Over and Over Again, My Friend

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, according to the calendar I glanced at last month, I’m older than I ever thought I’d be. Tie that with a couple-three what-the-fock health situations from out of the blue, and I figure I’m on the eve of some kind of destruction.

How old, you may ask? I won’t reveal my age but if you go back to the last century, my age number is the same as the year of the presidential election when Richard (Dick, you betcha) Nixon fraudulently stole the election from Sir George McGovern. Gotta be some kind of shenanigans there, what the fock.

And thanks to my friend German Joe, I’m reminded of a song from out of 1965 performed by the great Barry McGuire. If you haven’t heard it for a while, or perhaps never heard it, check out the following linkage schmutz—and as the buzzcut crackerjacks at ground control said as Apollo 11 ascended, “Hope it works”:

youtube.com/watch?v=MdWGp3HQVjU

So there’s one to add to your holiday musical oeuvre. Of course, it’s on my music list each and every day of the year ’cause as you know, every day is just another focking holiday to a guy like me, I kid you not.

Anyways, it’s been one goddamn piss-poor hell of a week. And since it’s that time of the end-of-the-year when I like to pretend I’ve got a boatload of vacation time from an imaginary job that if not used pronto will turn into a lump of shinola come New Year’s, I figure to take a day off right here, right now; and there’ll be no chock-jammed essay for you’s this week, boo-hoo.

So, I’m going over by The Uptowner tavern/charm school, where today is always at least a day before tomorrow, and yesterday may damn well be today. Yeah, come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.

Lem: Hey dere, Artie. Artie Kumbalek.

Art: Son of a gun. Lem. Lem focking Radke. Haven’t seen you since hell froze over. So, taking a break from the taxidermy racket to help out behind the bar here?

Lem: You got that right dere, Artie. The taxidermy; she’s a little slow this time of year for me. So what’s your pleasure dere, Artie?

Art: How ’bout a nice bourbon Manhattan, Lem. Heavy on the bourbon, maybe an ice cube if you feel like getting fancy, no garnish and hold the vermouth.

Lem: Can do. So dere, Artie, what do you hear, what do you know.

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Art: I know it’s always nice to see you, Lem. But cripes, you don’t look so good—those scratches on your face, the bandages and your arm in a sling—what the fock, one of those critters you stuff and mount over by the shop not quite ready to be stuffed and mounted?

Lem: No no, Artie. You see, it was like this. I was up by Hayward dere, deer hunting with a lady friend. We had a nice breakfast and then headed off to the deer stand when we come across a black bear. Now Artie, I thought your black bear is supposed to be hibernating this time of year, but this one must’ve had the insomnia. So my lady friend, she takes off running, which you are not supposed to do when you come upon a bear.

Art: Oh yeah, Lem. It’s much better to stand there and reason with a couple-three hundred pound wild animal with a brain the size of a kumquat who stands six-seven feet tall.

Lem: So I takes off after my lady friend, dere. All of a sudden she stops, takes off her backpack and pulls out a pair of running shoes.

Art: Running shoes?

Lem: Running shoes, Artie. I says to her, “You’re putting on running shoes? You really think you can outrun a bear with those?” And she says to me, “I don’t have to outrun the bear. I just have to outrun you, knobshine.” I get most of my stitches and staples out tomorrow.

Art: Yeah yeah, Lem. At least you had a nice breakfast. You know, in the old days a nice breakfast would be you’re sitting at the kitchen table and you notice that your son is on the cover of the Wheaties box, your mistress is on the cover of Playboy, and the wife—she’s on the back of the milk carton. Man oh manischewitz, what a world, ain’a Lem?

Lem: You got that right dere, Artie.

Art: You know Lem, last time I saw you, you were talking about getting into a medical school and studying the plastic surgery so you could do the ladies breast enlargement procedures.

Lem: That’s right dere, Artie. I’d like to do more with my life to help the mankind.

Art: So you get accepted at any of these doctor schools yet?

Lem: Not technically as of yet, Artie. Some of these places look down at the taxidermist. They say that the experience with the stuffing of various game fish and game fowl is not enough to automatically qualify you for surgical school.

Art: Go figure, ain’a? But god bless you, Lem. A guy’s got to have a dream. Listen, when you get to be a big-time plastic surgeon, I got a little story you can share with the other doctors when you guys are all in the john, scrubbing up for the surgery:

So there’s this woman, she celebrates her fiftieth birthday, and boom! She has a heart attack and gets taken to the hospital. She’s on the operating table and has a near-death experience. She sees God so she asks, “Is my time up?” And the Lord says, “No siree, you have another 40 years, 2 months and 8 days to live.”

So the woman recovers and decides to stay in the hospital and have a facelift, nose job, liposuction, tummy tuck—the whole nine yards. She even had someone come in and change her hair color. She figures since she has so much more time to live, she’s going to make the most of it.

Lem: You betcha dere. Go for the gusto, ain’a Artie.

Art: Fockin’-A, Lem. Anyways, after her last operation, she gets released from the hospital. And while she’s crossing the street on her way home—boom! again. She gets run over by an ambulance, wouldn’t you know.

So she’s in front of God and she says, “Listen jerkwad, I thought you said I had another 40 years; so how come you didn’t pull me from out of the path of that ambulance?” And the Lord says, “Yeah, that’s a problem. Sorry. I didn't recognize you.”

Lem: That’s a good one, Artie. So how ’bout another cocktail dere, and I’ll join you. To the holidays.

Art: To the holidays, Lem. Come hell or high water, or both.

(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.)