Think Tanked

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as I struggle to keep both feet planted upon this mortal coil for the time being, I thought it high-time to start work on my presidential campaign—call it an October Surprise, what the fock. This country abso-focking-lutely needs to elect a guy who wears an orange ear-flap cap and bowling shirt 24/7 to be president so’s to place the common man into the Oval Office for once, you betcha. 

So, I’m over-due to meet with my campaign brain trust there by the Uptowner tavern/charm school at the Hysteric Corner of Center & Humboldt—where today is always at least a day before tomorrow, and yesterday may gosh darn well be today—so’s to figure how to raise serious dough for some nice TV commercials on short notice. Tag along if you like, but you cover the first round. Let’s get going. 

Little Jimmy Iodine: All I’m saying is that a lot of experts think the piss-poor test scores this country’s young Einsteins rack up in school are on account of the flimsy diet the kids get in their feedbag these days.  

Ernie: Anybody know what day it is? 

Julius: And that’s because these experts refuse to allow all the facts to be in their pipe before they smoke it. I will tell you’s this: Kids throughout the ages have always had a mangy diet, what with all the junk food they like to chow down all the time with their video games and what-not; but still the Homo sapien race or whatever has yet to be shit-canned off the face of this planet to this day—and that’s a fact. 

Emil: A-focking-men. Like that kid in history what’s-his-name—Oliver Copperfield. I’m thinking. I saw this movie on him once and swear to god, this focking kid got nothing but gruel to eat. Morning, noon and night. Gruel. But still in the end, he turned out all right after all, ain’a? 

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister. 

Art: Hey gents, what do you hear, what do you know. 

Ernie: Come to think of it, what the fock is gruel, anyways? 

Art: So you’s guys dream up some ideas for my TV ads yet? 

Emil: But I’ll tell you’s, when I was a schoolboy my Ma made sure I ate like a regular Rockefeller, three, four times a day, day-in, day-out. I still focking flunked everything but I didn’t care ’cause I always had a good meal coming ’round the corner. So today, maybe I’m not Mr. Corporation Business Hotshot, but I’m no focking moron either, so big focking deal. 

Ray: Hey Emil, let me buy you a drink but I need some change. You got two tens for a five? 

Emil: Let me check. 

Julius: So Artie, I hear you’re running for all kinds of political office, Artie. But I don’t know anything about what you’ll do for the people. 

Art: That’s ’cause there’s no free speech. Free speech costs dough and I don’t have any. That’s why all these rich-focks can run for government and it’s like they get to speak through one of those fancy-schmancy speaker system like they got in an arena. For the poor schmucks who can’t pay for the free speech, it’s like you may well as be talking with rotten teeth, bleeding gums, a draining boil on your tongue, and right before they hand you the microphone, somebody tapes your mouth shut and breaks your jaw with a focking baseball bat. 

Herbie: You need some effective TV advertising for the votes, and I got an idea for you’s, Artie. Picture the picture: OK. You see two homeless guys walking down the street. One of them starts sniffing his nose and says to the other, “Hey, what the hell am I smelling here. You crap your pants?” Other guy says, “Fock no.” Another half-a-block goes by and the one says, “Are you sure you didn’t crap your pants?” The other says, “No focking way, what’s your problem?” 

They walk a little further and the first guy says, “Yes you did. I can focking smell it. You did. You crapped your pants.” Second guy says, “The hell I did. I’ll prove it.” So, he drops his drawers, and there smack-dab in his skivvies is one big honking turd. 

“See?” the first guy says. “If you didn’t crap your pants, what’s that focking turd doing in your BVDs?” And the other guy says, “Fock if I know. It was there when I found ’em.” 

Julius: That’s the stupidest focking idea for a campaign commercial I ever heard. 

Herbie: Wait, hold on, I forgot. One of the guys is wearing a sign that says “Democrats” and the other guy wears a sign that says “Republicans.” And at the end of the commercial, right after the second guy says the turd was already in the shorts when he found them, a thunderous Moses announcer voice like from the NFL highlight films says: “Republicans. Democrats. No wonder Washington stinks. Time to clear the air and change your soiled government. Vote Art Kumbalek.” 

(Hey, I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)