A Reach Around
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz
what a world, ain’a? So listen, I can’t pony up a regular essay for
you’s this week on account of two words: Brett focking Favre.
So I got to get over to the Uptowner tavern/charm school to run this by my campaign brain trust, except they’re not open yet. So first, I’ll slide over by this 24-hour joint that slings the hash and Joe whether you like it or not. Come along if you want, but you leave the tip.
Hattie: Hello there, Artie, what’s your pleasure?
Art: For crying out loud, it’s Hattie. Hattie Venta. Aren’t you a sight for a sore eyes—or is that a “sight to cause sore eyes”—I forget.
Hattie: Oh Artie, isn’t that nice. Now let’s cut the sweet talk. Are you going to order something, or do I need to call the police on you for loitering?
Art: The police?
Hattie: Artie, you know I can’t have you taking up a valuable stool if you’re not going to order anything.
Art: But Hattie, I’m the only one in here.
Hattie: I’ve got eyes, mister. So are you going to play ball, Artie—or do I have to get rough?
down, Hattie. Now I remember why I’m the only one in here. I’ll just
have a nice cup of the blackest, thickest and cheapest of whatever it
is you’re calling plain old American coffee today, thank you very
Hattie: Now was that so hard, Artie? And just so you know, I’ll need the tip up front, so there’s no shenanigans.
Art: All right already, Hattie. Here’s a buck. Go get yourself something nice.
such a nice boy, Artie. And see? Here’s your coffee, just like I
promised. So what do you hear, what do you know, my little Artie.
Art: I know I’m surprised to see you, Hattie. I thought you retired.
Hattie: I did, Artie. But then I got an itch. Art: Yeah, you and Brett Favre. Go figure.
Hattie: Don’t you dare talk about our Brett that way, Artie. I’ll call the police on you.
Art: You got to be jerking my beefaroni, Hattie. Are you a Brett Favre fan?
Artie. Whenever I get an itch, I always imagine he’s the nice, rough
and tumble Johnny Reb country-bumpkin to be scratching it. What’s the
matter, Artie? You don’t look so good.
Art: Yeah, sometimes I see a picture I’d really rather not see, like Brett Favre throwing interceptions wearing a Houston Texans uniform instead of the Green and Gold.
Hattie: Isn’t that a coincidence you mentioned Texas. Guess where I’m going tomorrow?
Art: Somewhere for observation, I hope.
Hattie: Oh no, Artie. And don’t you smart mouth me. I’m going to Texas, for an extended stay. Do you know anything about Texas, Artie?
Art: Only a couple things I know you’ll never hear a Texan say.
Hattie: Really, Artie. And what’s that?
never hear a Texan say, “I’ll take Shakespeare for 1,000, Alex,” and
you’ll never hear a Texan say, “Hon’, you mail that donation to
Hattie: Isn’t that fascinating.
Art: So Hattie, what takes you down to the Lone Star state for an extended stay, if you don’t mind me asking?
Hattie: Oh Artie, I’ve met the nicest man who asked me to come visit and stay awhile.
Art: Really, Hattie. How’d you meet this cowboy?
isn’t a cowboy, Artie. He’s a rodeo clown, and during the off-season he
works as a nightclub hypnotist when he isn’t in jail. I met him on the
Art: Hattie, the Internet?
be surprised how easy it is to meet nice men that way—especially if a
gal fibs a little about her age. Oh Artie, I’m just beside myself, I’m
Art: Yeah, your clown’s going to be beside himself, too, after he gets a load of you.
Hattie: Oh Artie, that’s so nice of you to say.
Art: Hattie, you didn’t fib too much about your age to this guy, did you?
don’t think so, Artie. But you know get a little dyslexic when it comes
to numbers, and when he asked me how old I was, I may have typed in
Art: Sixteen. Oh well, I’m sure he’ll understand.
Hattie: Of course he’ll understand, Artie. Why wouldn’t he understand—especially after takes a gander at the branding iron with my initials that I’m bringing along.
Art: That’s thoughtful, Hattie. Nothing says “I’m yours” like a hot branding iron applied the bare buttock.
Hattie: I’m one lucky gal, don’t you think, Artie? I feel just like I won the lottery.
Art: Well Hattie, better you won the lot tery than your man. knew this one guy, wife comes rushing through the door one day, she screams, “Honey, pack your clothes! I just won the lottery!” The husband says, “Great. Should pack for the beach for the mountains?” Wife says, “What do care. Just pack and get the hell out!”
Hattie: That’s a nice story, Artie. You’re such good boy.
Art: Well, it’s been a treat, Hattie—you take care of yourself down in Texas, you hear? thanks for the coffee and for bending my ear there, Hattie-licious. See you next time.
Hattie: Oh Artie, you’re a little devil, aren’t you. Take care. (OK, it’s off to the Uptowner. If you see me there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)