Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And holy schnikes, frosty enough out there for you’s? So listen, over the holidays I received a very nice and much appreciated card from a faithful reader, which caused me to reflect on what a very lucky fellow I am after all. We’re into January and the “holiday season” is much considered to be done and done, except by me. No sir. As I’ve said many times, many ways, every day’s just another focking holiday to a guy like me, you betcha. Yes sir, you name the day, and it’s sure-as-hell bound to be some kind of a focking holiday for Mr. Art Kumbalek. Nothing but seashells, balloons, topped with a generous dollop of you got to be jerking my beefaroni, what the fock.
Anyways, in last week’s essay I whipped out my crystal ball and took a brief look ahead to 2015. As a soothsaying bonus, let me add here a couple, three predictions guaranteed not to come true in 2015, and/or not even in a millennium of millenniums maybe:
• Jesus H. Christ dropping by your place to say “Howdy!” over coffee and doughnuts
• The Elvis Comeback Tour
• Rodgers—Kumbalek. Touchdown!
And speaking of Rodgers—Kumbalek, I got a couple, three things on my platter that’ll keep me from whipping out a full-blown essay for you’s this week. Yeah, boo-hoo. And numero uno on that platter is the anticipation of—and required attention paid to—our Green Bay Packers and their playoff battle versus Satan’s Team, the Cowboys out of Dallas, come this Sunday up by the Lambeau there.
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Some of you’s may recall my recalling that the first professional football season of which I knew what-for was the 1959 season featuring the turnaround 7-5 Packers in St. Vince’s first year as head ass-chewing butt-kicker. It was the following year when they lost the championship game in the closing moments to the Phila-focking-delphia Eagles that I learned my most valuable lesson vis-à-vis the Packers and championship football. In tears, I knew that the reason they were losers was my fault, and perhaps mine alone, I kid you not.
I had not stayed focused. I was weak. I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty in the days leading up to that game, my every conscious thought, word, deed, was not entirely devoted to willing the Green and Gold to victory. Cripes, I probably had some kind of schoolwork not to mention chores to do that would dick with the attention I needed to pay to the Packers and their date with destiny, soon to be at hand. And I can only guess that had I known how to whack off, thoughts would’ve meandered toward Brigitte Bardot, Gina Lollobrigida, Marilyn Monroe; and not Hank Gremminger, Ray Nitschke and Boyd Dowler. No team can win with that kind of flaccid fan support, I don’t care who they are.
So, obviously I’ve got to stay laser-focused solely on Our Team this week. Now, the one distraction I can foresee on my horizon that may prevent me from devoting 110% of my time ensconced in my dinky apartment, firing up a hot focking toddy now and then again, wrapped in a green-and-gold blanket whilst perusing any and all Green Bay Packer minutiae that comes my way through the TV, is that a neighbor got tied up with a little judicial situation concerning a boatload of overdue parking tickets; so he asked me to stop by his place once in a while for the next couple, three days or so and throw his canine a bone or two and make sure it hadn’t croaked from thirst.
For this favor, I ought to be knighted for sainthood ’cause my definition of “man’s best friend” does not include anything on four legs that has no facility with the flush toilet beyond its service as a bubbler, for christ sakes. No sir, me and natives of Fido-world don’t exactly have a lot in common; although I do envy their uncanny ability to relieve themselves anywhere they focking feel like it outdoors and not get arrested.
What kind of life is that anyways, to be a house pet: You can’t read, you can’t figure how to turn the TV on, you can’t mix a nice cocktail, smoke or gamble. No wonder a lot of your animals don’t live that long—who the fock would want to? You tell me.
And then I’ll tell you a little story you can pass on to the kids if you know any who might be down with the post-holiday blues:
“I went to the zoo today, there was only one animal. It was a shitzu.”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
