Vernal Equi Knocks

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And holy cats, I just realized the Wisconsin primary is April 5 and I haven’t even begun to fundraise (although I did receive a lovely contribution from my constant reader, Ingrid/Mae, thank you). So I’m off to the Uptowner tavern/charm school, crammed at the corner of Hysteric Center Street & Humboldt, to meet up with my campaign brain trust. Come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round, what the fock.

Emil: I can’t believe it’s spring already, ain’a?

Ray: Spring: that very special time of year when a young man’s fancy turns to getting his rocks off with whomever, whenever, wherever, as often as possible.

Herbie: And god bless the heartily youthful of loin as they go about their bra-snapping and crotch-grabbing ways, so as to keep the Homo sapiens gene pool deep and moist, as a garden whose flowers could be selectively picked by an evolutionarily new, improved, and maybe more thoughtful focking version of the genus Homo.

Julius: Fock spring. All it means is we’re one step closer to summer’s goddamn hot and humid, stick-ass weather that makes me feel like I’m living in some Third World sweatshop of a country instead of being an American. To spring, I say thanks for nothing.

Little Jimmy Iodine: Jeez louise, it’s less than a week from the Eastertime and I still haven’t figured out what to give up for Lent.

Ernie: Not good, Jimmy. I remember Sister Mary Margaret the Mauler back at Our Lady In Pain saying any kid who didn’t give up at least one thing for Lent would go straight to focking hell.

Herbie: I don’t exactly subscribe to the picture of Heaven and Hell that Sister used to paint, but I’m not taking any chances. Especially with my shoddy Judgment Day resume. So I figured if giving up playing baccarat at Monte Carlo casinos ’til Easter could be the make-or-break between a Hereafter of steamy sponge baths administered hourly by stacked virgins, or locked in a sweatbox with a dozen rabid ferrets as roommates for the next couple, three eternities; so be it, what the fock.

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.

Art: Hey gents, what do you hear, what do you know.

Emil: I heard that some Tea Party types think Obama Barack, before he was president, was one of those terrorists who flew a plane into a World Trade building.

Ernie: And I know I read in the papers that about 110% of American school kids can’t find the United States on a map, what the fock?

Julius: Hey, who looks on a map to find where you already are? These kids know they’re in the United States. Cripes, they only got the American flag in every goddamn classroom across the land to remind them. You look on a map for when you’re lost and you don’t know where you are, so what’s the big focking deal?

Herbie: Ah, the so-called “poorly educated”—the big pie slice of Mr. Trump’s “angry old white guy” support. You look at these guys—the baseball caps and dirtbag beards—and the fury and frustration is obvious, the crushing disappointment that they will never fulfill their high-school dropout dream of being a roadie for The Marshall Tucker Band.

Little Jimmy: You think there’s a chance that some of the younger “angry white guy” Trumpsters sporting the “shit-kicker just-released-from-the-House-of-Detention” look could actually be hipsters in disguise who take ironic pleasure in yelling “Get off my American lawn, you focking foreigners”? 

Ray: “Angry Turds”—a new video game where you slingshot stupid-ass white douchebags at grandmas pushing strollers so’s to destroy them ’cause they’re probably Hillary supporters out to take your guns.

Emil: In politics, Trump’s been like some big honking undetected asteroid hitting the Earth, ain’a?

Art: Astronomers and political pundits have a hard time with these phenomena. I remember some years ago that an outer-space asteroid of sizable size circumvented our planet by a measly 288,000 miles. Astronomically speaking fellas, that would be about as far as you or me can lob a looey. 

Ernie: I remember that. And not one single rocket scientist noticed the near-miss ’til four days after the focking fact. They hadn’t seen it coming ’cause it came from the direction of the sun—an astronomical blind spot for anybody, I don’t care who you are. That asteroid would’ve been the same as a 4-megaton nuclear bomb going off had we rendezvoused. Even Super-focking-man couldn’t have stopped it. Lot of people would’ve died in a New York second.

Herbie: That’s the prickly thing about the Hereafter; it could come right out of the blue. One second you’re having a smoke and a nice cocktail; a second later you’re getting shipped out to Heaven or Hell.

Little Jimmy: Or reincarnated. I wouldn’t mind coming back as a plant in the woods somewheres—but the kind of plant that doesn’t get used for any kind of cooking or baking.

Art: Oh brother. Reincarnation. I’ll tell you’s, if I got reincarnated as a woman I’d be in a heap of trouble, ’cause I got a pretty good hunch I look lousy in a dress not to mention that I don’t know the first thing about putting on makeup. Cripes, my husband wouldn’t know if he should take me out to dinner or grab the leash and the pooper-scooper and take me for a walk.

(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.)