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Wednesday, Sept. 1, 2010

Never Never Land

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear we got another Labor Day coming up, the holiday when we honor the workingman by pissing the day away drinking beer in the back yard or a park somewheres. How ’bout instead we pay tribute by working twice as hard and twice as long that day? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

And hey, about that Glenn Beck “Restoring Honor” (or, “Let’s Be Sure That Only Uber-Rich Republican White Guys, Not Averse To the Notion Of Forced Labor Camps For People Of Low Means And Concentrated Color, Can Be President From Now On”) rally held in front of the Lincoln Memorial last weekend, I am reminded of the following story to help illustrate these lean economic times:

An old farmer and his wife are lying in bed. He leans over one night, touches her breast and says, “If this thing could still give milk, we could get rid of the cow." She reaches over, grabs his member and says, "And if this thing could still get hard, we could get rid of the dog."
Ba-ding!

I decided not to attend this rally. Why put up with all the hassles of travel when I can get all the lying-ass bullshit I can stand by tuning to TV FOX News within the friendly confines of my dinky living room? Hey, you tell me, what the fock.

And then I’ll tell you’s that I’ll bet a buck two-eighty that the citizens with birth certificates in their righteously not-hip pocket attending Glenn’s rally are the same citizens clapping their hands and waving American flags (the special flags, the ones with a 51st star for the State of Ignorance) on account that a U.S. district judge put the kibosh on federal funding for all embryonic stem cell research. These are the people to whom the lord told that glob in a lab dish is a human being and oughtn’t be dicked with.

And what a life, ain’a? I tell you, if that were me flat on my would-be ass in a Petri dish, I’d say who needs this bullshit. All around me I’d hear the lab guys and gals making lunch plans, going out for a smoke break, making plans for the weekend and all the time there I am, stuck in a dish. That’s no way to live, I don’t care who—or what—you are, or were, I kid you not.

As one sitting in a dish, I sure as shootin’ would want the scientists to get their butts in gear and figure out the way to grow me into some kind of human tissue, so I could replace the crappy cells inside a real, live, walking-around human being. Now that would be sweet.

Yeah, get out of the dish and get planted into some guy who’s going to start feeling a whole lot better because of me, and then watch out! We’ll take in a ballgame, have a couple, three ice-cold bottled beers. Maybe take a walk along the beach, or decide to screw it and just stay home, make a nice baloney sandwich and watch us some TV. Or wait, best yet, we’ll go get us a wad of singles yea-thick and head on over to the nearest gentlemen’s club and research the female form. Now that’s what I call living.

And you know what? It’s not too late to help these human beings stuck in lab dishes get a real life. Write all your bonehead politicians and tell them you demand that they either push real hard to get the green light for unlimited funding for this eggs-cell-ent research (there’s money to be made in eradicating disease, what the fock), or you’re going to conduct your own research on replacement politicians to better serve the body politic come next election.

Yes, a next election right around the corner. Just so you’s know, I believe that the ability to run a business does not automatically translate into the ability to govern. For either endeavor, I prefer a guy who’s been there, done that. If I’m putting a band together and I need a clarinet player, I’ll look for a clarinet player and not some blowhard conductor who says he can play clarinet even though he doesn’t know a #2 Rico Royal from his ass from a hole in the ground.

Please don’t forget those Republicans for office, those folks always shooting their mouths off about “limited government and spending,” somehow the last time in power, and the time before that, managed to grow the bureaucracy to the magnitude of good-golly, and jacked-ass up the spending at a rate no calculator could calculate.

Tax cuts for the rich, so they can reduce the size of government’s helping hand. Yes sir, whittle the helping hand down to a finger—the middle one, which they’ll gladly raise to anyone who could use a little help, now and then, here and there, what a world, don’t forget, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
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