By Art Kumbalek
November 22, 2017
And speaking of “that time of year,” I suppose I could blather on about things I’m thankful for, but believe me you, my platter’s pretty gosh darn light on that kind of fare this year. But I can be thankful that I never had to hear myself say, “But she told me she was 18, your honor. I swear,” and I’m thankful that presently I am not serving hard time with no chance for parole.
And I’m thankful for a loyal reader/fan I’ll call “Ingrid/Mae,” who per occasion sends to me a most fan-focking-tastically designed and scripted card that never fails to indirectly remind me that the problems of one little schmo with the initials of A.K. don’t amount to hill of beans in this crazy world, what the fock. So here’s looking at you, kid. Thanks.
I got to tell you’s I’m a tad torn about what kind of essay I ought to slap together here, this being the Thanksgiving week. Naturally, I feel like blowing the whole damn thing off ’cause that’s the kind of guy I am. Besides, I’d hate to think that people might be reading my essay instead of using that time to be actively engaged with their families, friends and assorted hangers-on of whom they may hobnob with but once a year come the holidays.
And then there are those of you’s who see the focking family every time you turn around and have just about had it up to here with that crowd. Yes, you would welcome any excuse at all for a little private time, even if that means having to lock yourself in the commode, sit on the crapper and peruse my essay, ain’a?
Which reminds me to suggest that wherever you may go for this holiday, besides perhaps bringing a dish to share, do not forget to pack a piece ala concealed-carry protection in the event some in-law at a get-together has too much eggnog, gets a little cranky and all of a sudden whips out a heater and wants to blow your head clean off ’cause he just remembered you didn’t come by to lend a hand and help take the focking pier out up at his crappy cottage by Crivitz last Labor Day.
So, I got to go but here’s the least I can do for some of you: For those of you who read this before trotting off to your Thanksgiving obligations, let me give you a little something you can take along and share at your gathering so you don’t show up empty-handed like some kind of freeloading fockstick. If you’re too damn lazy to bring a dish or gallon of bourbon, a humorous story would be a nice alternative, you betcha.
So this young Ivy Leaguer from the city goes down South to visit a distant great-uncle on his farm. For the first few days, the uncle shows him the usual things—chickens, hogs, the cotton crop. After three days, it was obvious that the nephew was bored on his ass, and the uncle was running out of things to amuse him with. The uncle has an idea: “Listen son, why don’t you grab a gun, take the dogs and go shooting?” This cheers the nephew up and off he goes with the dogs. Couple, three hours later, the nephew returns. Uncle says, “So, y’all have a good time?” Nephew says, “Absolutely great! Hey, got any more dogs?” Ba-ding!
And in conclusion, let me say that wherever you find yourself this Thanksgiving holiday, god speed and remember to fight the good fight ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.