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Thursday, March 22, 2012

Krakowiak, East of Jive Turkey

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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? Listen, as Lorena Bobbitt said to husband John some years ago, “We got to cut this short,” so do I got to cut this essay off at the bee's knee, or thereabouts. And I'll tell you why.

This unusual weather of the high, high temperature for this time of year we've had of late in Beertown has me down but good, bewitched, bothered, depressed, bewildered, verschimmelt. Something's just not right, I kid you not.

I feel the same as if I'd stepped on a soggy five-dollar bill in the men's room stall, raced to the bank for a quick deposit so's to keep my account above water, and noticed later that the gal behind the counter must've got goofy 'cause my bank balance shows $500,000.00 when I know it ought to really read $5.00. But what the fock, numbers don't lie, so I go out on the town and have a nice steak dinner; then call a cab and head out to Schledorn's in Monotony Falls and buy a couple, three Buicks; put a down payment on a lakefront condo the size of the Taj focking Mahal; ring up an escort service for some swanky companionship with all the fixings; and then call it a night 'cause tomorrow's another day, when maybe I'll treat myself to a European vacation with the dough I got left.

Yeah yeah, it'd be a nice dance whilst it lasted, but I'll bet you's a buck two-eighty eventually the piper will knock at my door with his hand out (I hope it's his hand) and gosh darn it if that's not going to be an awkward transaction.

So enjoy the bounty of our meteorological miracle while it maintains manifestation, 'cause what the fock. As for me, I'm housebound flat on my back with a box of Kleenex for companionship as I suffer the feverish snot-bearing blasts of a goddamn spring head-cold to beat the band, debilitated to the point where my sweet dream is to one day stumble on a soggy fiver lost on the floor of a men's room stall. What a world.

But come to think of it, that lucky day may come soon. In fact, it may be the afternoon of Sunday, April 1, somewheres between the hours of 2 and 6 p.m. over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school on the corner of wistfully hysteric Humboldt Boulevard and the fabled Center Street, where all are invited and some might gather to toast yours truly for 25 years of shit-slinging out of the Shepherd Express, whilst the mighty Brewhaus Polka Kings shovel the schottische and fling the focks trot for your listening and dancing pleasure, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

 

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