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Art Kumbalek political debate
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So, I hear another president of the “United” States has come and gone, and the economically savvy shopping American public chose to pick a cheap-ass rusted-out replacement from off a used car lot whose slogan is: “Our Deals are Real, Suckers.”
Yes indeed, I did lend an ear to Trumpel-thinskin’s inaugural maga-syllabic feces-against-the-wall spew the other day. In case you missed it, here’s a review of the Orange Circus Peanut’s word salad I’d like to share that you ought to find here:
Headline:
'One million percent total insane': Critics pan Trump's second inaugural speech
First sentence:
“Donald Trump's inauguration speech was an outright insult both to the American people and the English language, as critics online painted it.”
What a surprise, ain’a?
Here, check the rest of the article provided I can figure how to do this link-thing: msn.com/en-us/news/politics/one-million-percent-total-insane-critics-pan-trump-s-second-inaugural-speech/ar-AA1xx62r
And don’t forget, as soon as American blood is shed in the battle for the bodegas of Panama as well as upon the icebergs of Greenland, we shall once again be the greatest country on the face of the Earth since who knows when, I hear.
Anyways, I got to tell you’s that I’m temporarily feeling pretty nearly swell for a change on account of how the other night I was out taking a stroll through my neighborhood and boy-oh, did I ever pick up a nice Norway pine abandoned curbside, fully loaded and practically cherry. Even had a couple of strands of tinsel on her here and there, I kid you not. And talk about a price, how do you beat Jack squat? You cannot. No one trumps Jack squat, I don’t care who you are.
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So I’ll tell you the reason I was out tree shopping the other evening is that me and my gang never ever celebrate Christmas until ’round about the third weekend of your January. And the fact that a lot of expert astronomers have done some heavy-duty figuring to figure that the birthday of Jesus would actually have to be in January somewheres is only a small part of the why I delay the decking of my halls.
No sir, the main reason is that when it comes to Christmas I always ask myself, hey, what’s the rush? Don’t go off like some kind of cotton focking picking half-cocked fruitcake at the crack of the day after Halloween. If you keep your holiday pants on for a little longer, you’ll find the stores empty, shelves stacked and prices slashed. I just don’t see who can afford not to take advantage of these bargains and shopping convenience in these fiscally troubled times, what the fock.
But before I go and get back to my other-kind-of work of staring at a stack of unopened medical bills whilst cranking up the thermostat and mixing another hot focking toddy or three, let me give you a handy tip on how to transition from a past year to a new one, here in later-month January and into the future, such that have you.
Each New Year’s Eve me and the fellas get together to cook up a ring baloney and enjoy a couple, three, four cases of Rhinelander beer with a shotski or two and at midnight, instead of crooning the “Auld Lang Syne” we grab Little Jimmy Iodine’s scratchy 45 rpm of “In Dreams” by the great poet Roy Orbison so’s to put on the hi-fi full blast, and we dedicate it to all the people, places and things we won’t ever see again on the terra firma. We sing along over and over—ten, twelve, maybe fifteen times—until we’re bawling like babies. I don’t know why, but this tradition somehow gives us the strength to try to make it through another year. I figure you might like to try out our tradition sometime in the future yourself, so I’ll give you Roy’s lyrics to make it easier to sing along—it’s not too late—it’s never too late, and here so’s you can sing along, courtesy of the soon-too-late David Lynch’s Blue Velvet:
A candy-colored clown they call the sandman
Tiptoes to my room every night
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper:
“Go to sleep, everything is alright”
I close my eyes
Then I drift away
Into the magic night
I softly sway
Oh smile and pray
Like dreamers do
Then I fall asleep
To dream my dreams of you
In dreams... I walk with you
In dreams... I talk to you
In dreams... You’re mine
All of the time
We're together
In dreams... In dreams
But just before the dawn
I awake and find you gone
I can't help it... I can't help it
If I cry
I remember
That you said goodbye
To end all these things
And I'll be happy in my dreams
Only in dreams
In beautiful dreams
Finally, good lord, Mr. Baseball: “Get up… Get Up…”
Yes sir, I’ll try my best, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.