The Re-Gifted Snow Job

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Photo Illustration by: Dave Zylstra

Art Kumbalek on Santa's lap

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’ve been a tad light on the receiving end of Christmas cards this year, what the fock. The other day, the only thing in my mailbox was a letter from an insurance company about their Funeral Advantage Program for seniors. Maybe they know something I don’t, like for me this year it shall be a very bury Christmas, focking swell.

Anyways, here we are knee/thigh/hip/neck deep into the holiday season with the Christmas right around a corner that’s located too close for my comfort. And given my laissez-faire attitude toward any kind of focking holiday, what with the personal responsibilities I feel burdened by so’s to come away from the celebration with the feeling that other’s don’t think I’m a total asshole, I’m feeling the sooner it’s over the better, what the fock.

Yes sir. it’s that time of December, again, when I am duty-bound to hypothesize that a whole bunch of you’s are likely struck dumb by your last-minute Christmas shopping obligations, as in, “What should I get for whom and which lottery game should I enter so I can pay for it?”

And as always, I will suggest that you give all on your list the gift of laughter ’cause it’s a gift that won’t cost you a focking dime. So you betcha, I’ve decided to reopen Art’s Ba-ding! Boutique for your very-last-minute giftage. What follows are a couple, three items that may interest you. Feel free to stroll around the screen/page and choose whatever catches your eye.

OK, here’s one for you to try on that’s got a little religious flavor to it—always tasty what with all the baby Jesus-hoopla lathered onto the Yuletide:

So this church minister dies and finds himself waiting in line outside the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is this guy wearing jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses and he’s got one of those Mohawk haircuts. And Saint Peter asks the guy, “Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?”

The guy says to Saint Peter, “You talking to me? Are you talking to me?” St. Pete says that indeed he is. And the guy says, “Listen, I’m Travis Bickle. Taxi driver. New York City. Listen you fockers, you screwheads. Like I said, here’s a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit, here is someone who stood up.”

Saint Peter consults his list and says to taxi-driver Bickle, “Take this silken robe and golden staff my son, and enter the Kingdom.”

So now it’s the minister’s turn. He stands erect, clears his throat, and with a stentorian boom-of-a-voice, pronounces, “I am James Dobnobson, pastor of the All Clean and Righteous Family Saints On High mega-church for the last 43 years.” Saint Pete checks his list, frowns, and says to the minister, “Yeah, OK, you’re in I guess, but here, you take this cotton robe and wooden staff.” Minister says, “Just a minute, there must be some mistake. The man before me was nothing but a taxi driver, and he receives a silken robe and golden staff. How can this be?”

And St. Peter says, “This is Heaven, sir. Up here, we judge by results. And so I will tell you that while you preached, people slept; and while he drove, people prayed.” Ba-ding!

Let’s visit the Kids Department:

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!

This can be a bittersweet time of year as we remember those no longer with us; so over here I got something to sweeten the stew for you’s:

Three friends die in a car crash and find themselves at the Pearly Gates of Heaven. Before entering, they’re each asked a question by St. Peter: “When you are in your casket and friends and family are mourning, what would you like to hear them say about you?”

First guy answers, “I would like to hear them say that I was a great doctor and great family man.” Second guy answers, “I would like to hear that I was a wonderful husband and schoolteacher who made a huge difference in the lives of children.”

And the last guy (me) says, “I sure as heck would like to hear them all say... LOOK!!! THE FOCKER’S MOVING!!!” Ba-ding!

Okey-dokey, got to close up shop. Hope you found something you liked, you cheap bastards.

And I hope all of you’s have a nice, safe merry Christmas or whatever the hell it is you have this time of year. So peace on earth, goodwill toward all beings (in your dreams at least) and have a hot focking toddy or three for me, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.