So
listen, I’m back from my so-called vacation—can’t
believe President Orange Circus Peanut didn’t give Alaska back to the Russians
at the G20 Summit—just in time to land smack-dab in the middle of this
so-called Bastille Days Downtown Drink Beer in the Street and Oui-Oui in Les
Boulevard Fest. Focking swell.
Ba-ding! And thanks again to reader
Ingrid Mae. When I’m governor, no taxes for you ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
Once
again this fest coincides with the running-of-the-bulls-shit they got going
over in your Pamplona, Spain, which reminds me of an idea I had some years back
on how our Frenchie-palooza could attract a more culturally diverse patronage
(other than young white people walking around in circles)—a patronage that
would be brave, not cowardly, in pissing away their spend-able francs on
parlez-vous and what-not, what the fock.
I
suggested our Downtown French shebang could garner the annual international
attention and fervor like the “running of the bulls.” So why not during the
Bastille Days we periodically let loose a couple, three rampaging bulls at the
swell corner of Jefferson & Wells so as to attract the wealthy
international traveler bent on confronting death? Hey, you tell me.
So
yeah, I took a week off and now I’m back from my focking vacances, excuse my French. And why I go on a vacation, I can’t
tell you. All I get from a vacation is a reminder of a definition for insanity:
You keep repeating some kind of stupid-ass dead-end behavior, each time
thinking: “O Lord, please let the outcome be a little better just this one
time, would you, for christ sakes.” Yeah, I know that’s also the definition of
newspaper-column writing, but I’ll deal with that another time ’cause I got
other fish to fry.
You
betcha, my vacations never turn out the way I’d prefer. You want to know what
my vacations are like? I’ll tell you what they’re like. They’re like what
happened to this guy I know. Here:
One day this
guy I know is on his way to lunch and walks right by a snazzy travel agency
with a sign in the window that says, “Four-day cruise down the Murray River—$40
all inclusive!”
He can’t believe
the price, and a nice relaxing river cruise was exactly what he had in mind for
vacation that year. So he races into the agency, slaps two Jacksons down on the
counter and tells the agent he wants to book a Murray cruise. Agent says, “Very
good, sir,” whips out a baseball bat and knocks the guy stone-cold out.
So he comes to
and finds himself strapped to a floating log racing down a white-water river. A
little ways down, he sees another guy strapped to a log rolling down the other
side of the river.
“Forty-dollar
Murray cruise?” he shouts out. “Hey, you betcha,” says his fellow cruiser on
the other side.
“This blows.
I’ll bet we don’t even get breakfast,” he yells. “I don’t know,” says the other
guy, “we did last year.” Ba-ding!
Anyways,
my “week off” wasn’t to be one of those vacation
vacations where you just sit around on your cushy butt spending dough in hopes
to convince yourself you’re having a good time, no sir.
Listen,
as a candidate to be your next governor of America’s Dairyland, I’ve heard tell
that our Badger State is one of these so-called “swing” states that could flip
either way, especially for a presidential election. So I thought it would be
wise for me to tour outposts like your Ladysmith, Cadott, Cornell, Black River
Falls, Solon Springs, Town of Barnes, and bamboozle the bumpkins with my
glad-hand just like a regular would-be governator.
But
I’ll tell you, “swing” is not the first word that comes to mind during a jaunt
through these hinterland haunts, unless come Saturday night you hang yourself
from a beam in the basement, just for something to do.
And
it’s a mystery to me that candidates for office believe that a quick stop here,
a pop-in there, can do very much to jack-up the opinion of elected
representatives held by the bucolic wing of the electorate. Cripes, I remember
a story from some years ago that shows just how much work needs to be done to
improve a would-be statesman’s standing with the cornfield crowd. I don’t know
if this story’s true but here it is anyways, what the fock:
On Friday afternoon, the entire state legislature of a state
located not-even-close to either coast was aboard the official state bus
touring a remote rural area when the driver lost control and crashed the bus
into a ditch. Sometime later, a local farmer sauntered by and upon finding the
politicians lying in the road, buried them.
It was reported that county sheriffs then arrived on the scene
just as the farmer finished tamping the dirt down over the last member of this
state’s legislature. Upon questioning the farmer about the wreck, a sheriff
asked, “So you buried ALL the politicians? Were they all dead?”
The farmer reportedly answered: “Well sir, some said they weren’t, but
you know how them politicians lie.”
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