Tuesday, July 17, 2018

пошёл на хуй

From The Shepherd Express:

Jul. 17, 2018
4:24 p.m.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, considering the recent Helstinki scummit between the two dear world leaders, I’m thinking it’s past time to start learning the Russian language since it’s got to be only a matter of time until U.S. citizens are required to speak the Slavic tongue. Hey, maybe learning Russian would be the thing to do to fill the hours of your waning summertime besides stirring up another Tom Collins and cranking the AC, what the fock.
I’ve already started, as you can see by the headline to this here quasi-essay. As close as I can figure, it’s the Russian for “fock off” and/or “go fock yourself”—which would’ve been the first words out of my mouth had I been in the audience at the post-summit press conference, I kid you not.
Anyways, it’s been too pissing hot this summer to groan and moan even for a guy like me, a guy who practically, but not quite, makes a living at it. But you got to stay positive, so I hear. After all, we still do live in the greatest city in the upper Midwest—even if it feels like it got relocated to Missis-focking-sippi. So instead of a regular essay, I thought I’d trot out a list I provide for the readers once in a while of “don’ts” to help ensure that the remaining days of your summertime are safe and maybe even tolerable, what the fock, and you’re welcome.
Not Quite a Hundred Things Not To Do the Rest of Summertime
Do Not:
Eat your shorts.
Eat my shorts.
Have a buddy putting all the cocktails on his tab and at some point during the evening before bar time you say, “No thanks, I’ve had enough.”
Watch any movie with a “Dame” so-and-so somebody in it unless you got the insomnia bad.
Get stinking drunk in a boat out on the water and I’ll tell you why. I knew these three guys years ago who went out fishing along with a couple, three cases of ice-cold bottled beer. So they’re out there all goddamn day catching nothing but one hell of a buzz under the hot sun. At one point, one of the tipsy trio stands up to take a leak, loses his balance and flips head-over-heels right over the side of the boat into the water and starts to sink.
The other two bozos are so blasted that they don’t even notice their buddy has jumped ship until maybe a half-hour later. No sooner do they realize that they’re no longer three-men-in-a-tub but two, do they then dive into the water and frantically grope around for the missing mariner. Eventually, one of the loopy lifeguards grabs ahold of his overboard buddy down deep, hauls him into the boat and commences with the mouth-to-mouth.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he says, recoiling in revulsion. “I don’t remember Corky’s breath stinking to the high heaven like this, do you?” And the other guy says, “Fock no. And not only that, I don’t remember him wearing that snowmobile suit, either!” Ba-ding!
Tell your girlfriend you can’t take her kids to the church festival ’cause you got a hot date with her sister.
Forget to tip.
Make an appointment for a routine medical checkup. It’s a no-win situation. If you’re feeling OK and you go to the doctor’s and he says you’re OK, what have you gained? Not a focking thing, but you certainly have lost time and money. Now, if you go and the doc says, “Uh-oh, we got a problem here,” well, now not only do you have a problem but you’re bound to be depressed about it, and who in their right mind needs that kind of combo? You tell me.
Walk into a biker bar and shout, “Hey, which one of you candy asses used to own the wuss Electra Glide out front I just backed into with my Chevy Volt?”
Order a salad instead of a steak.
Find a pair of bum’s underwear on the street and wear them before laundering.
Forget about performing at least one good deed daily.
Get sick without health insurance.
Vote Republican.
Just stand there.
Look back.
Hold the curtain, here’s one nice DO for you’s:
Go to the Festa Italiana down there by the Summerfest this weekend. (Or as some wags would describe it, not unlike the way I have many, many times, the “Let’s See How Many Over-the-Hill Guys Named Johnny We Can Get to Sing ‘New York, New York’ Fest.”) They’ll have everything molto bene you could possibly want down there. History? Fashion? You want fashion history? Hey, if you ever wondered where the leisure suit went after it died, you come to Festa, so forget about it ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

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