I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh
manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So I just now heard that the
crime-fighting ex-attorney general and governor of New York, Eliot “The
Untouchable” Spitzer, got busted for some kind of shenanigan involving
“crossing state lines.” Crossing state lines? What the fock, is
this some kind of legal nostalgia for the Depression days and next
we’ll find out that Al Capone still breathes and still calls and fires
the shots in The City of Broad Shoulders? What the fock ever happened
to this so-called global economy we’re supposed to have
nowadays? So “crossing state lines” for this and that can still be
illegal, you got to be jerking my beefaroni.
But I do understand that as a candidate for higher office myself, there may be lessons for me to learn from Gov. Spitzer’s in flagrante delicto cum likely felony charge. Yeah, highprice call girls. And yet some voters question why I religiously play the Powerball. Hey man, you can’t play if you can’t pay, I kid you not.
At my campaign appearances I’ve often been asked, “What is it about powerful men and illicit sex?” My answer has been that I haven’t a clue, but that if I were to be elected, I’d do my gosh-darndest to find out.
(Listen, having been
raised Catholic, I believe “illicit sex” to be one of those oxymorons,
“illicit” and “sex” are one and the same, hail Mary.)
But talk about the expense, I tell you. From what I hear, Eliot’s gal billed at about $5,000 an hour. (Hey governor, got a little riddle for you just because laughter’s always the best medicine, so I hear: Why did the top-dollar girl wear high heels? ’Cause she didn’t want to sell herself short. Ba-ding!)
Well sir, I did the math. $5 grand an hour is like $83 bucks a minute. Even considering my meager finances, I could probably swing a good couple-three minutes with a gal like this, which more than likely is all I’d have the stamina for anyways; so if I had paid this gogo gal for a whole hour, what would we do with the extra 57 minutes? Talk, about things? Fock that, especially at those prices. No sir, after my couple-three minutes of the hootchiecoo, I’d either want to take a nap or turn on a ball game, and now I’m forking out big-time dough for this young professional woman to simply sit on her sweet ass and do nothing. I suppose since, technically, she is in my employ, I could have her do the dishes, take out the trash or rearrange my sock drawer, but at the prices those hot-shot prostitutes charge for a full hour, I could do that stuff myself for no charge—all the way around, come to think of it.
And then during my research into how to avoid a likewise scandal, I
came across the following headline blurb on some kind of Web site:
“Will Hillary Call for Spitzer’s Head?” Yeah, I suppose it’s possible.
Hey, she’s a Clinton, so I’m guessing it depends on what the meaning of
the word “head” is, not to mention “call.” It can get mighty lonely out
there on the campaign trail, take it from me. Yes, and so it’s
no stretch of my imagination to imagine one of these
politician-constant candidates picking up the phone at say, 3 a.m., and
making the “call” for “head,” you bet. And Hill’s a legally savvy gal,
she knows that both her and Eliot are based out of New York so there be
no need of any messy “crossing state lines,” although for Eliot to “go
south of the border” in regard to the junior senator from New York—
depending on what the meaning of “south of the border” is—may raise
international issues that I’m unfamiliar with, ay Chihuahua, what the
And speaking of “raised Catholic,” this scandal, and what with St. Patrick’s Day coming up like too much green beer plus corned beef and cabbage the morning after, I’m reminded of this wee story:
Imagine the shy young lad’s surprise when the Pope sat down
in the seat next to him for the flight destined for New York City.
Shortly after take-off, the Pope began a crossword puzzle. “This is
really swell” thought the young man, “I’m really good at crosswords and
if the Pope gets stuck, perhaps he’ll ask me for assistance and I’ll
get a gold pass to heaven.”
Shortly thereafter, the Pope turned to the young man and said, “Excuse me son, but I suddenly seem to be blocked on this crossword puzzle. Do you happen to know a four-letter word that ends in ‘unt’ and that refers to a woman?” Only one word such word leapt the mind of the young man, a word he felt should not be uttered in the Pope’s presence. He thought a moment, and from a bolt from the blue, turned to the Pope and said, “I believe your holiness, that it is the word ‘aunt’ you seek—a-u-n-t.” And the Pope said, “Of course, my son. ‘A-u-n-t.’ God bless you. I don’t suppose you happen to have an eraser?”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.