Running with the Bull

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Yeah, Art Kumbalek, essayist, philosopher, penman opinist, blathering log man, people’s poet, private dick, apostate, custodian, ink-slinging hack, researcher, latitudinarist, sappy sentimentalist, lexi-focking-cographer, banterer of conversation, waitress tipper, two-time Pony League all-star at second base, plus metaphysician not to mention one heck of a cunning linguist when it comes to the mother tongue—a regular Hemingway some might say—what the fock.

Yeah, you could pretty much say I’ve done it all and seen it all to boot; although I’ve yet to shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die, to tell you the truth. Nor have I ever paid, or will I ever pay one red-cent for goddamn water in a fancy bottle. I might be many things but I am not a focking idiot. It’s water. I can barely stand to drink it when it’s free like it always ought to be in the numero uno country in the world. Hell, if anything, they ought to pay you to drink it, not the other way around, god bless America.

So listen, I just got back from a couple, three day jaunt (“vacation”) to my buddy Ernie’s brother-in-law’s coldwater cabin Up North just in time to land smack-dab in the middle of the rejuvenated Bastille Days Downtown Drink Beer in the Street and Oui-Oui in Les Boulevard Fest after a pandemically forlorn absence. Focking swell.

And as in the past, this fest coincides with the running-of-the-bulls shit they got going over in your Pamplona, Spain. And what explains this bull-running’s near religious appeal? A writer in The New York Times once said, “… the festival is one of the few occasions in the modern world where the average person can confront death in such a short, sharp and concentrated way.” So why not during the Bastille Days we periodically let loose a couple, three rampaging bulls at the swell corner of Jefferson & Wells so as to attract the wealthy international traveler bent on confronting death? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you if that’s not exciting enough for the average thrill-seeking person in the modern world, how ’bout we strip naked this adventurer to Our Town and then tape hundred-dollar bills to his forehead and bare-butt as he runs up Center Street, down National Avenue, traverses North Teutonia and meanders quaint East Brady Street at 4 a.m. Olé!

So yeah, I took a week off and now I’m back from my focking vacances (pardon my French). And why I go on any kind of vacation, I can’t tell you. All I get from a vacation is a reminder of a definition for insanity: You keep repeating some kind of stupid-ass dead-end behavior, each time thinking: “O Lord, please let the outcome be a little better just this one time, would you, for christ sakes.” Yeah, I know that’s also the definition of media-column writing, but I’ll deal with that another time ’cause I got other fish to fry.

You want to know what my vacations are like? I’ll tell you what they’re like. They’re like what happened to this guy I know. Here:

One day this guy I know is on his way to lunch and walks right by a snazzy travel agency with a sign in the window that says, “Four-day cruise down the Murray River—$40 all inclusive!”

He can’t believe the price, and a nice relaxing river cruise was exactly what he had in mind for vacation that year. So he races into the agency, slaps two Jacksons down on the counter and tells the agent he wants to book a Murray cruise. Agent says, “Very good, sir,” whips out a baseball bat and knocks the guy stone-cold out.

So he comes to and finds himself strapped to a floating log racing down a white-water river. A little ways down, he sees another guy strapped to a log rolling down the other side of the river.

“Forty-dollar Murray cruise?” he shouts out. “Hey, you betcha,” says his fellow cruiser on the other side.

“This blows. I’ll bet we don’t even get breakfast,” he yells. “I don’t know,” says the other guy, “we did last year.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, my “couple, three days off” wasn’t to be one of those vacation vacations where you just sit around on your cushy butt spending dough in hopes to convince yourself you’re having a good time, no sir.

Listen, as a candidate to be your next president of the United States and/or U.S. senator come the late fall, I’ve heard tell that our Badger State is one of these so-called “swing” states that could flip either way come the election. So I thought it would be wise for me to tour outposts like your Ladysmith, Cadott, Cornell, Black River Falls, Solon Springs, Town of Barnes, and bamboozle the bumpkins with my glad-hand just like a regular Joe Biden or Ron De-fockus.

But I’ll tell you, “swing” is not the first word that comes to mind during a jaunt through these hinterland haunts, unless come Saturday night you hang yourself from a beam in the basement, just for something to do.

And it’s a mystery to me that candidates for office believe that a quick stop here, a pop-in there, can do very much to jack-up the opinion of elected representatives held by the bucolic wing of the electorate. Cripes, I remember a story from some years ago that shows just how much work needs to be done to improve a would-be statesman’s standing with the cornfield crowd. I don’t know if this story’s true but here it is anyways, what the fock.

On Friday afternoon, the entire state legislature of a state located not-even-close to either coast was aboard the official state bus touring a remote rural area when the driver lost control and crashed the bus into a ditch. Sometime later, a local farmer sauntered by and upon finding the politicians lying in the road, buried them.

It was reported that county sheriffs then arrived on the scene just as the farmer finished tamping the dirt down over the last member of this state’s legislature. Upon questioning the farmer about the wreck, a sheriff asked, “So you buried ALL the politicians? Were they all dead?”

The farmer reportedly answered: “Well sir, some said they weren’t, but you know how them politicians lie.”

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.