Nut Cracked

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, one more essay before Christmas, and this is it. So read it and weep, or read it and sleep, or don’t even read it at all, what the fock. I understand that you may not have the time to read further than this, what with the hustle, bustle and schmutz of the holidays after all. See, I’ve got a different situation. For you’s, the holidays come once a year, but for a guy like me, everyday’s just another focking holiday, so I guess maybe I don’t feel the same kind of pressure most of you’s do.

Although I do feel a tad chagrined blue that due to an economic downturn, once again I was not able to secure sufficient fundage to get the much-ballyhooed Art Kumbalek Holiday Mistletoe Belt Buckle into production so as to meet your gift-giving needs. Sucks, don’t it?

But for those of you who now would show up to your holiday party or relative gettogether otherwise empty-handed ’cause you counted on gifting the Kumbalek Mistletoe Belt Buckle, may I suggest that you come bearing the gift of laughter instead. Here, try this one on for size: So it’s springtime and the young bear comes out of his cave. His knees are knockin’ and he’s a wreckjust skin and bones with deep, dark circles under his eyes.

The mother bear says, “Junior! You look terrible. Did you hibernate all winter like you were supposed to?” And Junior says, “HIBERNATE??!? Cripes Ma, I thought you said ‘masturbate’!”

Alright already, maybe it’s not the best joke in the world so sue me, but I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty there will be at least one knobshine at the office party who will swear it’s the focking funniest joke he’s ever heard, and then proceed to completely screw it up in the retelling to every gal at the party by trying to jazz up the punch line, as in “HIBERNATE??!? Focking-A Ma, I thought you told me to jack off!” And you yourself might even get a good laugh if you stick around the shindig long enough, because by then after a tubful of hot focking toddies, this life-of-the-party jackass will really be on a roll and the punch line will have evolved into near get-hisass- fired gibberish:

“HIBERVENTILATE??!? You got to be jerking my beefaroni, Ma. I thought you said you wanted me to spank the monkey!” Wait. Wait. It gets better. “So the mother bear says, ‘What monkey?’ The monkey looks at her and says, ‘Organ grinder? What the hell do I need an organ grinder for when I got a right paw?’ So Junior the bear whips out his ding-dong and corn-holes Elmer Fudd for the third focking time and says, “So, I guess you don’t come here just for the hunting, do you buddy?’”

Come to think of it, wild animals engaged in the art of self-administered sexual satisfaction may not exactly be seasonal material for this time of year, which means you’re still short-handed in the “gift of laughter” department.

So here, I got another one for you to try on that’s got a little religious color to italways tasty what with all the baby Jesus-hoopla lathered onto the Yuletide:

So this church minister dies and all of a sudden he finds himself waiting in line outside the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is this guy wearing jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses and he’s got one of those Mohawk haircuts. And Saint Peter asks the guy, “Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?”

 The guy says to Saint Peter, “You talking to me? Are you talking to me?” St. Pete says that indeed he is. And the guy says, “Listen, I’m Travis Bickle. Taxi driver. New York City. Listen you fockers, you screwheads. Like I said, here’s a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit, here is someone who stood up.”

Saint Peter consults his list and says to taxidriver Bickle, “Take this silken robe and golden staff, my son, and enter the Kingdom.”

So now it’s the minister’s turn. He stands erect, clears his throat, and with a stentorian boom-of-a-voice, pronounces, “I am James Dobnobson, pastor of the All Clean Saints Family In Pain On High mega-church for the last 43 years.” Saint Pete checks his list, frowns, and says to the minister, “Mmmm, yeah, OK, you’re in I guess, but here, you take this cotton robe and wooden staff.” Minister says, “Just a minute, there must be some mistake. The man before me was nothing but a taxi driver, and he receives a silken robe and golden staff. How can this be?”

And St. Peter says, “This is Heaven, sir. Up here, we judge by results. And so I will tell you that while you preached, people slept; and while he drove, people prayed.” Ba-ding! Oh yeah, before I forget, if there’s to be kids gathered at your gathering you can bring them this good ol’ roasted chestnut: “Hey kids, what’s the difference between a snow man and a snow lady. Give up? Snow balls.”

So, peace on Earth, goodwill toward all (in your dreams), and have a hot focking toddy for me would you, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.