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Photo illustration: Dave Zylstra

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, we’re more than a week and couple, three days or more negotiating our way into the season of the so-called springtime, which to my reckoning has yet to rear its post-winter soothing head, what the fock.

But being the weatherman that I am, I do know which way the wind blows and so I offer this tip to you’s degenerate gamblers out there, in respect to this year’s NCAA Final Four what-the-fock configuration. The tip is this: Mitt focking Romney will pull off a late campaign-season Hail Mary and find himself to be the Republican nominee for president of the United States come 2024, I kid you not.

And why not? Trumpel-thinskin will be in lock-up chowing down a daily serving of the delicious Nutraloaf “chewed up, cold chili,” in his orange jumpsuit that matches his elegant coiffure as he navigates to find the latest episode of “The Bachelor” on his prison-allowed iPad. 

Then there’s Ron “Duh Dumb Run Ron” DeSantis, “governor” from out of America’s most focked-up state. Ever hear him speak? He makes gloomy Eeyore from the Winnie the Pooh stories look like the eternal optimist Shirley Temple from Little Miss Sunshine, for christ sakes.

Oh yeah, can’t forget Republican Nikki (I’m wearing new flip-flops, they’re so cute) Haley, and Mike “Jesus sent a housefly into the ointment of my hair, hallelujah” Pence. 

So yeah, given that projected Final Four for the 2024 GOP presidential nominee, I say Mitt “2024’s Cinderella” Romney will cut down the nominee-net right here at their national convention in the City That Always Sweeps; so I suggest you get yourself down to Vegas pronto or over to your nearest bookmaker and put your money on the Mormon to take it all, ’cause who would’ve thunk, ain’a?

Anyways, I got to tell you’s, the Daylight Saving Time ordeal from the other week seems to yet be messing with my memory of thought and idea, changing my sense of past, present and future. 

That being this:

I’ve been pissing away a lot of time lately trying to figure the answer to what you could call a biological question; although, some might consider it a religious question, or perhaps even philosophical, what the fock.

The question is this: If man evolved from monkeys and apes, why do we still have monkeys and apes?

The most thoughtful answer I can conjure as to why we still have monkeys and apes is that what and/or whom could the Republicans possibly rely on to constitute the so-called base of their focked-up anti-human party? Ba-ding!

And so it’s come to my attention that there’s only a couple, three weeks remaining on Lent’s penitential calendar before the big Easter Sunday shebang, and as a longtime Catholic of the lapsed order I have yet to decide what I ought to give up and forego for the Lenten season—until right now. The best I can come up with at this rather late date is to faithfully give up and fast from the luxury of completing this goddamn essay, praise the lord. Done and done.

Yes sir, I’m praying that such a pious lack of effort on my part might even be good enough to knock off a couple, three hundred years from the holy ghastly total purgatory time I’m sure I’m sentenced to serve ’til I get sprung to heaven where I just might check into filling out an angel application, what the fock.

I’ll tell you what sucks, though, and that would be our Catholic prisoners locked up in the hoosegow for this-and-that during their stay on our earthly Earth. Imagine you finally served your time and get released from the big house and you’re walking across the street to enjoy your first ice-cold bottled beer in twenty-focking-five years and you get hit by a bus. Next thing you know, you wake up in purgatory where you’re scheduled to spend the next 3,000 years with nothing to wear but a soiled pair of BVDs chock-full of hot coals whilst getting bare-backed whipped 24/7. Yeah, that would blow big time, ain’a?

Or this:

I came across an enchanting article the other day on some kind of website with a headline which read: “Why parrots can talk like humans: Our closest mammal relatives haven’t been able to replicate human speech, but parrots do it easily.” 

And naturally, I was reminded of a little story that goes something like this:

A very elderly lady, nearly blind, had three sons who wanted to prove who was best to her, probably to get their mitts on her dough when she died, what the fock. 

Son Number One buys her a 15-room mansion, thinking this would be the best thing that any of them could offer her. Son Number Two buys her a beautiful brand-new Rolls-Royce with on-call chauffeur included, thinking this would surely win her approval. And Son Number Three thought hard how to top his brothers, so he buys her a $30,000 parrot that had been training for 15 years to memorize the entire Bible. You could ask the goddamn parrot any verse in the Bible, and he could quote it word for word. What a gift! 

So wouldn’t you know, the old lady goes to the first son and says, “Son, the house is just gorgeous, but it’s much too big for me. I only live in one room, and it’s too large to clean and take care of. I really don’t need the house, but thank you anyway.” And she says to the second son, “The car is wonderful. It has everything you could ever want, but I don’t drive; besides, I think the chauffeur’s a pervert, so please return the car.”

Then, to Son Number 3 she says, “I just want to thank you for your most thoughtful gift. That chicken was delicious.” Ba-ding!”

Good lord. Those above bunch of paragraphs are like re-occurring dreams I have from don’t know where, don’t know when, or why. Yesterday, today, tomorrow; they find some kind of nesting place, so I imagine.

And speaking of “past, present and future,” the Eeyore in me says that on March 30 our beloved Milwaukee Brewers begin a season of 162 games so’s to find a way to fumble away a World Series Championship, again.

Play ball! Onward, forward, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.