These Dwindling Days

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Photo: nesharm - Getty Images

Art Kumbalek football cheering

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And good lord, it’s September already, what the fock. Seems to me like it was just August, and now out of nowhere we’re into the ninth month of the year? (Although, through a beleaguered tad of research, I found this: As to the “Old English from Latin: the seventh (month) according to the original calendar of ancient Rome, from septem seven.” That means that September, technically, ought to be the seventh month of the year and not the ninth. Jesus H Christ, my head spinneth. 

Either way you number the month of this time of year, the autumn leaves are soon to fall, and for a guy like me that can only mean that the summertime is soon to crumble and about time for crying out loud, what with the heat, humidity/dewpoint, noisy racket and outdoor insects that seem to find their way inside. Can’t use it, I kid you not. 

Anyways, hope you had a pleasant Labor Day Monday holiday, yeah, honor the workingman by pissing the day away drinking somebody else’s beer in some in-law’s backyard or a picnic park somewheres. Hey, how ’bout next year instead we pay tribute to our blue-collar people by working twice as hard and twice as long that day? Huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought. 

Anyways, I just got back to the dusty confines of my dinky apartment following the completion of one of those long-assed scheduled colonoscopy poop-dee-doos. Good lord, what a hell of a way to grab an afternoon nap, I kid you not. 

The good news is that the doctor informed me during a post-procedure account, which I barely remember, is that no gerbils were discovered in my nether anal regions, but he did find a couple of these “precancerous” polyps that he graciously removed.  

And so I wondered what the hell these crack medical teams do with discarded polyps. Do they simply toss them into the trash container as if they were a three-week old half burrito found in the back of the fridge? 

I consulted my buddy, and chief political campaign adviser, Little Jimmy Iodine, who surmised that the polyps may be packaged and sent to some fourth-world country to be recycled as soup stock to help feed a starving populous. OK, Jimmy. But still do I wonder why I have yet to be elected to political office given such intel? What the fock. 

But I’ll tell you’s, the preparation for one of these butt-jobs is no cakewalk on the picnic beach, no sir. You must quaff a witch’s brew every 15 minutes for hours to the point that your toilet seat becomes your most valued and trusted significant other.  

And as I sat on said toilet whilst my keister performed a spot-on impersonation of the Niagara Falls, it occurred to me that we as a gun-control concerned nation (some of us) should truly put the “ass” into the purchase of an assault rifle. That is, “background” checks for such a deadly weapon must include verified documentation that the demented purchaser had undergone a colonoscopy, sans anesthesia, within the past 10 days. Perhaps if those hell-bent on performing a mass shooting must first undergo a good ol’ ass-rootling, we could all feel a bit safer, you think? 

Anyways, I got to go, what with figuring out transportation for one of those CT scans I got next week on the docket and planning a trip up to the grocery store so’s to purchase a billion-dollar Powerball ticket, whose winnings should put a dent into my medical bills with a couple, three bucks left over for a tin of Starkist tuna and a half-loaf of Butternut white bread to constitute an evening’s repast. 

And just you’s know, I do look forward to the gemütlichkeit of the Oktoberfest to be bacchanaled, curiously, in September. Shouldn’t it really be called Septemberfest, for christ sakes? I guess I should not really be discombobulated by this calendar schmutz, after all, I’ve heard that a bunch of astronomers figure that the baby Jesus was actually born in June based on their crafty calculations of horizoned stars at that time when the world was flat.  

Personally, I’m glad, regardless of scientific evidence, that Christmas is Dec. 25 rather than sometime in focking June. Cripes, ordinarily we’d be smack-dab in the middle of festival and baseball season, and now on top of that we’ve got to go shopping for gifts? And where the fock are you going to find nice wrapping paper that time of year; although I believe that cans of bug spray would be a popular item to be found under one’s June’s tree (oleander?)—certainly more practical than a winter parka, sweater or pair of mittens, ain’a? 

Perhaps I digress on my way out the door, it’s Oktoberfest in September we got coming up, so ladies and gents, guys and gals, männer und frauen, get ready to grab and slide into your lederhosens and drindls.  

But know, no matter which Oktoberfest event you choose to attend, you will be required to sing the Ein Prosit beer-drinking song (about every couple, three minutes), the lyrics to which follow (so get it memorized before you go): 

Ein Prosit, Ein Prosit 

Der Gemütlichkeit 

(repeat) 

Oans, Zwoa, Drei, G’suffa! 

Zicke Zacke Zicke Zacke Hoi! Hoi! Hoi! 

And remember: “You must sing this song, and drink after each song. It’s the law.” 

And speaking of lederhosen, remember that it’s a cultural tradition that they are not to be cleaned, and so the following little story: 

So this guy from Bavaria goes to the doctor for a checkup. Doctor examines him and says that he needs the guy to give a blood sample, urine and stool sample, so further tests can be run. The Bavarian nods, removes his lederhosen and hands them to the nurse. Ba-ding-a-ding-ding! 

And so in conclusion, what else is there to say but this: Go Brewers! Go Pack! Go health-care reform! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.