Time to Light the Lights

I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So let me ask you this: How many doctors does it take to screw in a light bulb? For some of us, the answer is: “Depends on what kind of insurance you have.” But for millions and millions of like citizens, the answer's got to be: “None. Fock the light bulb. You're the one who's goddamn screwed.” Yeah yeah, but I digress, what the fock.

Hey, do you hear what I hear? You betcha, it's that time of year, so I hear. The holidays. Holidays—that special time of year. Know what? Fock it. To a guy like me, every day is just another focking holiday. You name the day, and it's a focking holiday for a guy like me. And since today is today, it's a focking holiday, wouldn't you know. So I'm taking a personal day from my weekly grind of churning out an importantly chock-jammed full-packed essay all about how you ought to think and feel for your safety and well-being.

Maybe I'll go out and see the new Muppet movie—the one that FOCKS News is kvetching about its radical-socialist agenda of class warfare to brainwash kids against the rich. Cripes, sounds mighty good to me, 'cause when even a bunch of focking puppets on the silver screen are ready to kick some oligarchy ass, how long 'til at least a dollop of economic justice for the huddled masses be spread atop their crap casserole? You tell me.

So I'll tell you that maybe I won't go out, after all. I've been feeling under the stormy weather lately—weary all the time. I'm doing my best to drink plenty of fluids, as they say. If it's wet, I'll down it. (No, I did not get the flu shot this year. Instead, I've chosen the Jim Beam shot to fight my afflictions. Not only is the Jim Beam shot more easily available, you can also take advantage of the healing power of multiple dosages, what the fock.)

And then I hear music, Alma, your voice, Keaton, music that sends my thoughts way down yonder, in that land of the dreamy scenes where I dream about magnolias in bloom, wishing I was there—and then Duke Ellington, in my solitude, with reveries of days gone by, suggests I put a candle in the window to light the memories that never die.

So no more essay this week, better you's readers take the time you otherwise would've spent belaboring over more words here and rather apply it to holiday plans that will deck your loved ones but good, and to remember that as long as you see the light, every day is some kind of holiday what the fock, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.