Through My Curtains Peep

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Photo illustration: Tess Brzycki

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, how’s your March going so far?

For me, as a free-will detainee incarcerated in the Upper Midwest of this focking ferkakta country—“in like a lamb” this year, no problemo. In other parts of the globe, they should be so lucky, ain’a?

Take the people in Tehran over there in Persia known for their distaste for the Great Satan (can you really blame them? A primer: www.zinnedproject.org/news/tdih/iran-coup/), but also known for their exquisite rugs that can’t be beat unless they get too dusty.

(In case you can’t connect to the link above, here’s the headline to the story, just so you know: Aug. 19, 1953: U.S. and Britain Topple Democratically Elected Government of Iran.)

Yeah, “democratically elected,” a phrase I hope we can say the morning of Wednesday the fourth come November, what the fock.

No March “lamb” for the Middle easterners. Nothing but lyin’ lion and a boatload of American March Madness. One shining moment, this will not be.

Anyways, where was I? Top of March, I think. Let us continue.

What with the daylight-saving time crock-of-clock sneaking up on us this Sunday to steal an hour from me, I’m all fershimmeled, what the fock.

Jeez louise, that is exactly the particular hour I set aside to do my taxes, learn Etruscan and knock off Volume Four of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. Cripes, at my age I don’t have a spare hour to pony up with no guaranteed payback. If I drop deader than a doornail before clocks tick ahead again November 1, I’m screwed out of sixty minutes, Jack, and that would suck big-time. Personally, I’d much prefer that the clocks be rewound, say, back 10-15 years. That, I could live with.

But before I must go (for my next radiation treatment over at the hospital/cash register, I kid you not), allow me to pronounce that with Dairyland’s gubernatorial election coming up like a bad burrito November, that I’m all in as your candidate of choice, you betcha. And my first order of biz as your new state overlord—just as it’s been for my last several candidacies for the state’s top job (really need the dough)—would be to reduce the law-abiding age from 21 to 16 for when a Badgerite could plant his or her booty atop a barstool, order a nice bourbon and tell the bartender to leave the bottle, and I’ll tell you why.

Like I’ve said in the past, having a couple, three belts never fails to make me feel like a focking adult with something to say, and I can’t imagine it also wouldn’t turn the same trick with any snotnose katzenjammers currently ’neath the age of 21; and lord knows they sure as hell can use any passkey to adulthood we can give them, what with their social-media ways and inability to afford higher education. The sooner we get them into the world of adults where we can keep a focking eye on them, the better. That’s why.

As Guv, I’d choose to put kids in bars instead of behind bars. Let them come down to the tavern to sit down with the regulars, the men and women who belly-up to the bar day in, day out; let these kids grab a stool, have a few and listen to the voice of smoky experience, the voice that says, “Kid, you’re not so focking smart. For starters, you’re mixing good booze with soda. I could drink you under a table anywhere and still be able to adjust and direct my TV antenna.”

And then these young people could take this training along with them when they get carted overseas to fight with the many terrorists and terrorist regimes of terror.

I ask you: These radical blood-thirsty terrorist cabals and proxies? The work of sober people, plain and simple. Uptight, cork-in-the-butt, sober people.

Let me reiterate: It’s been said that alcohol loosens the inhibitions. No shit sherlock, why else to drink it, ain’a? All I’m saying is that if the “terror” hoi polloi hoisted the cocktail once in a while, maybe it’d loosen their inhibition toward acting like regular normal sane people who, if nothing else, know that bombs, mortars and children don’t mix, or something like that.

I believe that enforced mandatory drinking ’cross the globe might be a real step toward combating the sad state of our world’s condition. The drinking man and lady knows that no matter what abso-focking-lutely needs to be done can always wait ’til tomorrow, or the day after or even the day after that, what the fock, what’s the hurry.

Should everybody drink as much as they can, all the time? Perhaps not. Surgeons and bus drivers spring to mind; also, the so-called “mean” drinker, often called a “domestic terrorist.” Yea verily, not much a threat on the worldwide terrorist scene since the asshole is usually too busy taking it out on “loved” ones to mess with the outside impersonal world, but I can’t believe we couldn’t find room at Guantanamo for knobs like those.

Anyways, I forgot what my focking point was, so let me just say that our worldwide sober nuts need to relax, have a cocktail, so that the only inner-voice they hear is the one that tells them not to blow-up a bunch of kids, but instead whispers into a red-eyed ear, “Hey, it’s OK. Have another. You still got tomorrow, and so should everybody else,” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.