Older Than That Now

Older Than That Now

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, another round of All Saints and All Souls’ days has come and gone, for crying out loud. For me, to add to this year’s saints’ list from just the past handful of days and weeks are the Mike Hoffmann, Sir Michael Neville, Kevin O’Toole, Rob McCuen. Too many, too soon, each and every one.

“Blow out the candle and curse the darkness,” which is what the great political satirist Mort Sahl once said, who also left us the other day at the age of 94. And who can forget that Mort also said: “Liberals feel unworthy of their possessions. Conservatives feel they deserve everything they’ve stolen.” Ba-ding! what the fock.

Anyways, I suspect I’ll be adding my own name to the above august list soon, that being that I will become an age come this Saturday that George focking Washington never achieved, god bless America.

And so, jeez louise, I’ve got this old Rodgers and Hart tune—“Where or When,” the one that says “It seems we stood and talked like this before,” key of E-flat usually—stuck in my head over the last days and it’s driving me mucho focking loco, you betcha.

So no essay for you’s this week, boo-hoo, ’cause all I can do is to get together with my fellas over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school, where today is always at least a day before tomorrow and yesterday may very well be today, who promise to chip-in on a cocktail so’s to toast me being one-year nearer to the trip to Great Beyond, what the fock. Come along if you’d like it, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.

Ernie: I’ll tell you’s, this trick-or-treat baloney boils my butt but good. These kids start young with this begging one day a year and before you know it, they’re out looking for a focking handout every day of the year—and get your hands off my bar change Emil or I’ll focking deck you right here.

Little Jimmy Iodine: If you don’t want the kids to come by your house for trick-or-treat, then don’t pass out the candy. Do like Artie does, and pass out something healthy or hand-out wise advice.

Julius: The health treats for the kids can save you dough. Last year I couldn’t be home during the begging ’cause I had to take the wife shopping for new doilies and a pair of house slippers. So before we left, the wife put on the porch two warming dishes and left a note for the kids to help themselves. One dish had mashed potatoes with gravy, the other had steamed asparagus. When we got home, the dishes were still full-up, I kid you not.

Herbie: I had one kid come to the door last year wearing a suit and tie. Here’s a kid who knows from dressing for success, I thought. He says, “Are you Herbie Bryzlyzcki?” I said, “Who wants to know?” He says, “Nice name. You got something against vowels? Let’s cut to the chase, mister. I'm here to count your candy.” So I show him the bowl the wife filled with the little candy bars. He does the counting and then takes like about 28% of the total and starts to walk away without even a thank-you. I said, “Hey, who the hell do you think you are?” Kid turns around, says, “IRS.”

Emil: Worse than the kids is some of these grownups. Hey, if you’re an adult and make a big deal about the Halloween with all kinds of plans—take a good look in the mirror and think about seeing somebody who’s dressed-up like a psychiatrist.

Ray: And speaking of jackass-o’-lanterns…

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Happy almost birthday. Put a load on your keister.

Art: Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know.

Emil: I heard in the news where they said the biologists went and got themselves some docu-mention of wild gorillas using tools.

Julius: Tools? You got to be jerking my beefaroni.

Emil: They saw a lady gorilla smashing palm nuts between some rocks, like a hammer and anvils, to get some kind of oil from it, and another gorilla was poking a stick into a jungle pond to see how deep it was.

Ray: Big focking deal. When a gorilla looks at a blueprint and then attaches a new garage to his fixer-upper, then you got something to write home about.

Herbie: If you’re the type who has to have a pet, why not the chimpanzee to train to do a wealth of pain-in-the-butt chores around the domicile—swab the toilet, cut the grass, get the focking mail, iron a shirt or two—all for the wage of a couple, three bananas.

Julius: Your own private primate would be like having some kind of slave hanging around and who could possibly complain about that; I mean it’s an animal for christ sakes. Some people eat them for breakfast; so shut up.

Herbie: I would have to believe that any self-respecting simian would much prefer waiting on my ass hand-and-foot to sitting on his dupa at the zoo all day with nothing better to do than repeatedly pluck his magic twanger to beat the band in broad view for families with kids, what the fock.

Art: Seems I’ve heard that one before, but who knows where or when?

(Hey, I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)