Not Quite a Hundred Things Not To Do

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it’s that time of year for the Running of the Bulls gore fiesta over there where right now the pain in Spain falls mainly to any fockstick stupid enough to slap on a pair of Keds and scamper down the bull-packed avenue.

And so I’m reminded of a little story: An old bull and a young bull stand on a hillside, overlooking a pasture. The young bull says to the old bull, “Hey man, let’s run down and fock one of those heifers.” The old bull replies, “Better yet, let’s walk down and fock ’em all.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I thought I’d run a little bull myself here on this page and provide a list of “don’ts” to help ensure that the remaining days of your summertime are safe and maybe even tolerable, what the fock, and you’re welcome.

Do Not:

n Eat your shorts.

n Eat my shorts.

n Have a buddy putting all the cocktails on his tab and at some point during the evening before bar time you say, “No thanks, I’ve had enough.”

n Watch any movie with a “Dame” so-and-so somebody in it unless you got the insomnia bad.

n Get stinking drunk in a boat out on the water and I’ll tell you why. I knew these three guys years ago who went out fishing along with a couple, three cases of ice-cold bottled beer. So they’re out there all goddamn day catching nothing but one hell of a buzz under the hot sun. At one point, one of the tipsy trio stands up to take a leak, loses his balance and flips head-over-heels right over the side of the boat into the water and starts to sink.

The other two bozos are so blasted that they don’t even notice their buddy has jumped ship until maybe a half-hour later. No sooner do they realize that they’re no longer three-men-in-a-tub but two, do they then dive into the water and frantically grope around for the missing mariner. Eventually, one of the loopy lifeguards grabs ahold of his overboard buddy down deep, hauls him into the boat and commences with the mouth-to-mouth.

“Jesus H. Christ!” he says, recoiling in revulsion. “I don’t remember Corky’s breath stinking to the high heaven like this, do you?” And the other guy says, “Fock no. And not only that, I don’t remember him wearing that snowmobile suit, either!” Ba-ding!

n Tell your girlfriend you can’t take her kids to the church festival ’cause you got a hot date with her sister.

n Forget to tip.

n Make an appointment for a routine medical checkup. It’s a no-win situation. If you’re feeling OK and you go to the doctor’s and he says you’re OK, what have you gained? Not a focking thing, but you certainly have lost time and money. Now, if you go and the doc says, “Uh-oh, we got a problem here,” well, now not only do you have a problem but you’re bound to be depressed about it, and who in their right mind needs that kind of combo? You tell me.

n Walk into a biker bar and shout, “Hey, which one of you candy asses used to own the wuss Electra Glide out front I just backed into with my Chevy Volt?”

n Order a salad instead of a steak.

n Find a pair of bum’s underwear on the street and wear them before laundering.

n Forget about at least one good deed daily.

n Get sick without health insurance.

n Vote Republican.

n Just stand there.

n Look back.

Hold the curtain, here’s one nice DO for you’s:

n Sashay your way to the “Artie Turns 30” shebang sponsored by Milwaukee Irish Fest over by the Lakefront Brewery on Thursday, July the 28th, 6-9 p.m., with music provided by the mighty Brewhaus Polka Kings. One of the deals you’ll get after you forked over the entry fee is a free pint of Art Kumbalek’s Focktoberfest beer. What the fock, even I’d show up for that if I should live so long. There’s all kind of stuff that goes along with getting-in, the details of which you’ll learn on page 31 of this issue since I’m too focking lazy to blab about this anymore, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.