Thanksgriping

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Photo illustration: Dave Zylstra

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as an aging two-time wannabe survival(?) of cancer schmutz to and fro, I may be losing my fastball as to the curveball words pitched upon this page, what the fock. 

But, about this immigration hoopla we’ve got sea-to-shining-sea here in the USA. Elon Musk (“richest man in the world” besides the guy or gal with a steady job and a family of kids who do well in school with an eye toward a future.) South African born. In 2022, he acquired U.S. citizenship. And now Trumpty-Dumbty plans to make him chief of some kind of newfangled Department of Government Efficiency swamp bureaucratic bullshit.

Of which, Elon said: “Your money is being wasted… We’re going to get government off your back and out of your pocketbook.”–“and into mine,” so he meant.

Are we sure this guy isn’t some kind of “unidentified anomalous phenomena” spit out from another galaxy or universe?

And if aliens come from another planet or what not, should not they be illegal and deported pronto as if they came from sunny Mexico?

So many questions, so little time for answers. 

Such as: If tin whistles are made of tin, what are fog horns made of?

And how ’bout that boxing match “televised” ’tweenst former heavy weight champ Mike Tyson and this mixed martial arts guy Jake Paul the other night. If you already subscribed to Netflix, it didn’t cost you a dime except for the time you wasted on this bullshit.

A match in the ring I’d pay-per-view prices would be Trumpel-thinskin lacing up the gloves against Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez ’cause my dough would be on AOC to drop the Orange Circus Peanut to the canvas with just one punch for justice to be served.

And so yeah, me too, I hear winter is coming. What to do? I simply advise you to do what me and my gang do to get through the winter weather. Two things: Crank up the thermostat and mix another hot focking toddy. Survival guaranteed.

For me, I have only perennially fond regards for our winter season—usually late October through maybe the first half of May—and you should too. To wit: No goddamn insects to bug the bejesus out of you just because you stepped outdoors, and no jagamuffins driving around town with the windows rolled down so as to blare and share their particularly poor taste in music with me, the pedestrian. If only we could make it be winter each and every day of the year, ain’a?

Anyways, as a guy who’s got plenty to be depressed about these days, I began to think of starting a support group for those sick to death of trying to look on the bright side of things, who are tired of hoping for good things to happen; what with President Trumpel-thinskin again taking up space in the White House and a bunch of knobshine Republicans calling all the shots in the Senate and every which way.

You see, I, Art Kumbalek, am a recovering blue-sky high-octane sunshine on your lolli-focking-pop kind of kitten-up-a-tree optimist. How ’bout that? And I have to live each day the rest of my short life knowing that at any time I could slip and have a cheery thought powerful enough to send me back through that door of insanity and unreality, making my life unmanageable.

(Hey, speaking of “kitten,” I’m reminded of a little story: A teacher is explaining biology to her fourth-grade students. “Human beings are the only animals that stutter,” she says.

A little girl raises her hand. “I had a kitty-cat who stuttered,” she volunteered. The teacher, knowing how precious some of these stories could be, asked the girl to elaborate.

“I was in the back yard with my kitty and the Rottweiler who lives next door got a running start and before we knew it, he jumped over the fence into our yard!”

“That must’ve been scary,” the teacher said.

“It sure was,” the little girl said. “My kitty went ‘Fffff, Fffff, Fffff’... And before he could say ‘Fock,’ the Rottweiler bit his head off!” Ba-ding!)

So back to my support group, I’ll tell you’s the road of my recovery has been long. It was 1959, I was a lad when our Braves lost a one-game playoff to the L.A. Dodgers for the opportunity to go on to the World Series. It was then, simultaneous with the final out, that I made a searching and fearless inventory of myself and the real world I live in and realized that maybe life does suck after all. A little more than a year later, when the Packers, charging down the field, lost 17-13 to the Eagles in Philadelphia ’cause time ran out, there was no “maybe.” Life sucked.

And my support group would not be just some kind of men’s thing ’cause really, how far can you really get sitting around complaining about how there’s no topless hardware stores and how they keep jacking up the fine for parking in handicap zones? You tell me. 

And then I’ll tell you that Art’s Doom of Actual Reality Group is for everybody of a sex—there’s plenty of snuggling room under my big top. Come one, come all, and repeat after me: “Expect to lose, expect the worst, and you can never be disappointed.” And if that doesn’t make you feel better, then the hell with you’s ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.