As the people’s perennial political candidate for whatever office needsfilling, I don’t know if I ought to throw up my hat into the ring forBadgerland governor, mayor of Beertown, or maybe county executive and/orsheriff. All of these gravy trains deliver more salary-pay than I’m currentlyunloading as the people’s pundit, so I guess I better get my sorry ass in gearand choose which public teat I prefer most to suckle from, or something likethat.
Off the top of my head, I can’t recall when any of these goddamnelections are to be held, but I’m guessing that if I don’t soon slap togethersome informational fliers so’s to erect my qualifications on the pedestal, I’mgoing to miss the top-banana boat, kit and kaboodle.
So I got to get over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school and confabwith my campaign brain trust, except they’re not open yet. So first, I’ll slideover by this 24-hour joint that slings the hash and Joe whether you like it ornot. Come along if you want, but you leave the tip.
Hattie: Why if it isn’t little Artie Kumbalek, what’s your pleasure?
Art:For crying out loud, it’s Hattie. Hattie Venta, at this time of day? I thoughtyou only worked the graveyard shift. The regular gal, Bea, isn’t sick orsomething, is she?
Hattie: Oh no, Artie, she’s at a funeral. Somebody from her church got theswine flu and broke his neck on the basement stairs when he went to get theinflatable Christmas manger he puts on his roof this time of year.
Art:He should’ve had the wife do that. Cripes, I guess we can’t all be wise men,ain’a? Reminds me of a little story: Three ministers and their wives, Presbyterian,Southern Baptist and a Methodist, are on a cruise. They all come down withsevere food poisoning and die. The next thing they know, they're standingbefore St. Peter at the gates.
First in line is the Presbyterian and his wife. St.Peter shakes his head and says, “Sorry, can't let you in. Yes, you were moraland upright, but you loved money too much. You loved it so much, you evenmarried a woman named Penny.” St. Peter waves his hand, and bingo! Down thechute to Hell they go.
Second is the SouthernBaptist couple. St. Peter says, “Sad to say, can't let you in either. Sure, youabstained from liquor, dancing and cards, but you loved food too much. Youloved food so much, you even married a woman named Candy!” St. Pete wavesagain, and boom! Down the chute go the Southern Baptists.
The Methodist turns to his wife and whispers nervously, “Doesn't looktoo good, ain’a Fanny?”
Hattie: Isn’t that cute, and in italics to boot. And now I’ve got a nicelittle story for you that maybe you could put in that little article you writefor the newspaper: This drunk at a nice holiday party asks the host, “Do youhave green toilet paper that says ‘fock you’”? The host says, “‘Green toiletpaper that says ‘fock you’? No, we don’t have that.” Drunk says, “Oh, sorry. GuessI must’ve wiped my ass with your parrot. Never mind.”
Art:’Tis the season.
Hattie: So let’s say we cut the chitchat, Artie, and you order somethingor do I have to call thecops on you for loitering?
Art:Jeez louise, Hattie. I just sat down and there’s nobody else here.
Hattie: Listen mister, I can’t have you taking up a valuable stool if you’renot going to order anything. Tiger Woods might stop in, and he’ll need a placeto sit.
Art:Tiger Woods? You got to be jerking my beefaroni, Hattie.
Hattie: He goes for waitresses, Artie. Don’t you pay attention to the news? Idon’t know how he likes his pancakes, but I got a large stack for him righthere.
Art:I have seen some photos of his waitress friends, and I do believe he goes forthe large stack when it comes to pancakes. Now, I don’t mean to disappoint, butHattie, I think he likes younger gals than you might be, and maybe the kindwhose weight might be less than a par 4 yardage, tee to cup.
Hattie: You talk like a sausage, Artie. He’s Tiger, and I’m a cougar. I likethe younger man. And to think the poor man is married to one of those Swedishstrumpets who believe that nakedness is next to godliness.
Artie:Yeah Hattie, you’d be Tiger’s cougar if he were drawing Social Security;otherwise, I just don’t see it. But I got to run before you get too busy.Here’s a tip for the company and bending my ear, Hattie-licious. See you nexttime.
Hattie: Oh Artie, you’re a little devil, aren’t you. Take care.
(OK, it’s off to the Uptowner. If you see me there, then you buy me one’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
