Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I was out and about just the other day and some knob says to me, “Hey Artie, writing those essays must be good therapy, ain’a?” And I was reminded of a little story:
This gal goes to her psychiatrist ’cause she’s having big problems with her sex life, wouldn’t you know. The psychiatrist asks her lots of questions but wasn’t getting a clear picture of her problems. So finally he asks, “Do you ever watch your husband’s face while you are having sex?” And she says, “Well, yes, I did once.” The psychiatrist asked her how he looked and she said, “Very angry.”
The psychiatrist felt he was finally getting somewhere: “That's very interesting but we must look into this further. Now tell me, you say that you have only seen your husband's face once during sex, which seems somewhat unusual. How did it occur that you saw his face that time?” And she says, “He was looking through the window.” Ba-ding!
Yeah yeah you betcha, Artie’s his own therapist, how ’bout that. By cutting out the middle man, I figure I’m saving myself maybe about a $150 bucks an hour; so the drinks are on me. And as a therapist, one thing I know is that we can all use an extra pat on the back. Actually, I got a better idea. More than an extra pat on the back, we could all use an extra twenty in the pocketbook, what the fock. Hold on, I got an even better idea. How ’bout, say, you go see one of these psychiatric guys for a little shrink rap, and at the end of the session he gives you a crisp $100 bill and change instead of the other way around—“Hey doc, gosh. Thanks for the dough. I'm feeling better about myself already.” And isn’t that the point?
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Fock if I know, but I sometimes do wonder what things would be like these days if there had been an outbreak of the psychology racket in the olden days. Say back in the year 0027 or something, they pull Jesus in for a psych session: “Well, Mr. Christ, to me it looks like we’re dealing with a pattern of self-destructive behavior here. I’d say you were clinically depressed but that hasn’t been invented yet. This savior thing. It’s a grand idea, but practically speaking, what about the future? Do you actually see yourself doing this at 40, 50? And you say one thing, but then do another. ‘Love thy neighbor,’ fine. But then you go bust up their money-changing temple. What I’d like to do is see you weekly for the long-term. Who is your health care provider, Mr. Christ?”
Anyways, now that another Super Sunday has come and gone, the next so-called holiday we got coming up the jock is this Saint Valentine’s Day—the day for lovers I hear, many of whom will soon be losers I know. It’s no Presidents’ Day when it comes to holidays I enjoy to go out and celebrate, but I am reminded of a little story:
I know of a married couple who had both lost their jobs at the broom factory in a small Midwestern town, and were having a hard time finding new jobs due to the unconscionable lack of job growth thanks to the Republican-controlled House of Representatives.
Unfortunately, the couple’s mounting credit card debt required some immediate income. The wife suggested that she could whore herself out, but her husband was less than thrilled about the prospect. But financial necessities along with a less-than-swinging economy got the best of her, and she went behind her husband's back to go whoring.
One night, she came back with a huge wad of cash and confessed to her husband how she had earned it, adding that desperate times required desperate measures. He was naturally upset, but yet curious as to how much she made. “I made $398.10,” she said. “Who the heck paid ten cents?” the husband asked. “Everybody,” she said. Ba-ding!
OK, then how ’bout this one:
So this guy about my age goes to the doctor ’cause he’s concerned about the lack of lead in his pencil that his wife’s been complaining about lately. Doctor gives him one of those turn-your-head-and-cough exams and says to the guy, “Well sir, I’ve been able to determine that your male member has but twenty-five erections left in it. I suggest you use them wisely.”
So the guy gets home and tells the wife what the doctor had to say. “Only twenty-five? Oh my. We better save them for special occasions, like anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine’s Day. Let’s make a list.” And the guy says, “Forget about it. I already made a list, and your name’s not on it.”
And then remember, while most football fans ’round the country say “boo-hoo” at the conclusion of the Super Bowl signifying the end of the football season, in America’s Dairyland, we say “Go Pack!” yesterday, today and tomorrow, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
