Tiptoe Through the Polyps

×

Expand

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I just got back to the confines of my dinky apartment following the completion of one of those colonoscopy poop-dee-doos. Good lord, what a hell of a way to grab an afternoon nap, what the fock.

The good news is that the doctor informed me during a post-procedure account, which I barely remember, is that no gerbils were discovered in my nether anal regions, but he did find a couple of these “precancerous” polyps that he graciously removed. I wondered what the medical team did with these discarded polyps. Did they simply toss them into the trash basket as if they were a three-week old half burrito you found in the back of your fridge?

I consulted my buddy, and chief political campaign adviser, Little Jimmy Iodine, who surmised that the polyps may be packaged and sent to some fourth-world country to be recycled as soup stock to help feed a starving populous. OK. But still do I wonder why I have yet to be elected to political office given my many campaigns for such, what the fock.

But I’ll tell you’s, the preparation for one of these butt-jobs is no cakewalk on the picnic beach, I kid you not. You must quaff a witch’s brew every 15 minutes for hours to the point that your toilet seat becomes your most valued and trusted significant other.

And as I sat on said toilet whilst my keister performed a spot-on impersonation of the Niagara Falls, it occurred to me that we as a gun-control concerned nation (some of us) should truly put the “ass” into the purchase of an assault rifle. That is, “background” checks for such a deadly weapon must include verified documentation that the demented purchaser had undergone a colonoscopy within the past 10 days. Perhaps if those hell-bent on performing a mass shooting must first undergo a good ol’ ass-rootling, we could all feel a bit safer, you think?

Anyways, did I mention that I’ve been urged to run for the presidency come 2024? OK, then. About the recent “Dobbs” dire decision to kibosh the American right to abortion executed by our “Supreme” Court, I’ve got some issues, oh boy/girl.

It reminded me of a plank of my speech that, as a legitimate presidential candidate, I was ready to deliver at the 1992 Democratic National Convention in New York, NY, except I wasn’t invited. My speech, now intended 30-focking-years ago, was to go something like this:

Pro-, or No-?

About this right-to-life argument that goes: “How can we do the condoning of abortion? Block the pregnancy from going the whole nine yards, and how do you know you aren’t denying the world the next Albert Einstein, the next Duke Snider, the Clarence Birdseye?” To that I say, what the fock. For argument’s sake, with the abortion, how do you know we’re not sparing the world the next Ivan the Terrible, the next Charlie focking Manson, the next Aaron Spelling?

And another thing everybody’s yelling about is the pinpoint time of when life gets out of the gates. Is it one month pregnant or three? After six weeks or two, or right-off the bat at the conception reception? Just where the heck’s this line of the marcation anyways, ain’a?

To argue right-to-life, you’d have to say “life” begins even before the inception of the act of the womb inflation. It begins soon’s you get the nerve up at the cocktail lounge and say, “Howdy, good-looking, you come here often or would you rather come over by my place?” If this member of a sex suggests a long walk off a short gangplank, I’d say we’d have a right-to-life violation.

And think of the ramification of a right-to-life law here in our land of liberty. Any focking thing that would interfere or otherwise kibosh the mating ordeal of bodies together that would climax with life creation would be against that law. The word ‘no” would be unlawful. There could be no more bar-time closings (in every cloud…). No contraceptives of any kind, including cold showers. Headaches—outlawed.

Cripes, I can hear lawyers drooling even as I speak. A right-to-life law would increase their already legendary right-to-lucre. There’d have to be courthouse on every block. Not doing the mating when called upon would be, judicially, murder; and murderers are capitally punished to death. Are you going to want to fry in the chair just for being too focking tired? I think not. Every man, woman and child who turned down the hootchie-cootchie would be cruising death row and what kind of right-to-life would that be?

Each and every one of us Americans would end up executed at some point in time. There’d be none of us left, and that’s just the kind of opening the world’s remaining Commies are looking for to march right in and set up their Red-herring shop here from sea to shining sea.

In conclusion, about this pro-choice vs. no-choice: We got a focking law in this land to cover that subject. The law says something sort of like a “lady’s right to control the destiny of her own focking body, hey, focking A-OK.” And that’s still backed up by the Supreme Court, as in the United States Supreme Court, Jack.

So if these focking Bible-belting bozos and their ilk got a bug up their beatific buts about that, they’re welcome to leave the Amber Waves and go live in some focking country of women-hating religious nuts who put the woman on par with the dirt de la chattel of no rights—and they’ll have a hundred-times more choice than they’re willing to allow their own fellow citizens. What the fock, I’ll even make travel arrangements, courtesy of President Art Kumbalek.

Yeah yeah, that was then, and now is now I’ve heard. And yet, “President Art Kumbalek.” Sounds mighty nice, ain’a? Hey, 2024 is right around the corner so what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.