Wisenheimer

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, just so you’s know, I am currently slapping together a movie script that trumpets the way I, Artie Kumbalek, may have changed the way of our world, if not universe, whilst fervently conversing atop a barstool over there by the Uptowner tavern/charm school, majestically crammed onto the corner of wistfully Hysteric Humboldt Boulevard and the fabled Center Street, a place where today is always at least a day before tomorrow and yesterday may gosh darn well be today (it’s a quantum mechanics thing, so I’ve heard), what the fock.

OK. Here’s a scene I’m working on for my block-focking-buster, Wisenheimer. It goes something like this with the dialogue between principal characters before the big action of stuff blown up begins, maybe it could even be the trailer I hear they show at a major motion picture theater near you’s:

(Lights come up on a deep conversation already in progress at the above-mentioned Uptowner)

Emil: I got the nephew for his birthday one of those periscopes, so he could look at the moon and space, like a regular Gali-focking-Leo, you know? But I hear the only focking thing’s he’s looked at so far is the neighbor lady ’cross the yard through the window when she’s getting ready for bedtime.

(Dark, moody music underscored, figure a polka band complete with tuba after a three-day hourly binge of Quaaludes)

Herbie: Hotsy-totsy, discovery of things and items through the ages of eons can become a wicked mistress, I kid you guys not. Go ask Aristotle, the Greek ancient guy, back when he seemed to be 10-feet tall, but you know you’re going to fall if you go chasing rabbits, and now he’s just small.

Little Jimmy Iodine: Periscope, Emil?

Emil: Yeah, and I got to tell you the lady wasn’t bad looking either, once you got the focus on her clear.

Ernie: You should never give a kid stuff that’s supposed to be good for what-you-call imagination and curiosity. Once you start cramming imagination and curiosity down a kid’s throat, you’re going to end up with a kid who’s unemployable in the real world and all of a sudden he’s somehow able to destroy life on this planet as we know it. Look at focking Florida where they got a governor whose head is so far up his Mickey Mouse dark matter-butthole ass that even goddamn Goofy can’t sniff it.

Little Jimmy: I’ve heard that once the Earth is destroyed, only the insects will survive and live on to another day or maybe longer.

Ray: And what then? I’d like to see Mr. Cockroach try to replace a flat tire on the side of the Interstate, or program the TV remote so’s to get the closed-captioning and… focking bugs.

Julius: Focking-A. I don’t give a rat’s ass if the unemployment is now getting better. You put down on an application that you’re good at the imagination and curiosity, the first thing the job-hire guy will tell you is to imagine trying to get hired somewhere else ’cause you sure as hell ain’t going to work there.

Little Jimmy Iodine: I’m surprised that kids don’t run away and join the circus anymore. Kids, the years ago, had a lot more on the ball than today. They wouldn’t go join a gang or a cult, ’cause they knew they’d be throwing their future overboard into some kind of prison. No, they put their thinking caps on and joined the circus and learned a skill. Ringmaster. Lion tamer. Clown. Gorgeous gal wearing something like a swimming suit with fishnet stockings. Good jobs that could take you anywhere, ain’a?

Herbie: So true, Jimmy. But nowadays the only circus one can join is to become a dumbass douchebag Republican who somehow gets to be elected into the majority of the Big Top House of Reprehensitives.

OK, that’s as far as I’ve got with my movie script for Wisenheimer, although I’m thinking of adding a tender scene later in the picture, when at a point where I ponder my responsibility for the possible/inevitable destruction of this third rock from the sun, what the fock.

(The snapshot of the scene is this: I’m off to my favorite open 24-hours food emporium Webb’s where a guy like me can get a jump-start on girding his loins in preparation for the day’s daily shit-storm to follow.):

Art: Hey Bea, how ’bout you put on your oven mitts and fix me another loaf of that coffee, would you please? 

Bea: Can do, Artie.

Art: You ever been married, Bea?

Bea: No Artie, can’t say that I have. And how about you?

Art: That would be a definite no, Bea. Not to say there haven’t been a couple, three possible future-ex Mrs. Art Kumbaleks come down the pike, but the thought of marriage can sure put the fear of the Lord into a guy, and what do I need that kind of aggravation for?

Bea: Couldn’t tell you, Artie.

Art: Cripes, I already got the fear of the IRS; the fear of coming up with one more excuse for the landlord; the fear of running out of smokes when all the stores are closed—I sure as heck don’t need to be tossing the Lord into that fearsome pot, what the fock. 

Bea: I suppose not.

Art: ’Nother reason I never got married Bea, most of the ladies I know either have a pet or always wanted one, and that’s just too risky a proposition for a successful marriage.

Bea: Really, Artie.

Art: You bet, Bea. Let me tell you a little story. This gal I know, call her Barbie, was coming out of the donut shop on her way to work one day when she saw a strange funeral procession heading to the cemetery. At the front of the procession was a long, black hearse followed by a second hearse. Following the second hearse was a solitary woman dressed all in black walking a dog on a leash, and behind her were maybe 200 women walking in single file.

Bea: You don’t say.

Art: So my gal friend goes up to the woman walking the dog and says, “I’m sorry for your loss and I know it’s a bad time to disturb you, but I’ve never, ever seen a funeral like this. May I ask whom it’s for?” And the dog lady says, “The first hearse is for my husband. My dog attacked and killed him.” My friend says, “I’m so sorry. But then who’s in the second hearse?” And the lady says, “My mother-in-law. She was trying to help my husband when the dog turned on her.” A moment passed and my friend asked, “Could I borrow that dog?” And the new widow said, “Get in line.”

Bea: Isn’t that something.

So, that’s as far as I’ve got with the script; although I’m thinking of spinning Wisenheimer into my anticipated action good/guy picture, Art Kumbalek Versus The Martians and Whatever Else You Focking Got. Necessary funding has held up the launch of that project for years, I kid you not.

So, as our quantum time on this planet dwindles atomically, take a moment to wonderfully weather these dog days of August as well as the greatest focking spectacle on Earth—the Wisconsin State Fair, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.