Wonder Man

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Art Kumbalek as Mars God of War

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, given my age and health schmutz whilst battling the after-effects of a stool softener taken the evening before the other day, I figured to begin to take a peek into neglected boxes of memorabilia (first grade group photo included, what a crush on Ardella Heglund I had, she who sported colored rubber bands around her ankles) and such to see if anything I had collected if not hoarded through the years could result into me being a near-millionaire so’s to keep the health insurance wolves at bay, what the fock.

As a work in progress, of note I’ve found a Marvel Comics The Avengers issue #9 that on the cover “Marvel proudly introduces…WONDER MAN.” Remember him? Yeah, neither do I.

Then I pulled up a Little Golden Book, Scuffy The Tugboat, copyright 1955, where a toy-store boat was eventually denied his quest for freedom by a man in a polka-dot tie and his little boy.

And then I found my first true baseball glove, a Luis Aparicio signed piece of some kind of animal hide, a yellowish glove that took me all the way through Little League to two-time Pony League All-Star defending the middle infield over there at second base and sometimes right field when a lefty came to bat, I kid you not.

But lo, my nascent career on the diamond was kiboshed when mom and pop Kumbalek decided my high-school summers were better spent as an employee of the Milwaukee County Parks System where I could pull down a lofty $1.10 an hour over at the Greenfield Park bath-house/swimming pool, checking kids’ feet for some kind of fungus schmutz, cleaning toilets and roundabout litter maintenance..

Pero, alabanza, Luis, the Hall of Famer, Rookie of the Year and 13-time All Star. Born in Maracaibo, Venezuela, played 18years in the Major Leagues whilst never being an U.S. Citizen. The senor is now 91-years-old living out his days in Venezuela as a winter-league béisbol manager.

Yeah, the Venezuela all about the news, which translates to “Little Venice,” derived from the Italian Veneziola, named by explorer and bull-shit artist Amerigo Vespucci in 1499, an Italian guy you might’ve heard about if you paid attention during geography class.

Dios mio, Venezuela, America’s 51st state? Greenland, number 52? Canada, number 53? Badgerland’s Racine/Kenosha, 54?

What the fock, Greenland? Why not? Trumpty-Dumbty says we might need to take Greenland “the hard way,” and how “hard” could that be?

Cripes, they got a population of 56,000-57,000 and I got a feeling that much of their fighting force by number includes seniors, mothers, kids and harp seals. USA!

World domination can be a tricky row to hoe, just ask Jesus, Alexander the Great, The Plague, Napoleon, various James Bond villains or the Walt Disney Company.

Of course, there’s the National Football League.

Hey now! From out of one of my boxes I hooked another Little Golden Book, “Robert and his new Friends,” copyright 1951 ( talk about a page-turner).

Jeez louise, but I got my hopes up that I’ll find “The Little Red Caboose” or the classic masterpiece “Mister Dog: The Dog Who Belonged to Himself.” And maybe a couple, three baseball cards from back in the day to boot. Hoyt Wilhelm, anyone? Ca-ching!

Memories must have some value, you think? Especially when they can be turned into cold hard cash to afford one the continuance of remembering, or something like that.

So, before I go to my next Columbia/St. Mary’s hullabaloo, I really ought to finally close-up Art’s Ba-ding! Boutique now that the holidays are mercifully focking kaput. But I see I’ve got one item left, so take it if you can use it. It’s yours:

A very spiritual and holy priest dies and is swept up to heaven. St. Peter greets him at the Pearly Gates, and says, “Hello Father, welcome to Heaven! You are very well known here, and as a special reward because you are such a devout man, we’re going to grant you anything you wish even before we enter the Kingdom. What can I grant you?”

And the priest says, “I am a great admirer of the Virgin Mother. I’ve always wanted to talk to her.” St. Pete nods his head to one side, and who should approach the priest but the Virgin Mary!

The priest is overcome with joy and says, “Mother, I have always been a great admirer of yours and followed your life as best I could. I have studied everything I could about you—every painting and portrait ever made of you, and I’ve noticed without fail that you are portrayed bearing a wistful expression. Forever I’ve wondered what it was that made you seemingly so melancholy.” And Mother Mary says, “Honestly, I was really hoping for a girl.” Ba-ding!

That’s it for this week. See you next time if I remember, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.