Had around 2,000 citizens, and me, out there hobnobbing to beat the band, and sampling this and that from all over America’s Dairyland. Met a lot of nice people—not a single knobshine gave me the heebie jeebies and the concomitant urge to search for security and have them forcibly removed, what the fock.
The only improvement I can think to make is that next year they ought to install a carnival midway out in the parking lot, complete with the games of skill and/or chance, and don’t forget a boatload of amusement rides—those rides guaranteed to be well-maintained and operated by the finest staff of tattooed, toothless safety experts this side of a halfway house for skinhead Nazi bikers from Hell. You betcha.
And the second thing I got to tell you’s is that I’m still the fock out here. Inconceivable, ain’a? All I can figure is I must’ve dozed off while manning my post in Kumbalek’s Korner right toward the end of the festival. When I came to, all the booths, all the tables and all the people—including a couple, three who could’ve given me a lift back Downtown—were gone.
So I’m still out here, in Kumbalek’s Korner, a bus rider with no dough in his pockets, in the middle of West Allis. What the fock am I supposed to do? For christ sakes, for a guy like me, I may as well be out in the middle of Timbuk-focking-tu.
All I can hope is somebody at the Shepherd actually reads this page (stranger things have happened) and appreciates my predicament. HEY, IF YOU COME BY TO PICK ME UP AND TAKE ME HOME, DIRECTLY—NO STOPPING TO RUN SOME BULLSHIT ERRAND ON THE WAY BACK, PLEASE—I’LL SPLIT THE COST OF THE GAS YOU FIGURE TO USE.
I can’t believe that no one’s noticed that I haven’t been haunting my usual haunts for days now—haunts that include the Shepherd headquarters. I just can’t focking believe that a man of my stature gets ditched and stranded at State Fair Park in April. This couldn’t possibly be intentional… or could IT?!?
Hey, you tell me, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.