Stirred, Not Shaken

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, seeing as how the news-media biz these days seems to be more and more a young people’s game, what with their navel-gazing yet butt-boring blogs, their talismaniacal PodCast iPod YouTube TikTok ju-ju voo-doo malarkey that’s deviously designed to disenfranchise and perhaps cancel the voice of the cranky old fart, an old fart like me who remembers well when the only cable a young person had came as a pair that you sometimes would attach to the battery terminals beneath the hood of your good-for-crap third-hand Rambler American ’cause you and the fellas had gone Downtown to sneak into the Princess Theater to catch the latest Russ Meyer motion picture and it was following the climax of Russ’s latest boobathon that it was discovered that the keys to the locked 2-door rustbucket decided to play hard-to-get, secure with their position in the ignition, that the motor was still running sort of, that the switched-on headlights were a dim diminutive remembrance of their once-virile virility, and most importantly, the six-pack of Kingsbury that was to be quaffed over a cleavage-critique of Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! during the drive home was in the goddamn trunk, unretrievable and—seeing as all that…

(Hold on, I lost my place—why don’t you go have a smoke while I insert a new paragraph).

Anyways like I said, the communication racket, be it via newsprint, electronics, or be it via what-the-fock, seems today to be one for and by the young people and conservatives. And all I can say is “FU,” maybe it’s time a guy my age ought to think about his second career, and I’m thinking about checking out the greeting industry now that places of business are kind-of sort-of back in business once more. Cripes, how hard can that be, to stand at the front door of This-or-That Mart and eyeball the dregs of the hoi polloi as they meander by, so’s to alert security in the event that any one low-brow shopper should appear a little extra nutty.

And you know what? Given mine own legendary celebrity—I once shook the hand of funnyman Louis Nye; in 1969 Chicago, I knew a guy who was party to a nightclub concert performance provided by Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull and Savoy Brown for five focking bucks, Jack; with my own eyes from just up the block, I saw Bob focking Hope exit the Mason Street entrance of the Pfister Hotel—I may even attract extra customers à la shell-shocked former heavyweight champ Joe Louis or Hall-of-Famer Willie Mays stuck glad-handing at a casino gateway. What savvy store manager wouldn’t want a guy like me cooling his heels by the store door, knowing it could mean an extra buck two-eighty in sales of batteries, diapers and cat food per shift-of-mine due to increased foot traffic? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that you don’t have to tell me that the craft of greetings-manship will always be one big piece of pie like a cakewalk on the picnic beach. My buddy Little Jimmy Iodine, who has dabbled in the greeting vocation, told me he once worked a joint down by there on South KK when this big-mouth, unattractive plus grouchy gal walked through the entrance dragging two kids and screaming obscenities at everyone within earshot. Jimmy says, “Good morning, ma’am. Nice kids you’ve got there. Are they twins?” And this foul-mouthed lady shopper says to Jimmy, “Hell no. One’s 9 and the younger one’s 5. What the fock would make you think they’re twins. Are you blind or just goddamn stupid?” So to make best of an awkward situation, Jimmy says, “Neither, ma’am. I just can’t believe you got laid twice.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I got to go fill out some job applications, but before I go I ought to remind you’s that Sweetest Day is coming up. And in case I’m on your list, screw the flowers or candy and instead think of one of the following:

• The arrest, conviction and imprisonment of a an orange-haired former president whose name rhymes with “dump”

• A busload of Vegas showgirls

• Couple, three pairs of nice socks

And as for others who may be on your list of Sweetest Day obligations, if you’re short of cash (join the club) how ’bout you give the gift of laughter and given the Packers’ foe come this Sunday, here’s one for you:

So this family of pro-football fans from Chicago heads out one Saturday to do their holiday shopping. While in the sports store, the young son picks up a Green Bay Packers jersey and says to his older sister, “Hey Sis, I’ve decided to become a Packer fan and I’d really like this for Christmas.” She can’t believe it, smacks him on the head and says, “You better go talk with mom.”

And off he goes with the Green Bay Packer jersey in hand and says to his mother, “Hey Mom, I’ve decided I’m going to be a Packer fan, and I’d really like this jersey for Christmas.” The mother is outraged, smacks him on the head and says, “Go see your father.”

So the young lad finds his father and says, “Dad, guess what? I’m going to be a Packer fan, and I’d really like this Aaron Rodgers jersey for Christmas.” The father is so beside himself that he whacks his son on the head and says, “No son of mine is ever going to be seen in THAT piece of crap!”

About a half-hour later they’re all back in the car heading toward home. The dad turns to the boy and says, “Son, I hope you’ve learned something today.” The son says, “Yes pop, I have. I’ve only been a Packer fan for about an hour, and already I’ve learned to hate you focking Illinois sons-of-bitches.” Ba-ding!

And in conclusion, it was the old fart Greek philosopher Sophocles who said, “Not knowing anything is the sweetest life.” Thanks Soph’, now I know why so many people vote Republican, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.