Walker, Wisconsin Stranger

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it’s 3 a.m. The pope is coming to the Land of the Free Amber Waves of Spacious Skies, and I’m sitting at my kitchen table with only a pair of BVDs to show for clothing and I’m wondering if the Lord smoked. I wonder a lot of things at 3-focking-a.m. I wonder if my rent check cleared. I wonder how many parking tickets I’ll get today, and I don’t even have a car for christ sakes. And I wonder if the Lord smoked.

I mean I wonder if he’d a’ smoked ’em if he’d a’ had ’em. My guess is he’d a’ smoked ’em if he’d a’ had ’em, all right. Always seemed like a John Wayne type to me, pilgrim. John Wayne on a camel. John Wayne puffing a Camel. I do believe, yea, verily, he’d a’ smoked ’em if he’d a’ had ’em.

And before I forget, a belated congratulations to our new Miss America, which reminds me of a little story: So this blonde gal was speeding down the road in her little red sports car and was pulled over by a woman police officer who also was blonde. The cop asked to see the blonde’s driver’s license. The blonde speeder dug through her purse and became more and more agitated. “So what exactly is this license supposed to look like?” she asks the cop.

The policewoman says, “Duhhh, it’s square and has your picture on it.” The blonde hot rodder found a square mirror in her purse, gazed into it and handed it to the policewoman. “Here it is,” she said.

The blonde officer looked at the mirror, then handed it back and said, “OK, my mistake, you can go. I didn’t realize you were a cop.” Ba-ding!

Yeah yeah, I missed this year’s broadcast, a shame ’cause I do enjoy the Q&A portion, such as this one: A contestant was asked that if she could have a conversation with anyone, alive or dead, who would it be? And her reply: “I’d have to say the living one.” Ba-ring-a-ding-ding!

And speaking of “not the sharpest knife in the drawer,” I see Dairyland Gov. Snidely Whiplash (Secret Service code name: “Pinocchio”) has kiboshed his campaign for the Republican presidential nomination, and seems likely to return home and resume his full-time gubernatorial duties. Yes sir, in every silver lining there’s a storm cloud. Heaven help us.

OK, one down, about 12, 13 to go, what the fock. During the debate last week, apparently our governor didn’t outright make up as much fabricated bullshit as some of the other candidates; thus failed to leave a winning impression with the Republican-viewing hoi polloi. I was surprised, when asked which woman they would want to put on the $10 bill, our governor answered “Clara Barton” instead of “Ronald Reagan in a dress.” That’s no way to score with the rabid right, I kid you not.

And of missed opportunities, Rand Paul answered the same question with “Susan B. Anthony,” and I thought for certain Trump would then answer, “Bruce Be Caitlyn.” Of course, everyone ought to know the best answer is “Marilyn Monroe,” you betcha.

And speaking of heaven helping us, or vice versa, I’ve got to get off this page soon and back on the phone to try to arrange a sit-down with the pope. I’ve got a couple, three suggestions I think the guy could use to address the fact that the number of Catholic parishes be dwindling.

How ’bout opening the floodboats to some real wholesale changes: Minute Masses, buffet-style Holy Communion, cash handouts for clean confessions. And here they be, wringing their palms about a priest shortage when they ought to be frettin’ ’bout a flock falloff instead. Not enough guys to do the job? Heck, let some women fill the father gap. And if the Church works like any other big-time corporation, they won’t have to pay the gals anywhere close to what they give the regular padres.

And I believe the prelate promotion department needs to do a better job. How about a “Cushion Sunday”—free seat cushion to anyone over age 12 ’cause I’m telling you’s those pews got to go. Sit on one of those wooden boards for an hour here, an hour there, and you figure “Screw this, I’m skipping next Mass. So I go to Hell, what the fock, my dupa’s already there anyways.”

I mentioned confessions, but what about concessions? Hey, next time Ichabod comes down the aisle looking for a handout whilst wielding that fishing pole with the basket on the end, what would be so terrible if he tossed you a focking candy bar or box of Crackerjack in return for your buck two-eighty? You know, a little something to tide you over ’til brunch.

Anyways, let’s get out of here with a little back-to-school story for you parents out there: Kid comes home from his first day at school. His Ma asks, “So, what did you learn today?” Kid says, “Not enough. I got to go back tomorrow, for crying out loud.” Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.