A Perdition Like No Other
“Keeping it real.” Power to the people. Free love, free the Chicago Seven. Up against the wall, motherfocker, you betcha.
And about that racket I got hooked up with? Here: As a card-carrying member of the liberal media, I think it’s been my job to apply the screws of my professionally expert essays in order to squeeze the crap clean out of the Joe Blow consumer of news, so that he-and-maybe-she can become more like a responsibly informed citizen once in a focking while, thank you.
Anyways, somehow I got my heinie hunkered onto the big fat horns of one honking dilemma, and all I have to say about that is ouch! The siren song this dilemma’s horns are tooting for me is called “High on a Capitol Hill.” It lyrically wonders if Art Kumbalek should indeed be your next United States senator from our America’s Dairyland.
On the other hand, I heard there’s an opening just came up on the United States Supreme Court. Pays $213,900 a year, each and every year until you croak, and that ain’t beanbag, mister. Maybe I ought to think about putting in my résumé, ain’a? Put on a robe and kick some Roberts/Scalia/Thomas fascist ass? I’m in.
So, I got to forgo the writing of this essay this week ’cause better for me that I go and consult with my political brain trust already gathered over by the fabulous Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the Hysteric Corner of Center Street & Humboldt—where today is always at least a day before tomorrow and yesterday may gosh darn well be today.
Come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.
Julius: All I’m saying is I was at the ballgame last Sunday, and that Trevor Hoffman ought to think about changing his theme song when he comes into a game from that AC/DC “Hells Bells” to that Brooklyn Bridge song from the ’60s, “The Worst That Could Happen.”
Herbie: Or maybe he could dip into the great American Songbook and pull out Rodgers and Hart’s “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.”
Ernie: I’d save that tune for whenever Macha the manager trots to the mound to make a relief-pitcher change in the middle of an inning when the guy’s been doing OK, what the fock.
Little Jimmy Iodine: I thought about going to the ballgame, but I stayed home to see how the golf in the Masters turned out.
Emil: Me, too, ’cause I kept waiting to hear some Asian fan of Tiger’s in the gallery yell out, “Get in the hore.”
Ray: What the fock are you talking about?
Herbie: I think what Emil is trying to say here, Ray, is that humor could be found through the golf fan of an Asian nature attempting the enunciation of the golf cliché, “Get in the hole”—the humor be the apparent lack of a phoneme corresponding to the English L in Asian languages; thus, the L sounds as R, and hole becomes hore. Yes, “Get in the hore,” shouted as encouragement to Mr. Woods by some fockstick in the gallery, juvenilely ironic perhaps, but oh so satisfying to one such as I, who prays deeply that in any-and-every sanctimonious punch bowl, a turd shall float to the surface.
Ray: You talk like a sausage, Herbie.
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey, gents. What do you know, what do you hear.
Ernie: I know that on Easter Sunday the other week I was over by my brother-in-laws when they had the Easter egg hunt in their dinky back yard out there in West Allis for my two little nephews. So they’re traipsing around and they come across some rabbit turds, except the younger kid doesn’t know that, so he asks his older brother, “Hey, what’s that?”
The older kid says, “They’re smart pills. Eat them and they'll make you smarter.” So my younger nephew eats them and says, “Hey, these taste like shit.” And the older boy says, “See? You're getting smarter already.”
Art: Yeah yeah, Ernie. The older you get, the more you know what shit tastes like. The trick is that you never want to develop a taste for it.
(Hey, 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.)