I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, all the hubbub and hullabaloo down yonder recently in Arizona (state nickname “Apache State”) reminds me of a quote from the Union Civil War general, an Irish guy by the name of Philip Sheridan: “If I owned Texas and Hell, I would rent Texas and live in Hell.”

Oh yeah, and all that immigrating hellzapoppin’ gasbagging reminds me of this following palaver:

So a Polish guy, an Italian guy and an Irish guy got out of work and confabbed about where to go for a drink. The Irish guy says, "Let's go to O'Donoghues. With every third round, the bartender will give us each a free Guinness."

The Italian guy says, “Sounds a’mighty good to me, but if we go to the Baldini's, every third round they bring us a free bottle of wine to the table."

And the Polish guy says, "You’s guys, listen. At Kowalski's, we drink free all night and then go out to the parking lot and get laid but good."

The other two would-be ethnic stereotypes agree that it sounds too good to be true, so the Irish guy asks the Polish guy if he’s actually ever been to Kowalski’s. Polish guy says, “Heck no, I heard about it from my wife. She goes there all the time.” Ba-ding!

And I got to tell you’s that I think that the jocular tale above just may show how far we’ve come in being sensitive to the peccadilloes if not downright peculiarities of ethnic types who hail from other cultures that got started in other countries of land that would be foreign to the American experience, I kid you not.

Years ago, you see, our three fictitious melting-pot co-workers in need of a drink would’ve been stereotypically called “Luigi,” “Paddy” and “Stosh.” But hey, just ’cause you’re a’from the Italy doesn’t necessarily mean your name is “Luigi” and you gesture like a madman on crystal meth as you verbally butcher the English language. Just because you’re from the Emerald Isle doesn’t necessarily mean your name is “Paddy,” you have 17 siblings, and you are chronically tardy for work ’cause you’re too focking hammered to know which end is up. And just because you were born in Krakow doesn’t mean your name is “Stosh” and you’re focking stupid.

No sir, “the Italian guy,” “the Irish guy,” “the Polish guy”—these are terms of a palatable generic-ness that perhaps can help inform and civilize the dissection of the discussion of our country’s peoples’ differences in this day of age. God bless America, you betcha.

So anyways, I got to go and get ready for the Mother’s Day coming up, the day we celebrate the lady from whom we all traveled within so as to enter out into this world as we know it.

Now, in regard to the current crap economy, I’m guessing many Americans don’t have the extra couple, three bucks so as to present mom with a bunch of flowers, box of candy, new doilies, brunch, Sunday afternoon trip to the zoo, evening at the nightclub featuring the Chippendales, what the fock. So how ’bout you present her with the gift of laughter on her special day?

Go for it. Here’s a couple, three little stories you can use no matter what the circumstance of your get-together be:

So this little kid saunters into his parents' bedroom one night and sees his mom on top of his pop bouncing up and down. The mom notices her son, quickly rolls over and covers herself, worried about what her son has seen. She dresses quickly and seeks to find him. The kid asks, "What were you and dad doing?"

Mother replies, “You know your dad has a big tummy and, well, sometimes I have to get on top of it to help flatten it.” The kid says, “You're wasting your time, mom. Whenever you go out shopping, the lady next door comes over, gets on her knees and blows it right back up.” Ba-ding!

And who doesn’t enjoy a “Mommy Mommy” zinger?

“Mommy, mommy, I hate Daddy’s guts.”

“Shut up, kid, and keep eating!”

Yes sir, or how ’bout this chestnut?

Little boy’s in the living room playing Amtrak with his new electric-train set. From the kitchen, the mom hears the train stop and her son say, “All you sons of bitches who want off, get the hell off now ’cause this is the last stop. All you fockers who are getting on, get your asses onboard ’cause we’re leaving.”

The mom can’t believe what she just heard, rushes into the living room and scolds her son, “We don’t use that kind of language in this house. Now go to your room for the next two hours and when you come back down, you can play with your train as long as you use proper language.”

Two hours later, the boy starts playing with his train again. From the kitchen, she hears the train stop and the boy say, “All passengers disembarking, please remember to take all your belongings. We thank you for riding with us and we hope your trip was a pleasant one. For those just boarding, please stow your hand luggage under the seat and enjoy your trip. For those of you pissed off about the two-hour delay, please see the focking bitch in the kitchen.”

And don’t forget you can always spring for a nice riddle, such as: Why don't Jewish mothers drink? Hey, ’cause alcohol interferes with their suffering.

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.