Underdog Clock

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, yeah, us southeast Badgerland Cheeseheads have been freezing our bottomskis off this mid-January. Here in my dinky apartment, I’m guessing the heat temperature has got to register as a Neptunian minus-353 degrees. What the fock, when did the payment of rent not include a sliver of earthly warmth? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you’s, at least I have some warmth to the cockles of what needs warmthly cockled that the Green & Gold kicked focking “America’s team” Cowboy focking ass all the way from focking Dallas to the grave of Antonio López de Santa Anna—48-32. Bang on the drum, Ole!

Let me tell you’s, this Cowboy crap with their small-dick dinosaur-sized Ford 150 trucks etc., don’t get me started, and so I won’t.

So our Titletown favorites are off to San Franciso to meet their playoff nemesis 49ers where the underdog Pack shall continue their unexpectedly remarkable season of football. I’ve heard that Packer fans travel well in numbers to games in distant locations, which reminds me of a little story:

Four elderly retired guys are walking down the street in The City by the Bay’s popular nighttime Castro district. They turn a corner and see a sign that reads “Old Timer’s Bar—ALL DRINKS 10 CENTS!” 

Dazed and confused by this offer, they enter. Once inside and seated at the bar, the bartender says in a voice that carries across the room, “Let me pour one for you! What’ll it be, gentlemen?” 

There seems to be a fully-stocked bar, so the men all ask for a martini. In short order, the bartender serves up 4 iced martinis, shaken not stirred, and says, “That’ll be 10 cents each, my friends.” 

The four men look at each other. They can’t believe their good luck. They pay the 40 cents, finish their martinis, and order another round. Again, four excellent martinis are served as the bartender says, “That’s 40 more cents, gents.” They pay the 40 coins, but their curiosity is more than they can stand. They’ve each had two martinis, and so far they’ve spent less than a dollar. One of the men says, “Sir, how can you afford to serve martinis as good as these for a dime apiece?” 

Bartender says, “Here’s my story. I’m a retired tailor from Brooklyn, and I always wanted to own a bar. Last year I hit the lottery for $100 million and decided to open this joint. Every drink costs a dime —wine, liquor, beer, Shirley Temple, all the same, what the fock.” 

“That’s quite a story,” one of the men says. The four retirees sipped at their martinis and couldn’t help but notice three guys wearing Green Bay Packer jerseys at the end of the bar, none of whom had a drink in front of them.

One retiree gestures at the three at the end of the bar without drinks and asks the bartender, “What’s up with them?” 

The bartender says, “They’re in from Wisconsin for the big game. They’re waiting for happy hour.” Ba-ding!

Okey-doke. Enough with the frivolity? I thought so. Therefore, let me mention that the clock on our upchucking 2024 political elections has begun to run quickly, and I figured it’s time to remind you’s that yours truly, Art Kumbalek, has once again declared, I do, his candidacy to sit at the Oval Office in the White House come November 2024. Indeed I will plant my elected fanny a couple, three hours a day trying to figure the ways of the world as I order some kind of free lunch for myself. Plus, I could really use the $400,000 grand in salary a president pockets each and every year, I kid you not.

Now, for those of you’s who can’t figure out exactly what I would try to do for the people as your super leader, let me be the docent to explain and cipher the big-ass picture we’re gazing at here in the political arena, if I may, and I will.

My dream is that when it comes to your political needs, I would be your one-stop shopping—call me the Art-Mart for the Great Unwashed Undereducated Public. I could be your county sheriff, mayor, alderman, judge, senator, ambassador, coroner, crossing guard, president; and all under one hat. How convenient would that be for you’s?

No matter what kind of bug-up-your-butt you got, be it local, state, asshole neighbor, books in a focking library, nation-wide, wife/girlfriend, or world-wide, you just come to Art-Mart and I would sure-as-shootin’ take care of it. With me in all the hallowed halls of offices, you would no longer have to dick around with the County Courthouse, City Hall, town-hall meeting, Madison, D.C., the Hague, the Baseball Writers of America and who-knows-where-or-what-who. Fock no. Just come to me. Come to Art-Mart where you’ll find value for all your political needs for a couple, three bucks, I kid you not. All you got to do is get off your ass and vote. 

Or not, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.