Raving at the Writing Desk

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’ve come to wonder that if over the years there has not been at least of tinge of the toxic element mercury included daily in the dye of the comb-over coiffure used to mask the fact that President Orange Circus Peanut is a bald guy.

I’ve heard that haberdashers in the 19th century or thereabouts came to be known as “mad hatters” because of the use of mercury to perfect their craft. “Disturbed, confused,” were characteristic of the practitioners of the trade. And if you don’t believe me, go ask Alice “when the logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead,” I think she’ll know. Or the Chesire Cat: “I am not crazy; my reality is just different from yours,” what the fock.

Mad: “…to become insane or out of touch with reality,” cripes.

Example: Bombing the bejesus out of Venezuelan fishing boats that may, or not be, allegedly transporting dreaded illegal contraband whilst perhaps also, or only, looking for a nice catch of crappie or what-not along their way to who knows where across the Caribbean Sea. And when the fock is this going to be called the American Sea, for fock’s sake?

Narco-terrorists, they say. They got to go. Hasta la vista. Vaya con dios. But then I hear that our White House Mad Hatter has decided to executively pardon former Honduran President Juan Orlando Hernández, who had been convicted and imprisoned in the United States to 45 years “for his role in a drug trafficking operation that moved hundreds of tons of cocaine to the United States.”

Tweedle Dum, Tweedle Dee. Ay, Dios mío.

Anyways, I feel the need to blow off some steam and since I’m still yet sort of ambulatory what with my right-hip ferkakta and a cancer thing, I thought to grab the No. 14 somewheres and cruise to over by The Uptowner tavern/charm school on Center and Humboldt there, where today is always at least a day before tomorrow, and yesterday may damn well be today.

Yeah yeah, come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.

Lem: Hey dere, Artie. Artie Kumbalek.

Art: Son of a gun. Lem. Lem focking Radke. Haven’t seen you since hell froze over. So, taking a break from the taxidermy racket up there in Hayward to help out behind the bar here?

Lem: You got that right dere, Artie. Steve and Shawn, god bless ’em. The taxidermy; she’s a little slow this time of year for me. So what’s your pleasure dere, Artie?

Art: How ’bout a nice bourbon Manhattan, Lem. Heavy on the bourbon, maybe an ice cube if you feel like getting fancy, no garnish and hold the vermouth.

Lem: Can do. So dere, Artie, what do you hear, what do you know.

Art: I say it’s always nice to see you, Lem. But cripes, you don’t look so good—those scratches on your face, the bandages and your arm in a sling—what the fock, one of those critters you stuff and mount at the shop not quite ready to be stuffed and mounted?

Lem: No no, Artie. You see, it was like this. I was up by Crivitz dere, deer hunting with a lady friend. We had a nice breakfast of chipmunk croissants then headed off to the deer stand when we come across a black bear. Now Artie, I thought your black bear is supposed to be hibernating this time of year, but this one must’ve had the insomnia. So my lady friend, she takes off running, which you are not supposed to do when you come upon a bear.

Art: Oh yeah, Lem. It’s much better to stand there and reason with a couple-three hundred pound wild animal with a brain the size of a kumquat who stands six-seven feet tall.

Lem: So I takes off after my lady friend, dere. All of a sudden she stops, takes off her backpack and pulls out a pair of running shoes.

Art: Running shoes?

Lem: Running shoes, Artie. I says to her, “You’re putting on running shoes? You really think you can outrun a bear with those?” And she says to me, “I don’t have to outrun the bear. I just have to outrun you, knobshine.” I get most of my stitches and staples out tomorrow.

Art: Yeah yeah, Lem. At least you had a nice breakfast. You know, in the old days a nice breakfast would be you're sitting at the kitchen table and you notice that your son is on the sports cover of the Wheaties cereal box, your mistress is on the cover of Playboy, and the wife—she’s on the back of the milk carton. Man oh manischewitz, what a world, ain’a Lem?

Lem: You got that right dere, Artie.

Art: You know Lem, last time I saw you, you were talking about getting into a medical school and studying the plastic surgery so you could do the ladies breast enlargement procedures.

Lem: That’s right dere, Artie. I’d like to do more with my life to help the mankind.

Art: So you get accepted at any of these doctor schools yet?

Lem: Not technically, Artie. Some of these places look down at the taxidermist. They say that the experience with the stuffing of various game fish and fowl is not enough to automatically qualify you for a  surgical school.

Art: Go figure, ain’a? But god bless you, Lem. A guy’s got to have a dream. Listen, when you get to be a big-time plastic surgeon, I got a little story you can share with the other doctors when you guys are all in the john, scrubbing up for the surgery:

So there’s this woman, Megyn, she celebrates her fiftieth birthday, and boom! She has a heart attack and gets taken to the hospital. She’s on the operating table and has a near-death experience. She sees God and asks, "Is my time up?" And the Lord says, "No siree, you have another 40 years, 2 months and 8 days to live."

So Megyn recovers and decides to stay in the hospital and have a facelift, nose job, liposuction, tummy tuck—the whole nine yards. She even had someone come in and brighten her hair color. She figures since she has so much more time to live, she’s going to make the most of it.

Lem: You betcha dere. Go for the gusto, ain’a Artie.

Art: Fockin’-A, Lem. Anyways, after her last procedure, she gets released from the hospital. And while she’s crossing the street on her way home—boom! again. She gets run over by an ambulance, wouldn’t you know.

So she’s in front of God and she says, "Listen jerkwad, I thought you said I had another 40 years; so how come you didn’t pull me from out of the path of that ambulance?" And the Lord says, "Yeah, that’s a problem. Sorry. I didn't recognize you.”

Lem: That’s a good one, Artie. So how ’out another cocktail dere, and I’ll join you. To the holidays.

Art: To the holidays, Lem. Come hell or high water, or both.

(Hey, I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)