Misty Water-colored Memo Rye

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I can’t believe it’s already February and that as a top-drawer soothsaying prognosticator, I have yet to make nary a single prediction for this still sort-of-new year, what the fock.

So here goes: Off the top of my head I’ll say that the Philadelphia Eagles will claim victory in the Super Bowl. Also, since some people’s president has declared that Guantánamo Bay will remain open for business, I predict that by the end of the year that he and his fellow Republican travelers—from Paul focking Ryan to Mitch “Yertle” McConnell and right on down the line—will be taking up residence there, by law, for pissing on the Constitution; obstructing justice every which way; colluding with, and handing over this country to, the Russian Commies; and just plain old violating general principles. “Gitmo” becomes “GOP-mo,” you betcha.

And oh yeah, this Memo. You got to be jerking my beefaroni. Memo? Hey, I got your Memo right here. Actually I’ve got my Memo for you right here. And it goes something like this:

Dear Memo,

It has come to my attention that I need to make mention about this big brouhaha about all the government spying and snooping going on. I don’t know if the snooping has gone a little overboard, but I do know I made a phone call to my buddy Ernie last week to let him know I wasn’t feeling well. And the very next day in the mail I got an official looking envelope postmarked Washington, D.C. Inside was a get well card—no signature (Ernie thinks they used disappearing ink)—wishing me a speedy recovery, so what the fock, ain’a?

OK, hold on. It’s the phone. Could be the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes knobshines calling, finally. Be right back…

Nope. It’s my pal Little Jimmy Iodine. Hold on a second…

“Hey Artie, got a minute?”

“No can do, Jimmy. I’m smack-dab in the middle of the fifteen minutes I set aside each week to whip out my essay. I got to go.”

“You should put something in your little article this week about that Super Bowl halftime show. Jesus H. Christ, can’t anybody write a song I can hum the next day anymore? And what’s with this parading around on stage like you’re having some kind of stroke or philatelic seizure. That’s entertainment? I got two words for you, Artie. Carol Channing.”

“Carol Channing. Is she still alive?”

“She’s 97, Artie—not that much older than those Rolling Stones when they did the Super Bowl the other year. She’s got the experience. She did Super Bowls IV and VI. And Hello Dolly, for crying out loud. Now there’s a tune you can hum anywhere you go, ain’a? OK Artie. Later.”

All right, then. Back to my Memo:

So the government wants to know how I’m feeling? Hey, with my fingers. Ba-ding! God forbid I should lose my sense of touch, say, in an unfortunate document-shredding accident due to an overzealous effort so’s to protect my identity ’cause I’ll tell you, if you don’t have your identity, you got yourself a situation but good.

Yes sir, you get your identity stolen by some douchebag, and it’s like all of a sudden you’ve got an evil twin out there somewheres in the world having a grand old time on your dime, what the fock.

And natch’, I got to wonder who in their right mind would want to steal my identity ’cause if they did, they’d soon find it to be way more trouble than it’s worth.

What, you want to be me? Jeez louise. OK, be my guest, but let me warn you this: Do not expect to be shown to the best stool when you visit your local George Webb’s, and you can definitely forget about door-to-door service from your Milwaukee County Transit System when you got to hop onboard so’s you can get to the hospital on account of sudden yet dire physical circumstances that will lead to emergency hemorrhoid surgery, and don’t expect V.I.P. treatment from the bankruptcy court you will appear before ’cause no way in hell do you have an extra $50-grand laying around to pay for said emergency surgery because you can’t afford any kind of health insurance now, because our asshole United States Republicans who are supposed to represent our people from sea-to-shining-sea don’t believe their purple-mountain-majestied people deserve a little reasonable across-the-board protection when it comes to the kind of puking-dying sickness that will land a guy or gal flat-on-their-ass out on the street.

And finally Dear Memo, since it’s damn near Valentine’s Day (which to me means only one thing: Presidents’ Day is right around the corner), tradition dictates that I remind the people of what the famous Greek philosopher Anonymous once said: “The ideal relationship can only be achieved when one partner is blind and the other is deaf,” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.