Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Yeah yeah, you can be riding high in April and before you know it, you’re shot down in May. Hey, that’s life. You never ever know what’s hiding right ’round the corner, ready to tear you a new one soon as you get there, what the fock.
Which reminds me that in the rim-shot world of a certain kind of show biz, there exists the never-ending “too soon vs. never too soon” debate as it applies to the timing of a bon mot—hopefully meant to lighten the load—tossed off following an unexpectedly crushing event.
For example, a question in regard to a shocking event last weekend: “You think Kobe may have taken the helicopter-parent thing a bit too far?”
“Too soon” for the query, or “not too soon”? Fock if I know. To search for an answer, I thought to meet up with my gang over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the corner by Center & Humboldt there. Tag along if you like, but you cover the first round. Let’s get going.
Julius: The hell they are.
Emil: The hell they’re not.
Julius: Listen, knobshine. No way in hell can parrots be smarter than chimps. You ever see a parrot smoke a goddamn cigar? You ever see a parrot ride a focking tricycle? You ever see a parrot give a cat a sponge bath? The chimps I’ve seen do that kind of stuff all the time.
Emil: Oh yeah? You ever hear a focking monkey say “fock you”?
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Ray: Yeah. Just now.
Ernie: Is it just me, or have we actually had this conversation before?
Herbie: Could be. The space-time continuum has its quirks, to be sure. Plus, there’s only a finite number of words in the English language I hear, so it stands to reason guys will repeat words in the same order once in a while, ain’a?
Ray: That’s true. I can’t tell you’s how many times I’ve told the focking wife to “give me a focking break” with the words exactly in that order every time.
Little Jimmy Iodine: You guys ever wonder why dogs haven’t learned to talk yet?
Herbie: They’re too damn busy chewing up house slippers and licking up their own vomit. They don’t have time to talk.
Ernie: I think the jury’s still out about whether dogs can talk or not ’cause my brother-in-law Wally told me about this time he was up by his cottage in Crivitz and he sees this sign by a farmhouse that said “Talking Dog for Sale.” So, he rings the bell and the owner tells my brother-in-law the dog’s in the backyard. So Wally goes out back and sees this mutt sitting there. “You talk?” Wally asks. “You bet, pally,” the mutt says. “You got to be jerking my beefaroni,” Wally says, “so, what’s the story?”
Dog looks up and says, “I discovered my rare gift as a pup and thought I could help the government. So, I got in touch with the CIA, and in no time they had me flying from country to country, licking my balls in rooms with spies and world leaders ’cause no one figured a dog would be eavesdropping. I was their most valuable spy for eight years in a row your time, 56 years my time. But constantly flying around the globe all the time really got to me. I knew I wasn’t getting any younger and I wanted to settle down. So I signed up for a job at an airport to do some undercover security work, mostly wandering near suspicious characters, sniffing ass and listening in. Well sir, I uncovered some treacherous anti-American dealings there and was awarded a whole bunch of medals. Had me a bitch, a mess of puppies, and now I’m retired.”
Wally’s abso-focking-lutely agog. So he asks the owner what he wants for the dog. Owner says, “Ten bucks.” Wally hands him the sawbuck and asks, “This dog is incredible, but why the hell on earth are you selling him?” Owner says, “That dog is so full of shit. Did he tell you about the CIA? Yeah, right. You can’t believe a focking word he says and I’m sick of it.”
Ray: And speaking of full of shit…
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know.
Herbie: Artie, you see in the papers they said a drink a day keeps the doctors away?
Art: Focking-A. That’s the kind of news that can elect me president. Forget about Obamacare, universal health care, Medicare. Every man, woman and child gets a fresh pint of Ol’ Granddad every day of the week. A trillion billion bucks saved. Health-care schmutz over and done with. God bless America.
(No answer yet, but it’s getting late and I know you got to go; so thanks for letting us bend your ear ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
