I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, if you’re a cheap-ass like me who may be looking for free focking things to do indoors during the hellacious days of summertime, you may consider a stroll over to your nearest Motor Department of the Vehicles and take the test you have to write with a pencil like I did the other day when the thermometer mercury read like Mercury.
And if you do, you’re in for a surprise ’cause I tell you’s, it sure as hell isn’t the test I remembered from the last time I flunked it way back when only foreigners drove foreign cars. They’ve made it damn difficult, I kid you not. Yes, I understand our great state hankers a higher educational standard for all Dairyland school kids, but I think they’re getting a little radical extremist when they expect these standards to carry over to a test for driving, for christ sakes.
For example, I thought I did all right on the matching section only to find out later I’d mixed up the Treaty of Ghent with the Treaty of Nystad, what the fock. And essay questions? You got to be jerking my beefaroni. That’s the kind of thing you expect from the government when you take the test to be ambassador to Timbuk-focking-tu or somewhere, not when all you want to be is legal so’s to drive down to the 7-Eleven for a sixpack, ain’a?
For the essays, you could choose from one of three questions: “Compare and contrast the Neolithic Revolution with the Counter Reformation”; “Describe in detail your favorite color”; and “Which is preferable: drinking and driving, or, drinking while driving.”
That last question I thought was easy for me. I explained how messy and potentially dangerous it was to try to mix a proper bourbon Manhattan while behind the wheel.
Common sense, then, would suggest that you have a couple, three before you drive. Guess
what? Yeah, I flunked. But big focking deal. The DMV air conditioning was free, and besides, I haven’t owned a car that moved since 1976, so what the fock.
As for things that might cost some dough that you can do outdoors during the hellacious days of summertime, you might ask me about this Summerfest shebang. And my answer would be “no,” you won’t see me down by there. That truth is best expressed by a formula as elegant and funda-focking-mental as any of Einstein’s concoctions: nbt + ntt x tmgdm = nAK (sfe). To the nonmathematical layman, it reads thusly: “no bourbon tent plus no topless tent multiplied by too much god damn music equals no Art Kumbalek (so fock ’em.)” Speaking of free, here’s a little story maybe you could share with your freeloading relatives and assorted hangers-on when they come by you’s on the Fourth to watch fireworks and drink all your beer:
So there’s this gal who enjoys a gentleman’s company while her husband’s away at work. One day the husband comes home unexpectedly, wouldn’t you know, so she quickly hides her gentleman caller in the bedroom closet, not realizing that her 9-year-old son had already been camped out in the closet during the boudoir proceedings.
The boy says, “Dark in here.” The man says, “Yes, it is.” Boy says: “I have a baseball.” Man says: “That’s nice.” Boy: “Want to buy it?” Man: “No thanks.” Boy: “My dad’s outside.” Man: “OK, how much?” Boy: “$250.”
A few weeks later, it so happens that the boy and his mom’s gentleman again find themselves together in the closet.
The boy says, “Dark in here.” The man says, “Yes, it is.” Boy says: “I have a baseball glove.” Man says: “Let’s cut to the chase. How much?” Boy: “$750.” Man: “Fine.”
Now it came to pass that a few days later the father asks his young son if he’d like to grab his ball and glove, go outside and play catch. The boy, of course, says he can’t because he’s sold them. The father asks for how much and the boy replies, “$1,000.” The father admonishes the lad that it’s sinful to overcharge his friends in the way that he did and that, as a consequence, he would take the boy to church to confess his transgression.
And so they go to St. Stanislaus and the boy enters the confessional. Boy says, “Dark in here.” Priest says, “Listen, don’t start up with that shit again.”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.