By Art Kumbalek 4 hours ago
I’m
Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I got the
good news and I got the bad news—what’s the “good” and what’s the “bad” is up
to you’s, but here it is: On one hand, I’m back from a summertime Up North
odyssey 30 miles straight out of Hayward; on the other hand, I’ve returned
queasily under-the-weather to the degree that there’s not much on my platter
that I can shovel your way in the form of an essay, what the fock.
But
hey, thanks for taking care of the city—such as it is—while I was away. And
yeah, the trip was OK, thanks for asking, until focking Ernie somehow managed
to drop the car keys out of the goddamn boat for christ sakes. You know, when
you go Up North you always hear about the deer ticks and the wood ticks and I
say big focking deal, ’cause I tell you that the ones that really get under
your skin are the luna-focking-tics you’re
vacationing with, I kid you not.
Yeah
yeah, we were way up northwest around your Sawyer/Bayfield counties, a quaintly
developed area of the state where I swear Woodrow Wilson is still president.
But it’s one heck of a scenic locale, and although job opportunities seem slim,
there appears to be plenty of eating opportunities given the load of girth the
huge majority of residents have swaddled themselves with. Cripes, my buddy and political
campaign-fund solicitor Herbie goes about 225 lbs. but Haywardians always threw
in a couple extra bucks out of sympathy when he panhandled them for the cause
’cause they thought he was sick-thin from chemo treatments or something.
We
held our brainstormin’ retreat that could change the future of this country at
my buddy Ernie’s brother-in-law’s state-of-the-art summer home. Yes sir, state
of the art provided you were a contemporary of Jean Nico-focking-let. And
spacious? You bet. How would the equivalent size of three modern-apartment
bedroom closets, with equivalent toilet facilities to boot, sound to you? Well,
whatever it is you hear Up North, it sure wouldn’t be the sound of a flush
toilet if you’d have stayed where we did.
And
I’m also tight on time on account of having to meet the fellas up over by the
Uptowner tavern/charm school, so’s we can make our plans for going to see the
new Apes Planet movie. But I got to tell you, even if this movie is
Oscar-worthy, it won’t seem like a genuine Apes movie to me without Chuck
Heston in it. Talk about a guy with a style. I don’t want to say the guy
brought a curious quality of woodenness to his characters, but whereas most of
your actors put on some makeup before doing a scene, Chuck would slap on a
fresh coat of varnish and be ready for action, what the fock.
You
know, in this new batch of Apes movies, the monkeys are as smart or smarter
than the humans—like they’re super aliens from outer space somewheres. Which
reminds me, I read an article the other day about this institute out in
California to search for extraterrestrial intelligence. And I’ll tell you’s
that anytime I hear of some outfit out of Californica that goes by the name of
an institute or academy, my nut radar starts to hyperventilate. Contacting
aliens? A terrible idea. What if we get mixed up with a bunch of conquistadors
from who-knows-where? Hey, go ask the Aztecs how that panned out for them—if
you can find any.
And
speaking of species of lesser intelligence, our President Orange Circus Peanut
apparently entertains a novel notion regarding personal fitness. The following
is from a Trump biography by a couple of Washington
Post writers, by way of Kali Holloway from Alternet:
“After
college, after Trump mostly gave up his personal athletic interests, he came to
view time spent playing sports as time wasted. Trump believed the human body
was like a battery, with a finite amount of energy, which exercise only
depleted. So he didn’t work out. When he learned that John O’Donnell, one of
his top casino executives, was training for an Ironman triathlon, he admonished
him, ‘You are going to die young because of this.’”
Talk
about compassion, ain’a? And this from a guy who was supposed to have a great
fantastic plan for health care, a great beautiful plan—part of which, I
imagine, that if you now couldn’t afford the astro-focking-nomical health
insurance plan, insurance companies would be mandated to rent you a shovel so’s
you could choose to dig your own focking grave, what the fock.
Cripes,
I got to go relax. Anyways, it’s nice to be back where a guy like me can see concrete
again wherever he looks, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
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