Photo illustration: Dave Zylstra
Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it occurred to me the other day that if I want to serve our fruited waves of purple mountained shining seas as this country’s next president, I better get my ass in gear but good, I kid you not.
When it comes to the notion of civically representing our downtrodden hordes of people, not to mention a big-wig or two, I’m a big-picture kind of guy and sometimes I lose sight of a nit-picking detail here and there that can be important to a successful campaign for high office—such as when the hell the goddamn 2020 primary election is supposed to be, and what kind of shenanigans I can still pull to get on the official ballot. Yeah, I’m no stranger to the write-in campaign but between you and me, I’ve found that approach to be strictly for losers. Go figure.
Right now I’m thinking I ought to go consult with my campaign brain trust so’s to smell if the wind is still right for an anti-establishment common man like me with a heavy hankering for heavy-duty social Robin Hood socialism to be placed in a national position of power to the people. So I’m headed over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school at the Hysteric Corner of Center Street & Humboldt. Come along if you’d like but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.
Little Jimmy Iodine: Any you’s guys got that virus yet?
Herbie: Fock if I know. I always got some kind of “thing” anyways, so the best thing for me is to wash my insides with 80-90 proof alcohol on a regular basis
Stay on top of the news of the day
Subscribe to our free, daily e-newsletter to get Milwaukee's latest local news, restaurants, music, arts and entertainment and events delivered right to your inbox every weekday, plus a bonus Week in Review email on Saturdays.
Ernie: I got that U.S. Census test in the mail the other day.
Julius: What the fock. I keep reading these stories about all the people bitching about the Census. They worry about the privacy and how come the government needs to know this and that, blah-blah-blah. And I thought: “What a bunch of candy-ass crybabies.” Forget about it. The government already knows everything on you, so big focking deal.
Herbie: For christ sakes, the people Trumpty-Dumbty puts into our government these days are too stupid to know anything, much less everything.
Ernie: Oh yeah? You ought to see some of the questions that were on the form they sent me: On a scale of one-to-ten, just how big of a jackass did you feel that time in 8th grade when you skipped out of school with a bullshit excuse that said you had to go to your aunt’s funeral, and then to learn that the next day she got run over by a bus on her way to deliver fresh-baked chocolate cookies to the orphanage, you lying sack of crap?
Julius: Hey, I got questions like that on my Census, too. Do you think the well-built gal who lives across the alley from you knows you spy on her with binoculars when she’s in her backyard sunbathing with her top off; not to mention whether or not your wife knows that you secretly subscribe to the website www.SoapyCarWashingBimbos.com? Screw it. From now on in, I’m taking my computer into the bathroom and locking the door when I use it.
Little Jimmy: So what happens if you don’t mail back your census?
Emil: Then you’re out of focking luck. Last time, I had the wife fill it out and she sent it in right away. She Xeroxed the entry about 10 times and sent those in too ’cause she figures that’ll only increase our chances of winning.
Ray: What the fock are you talking about—win. Win what?
Emil: I don’t know. They forgot to put a prize sheet in our envelope.
Ernie: That’s because there aren’t any prizes, you focking knobshine.
Emil: You got to be jerking my beefaroni. You fill out that form and there’s no chance to win something like a boat, or furniture or something? What the fock. You know, I thought there was something fishy—no prize sheet. I almost called the bureau for that better business. How come the goddamn government doesn’t do something about this kind of royal screw job?
Herbie: Because that form was from the goddamn government, you sausage head. You don’t win anything from the government just by filling out a form. You got to give money to a politician in his election if you want to get a prize from the goddamn government. What the hell is wrong with you?
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey, gents. What do you know, what do you hear.
Ray: Here’s to Artie, for letting us charge these drinks to his campaign finance committee. Speech! Speech!
|
|
Art: Screw taxes. Don’t give that money to the government. Give it to me, instead. I’m a politician.
(Hey, it’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
