The Puerile Quckoo

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, in the event that you may not quite believe that this year of 2020 has presented itself to us from the deepest depths of hell, there is this headline from NBC News, Aug. 19:

A ‘Dent’ in Earth’s magnetic field puzzles scientists

Scientists have known about the weak spot in Earth’s magnetic field for several decades, but new research suggests that the South Atlantic Anomaly is growing.

Well sir, I’m no rocket scientist but that sure doesn’t sound good, does it? How many times has this happened: You take your vehicle to the body shop ’cause you’ve got this “dent” somehow. You want to see how much they’ll charge to pound that sucker out. Irv, the dent expert, takes a gander, snorts, and says, “‘Dent,’ who told you that? You see where that is? Ain’t no fixing that, this baby is totaled. Yeah, we can tow it to the junkyard for you’s. No problem.”

Jeez louise, one day you think there’s a “dent” in the magnetic field, the next day your planet’s sitting in the Milky Way scrapyard, what the fock.

And there’s this newsy bit, from CNN, Aug. 22:

“The celestial object known as 2018VP1 is projected to come close to Earth on November 2, according to the Center for Near Earth Objects Studies at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

“Its diameter is 0.002 km, or about 6.5 feet, according to NASA’s data. It was first identified at Palomar Observatory in California in 2018… The chance of it hitting [Earth] is just 0.41%, data show.”

Hold on, “just 0.41%”? Just??? For fock’s sake, the odds for winning a typical Powerball jackpot are 0.00000034223% and yet it seems that some knucklehead from Bumfock, USA, more often than not takes home the prize, ain’a?

Focking swell. It would be just like 2020 that come Monday, Nov. 2, I’m laying out my outfit for the next day’s voting so’s I look presentable at the polling place, and I get clobbered by “celestial object known as 2018VP1,” thus preventing me from casting my ballot on Nov. 3 and that fockstick Trumpel-thinskin wins another term by one focking vote. What a world.

And then there’s all these nutball conspiracy theories floating around amongst certain quarters like turds in sanity’s punchbowl, such as “Democrats are cannibals,” “John F. Kennedy Jr. is actually alive and running a child-prostitution ring for Hillary Clinton out of a Jack in the Box in D.C.,” “LeBron’s a better baller than Michael than Michael was.” You got to be jerking my beefaroni.

And perhaps to add to the theory-list, I get a phone call from my pal since forever, Little Jimmy Iodine, the other day. It went something like this:

“Hi Artie, hope I’m not keeping you from whipping out that little article you write, but I put two-and-two together and came up with something I don’t quite get.”

“Sounds familiar, Jimmy.”

“Sure, but listen. You ever heard of this writer, some kind of William S. Burroughs?”

“Yeah, wrote the book Naked Lunch, died at the age of 83 in 1997 to serve as a lesson to the young people that a drugged and vagabond kind of lifestyle of lurid dissipation more than often snuffs out even the best of us too soon. So?”

“He died in August, 1997, Artie—it’s August now—the same year and month that Princess Diana died, 23 years ago. Coincidence? You tell me. Yeah, I was doing some research ’cause I saw that book Naked Lunch in a used bookstore and I wondered how a lunch could be naked. Didn’t add up. Lunchers can be naked ’cause they’re people. But lunch is food and food doesn’t wear clothes, ain’a? And then it hit me: this year is also the 43-year anniversary of the unconfirmed death of Elvis Presley, August 16. Forty-three, Artie. John F. Kennedy was 43 when he was elected president. Makes you wonder, ain’a Artie?”

“Makes me wonder why I picked up the phone.”

“And then I remembered, Artie, that the Memphis minstrel’s middle name was Aaron, and that Aaron was also the surname of the first man to go past George Herman Ruth’s total of career baseball home runs. And I wondered, could there be another connection between the King of Rock & Roll and the Sultan of Swat besides that they were both known to dine like pigs? I rushed to my baseball encyclopedia and there it was: Babe Ruth passed away on an August 16, the same date as the man who starred in Viva Las Vegas.”

“Jimmy, I got to go.”

“Wait, Artie. Then I heard about some closet Nazis who are celebrating the 33-year anniversary of nutty Rudolf Hess who hung himself in Spandau prison at the age of 93 on August 17, 1987—Rudy Hess, Hitler’s deputy and Nazi solo peace negotiator who parachuted into Scotland in 1941 and said, ‘Hi, my name’s Rudy. Want to surrender?’”

“So Jimmy, the point… ?”

“For starters, think of the anniversaries with numbers I just mentioned, Artie—23 years, 33, 43—plus the name connections. Then chew on this: Bill Burroughs was born February 5, 1914; Babe Ruth, February 6, who then first stepped onto a major league team with the Boston Red Sox in 1914. Burroughs was once cleared of obscenity charges in Boston. Babe played right field. Rudy Hess flew in out of left field. Bill did drugs, shot and killed his wife in Mexico. Elvis did drugs, shot and wounded his career in Fun in Acapulco. OK, Middle East connection: Rudy was born in Egypt; Bill regurgitated Naked Lunch onto the page in Morocco; in the bible there’s a Book of Ruth; Elvis starred in Harum Scarum. Also, Rudy spent years and years in Spandau. Elvis spent years and years in Spandex…”

“And?”

“Piece of cake, Artie. It’s obvious to me that there’s something going on that somebody doesn’t want us to know about. And, I’m going to use these numbers for the next lottery drawing, my Powerball will be 8, for August, eighth month of the year. See you on Easy Street, pally.”

Cripes, now I need a cocktail or three. But don’t forget about that Republican National Convention for the party that said “To hell with a platform” but did manage to pass a resolution to support the continued celebration of Columbus Day so’s to hold on to a day where you don’t get your mail delivered, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.