Nose Long Like a Telephone Wire

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, lock who up? Hey, maybe this guy. The guy known as a former “president” of the Amber Waves of Gain, Donald J(ackass) Trumpel-thinskin, who has been, finally, arrested on account of being a lying-ass criminal douchebag (a George Washington he not be, with the exception of the desire to have a couple, three slaves do his bidding—Mar-a-GoGo as the new Mount Vernon), what the fock.

I think I read somewheres that given the legal charges against him, if proven guilty (duh!), he could get sentenced, if not paragraphed, to 20 focking years in the hoosegow, god bless America!

And if so sentenced, and if I, the Honorable Art Kumbalek, were the judge overseeing the case and responsible for sentencing after the jury declared that the Orange Circus Peanut was guilty as fock, I would not send him to some kind of country-club type of modest and comfortable incarceration with round-the-clock access to HDTV to serve out his time, no sir.

The Honorable Art Kumbalek would instead send the DJT to serve his time in one of those Cool-Hand Luke Deep South hot-as-hell banjo-plucking chain-gang prison camps where a “night in the box” could help to get his mind right; although, I’m guessing that rather than wagering that he could polish off 50 hard-boiled eggs within an hour, he’d bet that he could knock-off 50-focking lies in a New York minute. Done and done, done and done, and done and done over and over. Cruel Hand Fluke, or something like that, ain’a?

But onward we go. I hear we got the Father’s Day just over the horizon of a couple, three days, which as tradition on this page dictates that I must say that what with the bad rap fathers have got in the press and on the TV for far too long, I’m surprised the day is celebrated at all. Cripes, why don’t they just go ahead and change Father’s Day to Deadbeat Dad’s Day, or Workaholic Dad-You’re-Never-Around-The-Focking-House-When-We-Need-You Day, what the fock.

Anyways, I was listening to, courtesy of one of those CDs (what will they think of next, ain’a), Frank Sinatra croon Cole Porter’s great tune “So In Love” the other day, and with a little research was reminded that it’s been 25-focking-years from last month since the Chairman of the Board (Broad?) got served the pink slip from this life, so as to go serenade the lusher life we expect to enjoy in the Great Beyond. And it’s taken 25 years for me to realize that in his absence, it is now high time up to me, you betcha, to save Western culture, if not the whole goddamn worldly civilization. I don’t want to come blow my own horn, but you know I always did have an inkling, if not a hankering, it would come to this, I kid you not.

And this torch that I’ve belatedly found I won’t allow to be drowned. No sir, I’ve got high hopes to care-take the torch so that it continues to burn, baby, burn brightly all through these dark ages until things get modern again, when I can pass the focking flame to another smart-mouth wise-ass with a bad attitude who comes down the pike, or something like that.

But to save Western civilization, if not the whole goddamn worldly civilization, I’m going to need some start-up scratch; which means here comes my sort-of semiannual summertime pitch son’s to address a word or two, or three, to the kids who number themselves as members of my readership family:

Hey kids, summer’s just begun and I’m pretty focking certain that before you know it, you’ll be good and goddamn bored with shoplifting, video-game gazing, stealing bikes or having your own bike stolen. So listen, it’s never too soon to think about the future and just what the fock it is you’re going to do to earn your dime. Hey, maybe you ought to think about being a professional writer like me, and I’ll tell you why.

For starters, you mostly don’t have to go anywhere to do it. You can just stay home, which is focking great ’cause with no boss around, you can have the TV on all day long if you focking feel like it and an ashtray is always at arm’s length. And it’s the kind of job where there is no limit to the number of excuses that can be used for not doing it and how do you beat that, ain’a?

Hell, a lot of these writers come out with only one book every other year. That’s 730 days and the book is like 200 pages long. That means, to be a productive writer, you only have to write one focking page every 3-and-a-half days—piece of cake, what the fock.

And to boot, writers write on a computer, lo, these days, so when you can’t think of what to write, you can while away the hours perusing various free porn sites and learn a thing or two that could help make your first date a rousing success.

So if you think this lifestyle sounds attractive, tell your mom and pop you want to be a writer, and to send Art Kumbalek a cashier’s check for $250, and I’ll get you enrolled in the Art Kumbalek Summer School of Juvenile Writing. In the meantime, don’t forget to never dig a hole too deep that you can’t get out, and never ever mix good booze with soda.

And in conclusion, it’s time for me to go and get over by the Up towner tavern/charm school where I shall recruit mine own personal Rat Pack so as to save whatever civilization we got left; and also, to toast not only fathers, but also sons, there now over the rainbow, with a nice bourbon or three, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.