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Friday, April 20, 2012

Everyone Knows It's Windy

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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain'a? Listen, it had been suggested this week I slap together the Positive-Cheerful-Vivacious-Enthusiastic Feel-Good Essay of the Year. I'd love to tell you's that the loser now will be later to win, that the slow one now will later be fast, and the first one now will later be last. Yes, a rosy forecast I wish I had, but you don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows—from any direction, it just simply blows big time, you betcha.

So, you'll see no essay this week. Instead, you'll find my booze heels to be wandering over up by
Uptowner tavern/charm school majestically crammed at the corner of wistfully Hysteric Humboldt Boulevard and the fabled Center Street—where today is always at least a day before tomorrow and yesterday may gosh darn well be today. Come along if you like, but you buy the first round. Let's get going.

Emil
: Fock Earth Day. To me, it's like what-they-call Sweetest Day—big focking deal. Until the government makes Earth Day 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, you can focking forget about Earth Day.

Little Jimmy Iodine:
Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.

Art:
Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know.

Ernie
: I know I probably forgot to file that extension I should've with the IRS. It's like I'm on Desolation Death Row and all I can say is "I wonder where the time goes," 'cause that's all I can say, what the fock.

Julius:
Fock 'em. Why should I pay any "income" tax anyways, when the April 15 comes around? 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.

Art:
Any you's guys coming by the Shank Hall this Sunday the April 22 night for the Standup Comedy All-Star Tribute to C. Cardell Willis? Dobie "Mr. Lucky" Maxwell is hosting.

Ray
: Yeah yeah, Cardell. One heck of a great guy, and Dobie's not too bad himself, ain'a? You going to be there, Artie?

Art
: I'll say a few words. The show's for charity.

Herbie:
Sorry Artie, can't make it Sunday. It's the wife's birthday and her nephew and his kids are coming over by us. These kids got sticky vandal fingers, so I got to keep an eye on them. Last time they visit, they took my entire beer can collection over to the Miller Compressing and then spent the dough on action figures.

Julius:
Kids love those action figures. Bone Crusher. Gut Slasher. Stand Your Ground Man. I remember a couple, three years ago some parents protested the violence and demanded they make some educational action figures. So the company put out a Stephen Hawking rocket scientist action figure. Nobody bought it.

Ray:
Well no shit, Sherlock. That's like GI Joe after the action—a guy in a wheelchair. You can't sell that.

Little Jimmy Iodine:
Hey Artie, you going to run for governor in the recall coming up? Time's getting tight, I hear.

Art:
Yeah, maybe I should. I sure as hell wouldn't have to dick with any of my platform planking, since it's all the same heavy lumber I used the last time I ran for higher office: 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. Cripes, if the minimum salary for a Major League Baseball player is somewhere about $480,000 a year, my teacher buddy Todd over at that Tenor High School on North Jackson Street and each and every one of the teachers in all the grade schools and high schools in America's Dairyland 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 a hell of a lot more dough than that paid to those who sit on a bench, scratch thy scrotumnal area and spit the juice de la tobacco, ain'a?

Ray:
Hey Artie, since you never have any material when you go on stage, I got a good one you could use for the Sunday comedy show that I'll bet Cardell would've liked: What's the difference between a tornado and an ex-wife?

Art:
Blow it by me, Ray.

Ray:
None. They both get the house. Ba-ding!

(Hey, Ray's starting to speak in Italics, so I know it's getting late and you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, 'cause I'm Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.)