Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, sorry to say that yours truly has not exactly been feeling 110% the last couple, three days, what the fock. Not sure if I’m coming down with the novel virus, but I’ve heard tell that one of the bunch of symptoms is “difficulty thinking.” If that’s on the up-and-up, then I got to figure that I’ve been battling this COVID-bastard for years and years, I kid you not.
But one thing I know before I forget, it’s that time of year for my annual pledge/fund pitch (some of you’s regulars might want to run to the kitchen and mix another Lysol on-the-rocks during this shakedown, I’ll try to make it brief so don’t dawdle).
“Hey, what with Mother’s Day ’round the corner, I’m reminded it’s time for my sort of annual Art Kumbalek Donor-dough/Greenback/Pin Money/Cookie Jar/Piggy Bank/Petty Cash/C Note/G Note/Stick ’em Up/Raid the Kid’s College Fund/Back Up the Truck/Money Grab. And just like any other public radio, television, what-have-you nonprofit, my pitch hasn’t changed and it’s not going to until I get some goddamn results.
“Hey, I’m as focking sick of it as you are and I wish I didn’t have to do it, but unless you’s start pledging plenty, I’ll be fiscally forced to cram my pitch down your throat ’til you finally cough it up, what the fock.
“And so I ask you to fork it over, and I don’t want to hear any pissin’ and moanin’ about our trashed economy as an excuse as to why you are unable to focking fork it over, thank you very kindly. Excuses are for losers, but if you flip me some dough at any time during my Feather the Nest Week, we can all come out of this as winners, you betcha.
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“Yeah, I know. Winner? Greasing the palm of some knob in a newspaper/website would make you, the reader, a winner? Wouldn’t ‘wiener’ be more accurate? Could be. Some people are just natural-born wieners no matter what they do or don’t do, what the fock. Like this guy I knew who goes to see the doctor. He’s got a strawberry jammed up each nostril, a carrot sticking out each ear, and a wiener up his dupa. He says, ‘Doc, I think there’s something wrong with me.’ Doctor says, ‘Well sir, offhand I’d say you weren’t eating properly.’ Ba-ding!
(Oops! Hold on, I got the phone ringing here and I better take the call. It could be this Nigerian prince I ran into on the internet who sent me a message that he’s got like a million bucks with my name on it if only I can help him out with a little misunderstanding he’s having with a United States financial institution, the bastards.)
“Hey Artie, so you know if you’re coming by my place Sunday yet?”
(It’s my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine. He’s planning to have a small-gathering socially distanced Mother’s Day brunch for us fellas whose ma’s have gone to a better a place, and by better place I don’t mean Vegas on a three-day junket. I’ll make this call short so’s we can get back to business.)
“Jimmy, don’t know yet, I’ve not been feeling so hot. Call me later. I’m right in the middle of whipping out an essay here.”
“Yeah, OK Artie, I understand—power of the press, or what’s left of it, et-focking-cetera. But I got to know now how many Polish sausage I got to get. And don’t forget, I’m making my famous ground-beef stuffed cabbage rolls and yes, I got plenty of horseradish. Hey, did I tell you Felix Bryszeswiczkowtowski said he was coming?”
“You got to be jerking my beefaroni, Jimmy. I haven’t seen that wag since that night years ago when he got barred-for-life from the Dutchland Dairy restaurant after he loosened the tops to all the salt-shakers right before the crowd from Our Lady Of You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell came in for their post-prom repast.”
“Yeah yeah, Artie. Justice could be harsh for the young people back then. So’s you know, his ma died some years ago but he still puts flowers on her grave each day of the week.”
“That can be expensive.”
“Could be, but I’ll tell you Artie, he works out at a cemetery. Same one his ma’s buried at, and it doesn’t cost him a dime for the flowers. What he does is when he’s out cutting the grass, raking leaves or something and he sees someone put flowers on a grave, he’ll wait ’till they drive off and then move them over to his ma’s grave.”
“It’s the thought that counts.”
“You betcha, Artie—especially with this dumpster economy. Listen, I know you got to go and do your little article, but I want to run by you for suggestions a little spoken-word thing I put together that I’d like to recite right before we cut into the ring baloney on Sunday. I call it ‘How I Spell Mother’ and it goes something like this:
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“M: is for those meals you cooked I always tried my best to be way late for. I’ll never forget those pot roasts. I’m still trying to swallow a piece from one of them that I’ve been chewing since 1963. O: is for the first vowel in the word ‘vocabulary.’ And you taught me well that ‘o’ is also the first vowel in ‘soap.’ Cripes, I was the only kid in fifth grade who could swear and blow bubbles at the same time. T: is for the 20-to-50 thousand bucks my baseball cards and comic books would be worth today if you hadn’t tossed them in the trash while I was elsewhere some afternoon performing my community-service obligation. Lucky for you I couldn’t afford a better lawyer when I sued and took you to court for ‘loss of income.’ T-anks for nothing.
“H: stands for those what-the-hell-kind-of-cancer-patient haircuts you administered in the kitchen while I sat beneath the salad bowl just so you could save the two-bits that the ribald Italian barber up the street would’ve otherwise charged. I still can’t look at the photos from my first wedding to this day. E: what the fock, still haven’t figured out what ‘E’ stands for. And R: is for that even with all the toil and trouble we gave each other, I really miss you, I kid you not. I do really miss you.”
“That’s nice, Jimmy. Yeah, OK, maybe see you Sunday. Stay well.”
And hey, talk about the spoken word come to think of it, if you’re looking for a nice champagne toast at your own group-limited Mother’s Day brunch, if you can safely pull it off, how ’bout you serve up some Oscar Wilde: All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his. O-Wild, you be the man still, you betcha.
Now, finally, about that Kumbalek pledge/fund drive I mentioned earlier. Forget about it. If you got some extra dough to donate somewheres, how ’bout you sent it to one of those good COVID-response groups rather than to me. Cripes, at my age I could be croaked by the time I received your gracious hand-out, so what the fock.
And speaking of croaked, a decision I ought to make damn soon is whether to be planted or cremated. Just so you know, if planted, number one right now on my epitaph list is “Cancel My Appointments,” but that could change ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
