Photo: Antonio_Diaz - Getty Images
Art Kumbalek with Christmas Gifts
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, how ’bout we take a beatific breather from the eons-long piss-poor schmutz of this world, ’cause do you hear what I hear? You betcha, it’s that time of year I hear. The holidays. Holidays—that special time of year. Know what? Fock it. To a guy like me, everyday is just another focking holiday. You name the day, and it’s a focking holiday for yours truly. And since today is today, it’s a focking holiday, wouldn’t you know.
But here’s the deal: Though we be ’tis smack-a-dab-a-rooni amidst decking the halls with maids a’-milking and lords a’-focking-leaping, on my honor I must bring you news greater than or equal to a lump of bituminous at the bottom of your goddamn stocking, what the fock.
Sadly, I must report that this season, once again, the souvenir Art Kumbalek Mistletoe Belt Buckle will not be available for holiday purchase, and I’ll tell you why. Back in early summer, I’d been dickering with a fabrication outfit I heard of situated just outside Bangkok in ol’ Siam called Santa’s Sweatshop. I thought we had a deal. Mr. Big over there assured me that they could pump out a couple thousand of those babies and have them in my hot hands the day before Thanksgiving, no focking sweat. Swell—so I thought.
Yeah, they sent over by me the paperwork contract so’s I could throw down my John Hancock and since I had a little time to kill, I thought I’d take a quick gander at the fine print, ’cause that’s the kind of guy I am. And jeez louise, in print so tiny I had to practically bust an eyeball upon perusal, it appeared that the would-be Asian elves, the ones performing the actual hands-on sweating, would be pulling down—get this—nearly a whopping ten cents each and every hour of their fourteen-focking-hour day, I kid you not.
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Well sir, naturally I could not allow this to stand. My good name would be on this product, which, by the bye, as far as mistletoe belt buckles go, I had conceptualized to be much more than a focking stocking-stuffer gag gift, you bet. My belt buckle was designed to be compatible with only the Art Kumbalek Big Boy Belt, modeled on Batman’s utility belt, and available for an additional buck two-eighty or three. There’d be clips, loops and all kind of doo-dads to hold items like cans of beer, a Bowie knife, ChapStick, flask, carton of Pall Malls, an extra pair of socks—all so’s you could cart this stuff around the town with accessible convenience given the inevitable soon-to-be nuclear wasteland or zombie apocalypse, thank you.
Anyways, with my good name on the product, I couldn’t afford to have these people making a dime per hour for christ sakes. So I looked long and hard elsewheres for somewheres the laborer would labor for less; thus chop my cost of doing business and raise the roof on my many happy returns ’cause when you’re in the seasonal game, you got to get it while you can, you betcha. And wouldn’t you know, I couldn’t find anybody who’d walk the walk for less than the American six-cents per the hour, can you believe it?
So now at this point, even if I paid through the nose the wage of a blue-chip dime an hour, and the indolent ingrates agreed to give me 24 hours a day of their Fourth-World time, there’s still no way in heck I can get my product to the timely market and capitalize on this joyous season. I’ll tell you’s, this global no-bull economy really does bite the big one, especially for a bootstrap entrepreneur like yours truly.
So to the many couple of you’s who’ve inquired recently about the availability of the much ballyhooed Art Kumbalek Mistletoe Belt Buckle, all I can do is paraphrase the bums out of Brooklyn with visions of World Series championships perennially dancing in their hard noggins, lo, those years ago: Wait ’till next year, amigos.
But before I go, how ’bout we wrap this up with a nice little story or two:
So, one day this dad sits his 10-year-old son down and asks him if he knew about the birds and the bees.
“I don’t want to know!” the boy says, bursting into tears. The dad’s a confused and asks the boy what the heck’s wrong. The boy sobs and says, “Oh father, you told me there was no Santa Claus when I got to be 7. No Easter Bunny at 8. No Tooth Fairy at 9. And now, if you’re telling me that grown-ups don’t really focking screw, I’ve got nothing left to believe in!” Ba-ding!
And let us not forget, that some of us be lighting the candles to celebrate the Hanukkah this time of year; and so, tradition:
Man goes to see the rabbi. “Rabbi, something terrible is happening and I must talk about it.”
The Rabbi asks: “What be so ferkakata?”
The man says: “My wife is poisoning me.”
The Rabbi inquires: “How can that be?”
The man pleads: “It seems she may have other gefilte fish she would like to fry What can I do?”
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The rabbi says: “Tell you what. Let me talk to her, I’ll see what I can find out and let you know.”
One week later, the rabbi calls the man: “I spoke to your wife. I conversed with her on the phone for three hours. You want my advice?”
The man anxiously says, “Please.”
The rabbi says: “Take the poison.”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.
