February 27, 2018
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’d like to express my appreciation to you’s, practically an academy of readers, for this award of your attention. I realize you’ve had to sit through one heck of a lot of words during the passage of this week’s issue. But wouldn’t you know, now that I finally get my crowning shot of spotlight here at the end of this production, the producers of this print show called a newspaper pleaded with me (just as I commenced to whip out my essay) to please make my comments brief as possible ’cause they still had another commercial they had to cram into this shebang, focking-A.
So this week, brief my comments shall be. And besides, I may have a case of the post-Olympics traumatic syndrome thing, so this is no time for me to work like a dog. And where did that expression—“work like a dog”— come from, anyways. Ten out of nine dogs wouldn’t know from an honest day’s labor if you focking paid ’em; unless you call piddlin’ back of the Barcolounger, scarfing up its own barf, gnawing on the business end of a squeaky and yapping its trap off every goddamn time the focking doorbell rings an honest day’s work, what the fock.
But I will say this about those Olympics of the winter. It’s nice to see that so many of the young white people have spent their time, effort and somebody’s money to acquire employable marketable skills ’cause I tell you this: Now that the final gun has sounded on these Games, those kids can write their own ticket ’cause I would imagine no matter how bad the economy sucks, you just got to figure there’s always a need for your biatholinist, your bobsledder, your halfpiper, ain’a?
And I’m thinking maybe I could cash in on the recent Olympics somehow, too, since everybody else seems to. I thought maybe I’d slap together a nice, souvenir coffee-table keepsake book: “The 2018 Winter Games with Art Kumbalek.” Photos, you bet: me asleep on the couch “watching” pairs figure skating; me at my fridge searching for another nice ice-cold bottled Pabst Blue Ribbon; me back on the couch again, working the remote like a banshee to see if there was anything better on, what the fock.
I’d include some written personal observations, stuff that could apply to any Winter Olympics to broaden the readership. Observations like, “These downhill ski guys think they’re such hot-shit cheese whiz. Three-four minutes, bada-bing! They’re done, finished, down the hill. Big, focking deal. Whatever happened to delayed gratification? Listen, I’ve been going downhill steadily for nearly fifty focking years, Jack, and I still haven’t hit bottom. But instead of a medal, I get letters of recommendation which state that by the end of the month my this-or-that account will be awarded to this-or-that collection agency, what the fock.”
One more thing, people right and left have been asking me about what I’ve given up for the Lent. I got to tell you’s, here we are a couple, three weeks into the season and I’ve yet to come up with an answer. And as a perennial candidate for president, I really ought to come up with something if for no other reason than to maybe score a point or two with the Christian right crowd, ’cause I got a feeling my support amongst the Jesus-hadists tends toward the flaccid at best, I kid you not.
And they are a difficult bunch to please. Plus, I imagine they may be particularly cranky right now, what with the claims by some that a so-called tomb of Jesus has been located, a tomb that indicates the guy was in a family way—as in having been saddled with a wife and child—and what would be so wrong if he had a focus on the family? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you, if this tomb turns out legit, the focksticks who are so goddamn down on the gay marriage and its practices ought to be a little cheered by the thought that if the Lord had a family, he more than likely wasn’t what you might call “light in the sandals.”
So I’ve got to go but I’ll leave you with a nice little story I’ve got left over from Valentine’s Day:
A woman is chatting with the neighbor lady over the backyard fence when she sees her husband coming home carrying a bunch of some kind of flowers. “Isn’t that nice, he’s bringing you flowers,” the neighbor lady says. The woman says, “Oh, great, just what I need, another weekend flat on my back with my feet up in the air.” And the neighbor says, “What—you don’t have a vase?”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m, Art Kumbalek and I told you so.