Welcome Dirtbags II, III?
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear we’ve got the big Harley-Davidson 105th anniversary shebang in Our Town over the next few days. And “hear” might not be the correct word, since I believe it was during the previous jubilee of a jamboree these motor psychos had that I came down with some kind of hearing impediment due to the bombasting bellow of machines that never met a tailpipe that piped, what the fock. But the good news is that these bike people may stomp ’round about $140-million bucks into this town’s coffers, so being a Downtown resident I’m expecting that the check for my cut of the booty ought to be in my mailbox by the end of next week.
So instead of whipping out an
essay for you’s this week, it makes more sense for me to meet up with
my campaign brain trust over at the Uptowner tavern/charm school
situated at the corner by Center & Humboldt there, to fig ure how
best this extra dough can benefit the waning days of The Art Kumbalek
Democracy Express 2008 For Any and All Political Office. Tag along if
you like, but you cover the first round. Let’s get going.
Ernie: The hell they’re not.
Julius: Listen knobshine, no way in hell can parrots be smarter than chimps. You ever see a parrot smoke a goddamn cigar? You ever see a parrot ride a focking tricycle? You ever see a par rot give a cat a bath? The chimps I’ve seen do that kind of stuff all the time.
Ernie: Oh yeah? You ever hear a monkey say “fock you”?
Herbie: I think I just did.
Ernie: Fock you. If you think chimps are smarter than parrots, I’d like to know how you explain this story I read that said about this guy who gets on a jumbo jet and guess what? Strapped into the seat next to his is a parrot, I kid you not. So the stewardess comes down the aisle and the guy asks her a cup of coffee whereupon the parrot squawks, “And bring me a whiskey, you fat cow.” Naturally, the stewardess, a tad flustered, brings the whiskey but forgets about the coffee. So the guy asks her again if he could please have that cup of coffee, and the parrot knocks back his drink and says, “And get me another god damn whiskey, bimbo.”
Now, this poor flight attendant is really upset. She returns with the parrot’s whiskey but still no coffee. The guy’s perturbed at this point and figures, what the heck, he’s going to try the parrot’s approach, so he says, “Listen. I’ve asked you twice for a cup of focking coffee. I still don’t have any coffee. Go get that coffee now or I’ll kick your big ass.”
Out of nowhere, the guy and the parrot are yanked up and
tossed out the emergency exit by two burly stewards. As they’re
hurtling toward the ground from 30,000 feet, the parrot says to the
guy, “You know pal, I got to hand it to you. For someone who can’t focking fly, you sure are a ballsy bastard.”
Julius: So what’s your point?
Ernie: My point is that not only are parrots smarter than chimps, they’re smarter than the average guy to boot.
Emil: Was that a true story?
Ernie: What the fock, “true story”? I read it somewheres. It’s got to be true.
Ray: Hey Ernie, if you think parrots are so smart, then I got a story for you I read some wheres. This
magician’s working a cruise ship and since the people taking the
cruise would be different each week, this magician could keep doing the
same bullshit tricks week after week after week. The problem was that
the captain’s parrot always saw the shows and soon he knew how each
trick worked. All of a sudden in the middle of a show, the parrot
would shout out, “Look! He’s hiding the flowers under the focking
table.” Or, “Look! The asshole’s got the scarf up his other sleeve.”
“Check it out! All the cards are the ace of focking spades.”
Emil: Jeez louise, those parrots sure can cuss, ain’a?
the magician’s really pissed off but can’t do anything about it ’cause
it’s the captain’s parrot and he wants to keep his cruise gig. But one
morning the ship runs into a reef and sinks. There’s only two
Emil: The parrot and the magician?
Ray: The parrot and the magician, floating on a piece of wood in the middle of the sea. They don’t say a
word, just stare with hatred at each other day after day. Finally,
after a couple of weeks, the parrot gives in and says, “OK, numbnuts, I
give up. Where’d you hide the boat?”
Emil: Cripes, that’s some kind of trick if even the focking parrot can’t figure it out, 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.
heard on the radio this morning a couple disc jockeys wondering when
it was Hillary Clinton stopped wearing skirts and started wearing only
the pants suit. I figured it was back when she and what’s his-name were
in the White House.
Somebody had to wear the pants in the first family and Bill could never keep his on, so what the fock.
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey
Artie, with these motor cycle gangs coming to town, I’ve got a little
riddle for you: “What’s the difference between a Harley-Davidson and a
Hoover vacuum cleaner?” Give up?
Art: “Give up,” Jimmy? I long for that day.
Little Jimmy: “The position of the dirt bag.” Get it? Maybe you can put that in the little article you write all the time.
Artie: I suppose I could. Only a constant read er would think of that. Thanks, Jimmy.
(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.)