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Thursday, March 29, 2012

Just Because You Think You're So

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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, as some of you's know, I've given up work for Lent, which may be a whole lot of chutzpah on my end, seeing as how I figure I'm practically as lapsed a Catholic as gentlemen's film star Jenna Jameson is a lapsed virgin on her end.

But when it comes to worship, I believe you take from religion what you can use, and I can use some time off. Yes, I've had the heebie-jeebies over how my employer would view my choice of sacrificial duty vis-à-vis my typically hardy labor ethic—so far seems he hasn't noticed any difference, what the fock.


Anyways, so no chock-jammed full-packed essay from me this week. Just thought I'd check in 'cause truthfully, I'm getting a little bored with sitting on my dupa all day with nothing to do, the only responsibility to be getting up off the davenport once in a while so's to freshen my tumbler.


I am getting to watch a boatload of TV, though, which otherwise is not a possibility on account of my many unheralded yet time-consuming public appearances in service to my ongoing people's campaign for elective higher office, whatever office you got. And I don't mind giving that chore up for a while either 'cause cripes, it can be stressful.


Like this time the other day when I made an appearance at a grocery store. As I stood second in line at the checkout, waiting patiently to introduce myself and shake the ringer-upper's hand, not to mention to satisfactorily complete the purchase of my can of Seaweed tuna and pack of Pall Malls, the knobshine in front of me begins dicking around with his checkbook so as to pay for the 15 focking bags of who-knows-what that fill three carts. Focking-A, this knob is going to pay by check once he takes his stupid-ass nature's time to fill it out with the pen he doesn't have?


This kind of transaction never ends copacetically. The cash-register technician eventually accepts dickweed's check, attempts to insert it into some kind of doodad and now there's a problem. She's got to get on the phone, a sure sign that this ship is sinking. "All hands on deck." A higher-up needs to board the USS Held-Up Checkout Line by a Jag Trying to Pass a Focked-Up Check and help bail—the higher-up from the poopdeck who possesses a magic key and alleged familiarity with some kind of hoodoo super-secret digital code to be applied to said doodad.


By the time this ship is righted, I know that only carbon-date technology could verify the expiration date on my cheap-ass can of tuna, that the stock boy's voice will have changed and he will have spent a year at tech college, will have gotten married and will be about to embark for his third tour of duty within the friendly confines of sunny Af-focking-ghanistan.


It was then that as a perennial political candidate, I felt the need to re-examine my position on the still controversial open-concealed-carry-a-gun notion. My stance has been dead-set against such a crackpot Wild West shoot-'em-up scenario that grants every Tom, Dick and Dickless from Honkysha to Crivitz the right to pack heat. Besides, I'm a lousy shot, so there'd be nothing in it for me, what the fock.


However, while standing in line, it occurred to me that maybe compromise on this issue wouldn't be the end of the world as we know it.
Yes, ix-nay to the un-gays, but how 'bout allow the common citizen the right to pack a personal Taser so as to ameliorate annoying situations such as mine at the grocery store?

I tell you's, had I been able to call upon the latest in stun technology and whip out a Taser (personally I'm looking at the Taser M26C [aka M18L] with the built-in laser sight and four cartridges, price slashed to $499.95, ships in same day, also comes with a practice target—a handy item in the event the purchaser is neither married nor has any smart-ass kids), I could've stepped ahead of the check-writing fockstick in front of me 'cause he would've been flopping and floundering as does the tuna brought up from the sea in a net, right before it gets chopped up and stuffed in a can that by the grace of god I would soon open and stir up with a dollop or three of Miracle Whip to be spread delicately within two adjoining white slices of Mrs. Karl's. Bon appétit.


Anyways, speaking of public appearances, I ought to make myself useful and remind you's to take a break and show up 2-6 p.m. Sunday, April Fool's Day, over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school at the corner of Center & Humboldt for Art Kumbalek's 25th anniversary-with-the-same-focking-newspaper shebang. The mighty Brewhaus Polka Kings have graciously consented to provide some professional show business for the occasion, just because; and what else there may be, you'll need to shine around to find out, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
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