Sail On

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I may have mentioned that I’ve not been feeling exactly swell for some days to the tune that my crack medical staff told me to get my sorry ass hauled over to one of those COVID-testing joints, which I did last week. Some days later I got the call that the results were negative. I’ll tell you’s, I’m just relieved there wasn’t an essay question attached to this test, like a question involving something like the Treaty of Ghent, ’cause who knows what my test results would’ve looked like, what the fock.

And another thing, May happens to be the anniversary month of my stay onboard the US Shepherd Express. Launched May, 1986, so 34-focking-years now sailing the seas of our time, but, of course, it only feels like 104. Ba-ding!

Anyways, as I isolate here inside my dinky apartment and recover from whatever-the-fock physical schmutz I actually had/have, what’s say we turn back the clock to the anniversary month of May 2001, perhaps a simpler time (certainly simple-minded, given what’s to follow), pre-9/11; pre-Corona; pre-the National Bar with Liquor having to close and sending me and my gang to relocate up and over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school; back when you could sit shoulder to shoulder and blow smoke to your heart’s satisfaction if less than well-being.

So into the time machine we go to learn if time resembles more a line or circle, back to May 2001, and the journey goes something like this:

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz I tell you’s, just as a matter of public record I ought to mention that this here Shepherd issue kicks off the start of the 16th year I’ve been wringing these weekly essays through the wringer in service of young and old alike, thank you very much.

Actually, it may have been last week, maybe even the week before, that this unheralded anniversary passed, fock if I know. All I know is it was May 1986 when the knuckleheads who then called the shots solicited my services ’cause they thought it would be “cool” to have some intellectual content tucked in between their pages otherwise full up with all the latest on the sex, drugs and a lot of goddamn goofy music, I kid you not.

The agreement was that in return for my services, I’d get a couple bucks an issue, some free ice-cold bottled beers once in awhile, and five focking cents a word, Jack. I’m still waiting on that one, the nickel a word. I figure after 15 years I’m up around 700 of these essays at greater-than-or-equal-to 1,000 words a crack, so we’re looking at about $35 grand. Make an awful nice anniversary gift and after I tripled it over by Potawatomi, I could finally peacefully retire, as so many of you’s have urged.

Lots of changes over the years in and around this Shepherd. Most of the old guard have parted ways but in every cloud there’s the silver lining that best as I can tell, dang near all these newer workers here bathe on a regular basis. They also own cars less than 10 years old, which makes leeching rides a safe comfort.

I could go on and on with this reminiscing malarkey but I got a feeling the fellas over at the National Bar with Liquor are getting antsy to toast me with a couple, three free anniversary cocktails, so I got to go. Come along if you want, but you buy the first round, ain’a.

Emil: You got to be jerking my beefaroni.

Little Jimmy Iodine: I swear. I either read or heard, I don’t know where, somewheres, but some guy was saying that Babe Ruth was actually black, I kid you not.

Ernie: I suppose it’s possible, what the fock. All the cameras were in black-and-white those days you know, so the sports photographers must’ve always had too much exposure on from being so goddamn drunk all the time that the Babe always came out looking white in all the pictures, ain’a?

Herbie: You’ve got the same kind of situation when it comes to Jesus H. Christ. There’s a growing bunch of your Bible scholars who say the savior had to be what-you-call an African-Asian guy, and to that I say—hey, no shit, Sherlock. Like who the hell could possibly ever think the Lord could’ve blown into Bethlehem from Philly or Detroit City? The world was flat back then don’t forget; they even hardly had Europe for christ sakes.

Julius: I’ll tell you who. The same knobs who did all the paintings and the art stuff that make Jesus look like he just got in off the road from doing forty-day tour with the Allman Brothers. What the hell is that? Forget about it. Of course he had to be what they call a guy of color, just like 110-focking-percent of everybody else who inhabited his neck of the woods those days, or rather, neck of the desert if you will.

Ray: White or black, it still doesn’t change my belief that if you lead a good ol’ sin-free life here on Earth, you wind up getting to spend all eternity in the company of the Lord. Second prize is two eternities.

Ernie: Ba-ding! Good one, Ray.

Little Jimmy: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.

Art: Hey gents, what do you know, what do you hear.

Emil: Julius was saying Jesus must’ve been some kind of black guy.

Art: Duh-hhh. Soul brother numero uno, you bet, with the Reverend Al Green a close second. So tell me something I don’t know.

Herbie: Since there’s no archival footage available, I suspect the only way we’ll know if the Lord was white, black or somewheres in between is when he shows up for that Second Coming. And my buck two-eighty says rather than a long-locked Tab Hunter guy in a white robe with hair like Farrah focking Fawcett, JamMaster Jesus-C be ready to bust a righteous rap on your sorry ass, dog.

Little Jimmy Iodine: I wonder what he’d say about this guy on the news in Utah in hot water with the government ’cause he lives with his five wives.

Julius: As if this guy’s going to give a rat’s ass about hot water from the government. He’s got five wives at the same time, for crying out loud. This nitwit’s got to be living in hot water up to his eyeballs 24 hours a second—what’s a little more from the goddamn government. No skin off his focking flute, ain’a?

Ernie: I think the Lord would tell this guy he’s got a free pass through the Pearly Gates ’cause christ on a cracker, five wives, how much hell is one guy supposed to endure, ain’a?

Art: Guys, any of you’s going to buy me a cocktail for my 15 years at the newspaper?

Emil: Fock you, Artie. You ought to buy us each 15 cocktails—one for each year of having to read that bullshit you put in, half of which you steal from us anyways.

Ray: I’ll toast you, Artie, ’cause getting by for 15 years by working one focking day a week is quite an achievement. And speaking of anniversaries, here’s one maybe you can put in that little essay of yours: This couple’s celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary and their 60th birthday, same day. All of a sudden a fairy godmother shows up and says because they’ve been such a loving couple all these years, she’ll give them each a wish.

The wife says she wants to travel ’round the world. The fairy waves her wand and BOOM! The wife’s got a wad of plane tickets in her hand. Now it’s the husband’s turn. He thinks for a second, then says kind of shy like, “Well, I’d like to have a woman 30 years younger than me.” BOOM! He’s 90.

(Listen, this is going to go on awhile, but thanks for sticking around ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)