“Keeping it real.” Power tothe people. Free love, free the Chicago Seven. Up against the wall,motherfocker, you betcha.
Time passes.
And about that racket I gothooked up with? Here: As a card-carrying member of the liberal media, I thinkit’s been my job to apply the screws of my professionally expert essays inorder to squeeze the crap clean out of the Joe Blow consumer of news, so thathe-and-maybe-she can become more like a responsibly informed citizen once in afocking while, thank you.
Anyways, somehow I got myheinie hunkered onto the big fat horns of one honking dilemma, and all I haveto say about that is ouch! The siren song this dilemma’s horns aretooting for me is called “High on a Capitol Hill.” It lyrically wonders if ArtKumbalek should indeed be your next United Statessenator from our America’sDairyland.
On the other hand, I heardthere’s an opening just came up on the United States Supreme Court. Pays $213,900 a year, each and every year until you croak, and thatain’t beanbag, mister. Maybe I ought to think about putting in my résumé,ain’a? Put on a robe and kick some Roberts/Scalia/Thomas fascist ass? I’m in.
So, I got toforgo the writing of this essay this week ’cause better for me that I go andconsult with my political brain trust already gathered over by the fabulous Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at theHysteric Corner of Center Street & Humboldtwhere today is always at leasta day before tomorrow and yesterday may gosh darn well be today.
Come alongif you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.
Julius: All I’m saying is I was atthe ballgame last Sunday, and that Trevor Hoffman ought to think about changinghis theme song when he comes into a game from that AC/DC “Hells Bells” to that Brooklyn Bridge song from the ’60s, “The WorstThat Could Happen.”
Herbie: Or maybe he could dip intothe great American Songbook and pull out Rodgers and Hart’s “Bewitched,Bothered and Bewildered.”
Ernie: I’d save that tune forwhenever Macha the manager trots to the mound to make a relief-pitcher changein the middle of an inning when the guy’s been doing OK, what the fock.
Little Jimmy Iodine: I thought about going to the ballgame, but I stayed home to seehow the golf in the Masters turned out.
Emil: Me, too, ’cause I kept waiting to hear some Asian fan of Tiger’sin the gallery yell out, “Get in the hore.”
Ray: What the fock are you talking about?
Herbie: I think what Emil is tryingto say here, Ray, is that humor could be found through the golf fan of an Asiannature attempting the enunciation of the golf cliché, “Get in the hole”thehumor be the apparent lack of a phoneme corresponding to the English Lin Asian languages; thus, the L sounds as R, and holebecomes hore. Yes, “Get in the hore,” shouted as encouragement to Mr. Woods by some fockstick inthe gallery, juvenilely ironic perhaps, but oh so satisfying to one such as I,who prays deeply that in any-and-every sanctimonious punch bowl, a turd shallfloat to the surface.
Ray: You talk like a sausage, Herbie.
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey, gents. What do youknow, what do you hear.
Ernie: I know that on Easter Sunday the other week I was over by mybrother-in-laws when they had the Easter egg hunt in their dinky back yard outthere in West Allisfor my two little nephews. So they’re traipsing around and they come acrosssome rabbit turds, except the younger kid doesn’t know that, so he asks hisolder brother, “Hey, what’s that?”
The olderkid says, “They’re smart pills. Eat them and they'll make you smarter.” So myyounger nephew eats them and says, “Hey, these taste like shit.” And the olderboy says, “See? You're getting smarter already.”
Art: Yeah yeah, Ernie. Theolder you get, the more you know what shit tastes like. The trick is that younever want to develop a taste for it.
(Hey, it’s getting late and I know you got togo, but thanks for letting us bend your ear ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I toldyou so.)
