Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And no sooner returned am I from my one-eye cataract-extract ordeal (one down, one to go) than I see everybody and his/her brother/sister declare to run for president on the Democratic side of the fence for the opportunity to run against that flaming fatuous fockstick from the Republican side, the flaming fatuous fockstick who I imagine would have difficulty remembering the phone number for 911 if needed, what the fock.
Of course, I’m thinking to throw mine own hat into the ring, so no essay this week ’cause I’ve called for a cocktail conclave of the brain trust I always rely upon to guide me in my grab for higher office; called it for over there by the Uptowner tavern/charm school at the wistfully historic corner of Humboldt & Center. Hey, tag along if you’d like, but you buy the first round.
Herbie: No, I do not give a flying rat’s ass who’s in the focking Super Bowl, goddamn it. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it 100 times. Those games ten-times-out-of-nine are the most butt-boring ones of the year. Call it the Stupor Bore—a game that goes so on and on and on that by the time it’s over, not only is your kid out of diapers but his voice has changed and his second divorce is almost final. The only thing that could be better than the sound of the final gun is if it’s also pointed at my aching forehead.
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Little Jimmy Iodine: I liked the commercial they showed in the game the other year that had the monkeys in it. I wish they would’ve said what the commercial was for. Maybe they did, but I don’t remember—except for the monkeys.
Julius: There’s science researchers out there who say the chimpan-focking-zees have 99 percent of all the same genetic genes that the human being does. Ninety-nine percent, I shit you not.
Ray: That’s even closer to humans than the jackass Republicans in the state Legislature, ain’a?
Emil: You got to give those chimps a lot of credit. There’s nobody I’d rather have on my side in a cafeteria food fight than a chimp, I kid you not.
Ray: Speaking of jackasses…
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey gents, what do you hear, what do you know.
Julius: What’s with the eye patch, Artie?
Art: Had me some cataract surgery, so right now I’ve essentially got two different eyes and I’ve got to cover one so I can see when I put on my old glasses.
Ray: I like the pirate look, Artie. Now you need some kind of foul-mouthed support parrot, like for when some jag cuts in front of you at the grocery store check-out lane, the parrot can pipe up and say, “Hey, kiss my green ass, asshole, what the fock.”
Ernie: I heard Easter’s late this year, and I remember some Italian atheist guy wants to take a priest to court ’cause the guy says the priest is unlawfully asserting that Jesus Christ existed.
Emil: You got to be jerking my beefaroni. Some guy believes that the Babe Ruth of organized religion never swung a rosary? So if he wins the case, what’re they supposed to do—put an asterisk next to Jesus’ name in the Bible and say all his records are a crock?
Herbie: Come to think of it, that court’s got a handful in its hands. How you going to technically prove that the Jesus did exist? As far as I know, there’s no photos of the guy, no legal documents like the deed to a three-bedroom Cape Cod or a car-rental contract with his John Hancock on it. He’s like an old school Mafia don—didn’t want to leave a traceable trace that the Feds could nail him on.
Julius: Yeah, but what about all those paintings, the ones where he looks like a roadie for the Allman Brothers Band? Are you telling me that’s all bullshit?
Ray: Speaking of Jesus, I’ve got a little story: So this guy is driving through the city and his car is weaving all over the road for christ sakes. Cop pulls him over and says, “So mister, where are you coming from?” The tipsy driver says he’s on his way home from the tavern. The officer says, “Looks to me like you’ve had more than a couple, three, ain’a?” And the drunk says, “Well sir, I did all right for myself, thanks for asking.”
“Did you know,” says the cop, standing ramrod straight with arms folded, “that a few intersections back, your wife fell out of your car?” And the drunk says, “Praise the Lord! For a minute there, I thought I’d gone deaf.” Ba-ding!
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(It’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
