Squeezing the Box

<span>I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, about the job situation here in America's Dairyland, I ought to inform you live-music adventurers out there that the mighty Brewhaus Polka Kings with Artie Kumbalek will be working their wares over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school this Thursday evening, May 24, commencing 'round about your 8 p.m. (could be a tad past eight, what with the Kings and me girding our liquid loins at the bar in preparation for a couple-hour display of professional show businessthe schtuff of which has become near legendary in polka pockets, here and there, in southeastern Wisconsin).</span><span><br /><br />So gals, grab your culottes, and you's guys, spit-shine your kishka, and come on down to dance, dance, dance, 'cause what the fock. Yes sir, a late-May Thursday evening at the Uptownerwhat better way to launch one's Memorial Day weekend out to sea? Hey, you tell me.</span><span><br /><br />And then I'll tell you, these next couple, three summertime months during which a guy can't even blow his nose without some fockstick putting on a festival about it, do definitely not comprise my favorite time of year, no sir.</span><span><br /><br />It's all the time too noisy no matter where you go. Makes it difficult for a guy like me to collect his thoughts. And the weather? Forget about it. On those days that could even make Satan suffer (in my book, anything above a nice 73 degrees), I suppose I could echo the party line and agree that “it's not the heat; it's the humidity.” But I won't. Because <em>it is</em> the heat. <em>And</em> it's the stupidity, of you's who spent the quiet winter months indoors in climate-controlled comfort whilst all-the-time longing to feel like a focking pig hoist on a spit and rotated over a steam-furnace flame.</span><span><br /><br />Cripes, I got myself all lathered up just thinking about the summertime hell about to be encountered. I need to relax, so I'm taking my Memorial Day holiday early, as in right now. Besides, instead of slaving away at slapping together an essay that nobody's going to read 'cause they're too busy welcoming the Lord of Hades into their midst, I really ought to be carefully honing the annual “Art Kumbalek Gala Address to Our Current Raft of Graduates” that I'm wont to deliver this time of year to our former matriculatorsand yes, sometimes by request.</span><br /><br />Just a reminder to all you school administrators: Just like every year come late May, early June, it is still not too late to hire my services to be the keynote gasbag at your institution's commencement sheepskin giveaway. Fifty bucks and a case of ice-cold bottled beer says I'll come by and deliver a talking-to your kids won't soon forget. Give me a jingle.<span><br /><br />And the theme I'd like to cram into my address is the “realization of potential,” as perhaps illustrated in the following parable:</span><em><span><br /><br />So this kid comes home from school with a writing assignment. He asks his father for help. &quot;Dad, can you tell me the difference between potential and reality?&quot;</span></em><em><span><br /><br />His father thoughtfully looks up from perusing the evening's newspaper and says, “Son, this I can demonstrate for you. First, I would like you to ask your mother if she would sleep with George Clooney for a million dollars. Then go ask your older sister if she would sleep with, let's say, Brad Pitt for a million dollars. Then come back and tell me what you've learned.&quot;</span></em><em><span><br /><br />The kid is somewhat puzzled, but decides to ask his mother. &quot;Mom, if someone gave you a million dollars, would you sleep with George Clooney?&quot; And the mother says, &quot;Don't tell your father, but yes, I would.&quot;</span></em><em><span><br /><br />He then goes to his sister's room. &quot;Sis, if someone gave you a million dollars, would you sleep with Brad Pitt?&quot; The sister says, “Duhhhh!&quot;</span></em><em><span><br /><br />The kid goes back to his father. &quot;Dad, I think I've figured it out. Potentially, we are sitting on two million bucks, but in reality, we are living with two whores.&quot;</span></em><span> Ba-ding!</span><span><br /><br />So there you go. Auf wiedersehen, ein Prosit, eins, zwei, drei g'suffa! zicke, zacke, hoi hoi hoi and plenty of it,</span> <span>'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.</span>