I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So yeah yeah, there was no regular Shepherd issue last week and if you enjoyed my absence, you’re in luck ’cause come next issue I’ll be on a week’s medical leave on account of having one cataract carved out of an eyeball—the other one due to be scraped out in February sometime I’m guessing, what the fock.And you bet I’m sure as heck looking forward to this schmutz-removal, so much that I’ve been on the inter-focking-net pricing tin cups and canes so that when my procedure somehow gets botched, I’ll have the necessary means to earn a living.
So right now, I’m at the Shepherd office to pick up a couple, three items, whip out this essay and check the mail since I haven’t been here for a while. And lo and behold, I got a package from my would-be guardian angel El Jefe out of Maryland, the “Old Line State,” containing a fabulous tub of Old Crow, I kid you not.
God bless the Jef’ because the Crow is the only thing I got for Christmas that I asked for. Once again this year, Santa, the fat fock, did not deliver to me the busload of Vegas showgirls I asked for. Nor did he deliver the personal butler I requested, the one who would keep me seasonally sartorially correct, manage my daily schedule such as it is, and make me a nice egg sandwich now and then.
So I really ought to cut this essay short and commence taste-testing the Old Crow to make sure it hasn’t gone bad. But before I do, I also got to tell you I noticed I received a letter postmarked sometime before Christmas. The writer asked me for advice, what the fock. He wrote:
Hey Artie, the wife wants a new puppy for Christmas. I know they don’t sell them at your Best Buy or Old Navy. Any idea where I should go?
The letter even contained a self-addressed stamped envelope for my reply. Well, Christmas has come and gone, hasn’t it. Had I been able to reply in a timely fashion, this is what I would’ve wrote:
Yeah, I’ve got an idea where you should go. How ’bout Divorce Court? Full disclosure: My scariest thought is whether or not animals get to go to heaven. For christ sakes, that’s all a guy like me needs is to spend his entire focking life busting his butt, finally gets puking sick, croaks, walks through the Pearly Gates and the first thing that happens is he steps right smack-dab into one heaping, heaving pile of dog-doo. Praise the lord.
And this is supposed to be for eternity ever-after? I’ll tell you’s, I want to be buried with a rolled-up newspaper so that when I’m shaking hands with St. Peter and some canine starts humping my leg, I can give it one good ol’ whack right across the goddamn snout.
I pray they must go to the other place, ’cause spending a couple, three eternities in the company of household pets and assorted animals sure sounds like focking hell to me. Or at least that these creatures would have their own animal heaven where they could all go and sniff each other’s butts and leave mine alone. That I could live with ’cause when it comes to other species—your animal and insect societies to name two—you can call me a “specie-ist,” but I firmly believe in a “separate, the hell with equal” kind of arrangement, you betcha.
So, before I go, I really ought to close-up Art’s Ba-ding! Boutique now that the holidays are mercifully focking kaput. But I see I’ve got one item left, so take it if you can use it. It’s yours:
A very spiritual and holy priest dies and is swept up to heaven. St. Peter greets him at the Pearly Gates, and says, “Hello Father, welcome to Heaven! You are very well known here, and as a special reward because you are such a devout man, we’re going to grant you anything you wish even before we enter the Kingdom. What can I grant you?”
And the priest says, “I am a great admirer of the Virgin Mother. I’ve always wanted to talk to her.” St. Pete nods his head to one side, and who should approach the priest but the Virgin Mary!
The priest is overcome with joy and says, “Mother, I have always been a great admirer of yours and followed your life as best I could. I have studied everything I could about you—every painting and portrait ever made of you, and I’ve noticed without fail that you are portrayed bearing a wistful expression. Forever I’ve wondered what it was that made you seemingly so melancholy.” And Mother Mary says, “Honestly, I was really hoping for a girl.” Ba-ding!
That’s it. See you next time, I hope, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.