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Art Kumbalek political debate

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I just got back from voting in this dinky what-the-fock primary in-August (?) election of stuff and I think things went pretty, pretty well. Didn’t feel the need to kick some kind of fascist MAGAsshole “election observer” in the nuts, plus I got to check a big honking NO FOCKING WAY on both the Republican douchebag-driven state constitutional amendment referendums that I figured would suck big-time if passed, I kid you not.  

[Vote: a formal indication of a choice between two or more candidates or courses of action, expressed typically through a ballot or a show of hands or by voice.] 

So heck yeah, I was feeling pretty gosh darn swell as I exited the Zeidler Municipal slab-of-concrete Downtown on a Tuesday sunny morning with my “I Voted-Yo Voté” sticker in hand and a joyful patriotic smile on my face. USA USA USA. You should’ve been there. 

I like to vote, always have, stretching all the way back to 1972 as I exercised my virgin franchise for the first time, when you had to be the age of 21 to lever your choices upon the Dr. Emmett Brown-ish machine as the curtain was drawn behind you.  

Yes sir, 1972 (still upset not being able to elect Bobby Kennedy to a second term). Had to be 21 to vote, but 18 would sure-as-shooting be old enough to get you hauled off to a distant jungle for no sane reason at all. USA USA USA. 

To be allowed to vote on something where the majority wins is the way things ought to go all around the world, I don’t care how old you are.  

Cripes, I wish that back in my early school days at Our Lady In Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough (School motto: “Discipline, Our Specialty.” Cripes, the sisters were required to summer in the Orient once every five focking years so as to master the latest in torture holds, I kid you not.), us katzenjammers had the right to vote. What would we vote on? This: A recall election on Sister Margaret the Mauler to be replaced by Sister Celeste, what the fock. 

Anyways, it’s rattled my noggin that at my advanced age, I may need to skip one of my brain-busting weekly essays here and there—inconceivable as it may seem—on account of heart attack, lung cancer, liver ferkakta, entrapment beneath the wheels of a county bus, etcetera etcetera etcetera. 

So then, who best on occasion to temporarily fill this page? 

I figured it’s got to be one of my political campaign advisers from over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school majestically crammed onto the fabled Center Street, where today is always at least a day before tomorrow and yesterday may very well be today. 

I asked them each to provide a brief writing sample to prove their worth, and here’s what I’ve received so far: 

Julius

With another presidential election coming up like a bad burrito from the night before, I got to know how long does this focking abortion uproar have to linger like hell’s hangover anyways, huh? You focking knobs, like a little compromise would be so bad? Theoretically personally speaking, when I figure the cost of an abortion I might have to chip-in on versus 18 years’ worth of gym sneakers and what-not, I light a votive for Justice Harry Blackmun. 

Yeah, whatever happened to compromise I’d like to focking know. It would mean the best of both possible worlds: Abortion, OK, but maybe not according to the druthers of your most ideal time; so maybe instead of a second trimester thing, you’d wait ’til about the fifty-focking-second trimester, like when the kid’s about 13 and gives you some sass talk. Sure, that may seem late in the pregnancy to your average right-to-lifer, but you could placate them by agreeing to meet them halfway and let them execute young shoplifters and masturbators at around that age, ain’a? 

People got to learn to compromise, like that great old American statesman Henry Clay. In Whitefish focking Bay, they even named a street after his butt. Nobody remembers what political party he belonged to, but party and Whitefish Bay don’t seem to go together anyways, so what the fock. 

Emil

Artie wanted me to write something for his little article in that hippie newspaper. OK. The guy’s a genuine 100% fockstick, and a cheap-ass to boot. The End. 

Herbie

OK, it’s been 50-some focking years since a bunch of Republican turd-clowns broke into the Democratic National Committee headquarters and kicked off the whole Watergate hodgepodge shebang. And I’d like to know how come there was never a Warren Commission kind of commission to finger a conspiracy that knocked off Bobby Kennedy. If they would’ve had one, I bet you a buck two-eighty they would’ve found Dick Nixon under that manure pile, you think? Nixon hated the Kennedys, plus he knew that RFK would’ve cleaned his clock but good in ’68. 

Nixon was elevated to the peak of power through the itchy finger of a wet-behind-the-ears douchebag from focking Jordan, some kind of weasel fockstick with two first names—Sirhan Sirhan. Wait. Two last names? No. The same two names—for christ sakes, what the fock, ain’a? 

Nixon had Bobby K taken out all right, and I can prove it. Take the name “Nixon”—switch the vowels around (that’s the “i” and the “o,” for you illiterate dipshits) then spell it backward. What do you get? Focking “Nixon.” Now take “Sirhan Sirhan” and switch the names around. What do you get? Enough said. 

Little Jimmy Iodine

Gosh darn, I tried, but I just couldn’t write something better than Artie usually does, sometimes. But I know he enjoys to entertain his mass of readers with a little story here and there. So how ’bout this: 

A young girl says to her mom, “Instead of buying me clothes for my birthday, can you send them to all the other girls that haven’t got any? 

“And who may they be?” the mother asks. 

“The ones on daddy’s computer.”  

Ba-ding! 

Thanks gents, for your submissions. Apparently, I need to keep fit as an Irish Fest fiddle in order to preserve truth, justice and the upper-Midwestern American way, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.