I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Yeah yeah, as last week I was not able to whip out a full-blown essay for having to run to the doctor’s so’s to have a swatch of moss removed from my right pectoral, sprouted I figure due to the un-Lordly squishing humidity of late; so it is this week that I got to run to the doctor’s to have my daily blood pressure tablet upped about a 1,000 milligrams on account of these no-count knobshine Republicans all-of-a-sudden now pissing their pantaloons about a budget deficit and government spending.

Yeah, that’s right—the same knobshine Republicans that took a steaming dump on the Clinton budget surplus and flushed it down the toilet by way of jacking up the spending to a place where no country ’tis of thee had gone before. Fock ’em.

Thank god we got the Irish Fest down by the lakefront this weekend where us non-Irish can go celebrate a people who historically, I’ve heard, choose to spend the day drinking rather than working. And now here in America that it seems the only people who have jobs are politicians and bankers, the rest of us may as well spend the day drinking ’cause we sure as hell won’t be working, at least until the moo-cows come home to roost, you bet.

So I’m off to the doctor’s, but I'll leave you with a couple, three stories about drinking, and priests, ’cause what the fock, ain’a?

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Two Irish ladies were at the wake for their dear friend. “Poor Mollie,” said the first woman, looking down at the body, “she had such a hard life. First she married Mike, who gave her five crying children in six years. He beat her and never worked a day in his life. Then Mike up and died, and she married Johnny, who was even worse, giving her seven more children and not a penny of support. He was drunk all the time until he died, too. And now Mollie is gone, worked to death taking care of those 12 kids.”

“Well, at least they are together at last,” replied the second woman.

“You mean together in Heaven?” asked the first woman. “But is Mollie together with Mike or with Johnny?”

And the second woman says, “Neither. I was referring to her legs.” Ba-ding!

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Six retired Irishmen were playing poker in O'Leary's apartment when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest and drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the other five continue playing

A bit of a while later, Michael O'Connor looks around at the surviving five and asks, "Oh, me boys, someone surely got's to tell Paddy's wife. Who will it be?" They draw straws. Brendan “Discretion” O’Gallagher picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don't make a bad situation any worse.

"Discreet? I'm the most discreet Irishman you'll ever meet. Discretion is me middle name." So Brendan O’Gallagher goes over to Murphy's house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers and Gallagher declares: "Your husband just lost $500 and is afraid to come home."

"Tell him to drop dead!" says Murphy's wife.

"I'll go tell him then, ma’am," says Gallagher. Ba-ding!

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So this drunk guy staggers in to a Catholic Church, sits down in a confession box and says nothing. The priest is waiting and waiting and waiting. Finally, the bewildered priest coughs to attract the drunk's attention, but still the man says nothing. The priest then knocks on the wall three times in a final attempt to get the man to speak. Finally, the drunk replies: "No use knockin', pal, there's no paper in this one, either.” Ba-ding!

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And this: Mrs. O'Donovan was walking down O'Connell Street when she met up with Father O'Rafferty.

"Top o' the mornin' to ye," says the Father. "Aren't you Mrs. O'Donovan, and didn't I marry ye and yer husband two years ago?" She replies, "Aye, that ye did, Father."

"And be there any wee ones yet?" asks Father O'Rafferty. "No, not yet, Father," Mrs. O'Donovan says.

"Well, now, I'm going to Rome next week, and I'll light a candle for ye," the Father says, and they parted ways.

Some years later they meet again. "Well, now, Mrs. O'Donovan," the priest says. "How are ye these days?"

"Oh, very well," says she. "And tell me, have ye any wee ones yet?" the priest asks. "Oh, yes, Father," Mrs. O'Donovan replies. "Three sets of twins and four singles—10 in all."

"Aye, how wonderful it is!" he says. "And how is your lovely husband?" And Mrs. O'Donovan says, “My husband, he’s gone to Rome. He’s gone to blow out yer fockin' candle."

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