Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So how’s my college tournament basketball bracket doing? Thanks for asking. I’ll tell you’s, I could’ve chosen Trump University to go up against the Electoral College in the national championship game and my goddamn bracket would be none worse for wear than it is right now, what the fock.
Anyways, from where I’m sitting here and now good lord, I’m looking at the first day of spring. Focking swell. All it means to me is one step closer to summer’s hot and humid, sticky suck-ass insected weather that makes me feel like I’m living in some Fourth World sweatshop of a country instead of being an upper-Midwestern American. So spring, thanks for nothing.
Yes sir, March 20, one of only two days in the whole year when lightness and darkness slug it out to a standstill. A tie, a draw—what they call in the sportsworld “kissing your sister.” And in the olden, olden days when there were even more weird-ass religions afoot than there are today, this day was marked as one of a handful of rites those people had during the year where they’d take the day off to celebrate by slaughtering a barnyard animal or three as some kind of nutty sacrificial offering to the deities du jour.
Now, I’m no religious expert but I’m telling you, just imagine if those wacky ancestors were on to something, that maybe they knew something we don’t know or have forgotten—that hacking up a perfectly good goat or cow on the first day of spring actually did buy you a couple extra days of sunshine during the year or relieve your toothache or provide some other kind of beneficial good.
Stay on top of the news of the day
Subscribe to our free, daily e-newsletter to get Milwaukee's latest local news, restaurants, music, arts and entertainment and events delivered right to your inbox every weekday, plus a bonus Week in Review email on Saturdays.
Come to think of it, maybe my NCAA bracket would be more successful, perhaps even perfect, if before filling it out I had first sacrificed a couple, three goats over by Cathedral Square Park. After all, college basketball is like a religion to some, so what the fock. March madness, indeed.
And if you’re still hungover from St. Patty’s Day Week-and-a-focking-Half, here’s a little story that may make you feel better:
Six retired Irish guys were playing poker in O’Leary’s apartment when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest and drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the other five continue playing.
A bit of a while later, Michael O’Connor looks around at the surviving five and asks, “Oh, me boys. I believe we have a bit of a situation here. Paddy is dead and someone surely must tell Paddy’s poor wife. Who will it be then?” They draw straws. Brendan O’Gallagher picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don’t make a bad situation any worse.
“Discreet? I’m the most discreet Irishman you’ll ever meet. Discretion is me middle name.” So Brendan O’Gallagher goes over to Murphy’s house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers and asks what he wants. O’Gallagher declares: “Your husband just lost $500 and is afraid to come home.”
“Tell him to drop dead!” says Mrs. Murphy. And O’Gallagher says, “‘To drop dead.’ I’ll go tell him then, ma’am.” Ba-ding!
Hey, I almost forgot I was going to give up work for Lent, so speaking of Catholics let’s get out of here with this little story:
Imagine the shy young lad’s surprise when the Pope sat down in the seat next to him for the flight destined for New York City. Shortly after take-off, the Pope began a crossword puzzle. “This is really swell,” the young man thought. “I’m really good at crosswords and if the Pope gets stuck, perhaps he’ll ask me for assistance and I’ll get a gold pass to heaven.”
Shortly thereafter, the Pope turned to the young man and said, “Excuse me my son, but I suddenly seem to be blocked on this crossword puzzle. Do you happen to know a four-letter word that ends in ‘unt’ and that refers to a woman?” Only one such word leapt to the mind of the young man, a word he felt should not be uttered in the Pope’s presence. He thought a moment and with a bolt from the blue turned to the Pope and said, “I believe your holiness that it is the word ‘aunt’ you seek—a-u-n-t.” And the Pope said, “Oh my. Of course, my son. ‘A-u-n-t.’ God bless you. I don’t suppose you happen to have an eraser?”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
