Where One Man Needs to Go Never Before

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I heard the other day that our ba-looney leader “President” Trumpel-thinskin indicated that he may need to leave the country (U.S.A.) if he loses the soon-to-be election, ostensibly scheduled for Tuesday, Nov. 3. Here’s your hat, douchebag, what’s the hurry? And, come to think of it, you think you could leave even if you “win”? What the fock.

Given the humanitarian that I am, and although certainly no fan of the Orange Circus Peanut, I would suggest that if Humpty-Dumbty were to forsake our fruited plains so as to reside in a different country, he might be wise to choose one not known and recognized for the chopping of small hands off of thieves. Just a tip, but I’m thinking our former “president” would not fare well under such a harsh, law-and-order cloud, I kid you not.

So, might I suggest he instead relocate to one of those dinky South Sea island countries that has abso-focking-lutely no internet connection; is full-up and packed with Tasmanian devils ready to chew any newcomer a new one; and features a volcano of Krakatoan dimensions ready to blow at the count of 10 as soon as a former orange-haired “president” of the U.S.A. sets foot to ground.

And what the fock, why simply settle for a “different country”? How ’bout former President Douchebag leave for a different planet, solar system, galaxy? Maybe an energy-sucking kick-ass black hole, like his soul, would be the nice place for Señor Don Covfefe to set up housekeeping within.

Yes sir, as the late great Sun Ra of the Arkestra knew, “space is the place”; so how ’bout we just load up one of those imagined Space Force space ships with the D.T and, to be thematically correct, a couple, three million tons of plastic garbage and address it directly to the center of one of these black hole I’m hearing we’ve got everywhere in the universe, lo, these days. Sounds good to me, ain’a?

Oh, and before I forget, Our Stable Genius’s most excellent tweet of late designed to scare the bejesus out of the people from voting for Joe Biden:

“He’ll listen to the scientists. If I listened to the scientists, we’d have a country in a massive depression instead of—we’re like a rocket ship.”

You betcha, President Rocket Scientist, we’re like a rocket ship all right, and with you “commanding” I’d call that ship Challenger, ready to blow to bits any second with all hands on board, you fock. D. Trump knows everything. Ph.D. scientists know nothing. What a world.

And speaking of know-nothing, I saw the other day a group mug shot of that white-guy crowd ready to kidnap the female governor of Michigan so as to put her on trial for not agreeing with them on all kinds of schmutz. The courtroom, I imagine, to be located in the dank basement belonging to one of these focksticks, a basement below some kind of Amityville horror house, a basement with walls adorned by Farrah Fawcett swim-suit posters and perhaps an amateurish illustration of colonial Dolly Madison getting goosed from behind by a precocious John Quincy Adams.

I surveyed the mugshots of these white militia gang-members, and thought, gosh darn, what a swell looking of white jagwagons who never learned, or were taught, in school, who look like they never learned a thing in school, who would never do a minute of homework ’cause they were too busy torturing a small mammal by fire and blade—and yet, now they are experts on the Constitution. Yeah, many of these militia jackasses call themselves the “Three Percenters,” which is yet way below the percent that their John Hancocks measure to the size of the true patriot, black/white/etcetera/; thus the need to pack heavy firearms of length and heft… and, I was working toward a dick joke here about Second Amendment dickheads, but I lost my thread. But what the fock, Ba-ding!

Cripes, and because it’s 2020, we’ve got that right-wing radical conservative harpy Queen White Knight-ess Barrett circling the Supreme Court bench, preparing for the democracy kill when this presidential election somehow ends up having to be decided by the less-than Supreme Court as was the Great Heist of 2020 known as Bush v. Gore.

And how will Trump v. Biden be decided? Let us not forget that 20 years ago, John Roberts Brett Kavanaugh and Amy Coney Barrett were members of W.’s legal team. So in regards to the outcome of a possible Trump v. Biden, one where logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead, I would believe that the majority decision could be summarized in three words: “WE ARE SO FOCKED.” OK, make that four words, so sue me, I’ll see you in court.

And speaking of something not to look forward to, during the first week of November, yours truly will become a septuagenarian, I should live so long. So wouldn’t you know, serendipity, my professor friend, German Joe, over there in Deutschland, sent me a poem that I’ll lay out for you’s here as I close the book on my sexagenarian (accent on agenarian) years, ’cause what the fock:

Reminiscences

When the “Class of 69” turns sixty-nine,

Lift your glass and celebrate, drink some wine.

Should disasters like Corona ruin your plans,

Use imagination, but don’t shake hands.

Be an elevated observer,

Stop the drag of candid consumer.

We should cooperate like brothers in arms,

Have some fun with hot legs, forget those firearms.

Led Zeppelin brought out whole lotta love,

No more time to just push and shove.

Make your reality better than this,

Find yourself serenity with some bliss.

—Joseph Hahn

And speaking of a Kodachrome moment, do not forget to VOTE no matter what it takes, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.