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Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Bombasting the Air

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I don’t have the time to pony up a big honking essay for you’s this week, and I’ll tell you why. What with the party political conventions right around the corner, I got to take some time to ponder whether or not I would consider the No. 2 spot on somebody’s ticket. Here’s one thing, if I accepted the 2-spot, I can promise I’d provide a heap of contrast to that of former veep Dick “Head” Cheney during my vice-presidential reign. I would restore the American people’s faith in the belief that the vice-presidency is a do-nothing position. I aspire to nothing more than sitting on my dupa and collecting my big-ass V.P. paycheck; although I may consent to attend the occasional fancy-schmancy state dinner for some semi leader from some godforsaken part of the planet who had come a’ calling looking for an Uncle Sam handout.

And so I best run this notion by my campaign brain trust, huddled as we speak over at the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the corner by Center & Humboldt there. Tag along if you like, but you cover the first round. Let’s get going.

Emil: Any you’s guys know what “ramparts” are?

Julius: Yeah, ram parts. That’s what they stuff in those sandwich gyros down at the Greek place ain’a?

Emil: That can’t be right. I’m talking “ram parts,” like in the song you sing at the ballpark, what-you-call, “My Country ’Tis of Thee.”

Little Jimmy Iodine: Any you’s guys coming by me for the Fourth? I got to know how many wieners I got to get.

Ernie: I wish, but no. I got to go by my sister’s up there in Bumfock Washington County ’cause the nephew’s marching in the parade.

Herbie: I feel for you, Ernie. Those high-school marching bands. I tell you, there’s not a song been written that those uniformed gangs of pimply faced masturbators with their blaring blugel horns can’t slaughter, ain’a?

Julius: Who cares. The world’s going to end in a couple, three months anyways once the research scientists fire-up that super atom-smash er out in Switzerland they’ve been building.

Ray: What the fock, since when did the Swiss make the leap from making cuckoo clocks and chocolate to destroying the world?

Herbie: For christ sakes, listen. The scientists hope this new atom-smasher discovers the so called “elusive Higgs boson” particle that’ll help explain the universe as we know it, but some believe it will create instead some kind of black hole that will fock with the Earth, right here, right now.

Emil: Didn’t these scientists ever watch those movies that used to end with some knob in a lab coat who would say, “There are things in the uni verse that mankind was not meant to know”?

Ray: Yeah, like how come fockstick Artie Kumbalek never buys a round?

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey. Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.

Art: Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know.

Little Jimmy: Now that you’re here, I know that it’s time to toast the memory of our friend, Terry Gillick.

Herbie: And I’ll second that, Jimmy. Hoist ’em up, fellas. Here’s to the mensch of all men schens—wait, is it legal for a Polish guy to call an Irish guy a mensch?

Ernie: Irish, Polish—two two-syllable words that end in “ish.” Go for it, Herbie. Flaunt the law.

Ray: To Terry, the best storyteller you’d ever listen to. So I humbly offer this, in my words by the way of other’s words:

So this priest, a doctor, and a lawyer are out trying to enjoy a nice round of golf at the club, but the groups in front of them are really, really slow. The priest, doc tor and lawyer get to the second hole and they’ve got to wait twenty minutes to tee off. Third hole, they’re waiting another twenty minutes. Fourth hole, same thing.

Fifth hole, the wait is up to a half-hour and now they’re getting good and ticked off and begin to shout all kinds of insults toward the group in front of them—some of which couldn’t be printed in a goddamn family focking newspaper, I kid you not.

This goes on for another couple, three holes—slow play, insults, slow play, heated invective—until the course marshal approaches the priest, doctor and lawyer and says, “I’m sorry gentlemen, if I neglected to tell you, but I ask you for a little patience since today we have an outing for blind golfers.”

Right there and then, the priest drops to his knees and commences to bewail how badly he feels for getting so angry, how one of his parishioners is blind and has the sweetest biggest heart in the world, how this blind guy always volunteers for the church’s annual cook out for orphans.

Then the doctor chimes in with how he has a blind uncle who helped support him through medical school and so must go apologize at once to the group in front of them for his rude behavior.

And the lawyer says, “You got to be jerking my beefaroni. They’re blind!??! What the fock, they could’ve played last night.”
Ba-ding!

Artie: Nice effort, Ray. So let’s raise those glasses again, and again, gentlemen. This time I’m buying.

Little Jimmy: Artie’s buying. It’s a miracle.

Artie: Terry, my Gaelic may be a wee rusty wouldn’t you know, but to you my friend: Mo ghraidhin go deo thu. Slan go foill.

(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.)