Premature Passover

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I heard the news today, boy-oh, I tell you. It reminded me of a little story:

A young reporter went to a retirement home to interview an aged but legendary explorer. The reporter asked the old man to tell him the most frightening experience he had ever had. And the old explorer said, “Once I was hunting Bengal tigers in the jungles of India. I was on a narrow path and my faithful native gun-bearer was behind me. Suddenly the largest tiger I have ever seen leaped onto the path in front of us. I turned to get my weapon only to find the native had fled. The tiger leapt toward me with a mighty ROAR- RRR! And, I shit my pants.”

The reporter said, “But sir, under those circumstances anyone would have done the same.” The old explorer said, “No, not then, ninny. Just now, when I said ‘ROARRRR!’”

And yes, that old explorer may as well have been me, this very morning, when the radio told me that our Green & Gold No. 4 was to be no more. I shit my pants, I kid you not.

You think this winter has been long? Forget about it. Green Bay Packer fans of a certain age know from what a truly long winter is, like how ’bout the iceage winter that began when St. Vince left us, and then lasted from 1968 through 1991, which did not begin to abate until that Man from Mississippi brought his golden arm and half-baked head to Titletown USA.

And since then, through those years when Brett Favre would take the snap, drop back and launch a what-the-fock pass down the field with next-to-no-time left in the game, I was able to remain continent ’cause I knew that redemption, if needed, was but one Sunday away.

But this morning, I awoke and shit my pants, which reminds me of another little story:

Three elderly former athletes are sitting on the porch of a retirement home. The first says, “Gents, I’ve got a problem. I’m 70 years old and every morning at 7 a.m. I get up and try to urinate. All day long I try to urinate. They give me all kinds of medicine but nothing helps.”

And the second ex-jock says, “You think you have problems? I’m 80 years old. Every morning at 8 a.m., I get up and try to move my bowels. I try all day long. They give me all kinds of pills but nothing helps.”

Finally the third aged athlete speaks up, “Fellas: I’m 90 years old. Every morning at 7 a.m. sharp, I take a good long pee. Every morning at 8 a.m., I clear my bowels but good. And every morning, 9 a.m. on the dot, I wake up.” Ba-ding!

And so now our savior has decided to retire and give up the gridiron game on his own accord and leave us disciples to wander the wilderness ’til who knows when the fock. I now recall the words of the great college basketball coach and seer Abe Lemons who said, “The trouble with retirement is that you never get a day off,” and, “I don’t jog. If I die, I want to be sick.”

Today, the football words from a certain someone out of Green Bay that would have been most comforting to me, would have been not “I quit,” but rather “If I retire, I want to be dead.”

But do not despair. I hereby prophesy that our savior shall return. To that end, I am currently riding toward Mississippi, accompanied by a slew of young acolytes, in hopes to persuade our Chosen One to return and sanctify our sinful lives for one more focking season.

If we shall fail in our mission, I pray that St. Vince visits himself upon the Packer faithful during our absence and proclaims perhaps this to us: Say to thy brother Aaron: Greater than the gifts of the princes is thy gift; for thou art called upon to kindle the light, and, while the sacrifices shall last only as long as the Temple lasts, thy light of the Law shall last forever.

Amen. I’m not exactly sure what that may mean, but it sounds kind of hopeful in a teary kind of way, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.