Summertime Heebie-Jeebies

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, last Sunday, the Easter, I was called to make one of my rare appearances west of the Milwaukee River, nearly 25 miles or so west of said river, to be sort of exact. I left near-the-lake Downtown where it was a crisp and comfortable 50-plus degrees, and got out of a car at my distant Southwest Side destination where it was close to 80-focking-degrees but it only felt like about 180. I thought I was going to have the heat stroke and be dead and buried by May Day, which reminds me of a little story:

So this funeral service is being held for a woman who’s just passed away. At the end of the service, the pallbearers are carrying the casket out when they accidentally bump into a wall and jar the casket. They hear a faint moan, so they open the casket and wouldn’t you know, the woman is alive. And not just barely alive, but she lives for another 10 years, and then dies. So, a ceremony is held and at the end of it, the pallbearers are again carrying out the casket. As they carry the casket towards the door, the husband cries out, “Fellas! Watch that wall!” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I want to go on record as the first Badgerlander this year to say, “Focking fall can’t come soon enough.” What we got up ahead is nothing but heat, noise, bugs, heat, a couple, three metric tons of seagull crap delivered downward indiscriminately daily, and more heat. April’s not even over and already I got the summertime heebie-jeebies, thanks for nothing, what the fock.

Well, at least the Lenten season is over and I can stop worrying about what to give up for it. I noticed the other day that a lot of my fellow countrymen have given up reason and rational thought and gosh darn if it doesn’t seem permanent year-round, not just seasonal.

I gandered some kind of Associated Press-GfK poll that found 51% of Americans got some serious doubts about the reality of this Big Bang notion, and that about 4 in 10 cry “baloney” when they hear about evolution or that the Earth is 4.5 billion years old instead of 7,000 like they were taught over by the Church of Science is for Sinners.

These are the nutsticks that most likely don’t believe our modern birds are descended from the dinosaurs, but they ought to get down on their knees and praise evolution for making them get a little smaller, ain’a? ’Cause how’d you like to have to clean your windshield after a flying bronto-focking-saurus just dropped a load on it? Cripes, and when you consider the sheer poundage of that deuce-dookie descending from a couple hundred feet up in the sky, would you even have a windshield after that hit?

I’m sure they seriously doubt that many a modern man sporting the Homo sapien label carries some Neanderthal DNA in his genome blood—some more than others, like those crackpot backwoods Dairyland Republicans who periodically want to secede from the Union, maybe join Canada and get jobs in the thriving Canadian auto industry, ain’a? And don’t forget that according to archaeologists, for millions of years they say the Neanderthal man was not fully erect, which is pretty easy to understand ’cause you ever see any photos of the Neanderthal women? Oy vey! Ba-ding!

Science can teach us that nothing really is, or was, as it seems to be right here, right now, that the space between appearance and reality can be vast. Example: The Wizard of Oz. At the end, you find out the cowardly lion isn’t really a cowardly lion, the scarecrow isn’t really a scarecrow, and the tin woodsman isn’t really a tin woodsman―and really, what the fock is a tin woodsman anyways? No sir, I believe research would reveal that these clowns are actually just three itinerant farmhands hiding out in focking Kansas and that each one of them could have a police record yea long.

Another favorite example of mine: Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter—or so everyone would think. But in reality he was a guy with superhuman strength who could fly and who came from a whole ’nother planet, but no one knew the two were one because of Clark’s clever disguise of a pair of eyeglasses and a sunny disposition? What the fock.

So… cripes, my train of thought has become casualty to my Easter heat stroke; so I’m figuring the best I can do is to perform the post-Easter miracle of turning dollars into bourbon and gird my liver for my least favorite season of the year, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.