Yule Fooling

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Photo illustration: Dave Zylstra

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it’s that time of December, again, when I am duty-bound to hypothesize that a whole bunch of you’s are likely struck dumb by your holiday shopping obligations, as in, “What should I get for whom and which lottery game do I need to enter so’s I can hit the jackpot and pay for it all?”

And as always, I suggest that you economically give all on your list the gift of laughter ’cause it’s a treasure that won’t cost you a focking dime.

So you betcha, I’ve decided to reopen Art’s Ba-ding! Boutique, all products made in America, yeah, like I can afford to pay a tariff on importing a humorous little story out of Mongolia that includes a yak, a yurt, Genghis Khan and a ferkakta mother-in-law, what the fock.

And so, what follows are a couple, three items collecting dust on my “Mirth on a Shelf” that may interest you—some used, some returned, some traditionally perennial. Feel free to stroll around the page and choose whatever catches your eye.

OK, here’s one for you to try on that’s got a little religious flavor to it—always tasty what with all the baby Jesus-hoopla lathered onto the Yuletide:

So this church minister croaks and finds himself waiting in line outside the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is this guy wearing jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses and he’s got one of those Mohawk haircuts. And Saint Peter asks the guy, “Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?”

The guy says to Saint Peter, “You talking to me? Are you talking to me?” St. Pete says that indeed he is. And the guy says, “Listen, I’m Travis Bickle. Taxi driver. New York City. Listen you fockers, you screwheads. Like I said, here’s a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit, here is someone who stood up.”

Saint Peter consults his list and says to taxi-driver Bickle, “Take this silken robe and golden staff my son, and enter the Kingdom.”

So now it’s the minister’s turn. He stands erect, clears his throat, and with a stentorian boom-of-a-voice, pronounces, “I am James Dobnobson, pastor of the All Clean and Righteous Family Saints On High mega-church for the last 43 years.” Saint Pete checks his list, frowns, and says to the minister, “Yeah, OK, you’re in I guess, but here, you take this cotton robe and wooden staff.” Minister says, “Just a minute, there must be some mistake. The man before me was nothing but a taxi driver, and he receives a silken robe and golden staff. How can this be?”

And St. Peter says, “This is Heaven, sir. Up here, we judge by results. And so I will tell you that while you preached, people slept; and while he drove, people prayed.” Ba-ding!

Let’s visit the Kids Department, shall we:

A little kid sits on Santa’s lap and Santa says, “What would you like for Christmas?” Kid says, “A focking swing set.” Santa says, “Hoh-hoh. You’ll need to ask nicer than that if you want Santa to bring you presents. Let’s try again. What else would you like?” Kid says, “A focking sandbox for the side yard.”

Santa says, “That’s no way to talk to Santa. OK, once more. What else would you like for Christmas?” The kid thinks for a minute, says, “I want a focking trampoline in the front yard.”

So Santa lifts the boy off his lap and talks to the kid’s parents. He tells them what the kid said and says, “Best that you don’t get him anything for Christmas except dog shit. Put a pile of canine doo-doo in the back yard where he wants the swing set, put another pile in the side yard where he wants the sandbox, and another pile in the front yard where he wants the trampoline. That should make him sing a different tune.”

Christmas morning, the kid goes downstairs to open his presents and there aren’t any. He runs out the back door, looks around, and comes back in. He runs out the side door, looks around, and comes back in. He runs out the front door, looks around, and comes back in, shaking his head. His father slyly asks, “Anything wrong, son?”

Kid says, “Yeah. That fat bastard Santa brought me a focking dog, but I can’t find him anywheres.” Ba-ding!

And I well know that his can be a bittersweet time of year as we remember those no longer with us; so over here in the boutique I got something to sweeten the stew for you’s:

Three friends die in a car crash and find themselves at the Pearly Gates of Heaven. Before entering, they’re each asked a question by St. Peter: “When you are in your casket and friends and family are mourning, what would you like to hear them say about you?”

First guy answers, “I would like to hear them say that I was a great doctor and great family man.” Second guy answers, “I would like to hear that I was a wonderful husband and schoolteacher who made a huge difference in the lives of children.”

And the last guy (me) says, “I sure as heck would like to hear them all say... LOOK!!! THE FOCKER’S MOVING!!!” Ba-ding!

Okey-dokey, got to close up shop. Hope you found something you liked, you cheap bastards, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.