Stop the Squeal

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I checked my monthly calendar the other day and discovered that it’s got Columbus Day listed, and I thought, Santa Maria what the fock, do we even still have a Columbus Day in this day of age anymore?

Apparently we do, and this year it falls on October… 11??? Hey, any schoolboy worth his old-school salt knows that Columbus Day is supposed to be Oct. 12. Cripes, I’m sure that date would even be in the Bible if that good book had had the foresight to cover stuff that happened at least through the year 1492. How the heck can anyone get such a simple, straight fact wrong unless he or she belonged to the Republican Party, what the fock.

And speaking of Republicans and this just-around-the-corner government shutdown every Tom, Dick and Dickless is crying about, how ’bout instead of closing up the whole damn government, we simply shutdown the Republicans. They don’t give a rat’s ass for governmentin’ anyways, so let’s send them back home where they’ll have the freedom on their way to disturb a local school board meeting to hold hands ’round the COVID-mask bonfire with the dunce dummkopfs who thought to send these knobshines to D.C. in the first place, ain’a?

Also, allow me to suggest that the Department of Justice ought to get their ass in gear and prosecute any shutdown-Republican legislator who yammers on about 2020 election fraud (over-and-over proved to not exist) for sedition (overt conduct, such as speech and organization, that tends toward rebellion against the established order… includes subversion of a constitution and incitement of discontent toward, or insurrection against, established authority). Stop the Squeal!

OK, where was I? Oh yeah, I read the other day that this year’s MacArthur Genius Grant award winners were announced and sadly once again, yours truly was not included on the brainiac list, what the fock. I could’ve really-really use the $625,000 no-strings-attached prize, I kid you not. Jeez louise, these days I could really use to discover a $5-dollar Lincoln in the pocket of a jacket I haven’t worn since last spring, you betcha.

Disappointed as I was, I cracked open an ice-cold bottled beer and settled down to take a good gander at the alphabetized list of nouveau-riche recipients to see what line-of-work these so-called geniuses were hooked up with.

In this lineup of Einsteins were a load of professor-types, scientists, a handful of some-kind-of artists and what-not. Cripes, there was even what-they-call a photo-journalist for crying out loud. What, you got to be a genius to push a button and say cheese? But nowhere on that list was there someone described as a crusty curmudgeon, cantankerous raconteur and perennial candidate for political office with the initials of A.K. Can you believe it?

So I fired up a soothing Pall Mall (“Guard against throat-scratch” as the ads used to advise way back when), and deduced that “genius” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be: Here today, gone tomorrow; big focking deal.

For example, if that hot-shot ancient Greek Aristotle were to take a seat today in your regular suburban eighth-grade biology class and spout some of his pet theories, the first thing some kid would say is, “Hey, who’s the focking moron?” Yes sir, genius, like beauty, is stuck in the eye of the beholder. It’s subjective.

In fact, I’ve got a little story to prove it: I knew this butcher. One day a dog runs into his shop, but before he could chase the dog out, he spots a $10 bill and a note in the dog’s mouth. Note says, “Ten lamb chops, please.” Flabbergasted, the butcher takes the money, puts a bag of chops in the dog’s mouth and quickly closes the shop. He follows the dog and watches him wait for a green light, look both ways and trot across the street to a bus stop. Dog sits on a bench, checks a bus schedule. Bus comes, dog checks the route number and then boards. The butcher follows ’cause he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

So the bus travels out to the ’burbs and the dog takes in the scenery. Eventually, the dog stands on his hind legs, pulls the “stop” cord and exits. The butcher follows and sees the dog run up to a house and drop the bag of chops on the porch. Dog goes back down the path, takes a big run and throws himself against the door, which he repeats two, three times with no response from inside. Dog walks to the side of the house, jumps up on a wall, beats his head against a window, then runs back to the front door. Some guy opens the door, starts to cursing a blue streak and spanking the dog with a rolled-up newspaper. The butcher screams at the guy, “What the heck are you doing? Stop. That dog’s a genius.” Guy says, “Genius my aching hinder. That’s the third time this week he’s forgotten his keys.”

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.