I'm Art Kumbalek and mn oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I don’t have much time to whip out an essay for you’s this week on account I got to go meet up with my crew over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school on Hysteric Center Street so’s to make our plans for the Super Sunday football holiday coming up this Sunday, what the fock.
I’ll tell you’s, I’ve always found that when the members of your home team are engaged in pursuits not related to knocking the snot out of the dickwads in a different uniform on the first Sunday of February, that the Super Bowl is often a piece of boring crapola that stretches on and on that by the time it’s over not only is your kid out of diapers, but his voice is changed, he’s moved out of the house and his second divorce is almost final. The only thing that could be better than the sound of the final gun is if it had been also pointed at that smartass baby in the E*Trade commercials.
So yeah, I got to get up to the Uptowner, but since our Milwaukee County Transit System totally dicked around with a bunch of bus routes last weekend, I’ve got to call Albert focking Einstein to find out if he knows if there’s still a mathematical possibility for me to get to where I want to go. Even Al might have a heck of a time figuring this out, since some of the routes now go by colors instead of numbers. Focking swell. I’m colorblind, so I got an inkling that even if I get through to Albert, the formula he’ll have for me will be this: MCT = FU—a formula I hear that also applies to the drivers, I kid you not.
It’s enough to make a guy like me want to move to the focking moon—seems a lot like South Dakota minus all the oxygen, ain’a? Sounds like just the place to harbor all registered Democrats who, by executive decree, will be forced to start a new life under the thumb of a Gingrich administration.
One more thing before I try to get to where I’m supposed to go. Saw this headline in the papers: “Prostate cancer in mummy suggests genetics as cause.” Again, focking swell. Article says, “…the discovery of prostate cancer in a 2,200-year-old mummy indicates that the disease was caused by genetics, not environment.” Hope the focker had health insurance.
And just a couple weeks ago on this very page I was blathering about how we’ve progressed over time from thinking that Satan is responsible for your incurable disease or disability to thinking it’s in your genes from the hereditary. How ’bout that. Reminds me of the time years ago when I told you about an old, old letter I found at the bottom of a dusty trunk in the basement where I lived. Remember? It went something like this:
To the Dear Fruit of My Loins, Thousands and Thousands of Years in the Future:
“How’s it hanging? You don’t know who the fock I am ’cause I’ve been stiff as a board for about 2,000 years. But I’ll tell you, when I was alive, we had it tough. How tough? Hey, we had to walk 50 focking miles to school, Jack, and in these bullshit sandals, to boot—sandals kind of like you candy-asses of the future actually go out of your way to buy so your feet can stay nice and cool in summertime. Go to focking hell.
“And come to think of it, nobody even knew from school back then, but we still had to walk every day just in case somebody invented school while we were milking the goat.
“So you having a nice time? Whatcha doin’, sitting around reading a magazine, cruising porn sites on the Web or something? Must be nice. We didn’t have magazines. Hell, we hardly had reading for christ sakes, and even if we did, there wasn’t much to read about. How many Ra the Sun God celebrity profiles could one guy focking stand—hear what I’m saying? Yeah, and while you’re thinking about making a nice sandwich, we’d be up to our armpits with silly stuff like avoiding getting our nuts lopped off by some sword-slinging son of a bitch from who-knows-where, hell-bent on butchering whomever he thought needed butchering; or maybe we’d be wondering how many teeth would fall out today ’cause no one had invented focking floss yet.
“So anyways, hope you’ll be celebrating a birthday soon ’cause I got a little gift for you. Seems I got this gene here that can make somebody puking sick for the rest of their life or three months, whichever comes first, as soon as they hit 40-50-60. And guess what? I decided to pass it along to you. How about that? Just a little something to remember me by. See you soon, bro’.”
Yeah, what a world, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.