Yule Never Know

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, it’s again that time of year I hear every damn time I turn around and switch on the radio or the TV for christ sakes. So I’m full-up with the so-called holiday stress and have decided to take a week off, which means there’ll be no jam-chocked essay for you’s to peruse, boo-hoo.

Instead, I’ve been called to go up over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school there on Center Street by the Humboldt to enjoy a nice cocktail or three and cool my heels until my fellas shine around so’s we can gift one another with top-notch excuses for shirking focking family yuletide obligations. Hey, come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.

Lem: Hey dere, Artie. Artie Kumbalek. What’s your pleasure, dere?

Art: Lem? Lem focking Lemke. Behind the bar, what the fock. I thought you were up in Hayward always this time of year.

Lem: That’s right, Artie. So I should be, but I come down to the Uptowner and make a couple, three bucks with the bartending here for the holidays; because between you and me, the taxidermy business, she’s a little slow this time of year—mostly house pets. Not much money in stuffing the house pet dere, Artie.

Art: Is that so, Lem.

Lem: Darn tootin’, Artie. And the customer who brings me the house pet is always so sad. I can’t bring myself to charge them anything for the job. Especially when the deceased is deceased dere—accidentally.

Art: Accidentally?

Lem: Those are the toughest jobs for the taxidermist. For example dere, Artie: Do you know what I get when somebody’s parakeet meets a lawn mower?

Art: Couldn’t tell you, Lem.

Lem: Shredded tweet.

Art: Shredded tweet?

Lem: Shredded tweet. That’s a good one dere, ain’a Artie? A little taxidermy humor. You see, you got your blades whirling on the mower, so when little Petey flies into…

Art: I get the picture, Lem.

Lem: OK then dere, Artie. So’s what’ll you be having I can brings you dere, mister?

Art: How ’bout a nice bourbon Manhattan, Lem. Heavy on the bourbon, one cube, no garnish, and keep the vermouth as an afterthought, say ’til tomorrow.

Lem: Can do. So dere, Artie, what do you hear, what do you know.

Art: What a world, ain’a Lem? Peace on Earth, goodwill towards men. Yeah, gooood focking luck.

Lem: Now, you’re not some kind of Scrooge dere, are you Artie?

Art: Heck no, Lem. It’s just that a guy like me can feel a little left out of things—especially when it comes to Santa. Hey, I like Santa just as much as the next knobshine, but he’s always tied up doing stuff with kids—he’s got no time for me.

Lem: Is that the truth, Artie?

Art: I am not jerking your beefaroni about that, Lem. The Fat Man’s calendar is booked solid but good this time of year. It’s Breakfast with Santa, Brunch with Santa, Storytime with Santa, Face-painting with Santa, Barnyard Balloon Animals with Santa. For christ sakes, I wish one of these years he’d carve out a little time for guys like me and make himself available for a couple, three adult activities for a change.

Lem: Like what, Artie?

Art: Like how ’bout Poker with Santa, Packer Game with Santa, Shots and Beers with Santa, Boys Night Out at the Gentlemen’s Club with Santa. I’m sure the jolly tub of lard would enjoy any one of those activities a heck of a lot more than having a bowl of oatmeal at the crack of dawn with a crowd of kids who still have a difficult time negotiating the nuances between a pair of training pants and a focking diaper.

Art: You betcha, Lem. Hey, how ’bout another one of those bourbon Manhattans, hold the Manhattan.

Lem: My pleasure, Artie. On me. There you go. Busy time of year though, these holidays, ain’a Artie?

Art: For some, I imagine. But not for yours truly, no sir. I know how to avoid all the hustle and the bustle.

Lem: Really, Artie.

Art: Oh yeah, Lem. While everybody else is running around like a chicken with no head in the December, I’m just sitting back with my feet up, enjoying a nice hot focking toddy and watching the Bucks game. You see, I don’t celebrate the Christmas ’til way later in January ’cause it’s just too gosh darn practical and cost-efficient not to. Take your Christmas tree, for example. Those babies can run you a lot of dough especially these days, can’t they.

Lem: I should say.

Art: Not me, Lem. I haven’t spent one thin dime on a tree since 1972. Come the second week of January, I got all the free trees I can carry, just sitting at the curbside ready for the taking. And you can usually find at least one that’s still got some tinsel on her, I kid you not. Anyways, how ’bout you, Lem. You busy with the holidays?

Lem: Cripes dere, Artie. I haven’t even had a chance to start baking my traditional fruitcakes.

Art: The fruitcake. I’ll tell you, Lem, here’s what I know, maybe I told you this before. If the Cro-Magnon man or the Piltdown Man, I forget which, hundreds and hundreds of years ago—maybe a couple, three thousand, fock if I know—had had the technology and the knowledge—not to mention the focking stomach—to have baked a focking fruitcake, I’d bet you a buck two-eighty that the archaeologist would discover, alongside their fossilized tools, and fossilized focking bones and what-not—Cro-Magnon fruitcake. Perfectly preserved and just as edible as if it had been cooked up yesterday, which to me, isn’t saying much. They do make a decorative doorstop, though.

Lem: Hey, Artie. I got a zinger for you’s you might want to put in that little column you write somewhere. Here goes: What’s the difference between snow men and snow gals?

Art: Oh, brother.

Lem: Snow balls. How ’bout that dere, Artie. Let me get you another. To the holidays.

(Hey, I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)