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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Stop me if you’ve heard this, but it’s that time of year when your neighborly folks on the TV local news begin to dish out handy tips on how to handle the seasonal stress of the holiday season, so that you don’t find yourself come Christmas morning barricaded inside your abode, gazing out an open window through the sights of a high-powered rifle, ready to dampen the Yuletide spirit of anything that moves.

These stress-relieving tips I’m hearing could only be enlightening if you were a time-traveler from the past—say from before the Magna focking Carta was John Hancocked, when the people were too busy slaughtering each other all the time to even think of having a holiday.

But for the average Tom, Dick or Dickless, there’s not a whole lot of meat on the bones of these “handy” tips. They lead one to shake their head and say, “You got to be jerking my beefaroni. How focking stupid do you think I am?”

I’d like to give you a tip or two from my own catalog on how to get the stress-monkey off your aching back.

My personal solution to holiday stress, of course, is to have another couple, three hot focking toddies and crank up the thermostat. Don’t forget that stress is the silent killer, and if you’re so inclined, nothing puts a quick kibosh on stress like a nice Pall Mall filtered cigarette, so always be aware to smoke ’em if you got ’em. And if you don’t got ’em, get ’em.

Anyways, I choose not to belabor the craft of a finely honed essay for you’s this middle-to-late December week ’cause I’m guessing you’re just too damn busy to read anything important I got to tell you this time of year aren’t you, what with your holiday this and your holiday that. Yeah, bet you a buck two-eighty you’re probably getting ready to go out and do some shopping right now, ain’a?

(Just so you know, I can always use a six-pack of some kind of a socks, but cash always makes for a nice gift, you betcha. But what I could really use is my own private compartment on all county buses that run any number you choose—30, 14, Green, Fuchsia. what the fock.)

Where was I?

OK, maybe you’re mixing another hot focking toddy and too goddamn into the sheets to read whatever I got writ, or maybe you’re up to your hinder in holiday cookie dough. But regardless of whatever kind of holy bug you may have up your butt, I know for many of you’s it just wouldn’t be the Christmas without the once-in-awhile annual retelling of a seasonal classic you first read here—a traditional holiday treat not unlike the pinching of the Yule log Christmas morning and the Tom & Jerry binging to come later in the day, ain’a? And what is tradition but the same goddamn thing over and over? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that TV has its animated “Charlie Brown Christmas” and your “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the performing stage has its Nut-focking-Cracker and A Christmas Carol, the movies have its Die Hard, the city has its property tax bills, I have medical bills up the jock and back, every dog has its day, and “Art for Art’s Sake” has one version or another of what follows for you and the family, guaranteed to roast the cockles of your god-blessed chestnuts.

So let’s get this sleigh a’ridin’, shall we?

OK, story has it that these three so-called kings (sometimes cited as an early inspiration for the often overlooked vaudevillian Ritz Brothers) loaded up with a bunch of gifts to travel from out of this place called Orient Are, wherever the fock that was supposed to be. To this day I still can’t find it on a map, I kid you not. But you got to remember, this was way-back-when in the olden days when wise men believed the world was flatter than a ballerina, so what the fock.

Anyways, these three guys were traipsing to and fro, checking out all the towns of the then-known world in search of an infant recently conceived out of thin air, a child who was not only rumored but also proclaimed verily to those on high to be the son of god.

One of the three kings queried, “Hold on, which god you be talking about?” One of the other kings says, “What, like I should know from ‘which god’? A god is a god is a god. Who cares which one, for crying out loud.” And the third wise guy said, “Yeah, forget about it. I don’t care if he’s the focking son of the god of focking rodeo clowns for focking crying out loud, we still got to go pay our respects on general principles. It’s the right thing to do, kapische?”

So they’re carting these gifts all over creation, gifts that even a kid back then would think sucked ass. I mean “frankincense,” an aromatic gum resin? Give me a break. Eventually, these three guys came across a lowly stable and decided enough’s enough. They asked a guy who was hanging around there if he’d like some gifts ’cause they were sick of carrying them all over thereabouts of the time. The stable guy says “you betcha” and invites them in for a nice hot focking toddy.

The wise men waltz into the stable but the guy with the myrrh, who was a bit taller than the other two Einsteins, cracked his head on the top of the doorway. “Jesus H. Christ!” he shouts. The stable guy, whose name was Joseph, calls out to the wife, “Hey hon! You hear that? ‘Jesus H. Christ.’ For a name, I like that a lot better than Walter, ain’a?”

Ba-ding! So there you go, as do I. One last thing, again: Remember to be damn sure to celebrate this holiday good and plenty. You just can’t ever be 100 per-focking-cent sure that it may not be the last one you’ll get; so make it a good one for one and all, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.