Whole Lotta Shakin’

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, before I march off from my dinky apartment in a huff so’s to righteously return the couple, three Powerball tickets to the place of business I purchased them from, and demand monetary focking satisfaction for selling me such a faultily ferkakta product, I must offer you the following.

Here’s a newsy bit to start your day (to quote the late, great, Alex Thien of the long put-to-bed newspaper Milwaukee Sentinel, a headline to a news story I stumbled across somewhere the other day):

Neanderthals were killed by sex

Neanderthals died out because they had too much sex.

The primates were so attracted to homo sapiens that they stopped making love with their own kind and were ultimately wiped out by their own libido.

Hey, sign me up for this way to go, what the fock. “Killed by sex”? Sounds a lot more copacetic than “killed by shark attack,” “killed by electric chair,” “killed by serial killer,” “killed by rabid bat bite,” “killed by local police in errant drug bust,” “killed by lack of affordable health care,” “killed by starvation during some kind of years-long continental war,” “killed by unexpectedly plunging into the Grand Canyon from off a ledge whilst performing a failed selfie to impress friends with how cool you are,” “killed by guillotine,” “killed for questioning the cosmetic cut of Josef Stalin’s mustache,” “killed by a focking humongous asteroid,” “killed by a plague, be they Bubonic, Black Death or 21st Century American Republicans,” “killed by earthly climate change”—I could go on, but I’m thinking you get the picture, what the fock.

Here’s where you can find the article if you care to peruse:

msn.com/en-gb/entertainment/news/neanderthals-were-killed-by-sex/ar-AA13HdE2

Now, I can understand the condomless Mr. Neanderthal man’s attraction to the evolutionarily superior Homo sapien female of whom each and every one must’ve looked like a hotsy-totsy Marilyn Monroe. But I can’t explain any attraction the Homo sapien lady would have for the Neanderthal guy ’cause really, you ever seen any photos of those fellas? Yikes!

All I can figure is that while the Homo sapien men were off together sipping herbal tea and discussing the finer points of the latest cave art, the neglected Homo sapien gal thought she might pass the time and take a walk on the wild side with one of the rough-and-tumble bad boys from the neighborhood, ain’a?

And all I can say about “Neanderthals Killed by Sex,” is to quote “1 Corinthians,” the King James version: “O death, where is thy sting?” Ba-ding!

Anyways, I am now a couple, three days past from achieving a number in personal age that would be equidistant to the previous century’s 1972, when the Oakland Athletics won their first of three consecutive World Series championships, when the Dallas goddamn Cowboys were Super Bowl Champs, when in the presidential election incumbent Richard Nixon stomped my treasured Democrat George McGovern by more than 60% in the “popular” vote, what the fock—election fraud, anyone?

Yeah yeah, Hank “The Crank” Maier was mayor of our Brewtown brewhalla and the Number One song of the year was the tender “First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” but the Neanderthal in me would prefer to hear a ditty titled “The First Time Ever You Sat On My Face,” I kid you not.

Yes sir, another year older and deeper in debt am I, as another song says. Hope you took the time and got out to vote the other day, but as I sit here on the Wednesday, Nov. 9, apparently not enough of my crowd showed up to send “senator” Da-Doo-Ron-Dumb Johnson back home to one of his palatial million-dollar houses where he could do no harm other than to bark at a minimum-wage lawn-care immigrant, what the fock.

So yeah, 16 tons of punditry bullshit analysis is sure to inflate the air of the next days of our lives. And on top of that, another Daylight-Saving Time fall back/extra hour day has come and gone and it’s left me feeling a whole bunch down and blue in deep despair.

Oh my, what big plans I had to put that extra hour to good use: Learn Etruscan; consume The Martin Buber Reader: Essential Writings; darn a couple, three pair of socks; visit Potawatomi Hotel & Casino for a little relaxation. And in the end, what did I accomplish with that free 60 minutes? Nothing. Abso-focking-lutely nothing. I failed. I overslept. And now all I can do is piss and moan whilst supine on the davenport with the TV lighting the room 24 hours a day, I kid you not.

Cripes, it’s not exactly a cakewalk on a picnic beach to be the age these day I find myself to be. Just the other day I was trying to remember something—it could’ve been Hank Aaron’s lifetime batting average, or which Republican ran against FDR in the 1944 presidential election, or the phone number for 911, fock if I know.

But I did remember a little story:

Two elderly gals had been friends for many decades. Over the years they had shared all kinds of activities and adventures. Lately, their activities had been limited to meeting once a week to play cards.

So, the other day during a round of Canasta one looked at the other and said, “Now don’t get mad at me... I know we’ve been friends for a long time... but I just can’t think of your name! I’ve thought and thought, but I can’t remember it. This is so embarrassing, but please tell me what your name is.” Her friend raised her eyebrows, and after a couple, three minutes she cleared her throat and said, “Oh my. How soon do you need to know?” Ba-ding!

Yes sir, the birthdays can add up plenty over the years until you find that now you’ve got a situation. What to do? All I can recommend is that the next time you’ve got to blow out candles on a nice sponge B-day cake is that you be careful of what you wish for, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.