Reader Discretion Unsupervised

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, first, the good news for yours truly from the last couple, three days or so: I have not been struck by lightning, nor had I been pancaked dead by that Chinese rocket that was to scream back down to Earth somewheres sometime last weekend, nor was I plugged full of holes by some focking lunatic out exercising his Second Amendment rights. Call me Mr. Lucky (apologies to my friend, the great comedian Dobie Maxwell, for borrowing his well-deserved title, here).

The bad news for yours truly? I did not cop top honors in the Mega Millions extravaganza drawing last Friday, what the fock. Jeez louise, had I won and taken the lump-sum cash, it would’ve registered out ’round about $325 million in today’s dollars—not too shabby a chunk-of-change, ain’a?

Oh, the places I’d go! Like the bank for starters. And I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty I might even score a toaster or a nice coffee percolator with a deposit like that, you think?

Then, I might go to some kind of car dealership, like the Hyundai, and pick up some nice transportation that doesn’t require a mask to enter the door and take a seat amongst a handful of the hoi polloi whose destinations seem less than rosy. And the Hyundai four-wheel ride? Cripes, if it gets stolen, what the fock, with my kind of Mega dough, I’ll just buy another one. Hey, Hyundais all around, I’m buying!

And I imagine soon I’d be going over by the Oscar ceremony out there in L.A. so’s I could pick up a bunch of those golden tall boys for Best Actor, Best Director, Best Writer, Best Producer, Best Best Boy for my work on my self-produced epic blockbuster, Art Kumbalek vs. The Focking Martians and Whatever Else You Got: The Musical, Part One.

And come to think of it, I might even go down by the Mar-al-Lago and offer the Donald Trumpel-thinskin some millions for his grift-lollapalooza provided he agrees to receiving a prefrontal lobotomy to be administered by my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine post-closing time after Jimmy’s blown the evening at the Uptowner charm/school. Yeah, “stop the steal,” forever, I’m in.

Yes, The Donald, who just buried one of his ex-wives, The Ivana, in the ground of his New Jersey golf course—“GET IN THE HOLE”—and she has. Huh, New Jersey. Buried, in a nontraditional place for such a thing. Maybe Jimmy Hoffa’s not too far away, what the fock.

But, but, but, shipwrecked on dashed dreams once again, and it’s looking like the only place I’ll be going to is back to the clipjoint where I purchased this bum Mega Millions ticket and see if I can get a refund/return on the grounds of being sold a defectively faulty product, what the fock.

And speaking of buried, how ’bout a little socialletically inappropriate story ’cause the world does seem to trend that direction these days.

Reader Discretion Unsupervised, what the fock:

So there’s this ship wreck some years ago that left three guys and a gal on their way to a Christian retreat stranded on a deserted island. They all decided that the most righteous arrangement they could make under the circumstances was that each guy would marry the gal for a week, then annul the marriage and the next guy could marry her. This arrangement went real well for about a month and a half but then the gal caught some kind of jungle disease and croaked. Well sir, the first week after that wasn’t so hunky-dory; the second week went worse; and the third week, forget about it. So then by the fourth week, they figured “what the fock,” and buried her. Ba-ding!

Anyways, not to put more turd into your punchbowl than already floats there these days, how ’bout this from the other day:

Astronomers say never-before-seen asteroids are hiding in the Sun’s glare (msn.com)

To quote:

“Finding never-before-seen asteroids hiding out near Earth isn’t surprising. After all, most of our space telescopes, including the newly activated James Webb, are facing outward, away from the Sun. That’s because the Sun’s glare is often too bright for these telescopes to see anything beyond it

“But that same bright glare could actually be hiding tons of near-Earth asteroids. These same kinds of asteroids often turn out to be potentially hazardous due to their size.”

Swell, “potentially hazardous.” The good news here, I guess, is that they didn’t say “guaranteed hazardous,” as one would describe another four years of the Orange Circus Peanut stinking up the White House. What a world.

And the FBI has been in the news of late, not much of it good, in regard to the deadly treasonous January 6 shebang. Of course, I was reminds of a little story.

Reader Discretion Unsupervised, what the fock:

So these three guys go to the FBI building for a job interview. The interviewing agent tells the first guy, “To be in the FBI you must be loyal, dedicated, and give us your all. Your wife is in the next room. I want you to go in there and shoot her with this gun.” The guy takes the gun, hesitates, and says, “Sorry, I can't do it.”

The next interviewee enters and the agent tells him the same thing he told the first guy. The second guy takes the gun, walks into the room, then walks right out and says, “Sorry, I can't.”

The last guy enters the office and the interviewer again explains the test. The guy takes the gun and goes into the room. The agent hears six shots, silence, then a whole lot of commotion. The guy comes out of the room and says, “Hey J. Edgar, some jokester loaded the gun with blanks, so I had to beat her to death with a curtain rod. Where’s my badge?” Ba-ding!

And finally, I just got the bad news that another younger friend of mine died the other week. The good news is that it was in his sleep. “Natural causes,” I heard. Hey, put me down for one of those: Age 71, me, natural causes. Died. In his sleep. No extended-stay hospital bills. Count me in, what the fock. Besides, at my age, I really feel the need for more sleep. Putting that on my bucket list, you betcha, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.