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Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Swingin' on a Star

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, it being the Lenten season, let us pray, you betcha.

Dear Lord, ol’ pal, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal:

Remember me? Yeah, me, your spittin’ image under this orange doom-skinned earflap cap, a regular Davy Fockett, razin’, blazin’ new trails through this valley of travail? Ring a bell? That’s what I figured. Hey, you’re not the only one, so no need for you to feel like a jackass, okey-dokey?

I’ve heard that a good prayer is supposed to be like a conversation with You, the Lord; so you mind if I beseech thee that for once you hold up your end of the gabfest? Thanks.

I can’t remember the last time I made an official prayer. I almost did that time years ago when I was riding with my buddy Ernie and we just barely missed nailing that stalled Pinto in the middle of I-focking-94. But it all happened so fast, and then we had to turn around and go home for clean underwear. In all the commotion, seems I forgot all about making out a prayer. I do know that I call out your name several times daily, requesting that you send this or that straight to hell. I suppose technically that doesn’t add up to praying but it sure feels good, so what the fock, ain’a?

And Lord, I shall turn the other cheek toward the political aggressiveness of the guns-for-everybody crowd, those who believe that it would’ve been way cooler when that numbnut took those potshots at Ron Reagan years back, that instead of getting shoved into the back seat of a car like some old grandma, our prez would’ve hauled out a piece and gave as good as he got. Or that Beatle John Lennon, instead of making some record called Revolver, he should’ve been packing one.

Let us pray for those who want to keep building more prisons. They ought to make a movie—Field of Cons. A guy clears his backyard, puts up Century fence all ’round it, gets a Doberman and all of a sudden Al Capone comes waltzing out the unattached garage and says to the guy, “Build a prison and they will come, capisce?”

And speaking of movies, I see that you’ve finally said yea, verily to the Second Coming and have returned as a movie star in a picture called Son of God. To be a matinee idol seems to suit you. If you had come back as a carpenter, you’d have had a tough row to hoe. Over the centuries, carpentry has progressed a ton from the simple hammer and nail, and I don’t know who’d trust you with an electric drill or bench-top band saw. And just so you know, the Earth is round these days.

No sir, you are definitely a leading-man type, and getting your feet wet in the acting game by playing yourself was a wise choice, ’cause it’s not like you have to know how to tie shoelaces or spell two-syllable words to be a movie actor

Also, you really know your way around a robe, I kid you not. And you’re looking good, still sporting the long locks and facial hair like in all the old paintings. My buddy Little Jimmy Iodine saw a promo photo for the movie and said, “Hey, didn’t that guy use to play rhythm guitar in the Marshall Tucker Band?” And cripes, I know people who would just die to get the number of your orthodontist, I kid you not.

So what’s your next film project? To tell the truth, I don’t quite see you as a goofy sidekick in Hangover: Part Too-Many, or playing a historical guy like Napoleon or Sherlock Holmes ’cause no matter how good you were, people would say, “Jesus H. Christ—that’s Jesus Christ up there for christ sakes!”

People’s ability to suspend their disbelief is not a bottomless ocean. Let me suggest you stick to costume dramas where you play some kind of prince or lieging lord of the land, and you’ll do just fine. By the bye, I’ve got a treatment for something called Good Friday the 13th, and you’re welcome to take a look at it.

O Lord, I guess that’s about it. And come to think of it, don’t worry about getting back to me ’cause like I’ve always said, one day you start hearing voices out of thin air, next day you’re out carving up Cub Scouts. I don’t need that kind of aggravation, what the fock.

Grant me the continuance to be the hot flaming poker lodged up his-or-hers butt sideways but good, so that an unfettered bantering of ideas may be bandied around the town today, tomorrow and yesterday. Amen, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.