Wednesday, January 10, 2018

"Toddy and Soul"

From the Shepherd Express:

January 9, 2018
4:18 PM

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And yeah, that fat bastard Santa brought me one big honking head cold for Christmas that didn’t arrive ’til just the other day, thanks for nothing. I guess that must mean the knob had me down on his “bad” list. Obviously, Santa is not into the blues ’cause if he were he’d have an appreciation for the 12-bar axiom that “when you’re bad, you’re good”; so the heck with him.

But I’ll tell you one thing, if I’m going to get the shaft sideways up the dupa from Santa, I’d rather it take the form of a head cold instead of a lump of coal ’cause what the hell can you do with a lump of coal in this day and age? At least with a head cold you’re offered the opportunity to practice self-medication, and by medication I’m talking the hot toddy, and by practice I’m talking mixing one hot focking toddy after another until you are able to forge the most compatible of relationships between your brandy, your hot water, your sugar and your spices. Science.

So listen, over the holidays I received a very nice and much appreciated card from a faithful reader, which caused me to reflect on what a very lucky fellow I am after all. We’re into January and the “holiday season” is much considered to be done and done, except by me. No sir. As I’ve said many times, many ways, every day’s just another focking holiday to a guy like me, you betcha. Yes sir, you name the day, and it’s sure-as-hell bound to be some kind of a focking holiday for Mr. Art Kumbalek. Nothing but seashells, balloons, topped with a generous dollop of you got to be jerking my beefaroni, what the fock.

The Year 2017: Sucked, but good.

Watch Out Ahead, 2018: Will suck, even more. Can you believe it? And the only surefire thing I predict is that there will be a sucker born at least every minute.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that, but know that in more than 30 years of my much ballyhooed annual retrospective/predictive essays, I’ve yet to be proven incorrect everybody says. So, I’d like to break this off right here, right now, and do something nice for myself like crank up the thermostat and mix another hot focking toddy, you bet.

But before I go, I’d like to mention that for Christmas, I received a nice little story from my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine, but I already had it so I thought I’d re-gift it to you ’cause what the fock. Here, try it on:

A woman gets home, throws open the door and jubilantly shouts, “HELLO, pack your bags! I won the lottery!”
The husband says, “I can’t believe it! That’s great! Should I pack for the ocean, or should I pack for the mountains, or Europe?” She says, “I don’t care where you go. Just get the hell out.” Ba-ding!
What, not your style? A little too short, too snug? OK, then try this one on:
There was a very old man. And there he is upstairs, laying in his bed at death’s door—he’s ready to kick. All of a sudden, he smells the aroma of his favorite chocolate chip cookies coming up from the kitchen. With all the strength he’s got left, he pulls himself out of the bed, leans against the wall and slowly makes his way out of the bedroom to the stairs, grips the railing with both hands and somehow makes it downstairs. Now he’s really spent but he’s got to make it to the kitchen where that delicious smell is coming from. So he gets on his hands and knees and crawls all the way down the hall to the kitchen where he sees a sight that—if he wasn’t still breathing—he would’ve sworn he was in Heaven. There on the table, all spread out on waxed paper are literally scores and scores of those chocolate chip cookies, I kid you not—obviously one final act of love from his devoted wife; so that he would die surely a happy man. He painfully pulls himself across the kitchen floor to the table, his lips parched and parted; the wondrous taste of a chocolate chip cookie already in his mouth seemingly bringing him back to life. His aged and withered hand trembles as he reaches for a cookie at the edge of the table. WHACK! He takes a wooden spatula right across the knuckles and the wife says, “Stay out of those, mister. They’re for the funeral.” Ba-ding!

Like it? It’s yours. So I wish you’s a happy new year, since even at my age I still like to think anything’s possible, what the fock ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


1 comment:

OrbsCorbs said...

Art, I like your tie.