Ernie: Look, all I’m saying is that it’s summertime and I’m still reading about the measly low test scores this country’s young Einsteins racked up in school. What the fock.
Little Jimmy Iodine: A lot of experts think the piss-poor scores are on account of the flimsy diet the kids get in their feedbag these days.
Julius: And that’s because these experts refuse to allow all the facts to be in their pipe before they smoke it. I will tell you’s this: Kids throughout the ages have always had a mangy diet, what with all the junk food they like to chow down all the time; but still the Homo sapien race has yet to be shit-canned off the face of this planet to this day—and that’s a fact.
Emil: A-focking-men. Like that kid in history what’s-his-name—Oliver Copperfield, I’m thinking. I saw this movie on him once and swear to god, this focking kid got nothing but gruel to eat. Morning, noon and night. Gruel. But still in the end, he turned out all right after all, ain’a?
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey gents, what do you hear, what do you know.
Emil: Come to think of it, what the fock is gruel, anyways?
Art: So you’s guys dream up some ideas for my TV ads yet?
Emil: But I’ll tell you’s, when I was a schoolboy my Ma made sure I ate like a regular Rockefeller, three, four times a day, day-in, day-out. I still focking flunked everything but I didn’t care ’cause I always had a good meal coming ’round the corner. So today, maybe I’m not Mr. Corporation Business Hotshot, but I’m no focking moron either, so big focking deal.
Ray: Hey Emil, let me buy you a drink but I need some change. You got two tens for a five?
Emil: Let me check.
Little Jimmy: So Artie, I don’t know what kind of governor ads you should have that people will pay attention to. The only thing that sells on TV is sex and the violence, I hear.
Herbie: Yeah Jimmy, so what’s the problem? Here’s the TV spot I got in mind: You got Artie dressed up like Uncle Sam wearing a Packer jersey walking down a rain-slicked street. On either arm he’s escorting a lady, and I say they be super-stacked Vegas showgirls to represent the yearnings of the working-class male voter. Out of the dark, four middle-aged white guys in suits show up. They look like fat-cat donor lobbyists who just got expensive haircuts, what the fock. They start messing with the ladies, waving big wads of cash and talking Tea Party shit. Artie excuses himself to the ladies and proceeds to kick the ever-loving crap out of this gang of four and to drive home the message, then pistol-whips the quartet into unconsciousness. As the sun cracks the horizon and birds start a’ chirping, each gal lip-locks a Kumbalek cheek as Artie stares into the camera and says, “I’m fighting them so you don’t have to. Like it—or lump it.”
Art: Abso-focking-lutely, Herbie. In 30 seconds, I’ve reached three important voting blocs. One: the WrestleMania crowd who go for action, admire hotsy-totsy ladies and always root for the good guy to come out on top. Two: the ladies who feel safer having the government as protector rather than corporate-style clowns who believe equal-pay for equal-work is about as feasible as bicycles for fish. And three: the gun crowd who’d understand I was no candy-ass when it came to preserving the honor and well-being of my cherished ones.
Ernie: Now all you need is a good overall slogan, something strong yet focking personal.
Little Jimmy: Mister Truman had “Give ’em Hell, Harry!” How ’bout for you Artie, a nice simple “Go to Hell!”?
Art: It’s direct, all right.
Herbie: How about “Go to Hell, Artie!” It’s always more effective to work the name of the candidate into the slogan, I kid you not.
Art: True, but frankly, I frankly think you just came up with a slogan for the voting public to use, a slogan, frankly, that could never become yesterday’s news, a slogan for all seasons: “Go to Hell, (Insert Name of Candidate Here)!”
(It’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)