Nice Snowing You’s

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So how’s my happy focking New Year going so far? Got to say feeling pretty gosh darn good over here thanks for asking, what with those so-called Vikings out of Minnesota (Land of 5,344,861 Leakers) getting craptacularly humiliated by our Green Bay Packers in that football playoff game the other day. What the hell kind of Vikings are these that lose their testicles the minute they’re forced to take their pigskin outdoors? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that based on the notion of ferocious intensity vis-à-vis the game of football, I strongly advise that you’s people over there in Minnesota consider changing the name of your gridiron gang from Vikings to Eunuchs because at least the truth shall be victorious, you betcha.

But I also got to tell you that a sense of gratitude forces me not to be thoroughly damning of the Vikings ’cause at least those tundra dickweeds weren’t hell-bent enough to put up any colonies when they found their way over to the good ol’ U.S.A. centuries before Chris Columbus even had a focking clue, I kid you not.

Cripes, otherwise we could all be speaking Norwegian today instead of English and what-not, and if you don’t think that would suck, consider that Norwegian for the English humiliate is ydmyke. That’s right. Ydmyke. Trying saying that ten-times-fast and you’ll break your jaw (or kjefte, as they say in downtown Oslo). Our young Einsteins would never graduate public school if they had to learn crazy/sprø spelling every time they were called upon to read or write a word for christ sakes.

And speaking of fotball (sic), giant in Norwegian is kjempemessig. So the famisht (pardon my Yiddish) New York Giants would be the New York Kjempemessigs—and only a true kjempemessig would be able to wear a jersey utstrakt enough to fit all that on the front of. And if you want a beer at the game, you’d ask for an øl and you can break your kjefte just thinking about how to pronounce a word like øl from a language that likes to run one of those goddamn lines through a vowel whenever they focking feel like it.

Anyways, here we be carving up January, and for the second year in a row I hear people out and about wondering where the hell winter’s hiding out at. Hey, I suggest you worrywarts keep your snow pants on ’cause I got a feeling we still got our share of Siberian shitstorms headed our way but good. And here’s a couple, three thoughts I’ve got about that:

1. What me and my crowd do to get through the winter is very simple. Two things: Crank up the thermostat and mix another hot focking toddy. Survival guaranteed.

2. I have only perennially fond regards for our winter seasons‑‑November through April—past, present and future. No insects to bug the bejesus out of you just because you stepped outdoors, and no jagamuffins driving around town with the windows rolled down so as to blare and share their particularly poor taste in music with me, the pedestrian. If only we could make it be winter each and every day of the year.

3. How about Beer Town thinks really big for once? To make Milwaukee winters more enjoyable if not tolerable, I propose a grand project whose completion would make the Great Wall of China, the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Mausoleum of Maussollus at Halicarnassus look like beanbag. I propose the construction and erection of a nice climate-controlled dome to envelope the City of Milwaukee proper. It would put a lot of people to work, be a destination point for tourists and retirees, and attract a lot of favorable press. The suburbs can build their own domes, fock ’em.

So enough with the winter. Finally for those of you’s who enjoyed the KKK scene in the blockbusting Django Unchained, here’s a little story:

An Ala-focking-bama pastor said to his congregation, "Someone here has spread a rumor that I belong to the Ku Klux Klan. This is a horrible lie and one which a Christian community cannot tolerate. I am embarrassed and do not intend to accept this. Now, I want the party who said this to stand and ask forgiveness from God and my Christian wife and children."

No one moved. The preacher continued, "Do you have the nerve to face me and admit this is a falsehood? Remember, you will be forgiven and in your heart you will feel glory. Now stand and confess your transgression." Again, all was quiet.

Then, slowly, a drop-dead gorgeous dame rose from the third pew. Her head was bowed and her voice quivered: "Reverend there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. I never said you were a member of the Ku Klux Klan. I simply told a couple friends that you were a wizard under the sheets."