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Thursday, Jan. 19, 2012

January Gall

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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, crushed I am by the flushing of our Packers season down the turd bowl by a focking bunch of New Yorkers, and some knob says to me, “Hey Artie, writing those essays of yours must be good therapy, ain'a?” And I was reminded of a little story:

This gal goes to her psychiatrist 'cause she's having big problems with her sex life, wouldn't you know. The psychiatrist asks her lots of questions but isn't getting a clear picture of her problems. So finally he asks, “Do you ever watch your husband's face while you are having sex?” And she says, “Well, yes, I did once.” The psychiatrist asked her how he looked and she said, “Very angry.”


The psychiatrist felt he was finally getting somewhere: “That's very interesting but we must look into this further. Now tell me, you say that you have only seen your husband's face once during sex, which seems somewhat unusual. How did it occur that you saw his face that time?” And she says, “He was looking through the window.”
Ba-ding!

So, oh yeah you bet, Artie's his own therapist, how 'bout that. By cutting out the middleman, I figure I'm saving myself about a $120 bucks an hour; so the drinks are on me. And as a therapist, one thing I know is that we can all use an extra pat on the back. Actually, I got a better idea. More than an extra pat on the back, we could all use an extra twenty in the backpocket, ain'a? Hold on, I got an even better idea. How 'bout, say, you go see one of these psychiatric guys for a little shrink rap and at the end of the session he gives you a crisp $100 instead of the other way around—“Hey doc, gosh. Thanks for the dough. I'm feeling better about myself already.” And isn't that the point?

Fock if I know, but I sometimes do wonder what things would be like these days if there had been an outbreak of the psychology racket in the olden days. Say back in the year 0027 or something, they pull Jesus in for a psych session: “Well, Mr. Christ, to me it looks like we're dealing with a pattern of self-destructive behavior here. I'd say you were clinically depressed, but that hasn't been invented yet. This savior thing. It's a grand idea, but practically speaking, what about the future? Do you actually see yourself doing this at age 40, 50? And you say one thing, but then do another. 'Love thy neighbor,' fine. But then you go bust up their money-changing temple. What I'd like to do is see you weekly for the long-term. Who is your health care provider, Mr. Christ?”

I've heard that some psychiatrists like to quiz their patients about their dreams. If I were seeing a shrink instead of seeing myself, I'd tell him about the one I had just the other night that goes something like this:

Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich and Rick Perry were set to face a firing squad in a small Middle Eastern country. Mitt Romney was the first one placed against the wall, and just before the order was given he yelled out, “Earthquake!” The firing squad fell into a panic and Mitt jumped over the wall and escaped in the confusion.

Newt Gingrich was the second one placed against the wall. The squad was reassembled and Newt pondered what he had just witnessed. Again before the order was given, Newt said, “Gentlemen! Sandstorm!” Again the squad panicked and Newt slipped over the wall.

   Now it was Rick Perry's turn. He was thinking, “I see a pattern here, yes sir, I surely do.” He confidently refused the blindfold as the firing squad reassembled. As the rifles were raised in his direction, he returned that steely Texas gaze of his and yelled, “Fire!” Ba-ding!

Speaking of therapy, I really ought to mention that a truly stand-up guy in each and every way by the name of Will Durst is back in town this Friday, Jan. 20, at 8 p.m. over by that new Next Act Theatre spot at 255 S. Water St., I kid you not.

Yeah, that Will Durst—Comedy For People Who Read or Know Someone Who Does—the one you lazy focks didn't go see when he did a couple, three shows Thanksgiving time around here. And if you haven't seen him onstage before, you can bet your buck two-eighty he's funny, all right. Cripes, the guy even smells funny.

No. Hold on. That's actually me, the one who promised not to bathe 'til Ted focking Thompson pockets a high-price defensive free agent who can apply a little PRESSURE ON A GODDAMN QUARTERBACK FOR CHRIST SAKES… 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

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