Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear that the shebang down by the lake is faring finely, but I got to say that for an old fart like myself, Summerfest might be OK to visit if there wasn’t so much rackety music everywhere all the time. I stopped shining around the joint ever since they got rid of the Midway activities years ago. That was the only area worth perusing because it was educational. How often does one get to see mummies with shrunken heads, or alligator boy? Not often enough.
Used to be the attractions of the Midway were the only thing for the family to enjoy down there. Dad could attempt to toss a 10-inch basketball through a 2-inch hoop and drop ten bucks on a 79-cent felt rodent while the kids could scramble their gray matter on amusing rides always well-maintained and operated by the finest staff of tattooed, toothless safety experts this side of a halfway house for biker Nazis from hell, what the fock.
Anyways, I’m a little too busy to whip out a regular essay here since I am presently blowing the dust and cobwebs off my résumé, such as it is, ’cause I abso-focking-lutely would like to grab that vacant seat on the Supreme Court, you betcha. Pays $250 grand each and every year with plenty of time off, plus you get to wear a robe to work. Sign me up. Cripes, I’d like to be the Hugh Hefner of the court—show up in a swanky silk robe, a nice bourbon Manhattan in one hand, the other around the waist of my latest squeeze. Could be a sweet gig to swing the gavel, I kid you not.
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Of course, I’d need Trumpel-thinskin to give me the high sign to get on the court, which could prove a bit problematic since we don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on, say, anything. Especially that immigration bug he’s got lodged up his fat ass sideways, what the fock. He’s like the Bizarro Mr. Rogers when it comes to the huddled masses, ain’a? “No way, José. You won’t be my neighbor.” What a complete fockstick that guy is. (Think he’d invite the Russian soccer squad to the White House if they win the World Cup? Bet on it.)
On the other hand, he could take a gander at the orange topgear I wear and be bamboozled into thinking I’m trying to emulate his hirsute style and take it as a compliment. But the bottom line is that I am as equally qualified to be a Supreme Court justice as the Orange Circus Peanut is to be president of the United States, so what the fock, what a world.
And I’m hearing a load of yakety yak about how a reconfigured Trumpenstein Supreme Court would take a hard look at Roe v. Wade, which I thought was settled law for christ sakes. Hey, how long does this focking abortion uproar have to linger like hell’s hangover anyways, huh? Is there some compromise that could be had here? Theoretically personally speaking, when I figure the cost of an abortion I might have to chip in on versus 18 years’ worth of youthful gym sneakers, I light a votive for Harry Blackmun.
Yeah, whatever did happen to compromise anyways, I’d like to focking know. It could mean the best of both possible worlds: Abortion, OK, but maybe not according to the druthers of your most ideal time; so maybe instead of a second trimester thing, you’d wait ’til about the fifty-focking-second trimester, like when the kid’s about 13 and gives you some sass talk. Sure, that may seem late in the pregnancy to your average right-to-lifer who curiously is often gung-ho on the death penalty, so you could placate them by agreeing to meet them halfway and let them execute young shoplifters and masturbators at around the age of 13, or something like that.
People these days in all three branches of government have got to learn to compromise, like that great old American statesman Henry Clay. In Whitefish focking Bay, they even named a street after his butt. Nobody remembers what political party he belonged to, but party and Whitefish Bay don’t seem to go together anyways, so what the fock.
So in conclusion, in the event that my essays may be used in some kind of school-age summertime remedial reading program, here’s a little riddle the youngsters might enjoy: What’s green and hangs on trees? Give up? Giraffe snot.
Ba-ding-ding-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
