Waltz Across Taxes

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, no time for an essay this week. I just heard it’s possible that summer’s Democratic National Convention could be deadlocked, which could open the door for a guy like me—a guy who has not a one delegate to his name, which sucks.

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’m not focking kidding. When Ted Cruz campaigned here with Scott Walker, he said, “I gotta say, your governor is a rock star.”

Herbie: No wonder rock ’n’ roll is dead.

Ray: I wish I would’ve been on the stage with them so I could’ve said, “And I gotta say that the both of you’s are douchebags.”

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey fellas, don’t forget to get your taxes in by Friday.

Herbie: Fock taxes. Being a guy who over the years has discovered that he’s barely got a pot to pee in, me and taxes don’t go so well together. 

Julius: And why should I pay “income” tax anyways? I already gave, each and every day of the year. What I cough up on the so-called “sin” taxes for mental health products like Old Crow and Pall Malls has just got to be more than any two rich Republican knobshines pay on income their entire focking lives, I kid you not.

Ernie: I always liked Artie’s idea, that the government should do their fundraising like National Public Radio and have pledge drives. The people decide how much dough they want to chip in, and if it’s a nice enough amount they’ll send you something in the mail, like a tote bag for your tote, an Uncle Sam T-shirt and maybe a CD boxed set of the U.S. Navy Marching Band from Sousapalooza ’95. 

Little Jimmy: And there wouldn’t be all those IRS forms and boxes to fill out. Even illegal immigrants could send something in if they felt like it.

Emil: I don’t remember, does it say anything about income taxes in the Constitution?

Herbie: The U.S. Constitution in the modern day is a bone ready to be picked. We got some nutbags who say our country can only be about what’s mentioned in it. And there’s nothing in the Constitution about how focking drunk I can, or cannot be, to drive a car. They don’t even mention cars at all in the goddamn document; so tell me how shortsighted was that?

Ray: Yeah, and they call them the “founding” fathers, and yet what did they know about space travel, TV or computer stuff? Fock the Constitution. This is America. We ought to be able to do whatever we want, when we want, as long as all the super-rich guys keep getting tax cuts. I figure the more money the rich guys have, maybe the more likely some of us poor peons might get a mention in their will. Yeah, call it a dream, but it’s American, you bet.

Emil: Maybe if we had more stuff about Jesus in the Constitution things would be better, ain’a? And they could put some stories in it to make it more interesting so more people would read it. Put the story of Nimrod and his ark in the Constitution, just like I hear some schools will have stories like that in their textbooks now for the science, 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.

Julius: I know that when I went to vote the other week, I didn’t see your name anywheres on the ballot.

Art: And that’s a problem, don’t I know it—plus I’m not getting the same kind of media exposure like the other guys and gal do. Seems the only way I’ll get some face time on TV is to be arrested for something.

Ernie: I’ll tell you, Artie, loitering, jaywalking or stealing a bike won’t cut it. And you can’t get arrested for drunk driving three-times-over-the-limit ’cause you don’t have a car. Misdemeanor battery? Yeah, like you’re ever going to get in the first punch on anybody, I don’t care who they are. 

Herbie: And I got a tax plan for you, Artie. You say, “No taxes no more ever again.” That’s what they like to hear. Tell the people that, hey, it’s your goddamn dough not the government’s, ain’a? Fock ’em. But in the future, when you got a problem with your street, go buy your own jackhammer and bucket of road tar so’s you can fix it yourself smart-guy, ’cause after all it’s your highway boule-focking-vard, not the government’s, and don’t you focking forget it.

(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.)