From
The Shepherd Express:
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world,
ain’a? So listen, thanks for coming to this page and god bless you. As
your loin-girded anointed local knucklehead essayist, I would be a
derelict from my duties if I did not deliver my annual address about
what a good focking job I’ve been doing; about how we as a peoples are
way better off than we’d be if I were not doing the job of whatever the
fock the job is I do; about tossing a limp bone to knobshines who’d say
perhaps I’m not performing up to the snuff; and blah blah, focking blah.
And about that polar weather we had last week—I heard some clown on
TV suggest it was of “Biblical proportions.” Hold on—“Biblical”? You got
to be jerking my beefaroni. Hey, the people who first made up the Bible
wouldn’t of known “cold” if it came up and took a big honking bite
right out of thine beatific butts. Give me a focking break. You ever
hear of Jesus shoveling snow? You ever hear Him telling his focking
flock to wear a hat “cause you lose 90% of your body heat out the
topsides of your domes,” so it is written? They were all in a desert.
They knew about as much from the cold and snow as they did about the
Earth being round for christ sakes, I kid you not.)
Before I launch into my prepared remarks from over the years of my fond due diligence on the job, I begin with this anecdote:
Guy goes to the dentist. Dentist examines the guy’s mouth and
says, “These are the worst teeth I’ve ever seen. Do you ever floss?”
Guy says, “Flossing’s a big pain in the ass.”
Dentist says, “Then obviously you’re doing it wrong.”
Thank you. Please be seated. We shall begin.
Yes, “You’re doing it wrong.” When haven’t I heard that exact phase
more than once and plus a hundred times weekly during my administration
of this essay. When I awaken, “You’re doing it wrong,” be the first
words I hear through my head. When I go to bed in the nighttime, “You’re
doing it wrong” be the last words I imagine to hear before dreaming of
better essays.
And what can I pledge to do about this? Fock if I know. So now I sit
with thumb up dupa and wonder, hey, how many of these essays do I have
left in me, anyways? Could it really be some kind of what-you-call
finite number, or do I possess the kind of potency to keep pumping these
babies out ’til they got to haul me out of here feet first come
doomsday? Again, fock if I know.
But I do know I’d like to have a word with the smokers in the
audience. You are true Americans, what with the exorbitant amount of
taxes you ship to the governments on an hourly basis so that our elected
politicians can enjoy the Cadillac of all health plans, while your
crappy health plan is now ready and willing to chew you a new one
because you might be a so-called
health risk for no reason other than the exercise of freedom to make a personal choice, or something like that.
I’m just not buying the science of the health malarkey that the
anti-crowd chooses to use to douse your enjoyment of a fine tobacco
product. According to a study I personally slapped together years ago, I
learned that the average life span of the average Tom, Dick or Dickless
got one hell of a lot longer after Sir Walter Raleigh discovered the
cigarette than it was before the cigarette, so put
that in your peace pipe and smoke it, mister.
Hey, you can look it up yourself if you don’t believe me. Back in the
olden days of the Dark Ages, long before your regular Joe Blow could
take a break and blow a square, civilized people lived in dank castles,
grew old and croaked by the age of thirty-focking-five, I kid you not.
Today in the modern time following the advent of the tobacco product,
you can find guys at the age of 35, chewing the chaw and playing
competitive ball on major league baseball teams to the tune of a couple,
three million bucks a year. Funny you don’t hear more about that
connected to the so-called “evils” of tobacco, ain’a?
Now I’m not saying that cigarettes are the only reason people live
longer today than they used to—indoor plumbing’s probably helped
some—but I
am saying that you never hear about the connection
between smokes and longevity. Kind of makes a guy wonder what else he
might not be hearing about, what the fock.
And “what else” you won’t be hearing is more from me. It’s cocktail time, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
From:
https://shepherdexpress.com/advice/art-kumbalek/my-bellow-americans/
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