Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I don’t know about you but I’ve had enough of this rerun of a summertime all right already, I kid you not. The only good thing I can say about heat and humidity is that it renews my appreciation for the invention of ice in the shape of a cube small enough that a couple, three can float comfortably on a bourbonic sea outlined by the goodly dimensions of my beaker o’ cocktail to be enjoyed within the friendly confines of a booze joint, dank and dark, where the proprietor understands the value of setting the AC on “stun,” and conversation volumetrically—in both its amplitude and frequency of address—approximates that of the seminary for deaf monks, you betcha.
And I hear we’ve got the big Harley-Davidson 115th anniversary shebang in Our Town over the next couple, three days. And “hear” might not be the correct word, since I believe it was during the previous jubilee of a jamboree for these motor psychos that I came down with some kind of hearing impediment due to the bombasting bellow of machines that never met a tailpipe that piped, what the fock.
But about this how-many-anniversary-hoedowns-can-one-company-possibly-have Hog Fest at the top of the list on our community docket, I will say this: I do appreciate that these motor-psychos will supposedly maybe drill well over $100 million smackeroos into our town’s economic pipeline; and as a resident, I do look forward to the check-is-in-the-mail I ought to receive for the pain and suffering I will endure from all the piss-ass car alarms going off in the middle of the night every time one of those soft tail-fat boy-sportster-dual glide two-wheelers farted on down the boulevard. And when I do receive my check from the city, I promise to spend it wisely.
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Oh, for christ sakes, right there in the title to this week’s supposed essay I stepped on the punchline to the joke I chose to whip out in salutations to those afflicted with this motorcycle mania we got going around Beer Town anywhere and everywhere you turn around.
But what the fock, here it is anyways: So what’s the difference between a Harley-Davidson and a vacuum cleaner? Give up? OK. The difference between a Harley-Davidson and a vacuum cleaner? The position of the dirtbag. Ba-ding!
So, I’m not whipping out a big honking essay for you’s this week and I’ll tell you why. Who the heck reads anything on the Labor Day weekend? What the fock, not many read in the summertime anyways, at least not the highfalutin intercourse of excogitations I’m prone to pump out. If they read anything, it’s most likely the paperbacks one can still buy at some supermarkets. Especially the ladies. Seems they appreciate the books where on the cover they got some knobshine buff buccaneer with his shirt half ripped off and flowing coiffure flapping in the sea breeze. I don’t read those books, and the guys I know would agree with Groucho, who said about the movies, “No picture can hold my interest where the leading man’s tits are bigger than the leading lady’s.”
And one more thing, this week was supposed to be my gala Back-to-School Address to our young matriculators and matriculees. Looks like I’ll be at least a week late, just like every single goddamn homework assignment I ever got while serving time at Our Lady Of Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough, what the fock.
But I’d like to quickly point out to our juvenile rocket scientists that you got one hell of a lot to learn, compared to if you had to go to school 2,000 years ago. Hey, how hard could geography have been back then? For crying out loud, they only had like about four countries, I kid you not. Piece of focking cake. And history? Those people were born yesterday compared to what you all got to memorize these days. English Lit? Mighty slim reading list, wouldn’t you say? You young people of the modern age sure got your work cut out for you’s, you betcha. I recommend heartily that you brush your teeth and stay in school. A successful future can be yours as long as you don’t fock it up. Amen.
I got to go, but to our nomadic visitors who rode into town on a bicycle with a motor attached, remember that New York may be The City that Never Sleeps, but Milwaukee is The City that Always Sweeps. So please, before you hightail it out of town remember to clean up after yourselves. Heck, even I might welcome you back ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
