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Wednesday, Dec. 17, 2008

Toasted Nuts

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I know the hub-and-bub of the holiday season is always a big deal this time of year for the people. But for a guy like me, hey, everyday is just another focking holiday, each and every day of the year. Oh yeah, nothing but seashells, balloons, topped with a generous dollop of you got to be jerking my beefaroni. I kid you not.

So wouldn’t you know, I feel a tad bit unable to measure up to the high of festive spirit I notice around the town, me being the even-keel holiday guy 365/24/7/86,400. And whenever I feel comparatively under-spirited, I know it’s time to visit where spirits are served and spirits are lifted. And so we forgo a customarily chock-packed academically researched essay this week so’s I can haul my sorry ass over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the corner of Hysteric Center Street & Humboldt, in search of the spirit high, to be summoned by whom, and who hasn’t, been kicked out of the joint by the time of arrival.

Come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.

Emil: Listen, all I’m saying is maybe the reason the deer hunters had a piss-poor season for their rifle harvest might not be the DNR’s doing the controlling of the Bambi population. Anybody consider that maybe Al Qaeda’s got something do with it?

Ray: What the fock. Al Qaeda in Crivitz, this time of year? I don’t think so. You go up to your Price County, your Vilas County in late November, and I can tell you that sandals as footwear will not cut the mustard.

Little Jimmy Iodine: I don’t think the Al Qaeda always wear just sandals. Didn’t one of them throw a couple of Western-style shoes at our old president Bush junior the other day when he was in Iraq making sure everything was going all right so he could leave office with a relieved mind?

Ernie: You know, I heard Bush say that those shoes tossed his way were a size 10, but I didn’t hear him say anything about the style. You think that might be classified information?

Julius: Loafers. I’ll bet you a buck-two eighty that the thrown shoes weren’t a cordovan or a wing tip. I’m guessing loafer—and that style cut a little too close to home for The Decider to mention.

Herbie: Listen, if the Houston focking Texans can come up north and kick Packer butt on a frigid Sunday afternoon, I don’t see why the Al Qaeda couldn’t handle the frozen tundra Up North here. I’ll tell you’s, where they hide out at night in those mountains over by Where-the-fock-is-stan is not exactly balmy like a South Beach Miami, ain’a?

Ray: I don’t think Al Qaeda’s focking with our deer. I was north there of Ladysmith for the hunting and after a day of freezing my ass off in the tree stand, we’d go to the tavern and I didn’t see not one guy with a crappy-ass beard wearing a turban and smoking on a hookah.

Emil: Yeah, well I think Al Qaeda is slaughtering all our deer and the DNR doesn’t even know it. Bin Laden’s long-range plan is that ’cause there’s no more deer in Wisconsin our hunters will give up the sport, sell all their guns and then Al Qaeda can swoop right in and take over on account of superior fire power.

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

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

Ernie: I hear that Emil thinks Al Qaeda is focking with our deer.

Art: Could be. I hear that crowd is sort of anti-women. That said, it stands to reason that they have to be focking with something, so why not our deer, god bless them.

Little Jimmy: And I know Christmas comes too soon. Didn’t we just have the baseball World Series, for christ sakes? Christmas should be the Jan. 25, not the Dec. 25. It would make the winter shorter, ain’a?

Julius: For the kids these days, Christmas seems to come whenever they focking feel like it. Listen, so I’m at my youngest sister’s house last weekend stringing up the goddamn outdoor Christmas lights ’cause husband “Dagwood’s” been away on one hell of a long business trip, and I see my nephew’s got a brand-new mountain bike—one of those expensive jobs, must’ve run a good three-fourhundred bucks if it was a dime. Seemed peculiar to me since Christmas is two weeks away. So I said, “Hey Junior, how’d you get that new bike? Santa come early for you’s?” And the kid says, “Oh no, Uncle Juley. I got it from hiking.”

Little Jimmy Iodine: How the heck do you get a fancy-schmancy bicycle from hiking?

Julius: That’s exactly what I asked him and he says, “It’s like this: Every night Dad’s been away on this business trip, Mom’s boss comes over and gives me 50 bucks to go take a hike.”

Ray: 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.)

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