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Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Never and Always

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And I don’t know about you, but I’m having one heck of a hard time believing it’s already the fourth month of this new year. Cripes, here I am still in negotiations with the aftereffects of the hangover I came down with the first of January and apparently the Masters golf tournament has now come and gone not to mention I probably forgot to file that extension I should’ve with the IRS. It’s like I’m Death Row and all I can say is “I wonder where the time goes,” ’cause that’s all I can say, what the fock.

Yeah yeah, here we are and “April is the cruellest month,” so said that poet from out of St. Louis, Eliot what-his-name. And I can only agree. It’s cruel in the way it leaves me abso-focking-lutely depressed on account of the joy that my fellow man and woman express with the shedding of their snowpants.Do they not realize that right after our week-to-ten days of springtime—

…breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

that we, at least me, are smack-dab back into the Dante’s inferno hell of heat, humidity, stupidity, all kind of insects, and chowderheads with no school, no jobs, no shirts, doing their thing and disturbing my peace? I think not.

And April, this month, cruel, to electorally remind me how piss-poorly the Art Kumbalek Democracy Express 2008 For Any and All Political Office has performed to now. Even though I’ve done my best to run a low-key campaign, keep my name out of the papers and to refuse campaign donations from tainted corporate lobbyists if none were offered, I have failed to be elected either mayor, alderman, supervisor, some-kind-of-judge, commissioner, registrar, and who knows what-the-fock else. Thanks for your support.

Allow me to reiterate the ideology I would apply to any political office remaining that I could get elected to, which I’m guessing would leave only president of your United States. So, to all you remaining undecided “superdelegates,” here’s the deal: Longer tavern hours from sea to shining sea; better looking prostitutes, across the board; mandatory prayer on the public transportation and mandatory learning in the public schools with big-time pay raises for the teachers to boot—if the minimum salary for a Major League Baseball player is somewhere about $327,000 a year, my teacher friend Todd over at that Tenor High School on Jackson St. and each and every one of the teachers in all the grade schools and high schools ought to pull down at least half that for what they do. I like baseball, but what the fock. I’m thinking the effort to bunt some young lives into scoring position is worth more dough than that paid to those who sit on a bench, scratch thy scrotumnal area and spit the juice de la tobacco.

And this Earth Day we always have in April. To me, it’s a lot like this S w e e t e s t Day—big focking deal. But if you elect me as your president, I promise that I will make Earth Day just like a regular bona fide holiday where you get paid eight-hours off from work so’s you can go visit relatives and drink their beer all day.

And speaking of recycling, let’s talk taxes. And what about taxes? I don’t know what to tell you. Being a guy who over the years has discovered that he’s got not much pot to pee in, me and income taxes don’t go so well together, which is another reason I always get so damn depressed this time of year. Hell, why should I pay any “income” tax anyways? I already gave. I tell you, what I cough up in the so-called “sin” taxes on mental health products like your Old Crow and Pall Malls in one year alone has just got to be more than any two rich Republican knobshines weasel into paying on income in their entire focking lives, I kid you not.

I say the government ought to forget the income tax and go to a voluntary pledge drive instead, like your NPR and PBS. Seems to work for them, ain’a? You decide how much dough you want to chip in for the government and if it’s a nice enough amount they send you a nice tote bag for your tote, an Uncle Sam Tshirt and maybe the CD box set of the Navy Band recorded live at Sousa-palooza 1995. Are you in? So what the fock, it’s spring, and I can’t help but recall some words by the T.S. Eliot poet, who interpreted for the layman Abbott & Costello’s “Who’s On First?” routine this way:

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Play ball, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.