Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, my longtime-reader pal Jeff out there in Bethesda, Md., sent me a nice note the other day and I do appreciate the thought. He’s hooked up with the government in some way, and I’m hoping maybe he can twist a few arms or what-have-you and land me that open Supreme Court justice job. The gig pays $246,800 yearly, which ought to keep me in robes a good while plus pay off a couple, three bills to boot. Qualifications? Hey, I can spell “guilty” with the best of them, so what the fock.
Anyways, before I work on a résumé update, I’m heading over to my favorite open-daily 23-hours and 59-minutes restaurant for a relaxing breakfast as it’s too early for a nice cocktail over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school. Come along if you want but you leave the tip. Let’s get going.
Bea: Hey there Artie, nice to see you. What’s your pleasure?
Art: How ’bout a nice cup of the blackest, thickest and cheapest cup of whatever you’re calling plain-old American coffee today. And by thickest, I mean forget the spoon, bring me a garden spade.
Bea: Coming right up, Artie. So what do you hear, what do you know.
Art: I hear that spring training’s started for our no-name Brewers.
Bea: Will Hank the Dog be down there this year?
Art: I don’t think so, Bea. I heard a rumor he got traded to the New York Mutts and then got suspended for using a boned substance.
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Bea: You don’t say, Artie.
Art: I do say. And now I’ve got a question for you: Do you have any idea as to the identity of the first nitwit in history who had the bright idea of kidnapping an otherwise productive and useful animal from out of the wild jungle and/or forest and then decided to keep it in his/her house and call it a “pet,” where its place in the evolutionary struggle for species survival would be to tear the mailman a new one if you were a dog, or to crap and vomit all over the lady’s pair of bedroom slippers if you were a cat, or to stop chirping and croak in your cage if you were a canary ’cause some numbnut left a focking window open?
Bea: Couldn’t tell you, Artie.
Art: You have any pets, Bea?
Bea: Oh lordy, no. With the hours I put in to make ends meet, I wouldn’t have time to take care of a pet. How about you?
Art: You got to be jerking my beefaroni, Bea. Animals, they belong either in the woods or on a menu, but not in my living room going nuts trying to get at something that rolled or crawled under the sofa. Until they put a house pet on the market that can operate a microwave, flush a toilet and acquire a valid driver’s license, you can focking forget about me having something with four legs in my dinky apartment besides a coffee table, I kid you not.
Bea: A pet that would help with the housework instead of add to it would be nice, come to think of it.
Art: You betcha, Bea. I read somewheres that some nursing homes were actually using chimpanzees to perform certain simple duties, what with the benefit of reduced costs to Joe Blow whiny-ass taxpayer.
Bea: Sounds like a step in the right direction, Artie, don’t you think?
Art: But misdirected, Bea. Chimps are natural-born entertainers, not bedpan cleaners. We got illegal aliens for that. The circuses and carnivals could help our economy by hiring more animal acts. I’ll tell you, that would be the life for me if I were an animal on this planet. Show business. Plus, as a circus animal you get a little dignity ’cause you often get to wear a little costume to cover your privates instead of being embarrassedly buck-naked like some savage in the out-of-doors.
Bea: But aren’t some people against the practice of circuses putting costumes on animals, Artie.
Art: Give me a break—they think the animals can do it by themselves? You think your average black bear can get his little bellboy outfit on all by himself, plus the roller skates, and still make his entrance into the center ring on cue? I think not.
Bea: We all can use some help, Artie. I do know that.
Art: God bless you, Bea. And if I were a rich guy, I’d volunteer to help by paying little or no taxes like the rest of those uber-rich freeloaders. But I’m not a rich guy, so I got to run. Thanks for the coffee and for letting me bend your ear there, Bea—utiful. See you next time.
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Bea: My pleasure, Artie. Always nice getting talked at by you. Take care.
(OK, off to the Uptowner where the show’s about to begin. If I see you there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
