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Wednesday, Oct. 15, 2008

Grand Old Horse Manure

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I’m Art Kumbalek and manoh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, hard to believe there’s only a couple of hands-full of days finally left before we all got to go choose the next commander-in-chief who won’t be from Texas or Arkansas. Where does the time go? Seems like only yesterday plus a hundred years that the likes of Tom Tancredo, Sam Brownback, Mike Gravel and Badgerland’s own Tommy Thompson were logging their brand of presidential timber ’cross the cornfields of the Hawkeye State, what the fock.

Hey, quitters never win and winners never quit and so when I heard on the news the other night that there were less than three weeks ’til Election Day, political prudence dictated I drop-kick The Art Kumbalek Democracy Express 2008 For Any and All Political Office into high gear. So rather than than whip out an informative newspaper essay for you’s this week, I thought it best that I confab with my political brain trust up over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the corner of Hysteric Center Street & Humboldt. Tag along if you like, but you cover the first round. Let’s get going.


Little Jimmy Iodine: Any you’s guys read in the papers about that young gal who can’t get tickets to the folksinger what’s-his-name, Bob Dylan, hootenanny in town ’cause all the tickets were gone before they even went on sale?

Ernie: I’d say the vandals stole the handle on those sales, ain’a?

Julius: But you can still get a ticket from the scalpers, except it’ll cost you the same like the bailout is giving out to the Wall Street Gordon Gecko asshole fockers.

Herbie: Historically, I think I read somewheres in a book called “Blood Meridian” that actually the Mexicans years ago are responsible for the original scalping of your head off. Anybody else read that?

Emil: Was the scalping before or after they started talking Spanish?

Herbie: What do you mean “before”? I said “Mexicans,” what the hell else they going to talk down there. You think they talked Hungarian or something but then the Spaniards came years ago so they learned a new language all of a sudden? What the fock.

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 heard that Obama Barack was one of those terrorists who flew a plane into a World Trade building.

Julius: That reminds me: Didn’t I hear they finally found some airplane wreckage in Nevada from when the millionaire adventurer guy Steve Fossett crashed?

Ray: With the kind of dough that guy had, he should’ve hired himself a good pilot.

Little Jimmy: But at least he died doing something he loved.

Ray: Smashing into the side of a mountain—what’s not to love?

Herbie: I’ll tell you who died doing something he loved: Nelson focking Rockefeller. Croaks in his office whilst laying some heavy pipe with a 20-something-year-old secretary right on the desk. God bless America.

Art: You betcha, that afterhours dictating can kill a guy, ain’a?

Julius: Hard to remember he ever got to be vice president, ain’a?

Ernie: Fock Rockefeller. It’s hard enough to remember the last time I laid pipe.

Julius: Remember when they used to call what-you-call your moderate Republican a “Rockefeller Republican”?

Herbie: Yeah, a Rockefeller Republican was the one who didn’t mind if the shoeshine guy at the country club was black. Today, your moderate Republican is the one who leaves his SS uniform at home when he goes to work.

Julius: I remember when Rockefeller was appointed vice president in ’74 he was 68, and a lot of people thought that was too old.

Herbie: And when Bob Dole ran for president in ’96 didn’t he say he’d only serve one term cause otherwise he’d be 77 next time around, and even he knew that at that age a guy can keel over dead sooner than a New York minute any second?

Little Jimmy: So maybe it’d be best if John McCain dropped out to stay home, watch his daytime TV shows and occasionally yell at the neighborhood kids to stay off his goddamn lawn. He’s done enough all right already. Geopolitics seem to be a younger man’s game these days, I kid you not.

Art: So what the fock you’s guys, what am I, chopped liver? How ’bout you come to my last three campaign rallies: Oct. 21 at the Old German Beer Hall on Old World Third Street, jawohl; Oct. 30 at the Fat Abbey Bier Caf over by the Juneau & Water Street; and then election night Nov. 4 at the Bootleggers on Old World Third Street; from 6-8 p.m. all dates, with $2 Art Kumbalek Focktoberfest Beer from Lakefront I hear, what the fock.

Ernie: Jeez louise, Artie, I’d like to support you, but there might be a crowd, and then I got to stand in a line at the bar to get a nice cocktail, and then, I don’t know, what the fock.

Art: OK pally, if you’re so busy that you can’t wait a moment for a Focktoberfest Beer, or wait in line on Election Day to vote for the candidate of your choice, then how ’bout you kiss democracy’s ass goodbye and you can meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Oh yeah, we can be fooled again, over and over and over again, my friends.

(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.)