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Friday, July 27, 2012

A Dark Night Begins

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I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain'a? So listen, the heat's got me hog-tied (and not in a good way) and I've had it with whipping out yet another bullshit essay. So I'm off to cool-out over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school majestically crammed onto the corner of wistfully hysteric Humboldt Boulevard and the fabled Center Street. Tag along if you like, but you cover the first round. Let's get going.

Herbie:
Iceland. I shit you not. Iceland got a focking medal in 2008. When they let Iceland into these Summer Olympics and take away a medal that otherwise should've gone to one of our American amateurs, then you know the globalization and outsourcing bullshit has really gone too far.

Julius:
And the Chinese got 15 more gold medals than we did last time.

Ray:
You got to be jerking my beefaroni. They got that many Ping-Pong events now?

Little Jimmy Iodine:
Yeah, but no horseshoes. I'd watch that, you betcha. Those Olympics don't have enough events the common man can relate to, like poker, ain'a?

Ernie:
The Commie countries would never let poker in the Olympics—the triumph of the individual who gets to keep all his dough instead of passing it out to every Tom, Dick and Dickless with his hand out? Focking forget about it.

Emil:
I wonder if any of those gal gymnasts have hit puberty yet from four years ago.

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:
What the fock are you doing here, Artie? Aren't you supposed to be writing your little article for that hippie newspaper?

Art:
Yeah, but I'm thinking of benching myself for a week. I got this feeling I'm in one of those slumps where I'm just not hitting it like I usually do. Maybe I'm trying too hard, trying to do too much.

Herbie:
You know Artie, when it comes to “full of crap,” you take the turd cake. “Trying too hard”? Hey mister, it's called work. You sound like one of those overpaid clueless billionaire ballplayers who all of a sudden can't hit the broadside of a toilet. And their theory is always “they're trying too hard,” that they “just got to go up there and relax.” And every Joe Blow sports fan buys it like a hot tamale—except me because this slumpage theory does not cut the cheese in the real world of the working man.

Emil:
No shit, Herbie. Twenty-five focking years ago I ran this very same theory past my last boss. He asked me how come my work always sucked. I said, “The way I see it, mister, I'm probably trying too hard to make good at what I'm getting paid to do. I need to focking relax, don't you think?” He agreed. He told me to clear my stuff out in a New York minute or he'd call the cops. I've been relaxing ever since. The thing is: I can't tell if my work's improved 'cause I don't do any.

Art:
Hey, any you's guys seen the new Batman movie?

Little Jimmy Iodine:
I don't think I'm going, Artie. Now that those honcho NRA nuts call it hunky-dory for each and every numbnut to pack and carry an arsenal, I don't need to spend 10 bucks to get shot in a theater. I can get shot for free just by walking the sidewalk in front of some fockstick's house. If I'm going to get blown away, at least I'll have that extra sawbuck to help cover the funeral expense.

Ernie:
Cripes Jimmy, what the fock. I believe the right to legally have a sidearm of a fire-weapon nature on your person is mighty handy for the regular Joe Blow—especially when he's out there driving on the freeway and some asshole cuts him off. Sure, you can speed up and flip the asshole the finger as you pass him, but how effective is that really? Now, if you could flip the asshole the finger, then roll down your window and blow out his tires with an entirely legal 9 mm Walther PP-focking-K, focking-A. Now you got yourself some justice, I kid you not.

Herbie:
But what about the back-bench victims that weren't inside that Colorado theater? Seems this Aurora assassin was, once again, one of those “quiet guys who look normal and keep to themselves.” And so I'd advise all “quiet guys who look normal and keep to themselves” this: Change your ways. Honeymoon's over, 'cause I'm thinking you're now about to get stereotyped and profiled like a beaner from Juarez eating a taco and driving while black smack-dab down main street Fox focking Point.

Little Jimmy:
Focking-A. When quiet guys who look normal and keep to themselves get the prejudice as psycho-maraudic killers-in-waiting who ought to be locked up on the focking spot just for preventative purposes, then so do the perceived freedoms the rest of us normal people are supposed to enjoy get incarcerated, ain'a?

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