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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear another Super Bowl has come and gone complete with the recent raft of ferkakta advertising commercials—hey, fock your snack chips, fock your crappy American beer, fock your overpriced soon-to-be-stolen motor vehicles, fock your Jesus (And the moneychangers win in overtime a couple thousand years later!). I’ll tell you’s, when that pigskin back-and-forth was finally concluded, the only thing I felt needed to purchase was a long, good night’s sleep prefaced with a bedtime prayer of thankfulness that this long, way long football season was put to rest, I kid you not.

Yes sir, I thought the halftime extravaganza was more than swell (thanks for asking), what with the estimable Rihanna commanding the stage atop the gridiron; although “gridiron” it was not, the new million dollar turf put in place was less gridiron than grid-slush, oh boy. 

But speaking of a Super Bowl halftime show, I would address an egregious fock-up and anoint The Beach Boys (or what’s left of them—Beach Boy?) for the top-dog spot at next February’s affair. For christ sakes, there have been nearly 60 of these Super Bowls and not once has America’s greatest musical group been invited to the big stage betweenst the 2nd and 3rd quarters, what the fock.

Yeah yeah, the B. Boys have done some pre-game schmutz here and when, but never got passed onto that center stage; a shame that is, not to mention that America’s other preeminent rock band, the Young Rascals/Rascals never got a sniff of that big-time football Sunday evening stage neither. But I ain’t gonna eat out a piece of my heart anymore about this piss-poor neglect of the truly sublime, no sir. 

But yet over the slug of the long years of Super Bowl halftime musical hullabaloo, we’ve witnessed the likes of entertainers such as Carol (The Voice to Wake the Dead) Channing (two-time gig, good lord), the Los Angeles Unified All-City Band & Audience card stunt (1977, for those of you’s keeping score) and the Maroon-focking-5 in 2019, good lord.

And let’s not forget that the “musical” conglomeration known as Up with People made four appearances at the Bowl, which is four more than the Detroit focking Lions, just so you know. Somehow I’ve got an inkling that the Up with People confab will not soon entertain a fifth invite. Cripes, “Up with People”? Probably sounds a little too “woke” from a marketing malarkey angle to attract the conservative crazy-crab crowd, lo, these days of rage, ain’a?

And so I choose to conclude this essay with a salute to fallen National Football League players who died, post-gladiator days, too young from smashing injuries suffered while playing a game meant to entertain millions whilst protecting the American male from dealing with household projects (or the wife) on any given Sunday afternoon, Sunday night, Monday night, Thursday night.

This conclusion also serves as an addendum to my much ballyhooed State of the Essay address from just last week. So, bow your heads and let us read:

The State of the Essay 2023—Replay

Sail on, sail on sailor, ’cause now is now and then was then and right now maybe I’m not feeling like your essayist-at-large, maybe I’m feeling more like a sewer rat onboard some U.S.S. Shipwrecked Daughters and brothers sailing wicked waters. A rock in the landslide, the leaf on a windy day, cork on the ocean often frightened surely unenlightened, lost and goner. Empty Styrofoam cup in a California sandbox, god only knows.

Heroes and villains, that’s the beat. The first mate sang the children were raised, you know they suddenly rose like wild honey, they started so long ago and to turn healthy, wealthy and wise through restful waters and deep commotion, often frightened, unenlightened… And I’ve been in this town so long, so long to this city that I’m fit with this stuff, to write in the rough, but you can bet your buck two-eighty that I’m all right by the heroes and villains, my life with the heroes and villains, always this valentine to the heroes and villains.

But if my beat were advice for all over the nation, maybe I’d say that maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true, maybe then there wouldn’t be a single thing we couldn’t do. Wouldn’t that be nice? You bet your sweet dupa it would.

And don’t forget that it’s always a good thing to remember all the places you’ve surfed and danced and, all the faces you’ve missed that in this late day are too outta site; and then think and wish and hope and pray that you can do it again.

And then sometimes a guy needs a break from his beat, a slight reprieve, I don’t care who you are. So, what do you say, let’s have one, a couple, three hot focking toddies.

Hey, whoever’s left in this room and somebody wants to know just where the heck everyone else has gone, you just tell the teacher we’ve gone surfing, surfing U.S.-focking-A. ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.