Presidential Politics for 328.2 million: What is "You’re Fired"?

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hereby concede to the wish that not long after the inauguration of Joseph Robinette Biden Jr. as the next president of the United States, that the outgoing prez, Donald J. Trumpel-thinskin finds himself in such a jeopardy that “lock him up” will not be heard from the throats belonging to ill-informed dipshit, maskless, armed cultists attending an arena rally, but that “lock him up” will emanate from the voice of a rational, reasoned judge from within some kind of federal/district courtroom, what the fock. And better yet, considering the corrupt crowd and progeny surrounding President Humpty-Dumbty, our judge would flip the pronoun so as to say, “Lock them up.”

Yes, I am not, nor ever have been, a fan of the 45th “president” of the United State, just so you know.

What a day and age this is, ain’a’ We’re about to have a new president who will turn 78 years old in a week or so. Cripes, when I was a kid there sure as hell weren’t many people of that age hanging around anywhere, no sir. And of the ones that were that age, they goddamn were not debating a clown on TV or thinking about hammering together a presidential cabinet; they were scrunched under an afghan in their living-room rocker reconnoitering a crossword puzzle while “Queen for a Day” or a rerun of “December Bride” played on the black-and-white Philco.

Oh, and this from the rather recent past, Jonathan Chait, New York Magazine, Oct. 2, 2020:

“At the best of times, Trumpworld operates with all the strategic direction of a chicken with its head cut off,” a senior Republican official told me. “Right now, they’re operating like a chicken with its head cut off, lit on fire, and thrown off a cliff.”

And now, post-election day, the Trumpworld operation has proven to be certainly consistent as it frantically denies reality, as always. Yes, the Orange Circus Peanut in regard to the 2020 presidential election: “Trump says the election will not be legitimate unless he wins,” what the fock. We can only hope that the military guy who follows Trump’s rump around and carries the briefcase supposedly containing the nuclear codes, that the case actually holds only the phone number to The United States District Court for the Southern District of New York, ’cause I’m thinking that’s a number that will be popping up on the former “president’s” Caller ID plenty post-January 20.

So, as inconceivably awful as this year has been, perhaps things may be riding the upswing: We’ve elected a guy who might be able to bring the true presidential goods to the Oval Office, and there’s rumors of an effective COVID vaccine hovering on the near health horizon. And if we can develop a vaccine for the ferkakta virus, maybe the scientists can develop a vaccine that wards off the pernicious QAnon conspiracy idiocy, or the debilitating reality-TV addiction, ain’a?

And also a bright note, a week ago Sunday was the Daylight Saving Time when we were all blessed by the boon of an extra 60 minutes, courtesy of the machinations wielded by fall’s daylight saving time adjustment. And each and every year, I always try to put this free hour to some gosh darn good and beneficial use—learn a foreign language; darn a couple, three socks; blow the dust off my old Buffet clarinet and re-memorize the Mozart Clarinet Concerto in A major, K. 622; brush up my résumé and fire it off to Joe Biden in regards to the soon-to-be-vacant presidential cabinet positions—you betcha. The thought of possible accomplishment was satisfying as I mixed another Old Crow on ice whilst contemplating what to tackle first, what the fock.

But I did manage to scoop a dollop of that extra hour so’s to investigate what our quiet neighbor to the north—that being the constitutional monarchy of Canada—may have to offer a prospective expatriate, such as me, in the event that come Wednesday, Nov. 4, the Orange Scourge had reclaimed the White House and his radical know-nothing Republican cohorts controlled the other two branches of what used to be a government.

What did I know about Canada besides the boring-ass National Film Board of Canada documentaries on “King Coal” we had to sleep through in eighth-grade science class, or that they’re the No. 1 publisher of recipe books for the preparation and serving of “road kill”? Yeah, not much.

But during my time of research and study, I began to learn that I’ll take their health-care system over ours any focking day of the week. Publicly funded? No deductibles? Virtually no co-pays that empty your wallet just to walk through the doctor’s door because you’re puking sick or worse? O Canada, sign me up, please.

OK, that’s enough, except to note that the esteemed Welsh poet and writer Dylan Thomas died 67 years ago on Nov. 9 at age 39. I recently re-read the poet’s great work, Under Milk Wood, and in honor of Captain Cat, the old blind sea captain, a little story:

An old retired sailor puts on his old retired uniform and heads for the docks once more, for old time’s sake. He engages a prostitute and takes her up to a room.

He’s soon going at it as well as he can for a guy his age, but needing some reassurance, he asks, “How am I doing?” The prostitute replies, “Old sailor, you’re doing about three knots.”

“Three knots?” he asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She says, “You’re knot hard, you’re knot in, and you’re knot getting your money back.” Ba-ding-ding-ding!

And so onward and forward my fellow Americans, together, somewhere, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

To read past Art Kumbalek essays, click here.