Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So how’s this new year been treating you so far? I don’t know if it’s just me but to be honest, I don’t notice a dime’s worth of difference from the previous crappy year, what the fock.
And how was my merry focking Christmas? No, Santa—fat moralistic fock that he is—did not deliver the bevy of Vegas showgirls I had requested; but thanks for asking.
Anyways, I thought maybe to put off my much ballyhooed annual Look Back/Watch Out Ahead gala essay until next week, or later, because I’ve become uncomfortable with this “prediction” malarkey. It’s that time of year now where all these so-called soothsayers come crawling out of the knobwork. Soothsayer. Look it up in the dictionary some time why don’t you. I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty it says this: “Soothsayer—Bullshit artist of ancient times.”
Oh well, if the sooth fits, bare it—and bare it I shall, since I understand that some of you’s may be expecting my annual Look Back/Watch Out Ahead gala essay this week, but guess what? Although my stake on New Year’s resolutions has long been claimed—Resolutions are for quitters, and quitters never win. So don’t be a loser. Be a winner and screw all those New Year’s resolutions.—I resolved to shake things up last weekend and decided that during the new year, I really ought to take it easy once in a while.
And so my annual Look Back/Watch Out Ahead gala essay need be condensed. And remember that pithiness is the soul of brevity; so here it is for you to pith on:
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The Year 2016: Sucked, but good.
Watch Out Ahead, 2017: Will suck, even more. Can you believe it? And the only surefire thing I predict is that there will be a sucker born at least every minute.
There you go. Clean, economical and near-elegant, ain’a? And that’s all I’ve got to say about that ’cause I’d like to break this off right here, right now, and do something nice for myself like crank up the thermostat and mix another hot focking toddy, you betcha.
Yeah, hate to disappoint you if you were in the market for a next-year’s prediction a tad rosier, but you got to remember that disappointment is a fact of life. Albert focking Einstein was disappointed that he never found a way to wrap up his Theory of Everything before he croaked. And I’m extremely disappointed that I’ll never get to meet Marilyn Monroe, not to mention my deep disappointment cum despair that my bonehead ancestors thought it was a better idea to settle here in the Upper Midwest instead of the temperate and libertine lifestyle climes of Ta-focking-hiti, what the fock.
But that’s life, mister. Yes, you’ll be disappointed sometime, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and maybe for the rest of your life. Your Auntie Mame may once have said, “Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death,” but your Uncle Art says, “Life’s a crap casserole and all you can do is strap on the ol’ feedbag and say ‘bon appétit.’”
So happy focking New Year. But before I go, I’d like to mention that for Christmas, I received a nice little story from my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine, but I already had it so I thought I’d re-gift it to you ’cause what the fock. Here, try it on:
So on Christmas morning this cop on horseback is sitting at a traffic light, and next to him is a kid on a shiny new Schwinn. Cop says to the kid, “That’s a very nice bicycle you’ve got there. Did Santa bring that for you?”
The kid replies, “You bet, officer.” And the cop says, “Well, next year tell Santa to put a taillight on that bike.”
The cop decides to give the kid a lesson for Christmas and proceeds to issue a $20 bicycle-safety violation ticket. The kid takes the ticket, wishes the cop a merry Christmas but before he rides off says, “By the way, officer, that’s a nice horse you’ve got there. Did Santa bring that to you?” Upholding the spirit of the season, the cop says, “Yes son, he sure did.”
And the kid says, “Well, next year tell Santa to put the focking asshole at the back-end of the horse instead of on top, would you?”
Ba-ding! So again, you’s have a happy new year—hey, at my age I still like to think anything’s possible, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
