Hello to Santa's elves. You're working your butts off! A very Merry Christmas to all! OK, we have all the snow we need for a White Christmas. From here on, it's "No More Snow! No More Snow!" Did the Mr. President-Elect make any weather promises? We need to hold him to the promises he did make. Some of them, I'd like to hold his neck in my hands to squeeze the truth out of him.
There's the holiday stress, for you. Peace and love to all men and women. Sometimes that;s harder to embrace than at other times. Still, we must try, lest we degenerate ourselves.
The Irregular Football League is already into its final championship:
I ended up in fifth place. Whaa, whaa, whaa! Well, there's always next year.
The resplendent Green Bay Packers beat the Chicago Bears on Sunday past in a nail biter finish which ended with a Packers field goal in the dying seconds of the game. Huzzah, huzzah! Next, on Christmas Eve, the Packers face the Minnesota Vikings on their turf at noon. Kill one for me, boys!
Locally, I have to comment on the Machinery Row brouhaha. Will someone please, PLEASE, duct tape Mr. Mayor Lying John's mouth shut. Another $4.5 million lost. Not only is Mr. Mayor Lying John a failed mayor, but he's also a failed realtor. He will not stop hurling our money to the winds until he is stopped. Where's Superman when you need him?
Junior got his license. I don't care. I still won't ride with him when he's driving. Señor Zanza is very proud of his student. It only took three tries to get it. He is NOT going to drive my car, so he beter start saving up for his wheels and insurance.
It's hard to believe that it's only four days to Christmas. Then comes New Year's Day and then it all stops, Nothing but snow, ice, and cold for two to three months. I could do without that, but I'd have to move south. I'd find a place with a great winter attitude, and then sweat all spring, summer, and fall. You can't win.
Well, my readers are winners. Thank you for stopping by. I love every last one of you. You are the gravy on my mashed potatoes. You taste yummy.
How much more money will Mr. Mayor Lying John lose? Ask madamezoltar@jtirregulars.com
Be careful out there. There's a million ways to hurt yourself in the winter. Please avoid them. Take it slow and easy in traffic during storms. At least turn off your cell phones. Texting yourself to death is possible when you mix in cars. I don't want to see any Irregulars hurt. Watch out for black ice. Watch out for regular ice. And watch out for the cold and snow. We wish everyone a very Merry Christmas. I love you.
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I’m
Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So yeah, I’ve been a
tad light on the receiving end of Christmas cards this year, what the fock. The
other day, the only thing in my mailbox was a letter from an insurance company
about their Funeral Advantage Program for seniors. Maybe they know something I
don’t, like for me this year it shall be a very bury Christmas, focking swell.
Julius: So last year for Christmas I got the wife some doilies for the sofa and a new pair of slippers from Walgreens, but this year I wanted to get her some kind of book ’cause I figure no way in hell can a person read and talk at the same time.
Emil: Christmas comes too soon. Didn’t we just have the baseball World Series, for christ sakes? Christmas should be the Jan. 25, not the Dec. 25. It would make the winter shorter. And after New Year’s, you can always find a used, free tree in an alley somewhere.
Herbie: You see where the Brewers signed a new first baseman who played the last couple, three years in South Korea?
Ernie: South Korea? Cripes, I hope somebody keeps an eye on Hank the Dog when it’s time to prepare a day’s clubhouse meal, ain’a?
Little Jimmy Iodine: I was reading about something called “de-extinction,” where scientists with the DNA and stuff think they can bring back the wooly mammoth, the passenger pigeon and the gastric brooding frog.
Julius: And maybe someday they can bring back Abe Lincoln, what the fock. Wouldn’t he look good in the White House right about now, what the fock.
Ray: You could bring him back
but what if he doesn’t want to be a president, again. What if he wants to be a
choreographer, or a firefighter? He might say, “Jeez louise, I already freed
the slaves, cut me some slack.”
Herbie: I’m pro-science, but you got to admit the scientists aren’t always infallible. Here’s an example: Some scientists decided to do these experiments on a dog. For the first experiment, they cut one of the dog’s legs off, then they told the dog to walk. The dog got up and walked; so they learned that a dog could walk with just three legs. Second experiment: They cut off a second leg from the dog, then told the dog to walk. The dog was still able to walk with only two legs. So for the third experiment, they cut off another leg from the dog and once more told Fido to go take a walk. But wouldn’t you know, the dog wasn’t able to walk with only one leg.
Ray: No shit, Sherlock.
Herbie: As a result of these three experiments, the scientists hypothesized that the reason the dog could not walk after having three legs cut off was that it had lost its hearing.
Emil: I wish those scientists were here right now to discover who swiped my focking bar change, goddamn it.
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey,
Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Ernie: I hear we all better start to learn Russia for when Czar Trump tosses the keys to the country over to Put-Put.
Little Jimmy: And I heard for a 1 million bucks at some auction, you can go hunting with Trump’s sons, what’s-their-names.
Ray: Uday and Qusay? Cripes, with those two oily characters around, who needs a Dakota Pipeline, ain’a?
Julius: Artie, Trump offer you any big-time government job yet?
Art: Hell no. As a longtime presidential candidate, you’d figure I’d be at the top of his list for this or that, but I’ve yet to receive an offer. But I got my fingers crossed that Don makes me an ambassador to somewheres.
Herbie: If not Trump, I hear Putin’s got an opening.
Art: I want to be an ambassador where the main job is to go to banquets, and then the rest of the time you conduct yourself like a regular Santa Claus from America who’s come to some godforsaken part of the world to bring glad tidings of a better way of life, toss some dough around, be nice to the kids and just plain spread a little good cheer each and every day of your term—especially in those places where the people seem that they just can’t get enough of slaughtering each other, what the fock.
(It’s
getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear,
’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)


































