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Thursday, Oct. 27, 2011

All Hallow Bustin' Loose

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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, it's been one heck of a couple weeks around the Kumbalek neck of woods, where every day seems to be Halloween, I kid you not.

Anyways, I got to tell you's that I've run clean out of time to pony up a big-time essay this week, one that I'm sure would've been graciously particulate about how the world would be 10-times a better place if there were fewer focking idiots inhabiting said world. (See: Republican field of presidential candidates, etc.)

And speaking of Halloween, reflection is my game today, remembrance of All Hallow's Day past. Like the time just the other year when my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine was down with some kind of flu that had been making the rounds. Remember.

So I had to go over by his place and help him prepare the healthily free-farm green rain-barrel drenched treats he planned to offer the little trick-or-treater beggars come by his door—mashed potatoes with organic gravy, and scrambled eggs with the diced holistic raw onion stuck in it. I was able to help Jimmy 'cause the kids don't come by me for the Halloween ever since I put out the cubed head cheese and pickled chicken hearts for them the other year, god bless; they keep their distance from my door now.

Yeah yeah, Jimmy kept feeling worse and worse so I stuck around to pass out the goods to the little costumed ding-dongers. There was this one kid come by made up like the movie "Rocky," with the boxing gloves and satin shorts. Kid even had colored in a black eye; at least, I think he colored it in. So I scoop a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his bag, and wouldn't you know, short time later he's back at the door. I said, “What the fock, weren't you the same 'Rocky' who was just here?" Kid says, “You bet, but now I'm 'Rocky II' plus I'll be back three more times tonight, and if you don't pony up something better than goddamn mashed potatoes, I'm going to kick your ass around the block and back, mister."

Tough kids, these days.

Then there was this other little guy come by the door—seems every year, never gets bigger—who has one of those what-you-call speech predicaments. So I answer the door and he says, “Bick or beet.” So I says, “And what are you supposed to be for Halloween?” He says, “A birate.” I says, “Isn't that sweet. A 'birate.' And where are your buccaneers?” And this kid says, “On the side of my buckin' head, asshole.”


So, I got to run, to somewheres. But I ought to leave you with a little story appropriate to this festive time of year. You may have heard it before, but now you'll hear it again, so what the fock—and given the ways of the world for crying out loud, this could be the last time from me. You never know. So read up, all you people:

So this guy's driving home late one night and starts feeling a little frisky. He's passing by a pumpkin patch and thinks, “You know, the interior of a pumpkin is not altogether unlike a certain part of the female anatomy—in a sensual sense, that is. And what the fock, there's no one around for miles.” So he slams on the brakes, jumps the fence, picks the juiciest-looking pumpkin he sees, carves an anatomically correct aperture, drops his drawers and commences to slake his burning desires. Reaching the heights of passion, he fails to notice the police car pulling over to the side of the road.


Cop walks over, shines a flashlight on the guy and says, “Hey buddy, did you know you were porking a pumpkin?” The guy looks at the cop, then down at the pumpkin between his hands and says, “Good lord, officer! Is it midnight
already!?!”

Ba-ding! 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek you betcha, and I told you so.