What a Wonderful World This Would Be
Fifty-focking-years ago, let me dress the stage for you’s: 1963—“The Beverly Hillbillies” was the top-rated TV show; A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum was Tony’s Best Musical; the Dodgers with superhuman Sandy Koufax swept the Yankees in the World Series (Pete Rose was NL Rookie of the Year); the Green Bay Packers failed to advance to the NFL title game after three successive visits ’cause Paul focking Hornung was busted for gambling; the Swingle Singers grabbed the Grammy for Best New Artist; jeans were “play-clothes” and they were called “overalls”; and in the early Friday afternoon on 11/22 of that year, you would’ve found me cooling my heels whilst bored on my ass during 8th-grade social studies class, getting the particulars on the fascinating topic of the economy of Guate-focking-mala, our Latin neighbor to the south, I kid you not.
I remember starting to nod off when the loudspeaker above the blackboard squealed for our attention with word that the coolest guy in the country, and the first president to be inaugurated not sporting a brim, had been shot in focking Dallas. It was like getting socked in the breadbasket by a 10th grader as hard as he could so you had diarrhea and needed to puke, in unison. Later, the radio broadcast through that loudspeaker told us the president was gone, leaving behind for some of us the firm belief that faith in the future would forever more be nothing but moosedick.
But that was then. Today, my belief that “faith in the future is moosedick” grows stronger with each successive commander-in-chief to be endured, and I am able to take a more objective view of our first Catholic president. And I got to tell you—JFK—what a guy. The original party president. The Kennedy White House, Camelot they called it, but Came-a-lot would be more like it. And the “Bay of Pigs,” some kind of botched invasion of Cuba? Hell no. The bay of pigs was the sound one heard outside the presidential boudoir when Jackie was out of town.
Lots of people to this day would swear that Jack is the top tomato when it comes to presidentializing. Perhaps not. Yes, true, he was the first rock star president. Rock stars are creeps, so big focking deal. That fact alone is enough for me to maybe place JFK in the lower third of historical U.S. presidents, next to knobs like the Zack Taylors, the Jim Buchanans, the George Bushes. For christ sakes, JFK made it possible for the Beatles to happen, and I always thought those Rolling Stones cleaned their clocks, at least until Mick Jagger started looking like a Don Knotts stand-in.
On the other hand, based on what he meant to—and did for—the workingman, now I’ve got him in the Top Three. And don’t forget that he did bag Marilyn Monroe, so that also elevates him big-time in my personal standings. ’Natch, back then the only celeb who didn’t bag Marilyn Monroe was the pope; although to this day there remains no irrefutable documentation that clearly states he didn’t get his share too, so who the fock really knows, ain’a?
And speaking of no irrefutable documentation, we have the assassination theories. About this Kennedy whack-cum-conspiracy-cum-first TV-president-cum lodestone for lunatics, once that Warren Commission snow job came down with no mention of Pete Rozelle (former National Football commish) as a possible conspirator, I knew there was a stinky worm can afoot. Heyyy, you’re telling me that only three years after Dallas was given a football franchise over the desires of JFK, who wanted his Boston to have professional tackle football instead, the president just happened to be in that Texan cow town during the middle of football season—and got shot? Unnecessary roughness? You bet. Where were the officials on that play? You tell me.
Not to mention that nobody ever questioned what the fock a schoolbook depository was doing in Texas. They hardly have schools, let alone books for christ sakes. Like Will Rogers should’ve said: “I never met a Texan who ever read a book.”
But alas, we now know that it was you and me who shot the Kennedys. Yeah, and I shot the sheriff, Tupac and JR to boot, what the fock. Yet to think that it’s possible that the course of our country was so dramatically altered because of tackle football in Dallas should show you a thing or two about history: Every action, no matter how tiny, causes a ripple in the cesspool of events. The mundane act of blowing your snot-nose could change the course of a nation in the future to come—so please, always be sure to carry a hanky ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.