Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as you may recall from previous episodes, “sunshine, lollipops and rainbows” is not exactly the side of street I walk down. But in these troubled times (although I’m having a gosh darn difficult time recollecting when times weren’t such when it comes to the “troubled”), and since, besides soap, I’ve got plenty of time on my hands, I thought to find a silver-lining shred within the corona cloud, what the fock.

And what I found is this: The number of mass shootings seem to have fallen to next to nil, or at least they ought to. And why wouldn’t they, since, for the time being, there are no masses, not even in church for christ sakes. On the other hand, what with the huddled masses now domiciled but good, the domestic-mayhem numbers may not be as bright and shiny, which reminds me of a little story:

A guy telephones his office and says, “Sorry, I can’t come into work today. I’m sick.” His boss says, “So how sick are you?” The guys says, “Well sir, I’m in bed with my sister. Is that sick enough for you?” Ba-ding!

And I guess you could consider as good news the fact that the IRS has postponed the Tax Day filing deadline until July 15, which reminds me of another story:

A man called in for an audit by the IRS asked his accountant for advice on what to wear. “Wear your worst clothing and an old pair of shoes. Let them think you are a pauper,” the accountant said. Then he asked his lawyer the same question, but got the opposite advice: “Don’t let them intimidate you. Wear your best suit and an expensive tie.” Confused, the man went to his rabbi who would surely know the correct answer. He told him of the conflicting advice and asked for guidance.

“Let me tell you a story,” replied the rabbi. “A woman, about to be married, asked her mother what to wear on her wedding night. Her mother advised, ‘Wear a heavy, long, flannel nightgown that goes right up to your neck and wool socks.’ But when the woman asked her best friend, she heard the opposite: ‘Wear your sexiest negligee, with a V-neck right down to your navel.’”

The man did not understand: “But Rabbi, what does all this have to do with my problem with the IRS?” And the rabbi said, “It doesn’t matter what you wear. Either way, you’re going to get screwed.” Ba-ding!

And on a personal health note, while everybody and his brother is coming down with the coronavirus, I got myself a perirectal abscess couple days ago, just like the one I acquired last October Halloween time that sent me to the ER. (Aside: Any of you young musicians contemplating forming one of those caterwauling rock bands destined to be “here today, gone tomorrow,” may I suggest that Rectum Abscess could be an infectious moniker.)

So I’ve gotta knock off this essay right now, hunker back down on the sitz bath and await the doctor’s call for instructions (yeah, good luck with that these days, ain’a?)

But before I go, I heard that the Hallmark Channel is regurgitating their raft of Christmas movies for the socially distanced-quarantined crowd—and who doesn’t enjoy a nice Hallmark Christmas motion picture? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll you I’ll match Hallmark and then raise them with this little Christmas story:

A little kid sits on Santa’s lap and Santa says, “What would you like for Christmas?” Kid says, “A focking swing set.” Santa says, “You’ll have to ask nicer than that if you want Santa to bring you presents. Let’s try again. What else would you like?” Kid says, “A focking sandbox for the side yard.”

Santa says, “That’s no way to talk to Santa. One more time. What else would you like for Christmas?” The kid thinks for a minute, says, “I want a focking trampoline in the front yard.”

So Santa lifts the boy off his lap and talks to the kid’s parents. He tells them what the kid said and says, “Best that you don’t get him anything for Christmas except dog-doo. Put a pile of dog-doo in the back yard where he wants the swing set, put another pile in the side yard where he wants the sandbox, and another pile in the front yard where he wants the trampoline. That should make him change his tune.”

Christmas morning the kid goes downstairs to open his presents and there aren’t any. He runs out the back door, looks around, and comes back in. He runs out the side door, looks around, and comes back in. He runs out the front door, looks around, and comes back in, shaking his head. His father asks, “Anything wrong, son?”

Kid says, “Yeah. That fat bastard Santa brought me a focking dog, but I can’t find him anywheres.” Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.