Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, seems the Bidens have a situation on their hands. There’s a guy living in the house they plan to move into on Jan. 20 who apparently will refuse to relocate to a place of his own. So, what to do? Call the cops? Treat the freeloader like an insolent teenager and suspend his driving privileges, take away his phone, threaten to enroll him into military school, seek out a psychiatrist? I don’t envy the soon-to-be president and first lady, but I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty they’ll find a way to work it out, what the fock.
And speaking of an ex-“president,” I heard speculation on NPR the other day about the norm of establishing a presidential library for Trumpel-thinskin. Natch’, I can’t imagine it would need to be a large building since it would only contain a well-thumbed copy of How to Cook the Books and may be a couple, three coloring books, ain’a?
What really perked my ears was the thought that attached to the library could be a theme park. Perfect. Trump Land, where everyone gets taken for a death-defying ride just as if the Orange Circus Peanut were still president, featuring a big-ass roller coaster called “The Democracy Destroyer.” And you betcha, there’ll be a Midway with the “games of skill,” but there won’t be any prizes awarded. No sir, once you enter Trump Land, you are marked “loser”—no big Teddy bear, no nothing, for losers. But surprises? Oh, yes. Seven to 10 days after visiting Trump Land you will be surprised with the news that you’ve tested positive for the COVID, but at least you’ll be able to be prematurely buried/cremated in your souvenir $100 T-shirt, to wit: “I Went to Trump Land and All I got Was This Lousy Coronavirus.”
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Anyways, as a recent member of the Septuagenarian Club, I got to knock off this effort early, mix a nice hot-focking-toddy and take a nap, what a world. But before I go, I need to curtsy my kilt in respect to the great Scottish actor, Sean Connery, recently dead at age 90 (a number of candles I’m quite certain I’ll never have the need to blow out atop a B-day cake, what the fock), the first and greatest of the James Bonds. Cripes, I’ve seen all the 007 and spy movies and I do believe that would’ve been the life for me. I’m especially enamored with the “getting the girl in the end” part of the stories, and if not the end, hell, I’m sure I could work my way around to some other location, what the fock. And so I am reminded in remembrance of a couple, three stories:
M sends James Bond on a secret mission to heaven. When M doesn’t hear from Bond for more than a day, he gets worried and calls heaven. The Virgin Mary picks up the phone and says “Virgin Mary speaking.” M asks if Bond has arrived yet. She replies that he hasn’t.
M waits a few hours and calls heaven back. “Virgin Mary speaking,” comes the response. “Is James there yet?” M asks. Again the answer is no. So now M is really worried but he waits for a few more hours and then calls heaven again.
“Hello, this is Mary speaking…” Ba-ding!
You know, if ever I were to become the chief of the CI-focking-A, I’d recruit only the most dedicated candidates, the kind of top-secret players who’d leave it all on the field, who’d come to the recruiting process “game on.” Witness:
The CIA had an opening for an assassin. After all the background checks, interviews and testing were done, three finalists emerged—two men and one woman. For the final test, the CIA agents took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun.
“We must know that you will follow instructions no matter what the circumstances. Inside this room you will find your wife sitting in a chair. You have to kill her.” The first man said, “You can’t be serious. I could never shoot my wife.” The agent acknowledges that this is not the right man for the job.
The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went into the room. After nearly five minutes of silence, the man emerged, tears in his eyes and says, “I tried, but I can’t kill my wife.” And the agent replies, “You don’t have what it takes. Take your wife and go home.”
It was the woman’s turn, who was told to kill her husband. She took the gun and entered the room. Shots were heard, one after another, followed by screaming, crashing, loud banging. Then all was quiet. The door opened slowly. There stood the woman. She wiped the sweat from her brow and said, “You fockers didn’t tell me the gun was loaded with blanks; so I had to beat him to death with a curtain rod. Am I hired?” Ba-ding!
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OK, one more story and then you can go since I will too:
A confident 007 walks into a bar and takes a seat next to a very attractive woman. He gives her a quick glance and casually looks at his watch. The woman notices and slyly inquires, “Is your date running late?” “No,” he replies, “I’m here alone. My research-and-development man has just given me this state-of-the-art watch and I was testing it.” Intrigued, the woman asks, “A state-of-the-art watch? What’s so special about it?”
007 explains: “It uses alpha waves to telepathically talk to me.” She breathlessly wants to know what the watch is telling him now, and he replies, “It says you’re not wearing any panties.” The woman smiles and says, “Well then, it must be broken because I am wearing panties.” 007 taps his watch twice and says, “Damn thing must be an hour fast.”
Ba-ding-a-ding-ding! ’cause I’m Kumbalek, Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.
To read past Art Kumbalek essays, click here.
