Poper Scoper

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it has occurred to me that I have yet to comment on the recent passing of Pope Benedict XVI (love the way those Vatican Catholics use those Roman numerals just like it was some kind of football Super Bowl).

And so here at the top of this week’s essay, 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.”

I’ll tell you’s, way back when I was a young scholar over there by Our Lady In Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight to Hell But Not Soon Enough, I entertained the notion that perhaps I could be a pope someday, if for no other reason that I would then have the authority to place Sister Mary “The Mauler” Margaret into a safe place for many years, a place where she would not be able to demonstrate the latest in torture holds she happened to acquire during a summer sabbatical spent somewheres in the so-called Orient where us kids back then were informed that godless yellow people resided, what the fock.

Anyways, these popes, I tell you’s, when they get mitred never use their birth names. They always got to get fancy with a new name for themselves. Cripes, our current pontiff, Francis, through my exhaustive research, I’ve found that his first name by birth is Jorge. “Pope Jorge”? I could roll with that, you betcha

And the recent Benedict—named “Joseph” upon birth on April 16, 1927, in Bavaria during Adolph Hitler’s “quiet years.” What could be so wrong with a Pope Joseph—screw the Benedict—cripes, wasn’t Joseph the alleged father of the baby Jesus until the Three Wise Men wandered by and declared the child was fathered by basketball great Wilt Chamberlain many years in the future at a time when the world was decidedly not flat? Or something like that?

Yeah yeah, these popes change their birth names as if they’re actors or showbiz singers—Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta became Lady Gaga; Archibald Alec Leach became Cary Grant (nice choice); Norma Jeane Mortenson became Marilyn Monroe; Joseph Levitch became Jerry Lewis; and what the fock, Dino Paul Crocetti became Dean Martin.

AND, Bartolomeo Alberto Cappellari became Pope Gregory XVI (1765-1846), like “Pope Bart” would’ve been the worst thing for a pope name? Yes sir, a pope whose chosen name was Gregory. The first pope named Gregory shined his face underneath the mitre ’round about the A.D. 590. Who knew that “Gregory” was such a popular boy’s name way back when what with facing such stiff competition from Nimrod, Sixtus and Pelagius, ain’a? I can only imagine that soon in the future we get a Pope Josh, Pope Justin, Pope Jason, Pope Tyler coming down the pope-pipe, you think?

Cripes, Jesus. What the fock. You’re not coming back, I don’t care who you think/thought you are/were, no one does, not even Harry focking Houdini (born Erich Weisz), I kid you not.

What else? Oh yeah, Joe Biden. Somehow found, in the garage that housed his vintage 1967 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray, were supposedly a handful of classified documents from when he was Barack’s Veep. That’s not a good look. Now I’m wondering just what the fock is going to happen to his cherry collection of Playboy magazines—probably every issue from 1962 to at least 1975, I’m guessing—that must’ve also been stored in there, to boot. Does that collection also need to become property of the National Archives? Only stolid, objective reporting will tell the tale; so, I guess we’ll never know.

Anyways, it’s high time for my Dismissal of you’s by me with this following prayer, which you may have heard before, but like you never heard “Our Father” more than once? Give me a focking break:

“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 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.