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Wednesday, Oct. 17, 2012

I Will Not Be Available

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And yeah, yeah, the other week I signed up for that so-called Do-Not-Call list that’s supposed to prevent a telephone owner like myself from receiving unsolicited phone calls every minute of the live-long day from every ass-clown in the known universe who is hell-bent on either harassment or peddling worthless bullshit. Seems some wire got crossed and I got put on the DO-CALL list available to every ass-clown in the known universe who is hell-bent on either harassment or peddling worthless bullshit, what the fock.

So I picked up one of these newfangled answering machines from a weekend flea market that you hook up to your telephone—you hear about these things yet? I tell you, when you got one of these babies plugged in, the goddamn phone answers itself, un-focking-believable the technology these days—and you never ever again run the risk of unsuspectingly running into a bonehead conversation with some knobshine you’d wish would drop dead.

The only effort you got to put in is to record some kind of message for the people that lets them know you’re not going to answer the phone. A lot of these messages you hear when you call somebody practically make you feel ashamed you got to be a member of the human race. They’ll put some crappy music to go along with their message like they’re a regular Leonard Cohen, or they grab the joke bag and think they’re opening for Henny Youngman at the Chuckle Bucket.

Anyways, I just recorded my first message and, if I do say so myself, it’s a textbook example of what an answer-machine greeting ought to be: specific and to the point. Feel free to use it as a model for when you have to record a greeting:

“You have reached the Kumbalek residence and I am either unreachable or I just don’t focking feel like dealing with whatever bee it is you got up your hinder at the present time; and if this is the numbnuts from the collection company representing Bendover magazine, listen pally, I’ll pay the last installment as soon as I get the Jane Russell Bra Phone I was promised upon renewal of my subscription and not one second sooner, asshole.

“And if this is some dumb-ass suburban uber-blonde from the Republican Party seeking my vote for the Romney/Ryan ticket to hell, forget about it, sister. For 40 focking years now, I’ve voted Democrat/Red Commie Socialist in every single election for every single office and not a once have I gone GOP. That’s not going to change this time, or any time. Listen, you got a party full-up to the rafters with delusional, racist, gun/Jesus-nut, lying sacks-of-crap idiots. That’s not my crowd. Cripes, you kowtow to these Bible-literal evangelical anti-science dunderheads who believe the world was born just yesterday and some guys lived past the age of 900? Nine-hundred-years-old! What do you know about health care that you’re not telling the rest of us.

“And Noah’s Ark, what the fock—was Noah taking a smoke-break when the rats and the cockroaches came up the ramp do-si-do? For christ sake, just what the hell was going through his mind? Now I can understand not letting the dinosaurs onboard because of space concerns; but really, rats and cockroaches? Hey, thanks for nothing. I only pray that if there’s any need for another ark, I hope it happens during my lifetime and I’m working on-deck security ’cause I’ll tell you, when I see the politicians, the consultants, the stock analysts, the right-wing radio talk-show goons come by to check-in two by two, they damn well better know how to swim, I kid you not.

“If this is my buddy Ray and you’re looking for some material you can use at the men’s smoker over by St. Stanislaus’ come Sunday, try this one: So this guy’s wife doesn’t come home one night. Next morning, he gets a ransom phone call telling him to bring $50-grand to the 17th hole at Peckerwood Country Club, 10 a.m. the next day, if he ever wants to see his wife alive again.

So the next day, it’s just about a half-past noon by the time the guy makes it to the 17th green. Someone in a mask pops out of the woods and says, “Jesus H. Christ, what the fock. You’re over two hours late!” And the guy says, “Hey, cut me some slack, for christ sakes. I got a thirty-focking-two handicap, for crying out loud.”

“Kindly discharge your dispatch at the sound of the bleeping bleep and make it snappy—I don’t have all day ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.”