I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, just got off the phone with my pal Little Jimmy Iodine and I need to take off in a couple, three minutes and head up over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school where me and the fellas shall gather to make our plans for getting out to the greatest focking spectacle on Earth—the Wisconsin State Fair, I kid you not.
Love the Fair, we do. And it seems every year, after healthfully chowing down on all fried-matter served on a stick, me and the guys gravitate to the Midway, where the amusement rides are guaranteed to be well-maintained and operated by the finest staff of tattooed, toothless safety experts this side of a halfway house for Nazi bikers from hell.
And you just can’t beat those games of skill the Midway offers—where the 120-pound guy of short stature wearing the frayed used-to-be-green tank top blows $50-focking bucks in the attempt to topple the tripod of bottom-weighted faux milk jugs, so’s to win the buck two-eighty stuffed Garfield for his 400-pound lady friend.
Of course, there’s always the sharpster who tries to guess your age and weight for a small stipend, your reward for his failure being a cracked Wiffle ball or listless goldfish. Me and my gang have our own game, which is to try to guess which carny technician looks to be the responsible party for the most bodies buried in shallow graves to be found in remote locations above and below the Mason-Dixon Line, east to west. Don’t forget, nearly all these guys spend the off-season in Florida, which just happens to be Spanish for “serial killer” by-the-by, so what the fock, ain’a?
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And roundabout our phantom local lion, Little Jimmy had a little story for me:
So two cannibals, father and son, were elected by the tribe to go out and get something to eat. Deep into the jungle they went, where they waited near a path. Before long, along came a little old man. The son says, “Hey Pops, how ’bout that one?” And the cannibal dad says, “No son. Not enough meat to even feed the dogs. We’ll wait.”
Little while later, along comes a really plus-size lady. Son says, “Hey Dad, she’s plenty big enough, ain’a?” and the dad says, “We’d all die of a blocked-artery heart attack from the fat in that one. We’ll wait.”
And so maybe an hour later, strolling along the trail is an abso-focking-lutely gorgeous gal. Son says, “She is perfect. Please don’t tell me we will not eat her.” Cannibal dad says, “No, we’ll not eat her either.” Son says, “Why the heck not?” And cannibal dad says, “Because we’re going to take her back alive and eat your mother instead.”
Yes sir, even today as the debate rages on about political correctness in comedy, who the heck can’t enjoy a good ol’ cannibal joke? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you’s that it’s a big week here in Cheese Land what with that PGA major golf tournament up there in Bumpkinville. I hear it takes a lot of dough to open one of these golf-course country clubs, and a lot of dough to enjoy its resources. I’ve never been to a country club. They tend not to be conveniently located on any county bus line I know of. But I’ll open up my own place as soon as I win the focking lottery. I’d call it Historic Peckerwood. To keep maintenance costs down, there’d only be one hole, but it’d be about 12,000 yards long. And the one and only green would be located right outside the Uptowner tavern/charm school, which would serve as the 19th-hole clubhouse for grand old Peckerwood. There, the duffers could enjoy a nice shot and beer whilst regaling one another with stories of memorable rounds played:
So this guy was not having his best day on the golf course. After he choked on a 6-inch putt, his partner asked him what the problem was. The guy says, “It’s the wife. She’s taken up golf and since she’s been playing, she’s cut my sex down to once a focking week.”
And his partner says, “That’s nothing, She’s cut some of us out altogether!” Ba-ding!
So this guy slices his tee shot way off into a field beside the golf course. He trudges over to the field and finds his ball nestled in amongst some buttercups. He lines up his shot and on his back swing he hears a voice: “Please don't hurt my buttercups.”
He stops his swing, sees no one, and prepares to hit again. “Please don’t hurt my buttercups.” He stops again, looks up and sees a beautiful woman approaching. “I am Mother Nature,” she says. “If you promise not to harm my buttercups, I can guarantee you an abundant supply of butter for the rest of your life.”
And the guy says, “Yeah, focking swell; so where were you last week when I hit my ball into the pussy willows?”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
