Mega Swillion

×

Expand

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it’s the Monday, July 18 (yeah, the day in history that Adolf focking Hitler published his bullshit Mein Kampf, 1925), but also the day my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine alerted me to the fact that the lottery game Mega Millions had achieved a pay-off jackpot of $555 million dollars, what the fock. A guy like me could find use for that kind of dough, I kid you not. Thanks for the tip, Jimmy.

Being a wannabe financial savant theses day of the ferkakta stock market and such, perhaps a wise and savvy investment would be to hail the attention of the gal/guy manning the “customer service” desk at my local grocery emporium—“service, not a specialty”—and purchase such a Mega Millions ticket to paradise—cripes, a two-dollar investment for a return of $555 million? Sounds mighty practical to me, ain’a?

Good lord, what I could do with a couple-hundred million floating around in my pocket. I could add some nice extra dollars onto my County Transit bus pass; I could afford to get my winter jacket dry-cleaned, finally; a pair of new shoes; a pack of fresh Gold Toe white socks; and an investment stake into the Milwaukee Bucks that would come with nice seats and complimentary hot dogs with mustard. So I dream.

And I hear that Our Town seems to be a lock as to host the 2024 Republican National Convention. Cripes, I always thought that Republicans and Milwaukee go together like O.J. and Nicole, what the fock.

But they say the event will be an economic boon for the city, and as a Brewtown resident I am looking forward to that future princely check in the mail from the RNC for my services rendered. I’m sure I’ll be able to use the dough, I kid you not.

And I’m also sure that whichever fascist the Republicans nominate to be commander-and-chief democracy destroyer, I’d sure be surprised if he or she were to crib from FDR’s first inaugural address with this:

Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort… Recognition of the falsity of material wealth as the standard of success goes hand in hand with the abandonment of the false belief that public office and high political position are to be valued only by the standards of pride of place and personal profit; and there must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing.

And so I dream.

Which reminds me that the other week as I was exiting my neighborhood grocery emporium, I stopped by the rack to pick up a copy of the fabulous July monthly print edition of the Shepherd Express. As I was doing so, a middle-aged white guy asked me if I were “Art Kumbalek from that Shepherd.” I said, “Perhaps,” and he said, “Hey, then go fock yourself.” Yeah, thanks for reading, and fortunately, this critic seemed to be unarmed.

Yes, he said, “Hey, then go fock yourself.” Fock myself? OK then, but how the hell do I do that? I’m thinking it’s physically not possible according to a strict definition of “fock.” If I could literally “fock” myself, we’re staking out some serious if not unsatisfying Guinness Book territory, I kid you not.

Of course, there are ways you can go fock yourself by way of a looser definition of “fock.” For example, you notice a patrol car parked on the side of the road but you decide to run a red light at 60mph in a 25mph zone while tossing a beer can out the window. You have now definitely gone and focked yourself. Focked yourself but good, I’d wager.

Cripes, this is surely some complicated stuff, so let’s wrap it up with a quick message for you moms and pops out there. Just like every year, yes, there’s still plenty of room open in the much ballyhooed Art Kumbalek Summer School of Juvenile Writing I alerted you’s back in early June. In fact, there’s nothing but room—I know, go figure, ain’a?

So listen, as a refresher, there’s this excerpt from the secondary brochure I was going to have designed, printed and mailed to prospective marks that I haven’t got around to as yet:

Your kids will get the goods on a semi-employable skill, and she’s open to anybody as long as they’re betweenst the ages of “old enough to cross the street by themselves” and “young enough to focking do whatever Camp Counselor Kumbalek tells them to do.” I figure the session will last about a week ’cause that’s about all I’m going to be able to stand. But oh, the times they’ll have!

Campers will contract a full dose of the writing life, from learning to never answer the phone to never acquiesce a knock at the door to never set an alarm clock to never open unsolicited mail from the IRS.

This year’s camp theme: “Writer’s Block, What the Fock.” Each student will be told to think of something to write about. Then, under my tutelage legitimized by personal experience, the student will be encouraged to take the view that their idea is unworthy to be writ upon, that it’s horse manure, ’cause how could it be otherwise if they themselves had thought of it?

I’ll let them wrestle with that for most of the week whilst demonstrating techniques designed to abide writer’s block: Watch 24-hour TV; stare out the window while hunkered over a full ashtray; pour another stiff one. Then, with an hour left to the week I’ll tell them that if they ever want to see their parents again, they best get their pencil and paper out and make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear the best they can. Writing. Pressure. Deal with it.

But time’s running out. Get your butt in gear and get your kid/kids registered because seating is definitely limited to those who sign up, cash in advance. The fee is half-a-grand per camper with all necessary supplies included: No. 2 pencil with plenty of lead in it; writing tablet; carton of Chesterfields; extra-large can of Maxwell House; quart of Old Crow. No free lunch included.

So, if you’re a parent in need of a summertime break, please send me $500 bucks c/o Shepherd Express and sign away your katzenjammer now, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.