by Art Kumbalek
Hey Artie, is there anything that can be done so that the Christmas and the New Year’s can always be on the same days every year? I got a heck of a time keeping track of when they’re supposed to be year to year and sometimes I end up missing them altogether. And when the Christmas comes on the weekend, the workingman really gets screwed, ain’a?
—Your buddy Little Jimmy Iodine
I’m with you, pally. The holiday days need be made more convenient and just gosh darn more focking practical for the modern man. Behold, let’s say we could give a rat’s ass as to when the actual Dec. 24 fell and instead always put the Christmas Eve on a Monday with the Christmas Day always on the Tuesday. Eureka!—most of us could worm a four-day weekend out of a set-up like that and we’d arrange the New Year’s likewise. Sure, there’d be plenty of heat coming out the ears of your blubbering, blabbering traditionalists. Screw ’em. Where were they when the powers-that-be dicked with Lincoln, Washington, King and Columbus and made their big day always be a Monday? Hey, Jesus may have died for our sins but the Ol’ Railsplitter freed the slaves and that ain’t beanbag.
Dear Sir: A lady friend of mine believes that Santa can’t possibly be a man. Logic tells her Santa is a woman for more than the reasons I’ll mention here: Men can’t pack a bag. Men don’t answer their mail. They aren’t interested in stockings unless someone’s wearing them, not to mention that being responsible for Christmas would require commitment.
—Stormy Daniels
I would suggest that your friend simply consider the symbolic imagery that surrounds the Santa mythology to know that the fat man is no “skirt.” To deliver his goods, Santa comes in and out a hot chimney repeatedly rather than slide up and down on a big ol’ candy cane. According to my good book, that alone qualifies him as a male of the heterosexual nature who really knows from around-the-world in a single night, ain’a?
Hey turkey neck, how come you’re so full of crap all the time?
—Ernie
Yes, holiday stress has been known to smite the best of us, even the knobshine who sent me the above letter. This stress can cause some to lash out at the ones they love and/or respect the most, not to mention their intellectual and social superiors. I would advise this correspondent to consider the three-step stress-buster program I follow religiously at the first sign that I may ring in the new year by wringing someone’s neck: One, light up a nice, relaxing cigarette. Two, crank up the thermostat. Three, mix another hot focking toddy. And here’s a bonus tip specifically for the letter writer: kiss my sorry ass, dickweed.
Dear Mr. Kumbalek, I’m having a problem with my husband. He thinks he’s a refrigerator. I consulted a psychologist about this who told me not to be too concerned, that it’s a relatively harmless complex. But the problem is that my husband snores with his mouth open and the light keeps me awake. What am I to do?
—Mrs. Youngman
I don’t know what your focking problem has to do with the holidays, but try pulling his plug.
My son, do you foresee peace on Earth any time soon?
—Pope Francis
Well sir, betweenst you and me, if not for the bullshit that organized religion and its goddamn followers spew out all the time like crap through a goose—yeah yeah, you betcha we could have “peace on Earth” sooner rather than later. On this topic, allow me to quote crooner-as-god Mr. Frank Sinatra (The Chairman of the Board, or depending on your gender, also known as the Chairman of the Broad), from a 1963 Playboy interview, words, if taken to heart, just might calm down the hullabaloo in the Middle East for starters: “I’ve always had a theory that whenever guys and gals start swinging, they begin to lose interest in conquering the world. They just want a comfortable pad and stereo and wheels, and their thoughts turn to the good things of life—not to war. They loosen up, they live and they’re more apt to let live. Dig?”
“Dig” I do, Ol’ Blue Eyes, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.
—Your buddy Little Jimmy Iodine
I’m with you, pally. The holiday days need be made more convenient and just gosh darn more focking practical for the modern man. Behold, let’s say we could give a rat’s ass as to when the actual Dec. 24 fell and instead always put the Christmas Eve on a Monday with the Christmas Day always on the Tuesday. Eureka!—most of us could worm a four-day weekend out of a set-up like that and we’d arrange the New Year’s likewise. Sure, there’d be plenty of heat coming out the ears of your blubbering, blabbering traditionalists. Screw ’em. Where were they when the powers-that-be dicked with Lincoln, Washington, King and Columbus and made their big day always be a Monday? Hey, Jesus may have died for our sins but the Ol’ Railsplitter freed the slaves and that ain’t beanbag.
Dear Sir: A lady friend of mine believes that Santa can’t possibly be a man. Logic tells her Santa is a woman for more than the reasons I’ll mention here: Men can’t pack a bag. Men don’t answer their mail. They aren’t interested in stockings unless someone’s wearing them, not to mention that being responsible for Christmas would require commitment.
—Stormy Daniels
I would suggest that your friend simply consider the symbolic imagery that surrounds the Santa mythology to know that the fat man is no “skirt.” To deliver his goods, Santa comes in and out a hot chimney repeatedly rather than slide up and down on a big ol’ candy cane. According to my good book, that alone qualifies him as a male of the heterosexual nature who really knows from around-the-world in a single night, ain’a?
Hey turkey neck, how come you’re so full of crap all the time?
—Ernie
Yes, holiday stress has been known to smite the best of us, even the knobshine who sent me the above letter. This stress can cause some to lash out at the ones they love and/or respect the most, not to mention their intellectual and social superiors. I would advise this correspondent to consider the three-step stress-buster program I follow religiously at the first sign that I may ring in the new year by wringing someone’s neck: One, light up a nice, relaxing cigarette. Two, crank up the thermostat. Three, mix another hot focking toddy. And here’s a bonus tip specifically for the letter writer: kiss my sorry ass, dickweed.
Dear Mr. Kumbalek, I’m having a problem with my husband. He thinks he’s a refrigerator. I consulted a psychologist about this who told me not to be too concerned, that it’s a relatively harmless complex. But the problem is that my husband snores with his mouth open and the light keeps me awake. What am I to do?
—Mrs. Youngman
I don’t know what your focking problem has to do with the holidays, but try pulling his plug.
My son, do you foresee peace on Earth any time soon?
—Pope Francis
Well sir, betweenst you and me, if not for the bullshit that organized religion and its goddamn followers spew out all the time like crap through a goose—yeah yeah, you betcha we could have “peace on Earth” sooner rather than later. On this topic, allow me to quote crooner-as-god Mr. Frank Sinatra (The Chairman of the Board, or depending on your gender, also known as the Chairman of the Broad), from a 1963 Playboy interview, words, if taken to heart, just might calm down the hullabaloo in the Middle East for starters: “I’ve always had a theory that whenever guys and gals start swinging, they begin to lose interest in conquering the world. They just want a comfortable pad and stereo and wheels, and their thoughts turn to the good things of life—not to war. They loosen up, they live and they’re more apt to let live. Dig?”
“Dig” I do, Ol’ Blue Eyes, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.
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