By Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I just got the info that Powers Boothe (“Guyana Tragedy: The Story of Jim Jones,” Con Air, Sin City, The Avengers, “Deadwood,” etc.) the deeply magnificent TV, movie, actor’s actor from out of Texas, has passed. Age 68. Died in his sleep. “Natural causes,” they report. Hey, put me down for one of those: Age 68. Natural causes. Died in his sleep. Count me in, what the fock. (Which reminds me that, at my age, I really need to get more sleep. Put that on my bucket list.)
Yes sir, natural is the way to go in each and every way, I hear. Jeez louise, 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 bet. No artificial substitute, please, like cancer, bus runover, gunshot. Got to be natural.
And I figure that dying in or during your 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 knobshine on the radio gasbagging ’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 speaking of shrinkage and healthcare, I’m reminded of a little story (Paul Ryan, Speaker of the House of Reprehensitives, I hope you’re reading):
So this American tourist goes on a trip to China, where he got pretty frisky with the ladies. A week after he came back home to the greatest country on Earth, he awoke one morning to find his manhood privates covered with bright green and purple spots. Perplexed, he went to see his doctor.
The doctor, never having seen such a thing, ordered a bunch of tests and told the guy to come back in two days for the results. Two days later he returns and the doctor says, “I’ve got bad news for you, sir. You’ve contracted Mongolian VD. It’s very rare, almost unheard of here. We know very little about it.”
Our randy tourist is a bit relieved and says, “Well, give me a shot, a pill, and fix me up, doc.” And the doctor says, “I’m sorry, there’s no known cure. We’re going to have to amputate.” In shock, the guy says, “That can’t be focking possible. I need a second opinion!”
So the next day, the guy seeks out a Chinese doctor, figuring it’s a disease from his neck of the woods and he should have experience treating it. The Chinese doctor examines him and says, “Ah yes, Mongolian VD. Rare disease.” The guy says to the doctor, “I already know that, but what can you do? My American doctor wants to amputate!”
The Chinese doctor shakes his head and laughs: “American doctors always want to operate. Lotta money for them that way. No need to operate.”
The guy breathes a sigh of relief as the Chinese doctor continues, “Yes, no need to operate. Wait two weeks and it will fall off all by itself.” Ba-ding!
Anyways, I got to run. Time to slap together some kind of résumé for that honcho FBI job opening. If our Milwaukee County Sheriff’s name can be bandied about to be our nation’s top dick, I don’t see why my name can’t also. Besides, I look snazzier in my signature headgear than he does his, what the fock.
And I can’t forget to thank my constant reader Ingrid Mae for her so-much appreciated support and benefactoring, you betcha.
And cripes, where does the time go I ask, ’cause I also better not forget to hone my annual commencement address to our newest batch o’ graduates who’ve been painstakingly educated to the point they couldn’t find their butt on a map even if they were focking sitting on it. America: We’re No. 1! Want some fries with that?
(Reminder: Fifty bucks and a case of ice-cold bottled beer is my standard fee for addressing whatever kind of group you got needs addressing.)
And in regard to what I can possibly say concerning the golden future that awaits our commencers just beyond the pale, what I got so far address-wise is, “There’s no business like show business, so get a focking job”—which is just as far as I got last year, so what the fock, guess I’m finished, time for a little shuteye ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.