Tuesday, October 31, 2017

"Clocked and Loaded"

From the Shepherd Express


I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So I hear this BBC TV documentary about gun violence is causing quite the stir around the town. What the fock, too many guns in Milwaukee? Hey, how ’bout too many guns in the whole damn state, the whole damn country, for christ sakes.

I’ll tell you’s, this weekend I’m investing that extra hour we get from the daylight saving time into my campaign for Badgerland governor ’cause after I knock off Gov. Snidely Whiplash in the election, my first order of business will be to change our State Motto from “Forward” to “Duck!!!” Ba-ding!

Second order of business for Gov. Kumbalek will be to flip the State Bird at anyone who buys the notion that Guns & Plenty is a healthy alternative to a diet of common focking sense. And third order of biz will be to dash off a note to the N(o) R(ationality) A(ssociation) on official governor stationery. The note will contain this constitutional clarification: The Second Amendment mentions a “well regulated militia” but not a word about “well-armed village idiots.”

Then, following all that business and provided I hadn’t been already either called to higher office or called home to the lord by way of ricochet, I may toy with the idea that besides members of law enforcement and the military, the only state citizen to be legally allowed to focking traipse around with a holstered heater would be Gov. Kumbalek—a Gov. Kumbalek empowered not only to make a citizen’s arrest but empowered to make a citizen’s execution, to boot. And I already got a list, buddy; you betcha, I got a list, I kid you not.

Thirty-first Year On the Job Full Disclosure: So the other day I was going through my That Time of Year file, and I saw that we got the holidays coming up like a bad burrito, so I thought maybe I ought to go get a nice haircut for the season—since I’ve always been a big believer in the notion that when you look good, you feel good. But instead, I figured I’d keep my hat on and save the buck two-eighty I’d have dropped at the barber’s and instead visit the Uptowner tavern/charm school and invest my hard-earned dough in support of an even more foolproof notion than the one I just mentioned, which is: When you drink good, you feel good.

I ordered an ice-cold bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon and wouldn’t you know, sort of like Marcel focking Proust when he took a bite from a piece of tea-soaked toast those years ago, I took one sip from the PBR and involuntarily the past became present and the present, past.

And so I remembered that haircuts are stupid ’cause after you get one, there is no way not to look like an absolute dick—if not the second you climb out of the chair, then five-10-15 years down the road when some kid sees a photo of you with that haircut and says, “Jeez, he actually wanted his haircut to look like that? What a dick.”

And that’s why I always wear the orange hat. No one can see what kind of haircut I’m sportin’ ’cause the one thing a guy who’s big in the public eye like me can least afford is to look like a dick. Sure, an Adolf Hitler was able to pull off looking like a dick and yet maintain some kind of credibility with his crowd, but that was 80-90 years ago for christ sakes, back when people were more accepting of the “dick look” worn by members of their families or race than they are in today’s hopped-up fashion-crammed times.

Back then, seems to me most people maintained a quaintly cavalier attitude toward the importance of fashion. It was what was underneath the bad haircut and crappy taste in wardrobe—not the other way around—that was cause for concern, that got one’s dander up to go grab the lickin’ stick.

And…I forgot my point, what the fock. But speaking of remembrance, I am reminded of a little story, perhaps to bring some cheer to those I know could stand a little cheer, lo, these days:

Two elderly ladies had been friends for many decades. Over the years they had shared all kinds of activities and adventures. Lately, their activities had been limited to meeting a few times a week to play cards.

So, the other day during a round of Canasta one looked at the other and said, “Now don’t get mad at me...I know we've been friends for a long time...but I just can’t think of your name! I’ve thought and thought, but I can’t remember it. This is so embarrassing, but please tell me what your name is.” Her friend raised her eyebrows, and after a couple, three minutes she cleared her throat and said, “Oh my. How soon do you need to know?”

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

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