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Thursday, July 11, 2013

Of Public Intercourse

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, given the hubristic hullabaloo that underscores the pros and cons of Our Town’s current affairs, I plan for this essay to kibosh my ha-ha-bullshit, and instead to focus with civic-minded clarity upon the panorama of plaguing bugaboos that perniciously infect our public intercourse, repeatedly, over the mattress of our commonwealth lumpily getting stuffed sideways with ideas cum issues, or something like that.

But first, you see in the news that somewheres in Brazil a soccer referee stabbed to death one of the players, and then friends and relatives of the murdered player “stoned the referee to death and quartered his body”? Goooaaal! I’ve never been a soccer fan in the least, but with the 2014 World Cup to be played in Brazil, I just might pay attention, you betcha.

So; for christ sakes, hold on a second:

“Shepherd Express… No, he’s not here. Call tomorrow… Not a focking clue. Call tomorrow, all right?”

Sorry about that. This sucks—alone in the office on a Sunday and having to deal with the goddamn telephone. Here I am, applying the final shellack to this piece of work known as my all-important weekly essay, and—hold on another cotton-focking second, did I just spell “shellack” like she ought to be spelt? I’ll double-check ’cause that’s the kind of guy I am.

No siree! “Shellack” gets spelt like… hold on.

“Shepherd Express… No, she’s not here. Don’t know, try back tomorrow… I said call tomorrow, got that?”

“Shellack” correctly spelled appears as “shellac.” Who knew, ain’a? But guess what? While I was thumbing around for what turned out to be “shellac” in this 1982 The American Heritage Dictionary I got here, I came across shithead. That’s right. I couldn’t believe it either, that along with your eponymous, your theanthropism, your meningococcus; you also got your shithead in this day of dictionary age.

Hey, where the hell where they when I really needed them? Cripes, like way back in the fifth focking grade, finding something like a shithead in the dictionary would’ve made my focking day but good.

The camaraderie and goodwill toward my fellow classmates I could’ve enjoyed, should have enjoyed, then; huddled in the back of the room as Sister took a moment or two so’s to ream some poor kid’s smartmouth butt up front of the class whilst me and my buddies in back, huddled together as if in prayer as I referred my fellow neophytic lexicographers to the second column of page 1,131: “Thar she blows, gents,” I’d whisper, “‘shithead: A highly contemptible or objectionable person.’ Hey, any you’s Einsteins know what ‘contemptible’ means?” And so thus, a lifelong love for words begins.

(Damn, this is ridiculous. Hold on.)

“Shepherd Express… No. No. I told you. Not here. Didn’t you just call?… Well, I don’t know and I don’t focking care… Yeah? Same to you, shithead.”

But the thing is, finding “shithead” in the dictionary just now? Even at my advanced age, it made my day. And that makes me feel ageless. To maintain that youthful outlook on life, that’s the ticket. Like every time I have a nice smoke? I still get a charge out of it the same way like way back, sneaking one in the boys’ can between 6th and 7th hour. Or having a little flask-nip when I’m not supposed to, say, northbound aboard route No. 10, destination the Uptowner. Heck, doing practically anything when I’m not supposed to, and vice versa—I get that same kind of energizing charge that reminds me that hell yes, I’m still alive, and that Never-Never Land truly can be more than just a made-up place in a made-up book, what the fock.

This is the kind of stuff that can make a guy feel like he sure as shootin’ can live a way lot longer than he’s got a right to, and…

“Shepherd Express… Jack Mehoff? Let me check…. Did you say ‘Jack Mehoff’?… In your focking dreams, pal. We had to let the knobshine go.”

Now where the hell was I? I got to read back. Hold on, again.

Jeez louise, how’d I end up here? I only meant to briefly note that I’m trying to apply the final sheen on this essay here at deadline, a task that requires every drop of I-can’t-be-bothered-concentration I can muster plus spurt. Instead, I’m answering the phone every two focking seconds. No wonder this essay so far seems a tad firschimmelled—spelling? I know it means just like it sounds, but let me check my “dic.”

Can’t find it. But I did come upon foin, which means to thrust with a pointed weapon; and also folie à deux, a foreign word meaning “a condition in which the same delusional ideas or beliefs are shared by two individuals who have a close relationship or association.” I tell you, those focking French, how many ways can they spell love, ain’a?

Fock me, there’s the phone again. I’m not answering ’cause now I’m out of space here, but I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty over by the Uptowner they got space there, so let’s get going. You buy the first round ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.