What the Puck?
I’m Art Kumbalek and man ohman manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as perhaps the last remaining candidate for the office of president of our United States of America
who has yet to officiously bag a guy or gal who I consider qualified
to run the country in the event I get run over by a bus whilst
commander-in chief, I thought it prudent that rather than whip out an
informative newspaper essay for you’s this week, that I instead visit
the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the corner by Center &
Humboldt, so as to discuss with my political brain trust what’s good
for the country vis-a-vis 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.
Little Jimmy Iodine: So would Cindy McCain be called the First Lady or the First Trophy Lady?
Julius: Fock if I know; all I know is that I’m watching that convention of the Republicans and they show the McCain hugging this woman who I thought must be his first wife and I thought, what the fock, what kind of weird-ass family-values spin is this? Then I found out that she wasn’t his first wife, it was actually his mother; they said she was 96 years old, but you could’ve sworn they were a couple. Do we know how old this guy really is?
Herbie: I heard they say he’s 72, but then you got to consider that he was born in Panama
and so you got to wonder. Could it be like some of these Latin American
ballplayers who list their age as 24 but it turns out they’re at least
five-six years older. Cripes, I remember the pitcher Luis Tiant back in
the ’70s, I think he said he was 35 years old every year for about 20
years, I kid you not.
Emil: Maybe McCain is one of those of vampires. There’s been some shows on TV about that. Those guys hang around forever.
Herbie: Could be. And maybe if the elite media press would do a little digging and a little investigation for once, we’d find out that, yes, John McCain was a POW in North Vietnam but wait a second, that’s not all. We got a photo here from 1864 taken at the infamous Confederate POW camp down there in Andersonville, Georgia, and good gosh almighty, that guy in the background wearing the tattered Union blue, don’t he remind you of a certain maverick U.S senator from some godforsaken place one day to be known as Arizona?
guessing that couldn’t be good for the Republicans come Election Day
down there in the South if it came to light that the Red-State nominee
actually fought to free the slaves, ain’a?
Emil: Stop it, you’s guys. You’re scaring me with this vampire bullshit.
Herbie: Have you ever seen a whiter guy than John McCain? He comes from Arizona where they get sun shine about 800 days a year, and yet in comparison he makes Bela Lugosi on a mor phine binge look p o s i t i v e l y Nubian. Why? Because the real John McCain sleeps in a coffin, daytime; he only comes out at night, looking to suck the blood from anyone who makes less than $500 grand a year. And his most recent wife, the undead Cindy? Got to be at least a couple hundred years old, I’m guessing. How else do you explain that she needs to polish her hair rather than brush it?
Ray: McCain’s real age will come clear in the debates with Obama. I’m thinking when they discuss Middle East policy and McCain says, “My friend, I knew Tutankhamun, and you’re no King Tut.”
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: I know that Julius says John McCain is a vampire.
Artie: I’m not buying it. Logic. If you want to kill a vampire, you got to drive a stake through the bloodsucker’s heart. John McCain is a Republican. Republicans have no heart; there fore; John McCain cannot be a vampire.
Ray: I hear this gal governor out of Alaska that McCain chose to be president when he croaks really knows a lot about international relations because Alaska’s right next door to Russia.
Artie: She has. She’s learned that a free press is the enemy of power, not to mention hockey moms with a bullshit resume.
yeah, but her husband sure seems like a regular Alaskan kind of guy. I
heard this story where one day he’s driving his car and the engine
starts to sputter. He takes it to a garage, the mechanic takes a look
and says, “Looks like you’ve blown a seal.” And the governor’s husband
says, “No. That’s just frost on my mustache.”
(Ba-ding! 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.)