Ed. Note:Two analysts/commentators have been assigned to Mr. Kumbalek’s column this weekto provide more comprehensive comprehension through the marvel of instantanalysis in hopes of attracting more male beer drinkers from ages 18 to 34 tothis page. The analysts we chose are former professional writers—one now inadvertising, the other fulfilling a lengthy community service obligation. Wefeel their clear, insightful and fun commentary will benefit both the seasonedreader as well as the casual.
Analyst #1:Hello, and welcome. Before the first paragraph gets under way, I’d like to askmy compatriot here what kind of column—or essay, as Mr. Kumbalek prefers topretentiously refer to it—we can look forward to this week.
Analyst #2:With this writer, one never knows. Questions are these: Does he have his essayface on and has he come to write? Or, will he just sputter around in thebackfield of his mind until he figures he’s coughed up enough words to call ita day and hit the nearest bar stool. Any given week, it’s a tossup, but let’sturn to the action. Looks like he’s ready to kick it off.
[DROPCAP, PLEASE]
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitzwhat a world, ain’a? Listen ...
Anal. #1:Art seems to have called a very early timeout here. Any idea why?
Anal. #2:I think it’s an equipment problem. He stopped to light a cigarette and pourhimself another tub of coffee. Right now he’s picking his nose, but I thinkhe’s nearly ready to retake the page.
I was wondering the other day if any ofYo-Yo Ma’s friends ever call him Duncan, like for a nickname, you know?
Anal. #1:Any idea who he’s talking about?
Anal. #2:Not a clue, but an otherwise nice, quick opener.
Anyways, before I get steamrolleringSwiftly mine weekly battle against the usual confederate union of dunces, hey,how ’bout this holiday season coming back up like a bad burrito, ain’a? Here inthe States, the season now commences with Columbus focking Day. But indifferent parts of the world it ain’t the same, like over there by New Zealand,where it starts Oct. 28 ’cause that’s their Labour Day, and I got to tell you,I hope their labor situation is a whole lot healthier than the crap sandwichthe would-be American workingman is forced to swallow, lo, these days.
Anal. #1:That opening phrase—meant to throw the reader offside?
Anal. #2:Fock if I know. And New Zealand, two questions: One, do we really need to knowanything about it; and two, who cares?
Anal. #1:We know that the country was settled by the Maoris, a group principally out ofPolynesia, sometime before 1350. And if they were cannibals, they’d enjoy thisanecdote: Sitting around after lunch, one cannibal says to the other, “Yourwife makes a nice soup.” The other says, “Yeah, I’m sure going to miss her.”Now, back to the page.
I mean, do we even have unions, to speakof, anymore? We were so cock-focking-sure all our problems were on account ofthe unions, ain’a? Sky-high budget deficit? The unions. Can’t get the goods onpushing goods in foreign markets? Unions. Your focking car’s cigarette lighterdoesn’t want to cooperate? Your kid can’t read? Packers stink on ice? Got apesky paper cut on your left pinky? You guessed it. The focking unions. BigBusiness heard the Word and the Word was this: Go Ahead And Squash The Unions’Cause Who’s Going To Stop You. And the blue-collar man has become thehorse-shit-collar man and a buck two-eighty an hour won’t get you a pot to peein and this sucks, what the fock.
Anal. #1:Believe it or not, Art’s taking a TV timeout. Any thoughts on the action?
Anal. #2:Reasonably coherent approach, an approach Mr. Kumbalek might think of tryingmore often. The excessive capitalization, too cutesy by half. But here hecomes, back from the refrigerator with an ice-cold one in hand, so let’s getwhat’s left of this page under way.
And speaking of the workplace, here’s onefor you: So this hotshot executive has a problem. He’s got to get rid of one ofhis staff, either Jack or Jill. They’re equally qualified and do excellentwork. He decides that whichever one uses the water cooler first would get theheave-ho. So Jill comes in, hung-over to the max after partying all night. Shegoes to the cooler to get some water to take an aspirin. The executive comes byand says: "Jill, excuse me, but I need to lay you or Jack off." Jillsays: "So could you jack off? I feel like shit today."
Let this story be a warning to whatworkers we have left working these days: Watch what you say. If our “Jill” hadbeen less a party gal, she could’ve slapped the executive guy so fast with asex harassment suit right across the puss as to bring tears to his eyes, I kidyou not.
I'm a sensitive guy when it comes to thissubject ’cause word-harassment is the solo reason I'm even at a workplace; it’sthe butter that pats my toast. Sure, my variety is written ’stead of spoken,but you know what they say, “The pen is more mightily potenter than a fockingpetard, for christ sakes.”
Talking about sex has no place in theworkplace. You’re supposed to just focking do it and then shut up about italready, game over, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
Anal. #1:That’s it? Space has ended. Let’s grab Mr. Kumbalek for a comment before hisritual post-essay meltdown at the Uptowner tavern/charm school. Art, this column,this essay. Call it a win, loss, or draw?
Art: Call it focking finished.
Anal. #2:Two distinct halves. Frankly, I’ve read better, no offense.
Art: So sue me.
