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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, if you need more focking proof that the home of the brave has been replaced by the confederacy of dunces there is this, evidence from Texas (an intellectual garden spot, I’m sure, that goes by the name of Southlake), which I stumbled across on nbcnews.com the other day:

A top administrator with the Carroll Independent School District in Southlake advised teachers last week that if they have a book about the Holocaust in their classroom, they should also offer students access to a book from an “opposing” perspective, according to an audio recording obtained by NBC News.

OK, I can understand “opposing perspectives” vis-à-vis such-a-things as the best centerfielder to play the game, Willie Mays or Joe DiMaggio (Willie, say hey); or the most insipid TV sitcom ever, “Gilligan’s Island” or “Car 54, Where Are You?”; or the hottest silver-screen siren, Marilyn Monroe or Ava Gardner. But…

Mass genocide? Is it possible in this day of our age that there could be an “opposing perspective”? Could we possibly give the state of Texas back to the Mexicans, just for starters?

Second paragraph of this NBC story goes like this:

Gina Peddy, the Carroll school district’s executive director of curriculum and instruction, made the comment Friday afternoon during a training session on which books teachers can have in classroom libraries. The training came four days after the Carroll school board, responding to a parent’s complaint, voted to reprimand a fourth grade teacher who had kept an anti-racism book in her classroom.

Got to love those concerned Texan parents up-in-arms that there’s no pro-racism books in young Luke’s or Lady Bird’s classroom so’s to balance the scales of fairness and justice, ain’a? What the fock.

Anyways, the electrical power to my dinky apartment decided to take a longer than brief hiatus the other day, and I got so goddamn desperate for any kind of sensory stimulation that I decided to chip away at a stack of mail that would dwarf the Colossus of Rhodes, I kid you not.

And I’ll tell you’s, opening the mail to me is something I enjoy nearly as much as getting a phone call, a summons or a king-size carbuncle on my dupa. Getting a piece of mail is like seeing a cockroach in your kitchen—no matter how hard you stomp it you know there’s plenty more where it came from. It’s a leak you can’t focking plug, what the fock.

But rifling the mail wasn’t as excruciating as I thought it might be. And wouldn’t you know, captured within that correspondence tower yea high was nice letter (could be years old) from my ol’ buddy Les, world traveler and known trafficker in sound ideas. Les mentioned a buddy of his who had just started up with the Viagra after being out of the game for some years but had a perplexing question concerning the new status of his private life. He asked Les if there’s any difference between a G-spot and a golf ball. Les said he thought there was. The difference being that he’d spend at least 20 minutes searching for a damn golf ball. Les asked me if I thought he was correct and all I can say is there’s no way in hell to argue anything Les would suggest. Have a Guckenheimer and muscatel on me wherever you are, buddy.

And like Les, people ask me things all the time, too, which is the reason I don’t individually respond to questions I receive in the mail ’cause just exactly how many times do you think I feel like now-spending 58 focking cents on a stamp plus taking the time to write, “Hey, go focking figure it yourself”? You betcha, zero is a number in my book.

Yet, I find Les’ concern for his friend’s plight inspiring. And within that mound o’ mail of mine, in between notes from the IRS and ironclad guarantees that a million bucks was coming to a hip-pocket near me, were a couple complaints of a thirst for knowledge, a thirst it seems only I could slake.

So in honor of Les’ compassion for his fellow man, this one time I will respond to a couple of knuckleheads instead of blowing them off like I usually would. (I’ve decided to withhold printing names of the correspondents, ’cause fock ’em.)

Hey Art, what the fock, huh? I’m a musician but there’s a couple things I can’t figure out, and no, I’m not a drummer. How come bagpipe players always walk when they play? And is there really a difference between a banjo and a chainsaw?

OK buddy. First, thanks for letting me know you’re not a drummer ’cause now I’ll take the time to write a response, since I know there’s a chance you might be able to focking read. The reason bagpipe players walk when they play is so they can get away from the noise. Secondly, you call yourself a musician and you don’t know the difference between a banjo and a chainsaw? You got to be jerking my beefaroni. Any real musician knows that a chainsaw possesses a far greater dynamic range. Don’t quit your day job.

Dear Mr. Kumbalek, I’m 11 years old and someday I’d like to be a practicing writer. I was wondering if you knew whatever happened to Joe Camel, and do you know any cool tortures I haven’t heard about yet?

(What the fock, Joe Camel??? When the hell was this letter sent. Jesus H. Christ, I really ought to check my mail more often.)

Listen kiddo, I don’t know what the fock happened to Joe Camel, and I don’t care. How focking stupid can you get. Any knobshine knows that camels don’t smoke, but if you’re old enough to have enjoyed TV in its “golden era,” you know that chimpanzees often smoked, especially on the variety shows. If those tobacco jagwagons had use a focking monkey to push their product, the brouhaha over kids smoking would’ve never come to pass ’cause truth-in-advertising still ought to count for something in this goddamn country of ours, or something like that.

Now, cool tortures? You probably know from the flaming shards of bamboo dipped in poison acid and shoved up one’s kazoo sideways as well as I do. That’s nothing. Real torture is sitting at a desk and trying to fill a three-pound bag and all you got is one-pound of manure. I suggest you forget about being a practicing writer and think about growing the fock up instead.

(Jeez louise, that’s enough with the mail. Maybe I’ll tackle the pile again next year sometime, I should live so long. So, time to go soothe a thirst other than that for knowledge, a thirst I’m a hell of a lot better at soothing, or at least more practiced, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)