On My Aching Knees

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, since here we be in sacred time—late March, early April—a holy time of year, for some, with your Passovers, Sunday Palms, Easter and what-not (not to mention opening days for the Major League Baseball), I feel a calling to kick-off this week’s essay with a prayer for christ sakes, what the fock.

And so I beseech thee and thou from wherever the four winds blow, let us pray:

“Lord, it behooves me to beseech thy graceful means at the start of this wordfest to wonder if you couldn’t manage to concoct some kind of way whereas the granting of me suddenly coming into some serious dough through very little, if any, of mine own effort could be accomplished by your handiness of miracles of which we’ve all heard so much about but of which I, sheepish servant surely, have seen but little evidence of lately, if ever, in a personal kind of way—catch my draft?

“And to please grant anybody whosoever reads the words I am about to nail to this very page safe and glorious passage whilst reading the inscribed wisdom I shall purvey for one and all, young and old, so that they don’t croak through no fault of their own before they’ve reached the final word. Praise be to you and the high horse that brought you.”

(Hold on a second. My land-line phone is ringing and I better take the call ’cause it could be somebody telling me I won a sweepstakes, and I could surely use the dough.)

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey Artie, double-checking that you still plan on coming over by me on Sunday. The Easter haggis should be ready, it’s been simmering since January. Everybody coming has gotten the vaccination, but I’m thinking later about 2 p.m. ’cause some of the guys got to go to Mass in the morning.

Art: Yeah, I’ll be over, Jimmy, but what the fock. In this day and age, I, for one, would like to know why they have to put the church on Sundays. For years, I’ve said the people are too busy to go to church on their day off Sundays. Years ago in the olden days, the people, they got their day of rest and so they went to church ’cause what the hell else did they have to do with their time anyways, ain’a?

Little Jimmy: Maybe go on a crusade, ain’a?

Art: The people in the olden days—they didn’t have a garage to paint. They didn’t have something that needed fixing in the basement. They didn’t have a ballgame to watch on the TV. And that’s because the people back then weren’t allowed to own anything. They couldn’t even own the pot to pee in.

Little Jimmy: I’ll betcha they probably couldn’t even rent one, to boot.

Art: The kings and the liege lords and the who-the-focks owned everything under the goddamn sun, Jimmy, and going to church was the only thing the regular people were allowed to do except work like slaves for some rich dickweed until they croaked. And it boils my dupa—these big corporations of companies and these hardcore religious right-wing nut groups. If they were really serious instead of full of shit about how they believe the common man should behave with the morals all the time, they would put church on a Monday morning or a Tuesday afternoon and let the working-man go to the church on company time instead of on his own little precious time.

Little Jimmy: Heck, I might even go to church once in a while if I knew I was getting paid for it, ain’a? See you Sunday.)

OK, I’m back. And now it occurs to me that you’s may have some kids and/or grandkids coming by your place on the Easter Sunday, finally, since last year was ferkakta with the sheltering quarantines and what-not. And that these katzenjammers may wonder why the fock they’ve got to go searching for baskets and/or eggs instead of simply being handed the booty. Well, let me remind you of a little story you can pass over to them, in case you’ve forgotten. It may be in the Bible; although, I can’t say for sure since I never ever did get all the way through that so-called good book (some added comic relief would’ve been a nice touch, for me—a Sancho Panza, a Kramer, a Jerry the dentist):

After the Roman soldiers took Christ off the cross, they chose a couple flunkies to guard the cave where they’d put the body. Well sir, these two goofballs got good and bored from guarding a dead guy so they went into town to enjoy a couple, three cocktails. The next morning, they made a routine check of the cave and the first thing they said was, “Jesus H. Christ! This cave’s empty,” not realizing that by this time Jesus had been resurrected up to heaven. They thought somebody had snatched the body and hid it somewheres else, but they couldn’t very well ask other soldiers to help ’cause they knew they were in hot water.

So they asked a bunch of kids who were hanging around to help search. Natch’, they didn’t find the Lord but the kids got a big charge from all the excitement anyways. The next year on the same day, the parents sent the kids out to look for Jesus again, if only to embarrass the Romans for losing or misplacing such a hot-shot like Christ. The years came and went and eventually parents decided to hide little candies and eggs around the town to find ’cause they thought it would be more fun for the kids than looking for a dead body.

So, I got to go and run up to the store so’s to pick up a boatload of Pepto Bismol in lieu of Little Jimmy’s Easter haggis, what the fock.

And so it’s time for my Dismissal of you’s by me with this prayer: “Lord, looks like we’re done here for another focking week. Praise be to me for making it through without losing my marbles all over the floor.

“And hey, please don’t forget what I invoked at the outset about needing serious dough and the sooner the better ’cause you know, not all of us got eternity on our hands like the crowd you hang with. Reminds me of ye olde joke: It’s been said verily that if you lead a good ol’ sin-free life here on Earth, you’ll wind up getting to spend all Eternity with Him. Second prize is two Eternities.”

Ba-ding!-ding!-ding! This essay is ended, go in peace ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.