Old Long Sigh

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So I hear it’s that time of year, which means I don’t have time to pony up a regular essay this week ’cause I’ve got my hands full with cranking up the thermostat and mixing another hot focking toddy. I could use two of me, I kid you not.

And in case you were wondering if I had a nice Christmas, then I know that you don’t know me very well, ’cause those who do know me well, know that each and every day of the year is bound to be some kind of focking holiday for me one way or the other, so Christmas is really no big focking deal. On the other hand, I’m inclined to hope that you’s all had a satisfactory gift-giving holiday and that you got exactly what was supposed to be coming to you.

So about this alleged new year and what to say, I confess I’m confused. The four-dimensional continuum of past and future has my head spinning, and it’s not just the toddies doing the spinning (I’m toddy trained). Listen, it’s still the old year for me right now, but by the time you take a gander at this here issue, it’ll be the new year for you right then, so what the fock, ain’a?

Anyways, to hold you over until my annual gala award-winning “Year-in-Review, Year Ahead” essay pigeonholed for next week (it’s the new year for the both of us then, I figure), let me say I know that for many it just wouldn’t be the Christmas cum holiday season without the occasionally annual retelling of a Christmas classic you first read here—a traditional treat not unlike the pinching of the Yule log Christmas morning and the hot toddy slam-bingeing to follow later in the day, ain’a? And what is tradition but the same damn thing over and over? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you as TV has its “Charlie Brown Christmas,” as the performing stage has its Nut-focking-cracker and A Christmas Carol, as every dog has its day, that “Art for Art’s Sake” has one version or another of what follows for you and the family, guaranteed to roast the cockles of your chestnuts:

OK, story has it that these three so-called kings loaded up with a bunch of gifts are from out of this place called Orient Are, wherever the fock that was supposed to be. To this day I still can’t find it on a map, I shit you not. But remember, this was way-back-when in the olden days when “wise” men knew the world was flatter than a ballerina, so what the fock. Anyways, these three guys were traipsing to and fro, checking out all the towns of the then-known world in search of a child recently conceived out of thin air, a child who was not only rumored but also proclaimed verily to those on high to be the son of god.

One of the kings queried, “Which god?” One of the other king guys says, “What, like I should know from? A god is a god is a god. Who cares which one, ain’a?” And the third wiseguy said, “Yeah, forget about it. I don’t care if he’s the focking son of the god of focking rodeo clowns for focking crying out loud, we still got to go pay our respects on general principles. It’s the right thing to do, got it?”

So they’re carting these gifts all over creation, gifts that even a kid back then would think were lame. I mean “frankincense,” an aromatic gum resin? Give me a break. Eventually, these three guys came across a lowly stable and decided enough’s enough. They asked the guy there if he’d like some gifts ’cause they were sick and tired of carrying them all over the place. The stable guy says, “You bet,” and invites them in for a hot focking toddy.

The wise men waltz into the stable but the guy with the myrrh was a bit taller than the others and cracked his head on the top of the door frame. “Jesus H. Christ!!” he says. The stable guy, whose name was Joseph, calls out to the wife, “Hey hon! You hear that? ‘Jesus H. Christ.’ Got a nice ring to it, ain’a? I like it a lot better than ‘Leonard,’ I’ll tell you that much.” Ba-ding!

See you on the other side, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.