I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, whenever I’m out ’round the town I am basically besieged by queries in the haunts I frequent—such as the Uptowner tavern/charm school—from the everyday run-of-the-mill Jacks and Jills seeking higher understanding concerning this and that. And so’s I thought it to be a good idea for your enlightenment to trot by you some of these questions along with the answers I’ve been bandying about of late—all in the interest of bringing you’s up to speed on what the fock is really happening with whatever the fock it is that’s going on. Let’s go.
(OK, the answer to the most frequently asked question is that I figure I ought to be good for it by the end of next week, I swear; so get off my focking back, all right?)
Q: Hey Artie, you got a cell phone number that a person could call to get hold of you? Every time I call the Shepherd, you’re never there.
A: Of course I’m never at the Shepherd hardly. You can’t smoke there, and booze at your desk is frowned upon. For any newspaper essayist, you take away two of his most valuable tools and you got a blank page, mister. It’s the same like you give Van focking Gogh an empty can of Dutch Boy and a brush with no bristles and then tell him to go paint the Louvre. Can’t be done, I don’t care who you are.
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And no cell phone for me. I’m a big enough jag as it is. I don’t need to up the ante by walking around in circles in the center of the grocery-store aisle or by standing smack-dab in the middle of a public doorway because I feel the need to engage in self-important blather via my dinky wireless telephone and to “mean mug” anyone who dares invade my personal jag space. Besides, they’re dangerous to boot, as in the following story:
So this old fart’s driving down the freeway. His wife calls him on his cell phone, very worried, and says, “Hermie, be careful! I just heard on the radio that there’s a madman driving the wrong way on I-94!” And Hermie says, “I know, but there isn’t just one. There’s hundreds!” Ba-ding!
Q: Artemus, do you know when the next Republican debate is, and do you also know if any of these GOP knobs or knobettes subscribe to the intelligent theory of evolution, or do they all hang with the “intelligent design” crowd that believes mankind was supposed to been born like yesterday?
A: Well pally, next debate is Dec. 15 in Las focking Vegas. It’d be nice if they replaced one of the clowns with Wayne Newton to toss in a nice musical number here and there, ain’a?
Also, I just read about some poll that says something like “54% of Americans do not believe that human beings evolved from earlier species.” Scientifically speaking, these are the 54% who did not descend from the ape or the chimpanzee, but rather descend from the flightless African bird known as the ostrich. For this 54% of Americans, theirs has been a rather sideways evolutionary process—from head in sand to head up butt, I kid you not. I’ve tuned into the previous Republican debates, and my take is each and every one of these less-than-master debaters has their head up their ass, so what the fock.
Q: Hey Artie, the wife wants a new puppy for Christmas. I know they don’t sell them at your Best Buy or Old Navy. Any idea where I should go?
A: Yeah, how ’bout Divorce Court? Full disclosure: My scariest thought is whether or not animals get to go to heaven. For christ sakes, that’s all a guy needs is to spend his entire focking life busting his butt, finally gets puking sick, croaks, walks through the Pearly Gates and the first thing that happens is he steps right smack-dab into one heaping, heaving pile of dog-doo. Praise the lord.
And this is supposed to be for eternity ever-after? I’ll tell you’s, I want to be buried with a rolled-up newspaper so that when I’m shaking hands with St. Peter and some canine starts humping my leg, I can give it one good ol’ whack right across the goddamn snout.
I pray they must go to the other place, ’cause spending a couple, three eternities in the company of household pets and assorted animals sure sounds like focking hell to me. Or at least that these creatures would have their own animal heaven where they could all go and sniff each other’s butts and leave mine alone. That I could live with ’cause when it comes to other species—your animal and insect societies to name two—you can call me a “speciest,” but I firmly believe in a “separate, the hell with equal” kind of arrangement.
OK, there you go. And if you still got Christmas shopping left to do, I take about a 42-regular in a nice sport coat, just so you know, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
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