Special Crapster

Expand

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear another Labor Day holiday has come and gone once again, that day when we honor the workingman by pissing the day away doing nothing but drinking somebody else’s beer in some clown’s backyard or a picnic park somewheres. Hey, how ’bout next year instead we pay tribute to the blue collar by working twice as hard and twice as long that day? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Yes sir, the last extended weekend of the summer; and just so’s you know, I happen to believe that if your free-will choice involved the secluded spectacle of outdoor camping out in the boon-focking-docks, that is a notion that not only flies in the face of the natural course of human evolution but may also be some kind of unnamed perversion to boot, I kid you not.

Anyways, I’m busy blowing the inches of dust off my so-called resume so’s to send it off to some kind of judicial hodgepodge and score the gig of this so-called Special Master, where I get to rifle through the top-secret schmutz the Trumpel-thinskin stole and stashed into a closet, golden toilet tank or Ivanka’s hoo-ha and such down there in focking Florida (yeah, Florida, Spanish for serial killer and youngish shirtless white males measuring IQs equal/less than the numerical height of a garden snail).

Hey, Special Master, sign me up, I can use the dough the gig I imagine should pay, certainly an amount that would exceed the numerical height of a garden snail that I’m pulling down these days from here and there to maintain residence here in my dinky apartment. I also imagine, without yet perusing The Donald’s pilfered papers, that my recommendation would be for the Government Of The People, By The People, For The People to lock up his lyin’ orange fat ass for a period to exceed the length of time it takes basketball’s Sacramento Kings to win football’s Super Bowl, what the fock.

So the other day, my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine called me up-in-arms raving about a new book by Stephen King called Fairy Tale (yeah, Stephen King, the guy who writes more books than a Vegas casino oddsmaker.) And it reminded me of a little story:

Once upon a time, a blonde, a brunette and a redhead (a trio of indeterminate gender, I swear) were crossing an enchanted bridge in Magical Fairyland when they ran into a fairy, wouldn’t you know. The fairy told the threesome that they would be granted a magical transformation if they jumped off the bridge and called out their wish. The brunette immediately jumped off the bridge and yelled “Eagle!” “They” turned into a beautiful bird of prey and flew away. The redhead jumped off the bridge and called out “Salmon!” “They” turned into a gorgeous shimmering salmon and swam upstream to spawn. The blonde was so overcome with excitement that “they” jumped off the bridge without thinking of “their” wish. “They” panicked: “Crap!” And so was of a piece, ever after. Ba-ding!

And so now would be the time to again recall that once upon a time, not long after Dr. Seuss left us for the big Whoville in the sky surely, I recalled reading the good-doing Doctor’s books to my buddy Ernie’s sister’s kids during a babysitting gig, and thinking how I sure would like to get ahold of whatever the good-doin’ Dr. was on.

I recalled that actually my favorite reading is kid books. There’s pictures. They’re never long enough to get boring. It doesn’t take you a day and a focking half just to read one tiny printed page of pure eyeball strain. Sure, they’re a little light on the sex parts, but you can’t have everything. And you also don’t get depressed the same as like reading a regular adult book about some miserable knob when you realize no matter how wretched this jag gets in the story, he’s still better off than you are.

That’s because reality sucks big time, no if ands or butts, doubts or questions about it, no sir. But kids, from Day One get read a dream-stream full of talking dragons, magic lamps and magic carpets, secret passageways, guys who can see for miles and they think, “Yes! What a groovy world of ours this is.” And then quicker than you can say “Sam I Am” things take a turn, a dive, a spill and it’s “Sam, what’s with the sham?” Oh boy oh boy, kids get geared for living in cool castles with the mega-babe princess and a boatload of wishes, and then—KABOOM! Instead of “…happily ever after,” it’s “Chapters 5 through 32 by Monday… Get a job… Your application has not been accepted… We also found something with the driveshaft… Due to an increase in our cost for materials… The doctor called, the results came back, he wants to see you immediately…” Focking swell.

So of course, kids hate school ’cause by that age they’re getting a pretty good clue as to the low lowdown, don’t like it one bit and I can’t blame them. Yeah, “growing up”—the polite way of saying “getting the focking shaft sideways,” ain’a?

When the kids learn there’s no castles, no princess babes, no bag-o’-wishes, the first thing they do is turn on a drug. Maybe our kids would be better off if we read to them tractor manuals or 1040 long-form instructions instead of this jive about Oobleck and giants, what the fock.

Yes sir, that might maybe cut down on some of that ol’ imagination, but hey, when was the last time you ever read a help-wanted ad that said, “Only the imaginative need apply”? ’cause I’m, Art Kumbalek and I told you so.