for the proofreader, they’ll let me keep hacking away here, what the fock.

Anyways, the Halloween always reminds me that another wintertime is right around the corner down the block. And this season I plan on practicing what-you-call your “safe winter.” You can bet your bottom’s dollar that no focking way am I leaving the house without my rubbers ’cause you never ever really do know when Old Man Winter will rear his frosty head and administer one of his patented massive snowjobs, and that sure as hell is no time to be caught with your pants down, as they say.

And come to think of it, what’s with all this “safe sex” ba-focking-loney? Everybody’s telling you you ought to “practice” it. OK, I’m practicing, I’m practicing, but heyyy, when the hell’s the actual ballgame supposed to start, I’d like to know?

What the fock, maybe I’m better off riding the bench after all ’cause “safe sex”?—talk about your oxymoron. “Safe sex” is like saying “protected skydiving with no chute.” One way or another, it’ll kill you but good for sure.

“Safe”? No way such a thing in a million years. Seems to me now, that the school nuns back at Our Lady In Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough were right. Sex is stupid. It’s nothing but some kind of bad drug that people with no esteem take. It’s some kind of weird-ass plug-in tool for knobs of either sex who are into power manipulation, I kid you not.

And who in the gosh darn heck ever decided that sex is some basic human need of life like eating and drinking? You got to be jerking my beefaroni. If that were so true, how come married people aren’t dropping like flies right and left and right? Let’s put it to the test: Half of you’s don’t eat for six months and the other half of you’s forego the conjugular hoochie coochie of the consenting adult. Be a wiener-free winner: Celebrate the celibate.

In the olden days, they didn’t have sex. They had fornication. It was a noble thing, like your barnyard animals. But then your artists dreamed up this sex stuff to sell their art. Then advertising shysters came up with even more sex so you’d watch stupid TV shows and buy stupid crap.

But today with the sex, you’ll either die from it, or possibly even worse, have kids from it and you know what that’ll cost on a yearly basis? Now you can’t afford food or drink, so you’re still going to die, what the fock.

Oh yeah, and speaking of the coupling in marriage:

So this guy goes to see the Rabbi and says, “Rabbi, something terrible is happening and I have to talk to you about it. I think my wife is poisoning me.” The very surprised Rabbi asks, “How can that be?” The guy begins to plead, “I’m telling you, I’m certain she’s poisoning me. What should I do?” The Rabbi says, “Tell you what. Let me talk to her. I’ll see what I can find out and let you know.”

A week later the Rabbi calls the guy and says, “Well, I spoke to your wife. I spoke to her on the phone for three hours. You want my advice?” The guy says, “Abso-focking-lutely.” And the Rabbi says, “Take the poison.”

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