I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Hey, nothing but good news here for you’s moms and pops with extra dough who wonder where the heck to stick your out-of-control katzenjammers for a while this summertime. Pay attention, your sanity may depend on it. There’s still a ton of room open in my Art Kumbalek’s Summer Writing Camp for Youths, I kid you not. In fact, there’s nothing but room, which sucks ’cause I was counting on the collective enrollment fee so’s to live rent-free through the end of the year with a buck two-eighty left over, to boot. Seems kids these days either go to a goddamn soccer camp or some kind of arts-and-crafts thing where they finger-paint, make a tie rack, then finger-paint some more. For christ sakes, what kind of life skills is a kid going to come away with from a knobshine camp like that? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you ’bout my camp. Your kids will get the goods on a semi-employable skill, and she’s open to anybody as long as they’re betweenst the ages of “old enough to cross the street by themselves” and “young enough to focking do whatever Camp Counselor Kumbalek tells them to do.” I figure the session will last about a week ’cause that’s about all I’m going to be able to stand. But oh, the times they’ll have!

Campers will contract a full dose of the writing life, from learning to never answer the phone to never acquiesce a knock at the door to never set an alarm clock to never open unsolicited mail from the IRS. The theme of this year’s camp: “Writer’s Block, What the Fock.” Each student will be told to think of something to write about. Then, under my tutelage legitimized by personal experience, the student will be encouraged to take the view that their idea is unworthy to be writ upon, that it’s horse manure, ’cause how could it be otherwise if they themselves had thought of it?

I’ll let them wrestle with that for most of the week whilst demonstrating techniques designed to abide writer’s block: Watch 24-hour TV; stare out the window while hunkered over a full ashtray; pour another stiff one. Then, with an hour left to the week I’ll tell them that if they ever want to see their parents again, they best get their pencil and paper out and make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear the best they can. Writing. Pressure. Deal with it.

But time’s running out. Get your butt in gear and get your kid/kids registered because seating is definitely limited to those who sign up, cash in advance. The fee is half-a-grand per camper with all necessary supplies included: No. 2 pencil with plenty of lead in it; writing tablet; carton of Chesterfields; extra-large can of Maxwell House; quart of Old Crow. No free lunch included.

There’s also a required reading list to provide campers with an example of what fine writing looks like. The list consists of the first chapter of an unfinished novel soon-to-be-a-major-motion-picture that I wrote off the top of my head some years back. It’s about this guy, an ex-minor league ballplayer turned professional fisherman guide and private hard-boiled dick.

And for the enjoyment of you’s too old to attend my camp, here’s a freshly edited draft since I’ve got nothing else to say, what the fock.�

JailBait Box

But he knew there had to be something not quite kosher about this babe buffet spread next to him ’cause in every silver cloud there just had to be fool’s gold lining for Kelpger. What would it be this time? It didn’t take him long to sink to the bottom of it.