I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, I don't have the time to whip out a regular essay for you's this week. International Workers' Day is right around the corner, and me and the fellas decided we better get together and toast the day before the goddamn Republicans make such an acknowledgement subject to the penalty of fine and/or incarceration, what the fock.
So I'm headed over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school, majestically crammed at the corner of wistfully hysteric Humboldt Boulevard and the fabled Center Street—where today is always at least a day before tomorrow, and yesterday may gosh darn well be today.
Tag along if you like, but you cover the first round. Let's get going.
Herbie: So I'm at the barber's last week getting my Easter haircut, and the guy in the chair next to me had his little daughter with him.
Little Jimmy Iodine: That's nice when fathers and daughters can do things together, ain'a?
Herbie: She's standing right next to his chair eating some kind of snack cake, and the barber says, “Sweetheart, you're going to get hair on your twinkie.” And the little girl says, “Yes, I know. And I'm gonna get boobs, too.”
Ray: Speaking of boobs…
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know.
Emil: I know the weather sucks. The whole month of April; what the fock.
Julius: That's not such a bad thing. People bitch about the wintry weather, but have these people forgot what comes next? Spring. Spring comes in for maybe a week, 10 days, and then we're right back into focking summer with all kinds of insects, and knobshines with no school and no jobs, all doing their thing as loud as they can and disturbing my peace. No thank you. It's not even May and already I'm ready for fall, for christ sakes.
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Herbie: And I'm also ready for this royal wedding to be over and done with. It's all the wife can talk about. She's already got her alarm set for 3 a.m. Friday morning so she can watch two English overprivileged twits get hitched on the TV.
Little Jimmy Iodine: A lot of people are going to have to watch it on TV 'cause I hear it's hard to get an invitation, ain'a?
Ray: That princess gal, she's not bad looking. If they televised the honeymoon night, now that I'd watch. The Royal Screwing—especially if it included a swarthy gardener and maybe a Shetland pony. Those English, they know from the kink, I kid you not
Ernie: I just hope she knows what she's getting into with that family. Anybody want to bet an over/under on the date when the Queen decides to have her killed, but makes it look like an accident?
Art: Yeah, yeah, this wedding sure is a big deal for some reason. But I'll tell you a wedding that would make this one look like a West Virginia white-trash wedding in Vegas with an Elvis impersonator as best man. And that is if Jesus Christ came back to Earth and this time, instead of hanging out with a bunch of guys all the time, he decided to get hitched.
Ernie: I don't know, Artie. Lot of guys get married, but they end up hanging out with their buddies most of the time anyways, so what the fock. I myself might have more faith in what Jesus had to say if I knew he'd had the experience of coming home in the wee hours after a long night of changing water into wine, taking off his sandals at the door so he could tiptoe into bed, praying to god all the time that he wouldn't wake the wife 'cause he knew she'd crown him with a rolling pin if she realized what time it was.
Little Jimmy: I'll bet you a buck two-eighty this wedding is a big deal in Canada. After all, Queen Elizabeth is technically the head of state up there, ain'a?
Herbie: Of course, the people in Canada will watch this wedding on TV. What else are they going to do? Go to a job? I'm guessing if you're not one of those Mounties, just what the hell are you supposed to do for a living up there? What, they all work on an assembly line that turns out those fine Canadian automobiles nobody drives, 'cause there aren't any? They're all busy making those crackerjack top-shelf household appliances—“Made in Canada”—that the savvy consumer interested in quality fills up their home with? What the fock.
Julius: You got a point there, Herbie. Canada's just a bunch of wannabe Americans who didn't have the guts to tell the king to kiss off when they should have; so now today they got to kiss the Queen's butt and put her mug on their money like they're some kind of hot-dog foreign country or something. Give me a focking break.
(Hey, it's getting late but thanks for letting us bend your ear, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.)
