Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, things here at the hermitage are relatively copacetic, thanks for asking—not much to do, which is just the way I like it, what the fock.
And speaking of “not much to do,” now that Uncle Joe Biden seems to have his gang’s nomination locked up, I’ve been waiting for the phone to ring and Joe to ask if he could interest me in taking the vice president gig. And when he does, well, betcha by golly, wow. A position where the job description includes “not much to do” and pays $235,100 each and every year? Yeah, I think I could make myself available.
And to boot, I’d be the smart political choice for Joe and I’ll tell you’s why: A Biden-Kumbalek ticket abso-focking-lutely puts the “swing” into swing-state Wisconsin come Electoral College time, ain’a? Yes sir, gaffes galore for a better tomorrow.
Anyways, I’ve been trying to stay on top of the non-corona news, of which there isn’t a whole lot. I did read the other day that some celebrity died in their sleep, “natural causes” be the apparent cause—which reminded me that, at my age, and lo, these days, I really need to get more sleep, what the fock.
But I’ll tell you’s, “natural” is the way to go in each and every way, I hear. Cripes, every other goddamn TV ad begs you to buy this or that ’cause it’s “natural”; so this or that has just got to be gosh darn good for you ’cause it’s “natural,” you betcha.
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And I figure that dying in, or during, one’s sleep, of natural causes is also a financially sound way to bid adieu—to say “aloha, all” before a boatload of MRIs, PET scans, CAT scans, X-rays, chemotherapy, lying in a ho$pital bed puking sick for weeks, sends you to bankruptcy and the poor house from the bills from the crappy or nonexistent health insurance bullshit. Yeah, I’ll take the “natural” croak in my sleep—cuts costs, I figure. Ha! Take that, you focking HMOs.
Cripes, just this morning I heard some guy on the radio talking ’bout the skyrocket costs for the health care, and that if all the people took more of what-you-call the preventative measures, these costs could enjoy a bit of shrinkage. That’s just got to be good news for the uninsured, ain’a? Take your preventative measures—that way if you get good and honking sick, it might only cost you one billion focking bucks instead of two for christ sakes.
And I’ve been noticing here and there on the online, people offering recipes for this and that for the people that can’t afford the carryout/delivery during these isolated days. As a public service, I’d like to offer you’s one of mine own favorite dishes, customized for those who refuse to dine on the barnyard animal; a meatless alternative that ought to satisfy the entire family.
Also, you can get the ingredients at the grocery store, but don’t forget to wear a mask. As for myself, I’ve been sporting a Richard Nixon mask I still have from a Halloween party back in the ’70s. I tape the nose and mouth, and cripes, I walk into the store and I’m ready to carpet bomb Cam-focking-bodia, I kid you not
Art's Delicious Homemade Peanut Butter Sandwiches
1. Buy a loaf of white bread. (All sandwiches are best made with white bread. Sure, go ahead, make a sandwich with a non-white bread but I’ll tell you this, it's no kind of sandwich I’d ever serve or eat.)
2. Yank out two pieces from the loaf.
3. Make sure you got some kind of peanut butter you keep in a cabinet and not in the goddamn refrigerator ’cause that refrigerated kind is pure hell to smear on when you’re working with white bread. OK, now spread a hunk of the peanut butter onto your two slabs of bread and don’t take all day.
4. Put the two pieces of bread together (when properly prepared, the sides with the peanut butter on them ought to face each other) and go turn on the TV.
5. Voilà! You got yourself some bon focking appétit in less than 60 seconds, Jack.
(Hold on a second, it’s the phone and I got to take it, could be Joe Biden.)
“What do you hear, what do you know?”
(It’s my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine. I’ll make it snappy.)
“Jimmy, I’m right in the middle of something here.”
“Yeah Artie, but let me quick run this recipe by you that you might want to give out to your couple, three readers ’cause what else you got to write about, ain’a? It’s this Irish dish called haggis.”
“I just got done giving out a great recipe, Jimmy. And just so you know, haggis is some kind of Scottish concoction. It’s not Irish.”
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“You got to be jerking my beefaroni. But they’re right next to each other on the map, ain’a, so what the fock. And when you hear what all goes into this haggis, you just got to ask yourself how come there aren’t the popular ethnic restaurants in our town for the Scottish like there are for the Mexicans and the Italians and what-not. Just listen to these ingredients: One sheep’s pluck and bag...”
“Pluck?”
“Oh yeah, Artie. The ‘pluck’ would be your sheep’s heart, liver, windpipe and lungs; and the bag—that would be your sheep’s stomach. Now, you also got to need a quarter-pound of suet—jeez louise, a quarter-pound of suet. Sounds good already ain’a, Artie? Where was I here… pluck, bag, quarter-pound suet... Oh yeah, then you need 1 to 2 pounds oatmeal; 2 onions; pepper and salt—they don’t say how much, but I’m guessing about 50 pounds each ought to do it.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And you need a half teaspoon of mixed herbs, for your flavor you know. And that’s it for the ingredients. Piece of cake, Artie.”
“Yeah, I wish.”
“So now here’s the steps you got to follow. One: Wash bag in cold water, bring to boil, scrape and clean. Add salt and pepper and leave overnight...”
“Or how ’bout ‘leave for good.’”
“Yeah, good one, Artie. OK, two: Wash pluck, put into pan of boiling water, boil 2 hours with windpipe draining into jar—man oh man, I can taste this baby, already. Three: Cut off windpipe—hey, ouch! That’s got to hurt, ain’a?”
“I’m sure they mean the windpipe from the sheep’s pluck, Jimmy—not yours.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Boy, that’s a relief. Let’s see, after that business with the windpipe, it says to mince best part of lungs and heart, removing gristle, grate best parts of liver—you know, Artie, this is starting to sound a lot like my last check-up at the doctors. Now, four: Add toasted oatmeal, minced suet and onions, salt, pepper and herbs, and enough liquid in which pluck was boiled, to moisten.”
“And then I suppose you call the EP-focking-A to find out how to legally dump the rest of the liquid.”
“Doesn’t say about that, Artie. Five: Nearly fill stomach bag, keeping fat, or smooth side, inside. Okey-dokey, no problemo. Six: Sew up, then prick well... Doesn’t say what to use to prick with, though.”
“With any pluck, you’ll find something.”
“Yeah, I got an idea already. Then place on plate in pot of boiling water. And finally, seven: Boil gently 3 hours.”
“Hours? You sure it doesn’t say weeks, Jimmy?”
“No sir. Says ‘hours,’ Artie, believe it or not. And that’s it. I’ll tell you, the Scots call it haggis but in any language—it’s just good eatin’. And now I know why those guys in Scotland take to wearing skirts.”
“How’s that, Jimmy.”
“I figure if you got the guts to chow down sheep guts, you got the guts to do anything, what the fock.”
Bon appétit all, and don’t forget to wash your insides with plenty of alcohol for an hour or two couple, three times daily just to be safe ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
