Up on the Edge of the Rooftop

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? First off, a shout out to Steve H, who left a comment online here, from out of Okla-focking-homa where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain and never is heard a discouraging word unless you be a Democrat down there, what the fock.

Anyways, so listen, I know the hub-and-bub of the holiday season is always a big deal this time of year for the people. But, as you may know and it bears repeating, to a guy like me, every day’s a focking holiday, I kid you not. Today? A focking holiday. Yesterday? Just another focking holiday. Tomorrow? You bet. To a guy like me, tomorrow is sure to be a focking holiday, and the same goes for the day after that. And that’s because, why? That’s right. To a guy like me, every day’s just ANOTHER focking holiday.

I must lead a charmed life. Most people, they got their Christmas, their Thanksgiving, New Year’s, Fourth of July, Sturgis Bike Rally—a mere handful of holidays a year. It is to pity, for they are the ones who are forced to wistfully remark to their loved ones: “Oh, why can’t we make Christmas be each day of the year.” “Why does Sweetest Day come but once a year?”

Hey, you’ll never catch me whining like that, no sir. And I’m sure many would envy a guy like me, a guy who can honestly say, “Oh brother, every goddamn day is just another focking holiday.” In fact, I’m working right now on a new holiday song called “Every Day’s Just ANOTHER Focking Holiday.” I’m hoping to have it whipped together in time for next Christmas, but it really doesn’t matter when the hell it comes out—it’s a song to be sung any damn day of the year, especially if 2021 is anything like its forebear, you betcha.

Yeah, and this old year, the time of 2020, is practically expired and again I’m thinking the less said about it the better. But I will tell you’s, I recall that at the beginning of this dying year I looked back at 2019 and said it had sucked, and my crystal ball told me to say that the future-2020 would also suck, but even more. Cripes, I should’ve put my money where my mouth was ’cause if I had, I’d be living the luxury life on Easy Street and lighting my Pall Malls with $100-dollar bills, what the fock.

Hopefully, next week this here Shepherd will post my “From the City that Always Sweeps” essay (written for the monthly print edition) that will harp on my annual Look Back/Watch Out Ahead feature. So 2021 can wait, especially if it’s anything like its predecessor, what the fock.

But so here we are, last essay from me coming out of the Devil’s Year. I figure the only hellfire this year missed has been an ass-tearing invasion by 20-ft. outer-space aliens with a cultured taste for human testicles, a Donald Trumpel-thinskin reelection for another bunch of years as Oval Office dickwad, and a semi-posthumous compilation duet musical CD featuring Tiny Tim and William Shatner.

2020. Soon to be gone numerically but always to be remembered experientially. Always, as like in 200 years when historians of this period scratch their enlarged craniums and wonder who the fock was so undereducated and idiotic to place a vote for a douchebag failed businessman con-man grifter to become the leader of the world’s most publicized democracy.

But I hope you’s all had an agreeably happy Christmas merry holiday from the week past. Me? I’ll tell you’s, rather than the busload of Vegas showgirls, carton of Pall Malls and a nice sportcoat in a 42-regular I had requested, Santa, the fat fock, brought me an uncomfortable-to-beat-the-band rectal abscess—second of the year, yeah, 2020. Christmas Day, that was me, asshole roasting on an open fire, perched on a sitz bath and feeling as if all nine reindeer got lodged in my chimney, I kid you not.

And just so you know, what with the stay-at-home and social distancing directives, I found my prototype souvenir Art Kumbalek Mistletoe Belt Buckle to be an ineffective encumbrance. But perhaps next year, our social situations will improve to where I can finally get such a nice stocking stuffer to market. Got to stay positive I hear, these days.

But I am feeling healthwise better now, thank you, especially realizing that the 2020 is soon to be ended and that this December will be the last full month allowed for the Orange Circus Peanut jagwagon to befoul the Oval Office and what-not.

So, time to crank up the thermostat and mix another hot focking toddy to send this year to its long-awaited grave, but not before I regift you with a nice little holiday story:

OK, story has it that these three so-called kings loaded up with a bunch of gifts are 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 in the olden days when wise men knew 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 kings queried, “Which god?” One of the other king guys 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 wiseguy 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 focking thing to do, understand?”

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 creation. The 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.’ I like that a lot better than Leonard, ain’a?”

Ba-ding! So to the limit of my optimism, although it’s been said many times, many ways, I wish you all a happy focking New Year, and good luck with that, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.