You Got to Have Heart

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I may just be too cranky more-than-usual to be able to put up with the additional aggravation of having to slap together an essay for you’s to boot, I kid you not. There’s no need to wonder why.

October 9. The Green Bay Packers. Win/loss is now 2 and 3. I repeat: 2 and focking 3. Oh for christ sakes, I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty they could’ve had Art Kumbalek taking snaps behind center, or running a receiver route so as to drop a sure-fire catch the last five games and the won-lost column may likely read the same. 

Otherwise, the past Monday was not without benefit. After all, it was Columbus Day (now paired with Indigenous Peoples’ Day, the singular named day that ought to be celebrated each and every day of the focking year; so down to Davy Jones’ locker with you’s, Cristoforo Colombo, to sleep with the fishes, as so many mobsters have been fated). 

Cripes, that Columbus-schmutz day always gets moved around on the calendar like it’s an Easter Sunday or something. I do appreciate the day, however, for the simple fact that I cannot receive any goddamn overdue bills in the mail, which then forces me to piss away a lot of time concocting the excuses for why I still can’t come up with the dough when those bullshit bills come back a’ knocking.

Anyways, I hear we got a presidential election coming up the tubes like a bad burrito right around the corner, which being next year, for christ sakes.

And of course, I’ve tossed my orange hat into the ring so as to become America’s Big Chief, as always (I’ve been a candidate since 1986, back when Ronald focking Reagan could still recognize some of his marbles) so’s I can be awarded the golden ticket that would present me the big-boy seat on a comfy big-time chair snug to the Oval Office desk. 

Once elected, my very first word to the American Amber Waves of Public upon inauguration would be this: “Peace!And please keep your focking fascist pants on, you goddamn MAGA morons. I won, and you jackanape bozos lost again, criminy. How ’bout you election crybabies go back to grade-school arithmetic class where they tried to teach you dunderheads that ‘more’ is ‘greater’ than ‘less,’” jeez louise, you focking losers.”

OK. That might be a tad more than one word to comprise my initial presidential address. Fock it. Math stuff, like how may angels can you fit on the head of a pin, was never my strong suit back at schooling from Our Lady In Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough. Neither was attendance, so what the fock.

Yeah yeah, you run for American public office these days, seems you got to heartily belong to some kind of religious affiliation schmutz. For example, I’ll tell you’s, you come out and say you are a true follower of the Aztec’s Nahua religion—human sacrifice a specialty by offering a victim’s heart to Tonatiuh—and you will be a shoe-in to gain that coveted seat on the local school board, I kid you not.

And speaking of religions, I’ll tell you’s, those Catholics sure don’t seem to be fondling the power like they used to be, say, back when JFK was the supposed puppet as the pontiff pulled the strings. The Church just hasn’t been able to change with the times and they’re losing out to these nondenominational dollar-praise mega-churches where everything’s one big cash-grab hootenanny. 

I figure the Church needs to make a couple, three wholesale changes to put more dupas in the pews. How ’bout minute-Masses, buffet-style Communion wafer with a nice crab cake on the side, cash handouts for clean confessions. Priest shortage? Not enough guys to do the job? Hell, then let some women fill the father-gap. And if the Church works like any other big-time corporation, they won’t have to pay the ladies anywhere close to what they give the regular padres, what the fock.

And it seems to me like the prelate promo department has got to do a better job. How ’bout a “Cushion Sunday”—free seat cushion to all those 12 and older—’cause I’m telling you those hard-wood pews have got to go. Sit on those babies for an hour here and there, and you figure this: “Screw this. I’m skipping Mass next time. So, what I go to Hell, big focking deal, my aching butt’s already there.” 

And what would be so terrible if when Uriah Heep snakes down the aisle wielding that fishing pole with the basket on the end looking for a handout, that Heep couldn’t toss you a mini candy bar or box of popcorn in return for your buck two-eighty contribution? Something to tide you over ’til brunch, perhaps?

So cripes, Israel v. Hamas? Got my hard hat on. Got my eyes open. Haven’t heard the odds out of Vegas as yet. What a world. 

But just a reminder, we got the bullshit holiday called Sweetest Day coming up, Oct. 21 so I’ve heard. I am informed from radio commercials I stumble upon that such a day is all about diamond stores, chocolate stores, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

And so I’m reminded of a little story:

Two guys, one says to his friend: “My wife complains that I never buy her flowers.” Friend says, “What the fock, I didn’t even know she sold flowers.”

Ba-ding! And forward, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.