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Thursday, Nov. 25, 2010

Who Needs More Stuffing?

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So technically, given the time of year, I imagine I really ought to baste up a whole lot of blather about all kinds of stuff I’m thankful for, through which you’re supposed to soak up some kind of secondhand inspiration. Yeah, but no can focking do. Since my platter’s pretty darn light of thankful fare, this essay will be short and sweet and we’ll be in and out of here in no time. So OK pilgrims, let’s hop to it.

But first, for those of you who read this before trotting off to your Thanksgiving obligations, let me give you a little something you can take along and share at your gathering so you don’t show up empty-handed like some kind of freeloading fockstick. If you’re too damn lazy to bring a dish to pass, a humorous story would be a nice alternative, ain’a?

Like this one I just heard this morning from the guy who relieves the Dumpster outside back of my dinky apartment of aluminum cans and various sundries. And, by the way just so you know, he’s hiring if you’re interested. Come as you are but you got to supply your own Hefty bag and be prepared to work outdoors—but you get to pretty much call your own hours just like a regular big shot. And his story even has the word “turkey” in it, what the fock:

So a bunch of preachers are having a little ecumenical confab in the rectory of a Catholic priest. Just as they’re silently girding up to air out some of their differences, the good father offers each of them a whiskey to ease tensions, to clear the air of religious napalm, so to speak.


“Don’t mind if I do, thanks,” says the Methodist vicar, who belts down a good three fingers of Wild Turkey. “And you?” the priest asks of the fire-and-brimstone fundamentalist Baptist Bible-thumper. “What?!?!!” the born-againer shouts like he’s pissed off or something. “Drink alcohol? I’d rather debauch in a whorehouse!”


At this, the Methodist spits his whiskey back into the glass and hollers, “Whoa, Nellie! You mean we get a choice?”
Ba-ding!

Yes sir, that ought to bring down the house gathered ’round ol’ Tom Turkey, ain’a? As for me, I’ll be gathered ’round something other than a turkey ’cause I never touch the stuff, no sir. For my Thanksgiving feast, I enjoy to boil up a nice ring baloney because I cannot eat turkey out of respect for our Founding Fathers who dang near made it our national bird for christ sakes—I’m guessing because of the turkey’s much ballyhooed beauty and intelligence, what the fock.

And I guess had they made that decision, today we would be basting and carving the traditional eagle come the fourth Thursday each November. Well, maybe not necessarily the eagle, but whatever bird it would be, it sure as hell wouldn’t be the turkey ’cause you just don’t cram a thermometer up the butt of the national bird, I don't care who you are.

But if it were to be the eagle, you know what? I got a sneaking hunch that it doesn’t “taste just like chicken,” no sir. In fact, I got a funny feeling that the eagle tastes just like a woman’s saddle shoe, size seven, shoelace included. So yes, I’m thankful that the Founding Fathers failed to make the gobbler our nation’s fowl symbol for all that’s noble and strong about our country. Besides, the turkey carries enough symbolic weight as it is anyways, witnessed by the fact that we elect so goddamn many of them to Congress every couple years.

Anyways, got to go and get to the store so’s I can reserve my ring baloney for Thursday. But let me leave you’s with something you can be thankful for. It just wouldn’t be Thanksgiving week without my hotshot longtime pal Will Durst returning home to headline a couple, three comedy shows ’round the town. They be these: 8 p.m. Tuesday-Wednesday, Nov. 23-24, and 7:30 p.m. Sunday, Nov. 28, at the Downtown joint called the Safe House; 7:30 p.m. Friday, Nov. 26, in the banquet hall over by Paulo’s Pizza on the South Side’s 51st & Howard; and 8 p.m. Saturday, Nov. 27, up at The Railroad Station in Saukville—“Gateway to Fredonia”—where I’ve been invited to say a few words. (Yeah, it’s called The Railroad Station now, but what do you want to bet that when Governor-elect “Snidely Whiplash” Walker gets sworn in, he makes them change it, ain’a?)

And just so you know, if you’ve never yet had the pleasure to see Mr. Durst work the room, let me tell you that the guy even smells funny, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
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