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Wednesday, Jan. 16, 2008

Souse Broken

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Yeah, boo-hoo. And numero uno on that platter is the anticipation of our green Green Bay Packers in championship battle versus those would-be Giants out of Gotham come this Sunday up by the Lambeau there.

I got to tell you, the first professional football season of which I knew what-for was the 1959 featuring the turnaround 7-5 Packers in St. Vince’s first year as head ass-chewing buttkicker. It was the following year when they lost the championship game in the closing moments to the Phila-focking-delphia Eagles that I learned my most valuable lesson vis--vis the Packers and championship football. In tears, I knew that the reason they were losers was my fault, and perhaps mine alone, I kid you not.

I had not stayed focus. I was weak. I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty in the days leading up to that game, my every conscious thought, word, deed, was not entirely devoted to willing the Green and Gold to victory. Cripes, I probably had some kind of schoolwork not to mention chores to do that would dick with the attention I needed to pay to the Packers and their date with destiny, soon to be at hand. And I can only guess that had I’d known how to whack off, thoughts would’ve meandered toward Brigitte Bardot, Gina Lollobrigida, Marilyn Monroe; and not Hank Gremminger, Ray Nitschke and Boyd Dowler. No team can win with that kind of flaccid fan support, I don’t care who they are.

So I got to stay focused solely on Our Team this week ’cause with the Ancient Mariner at the helm, if they were to go on and win that Super Bowl, I do believe that the only thing that could more miraculously shockify my incredulity would be to awaken the morning of Feb. 6 to learn that Adlai focking Stevenson had swept the Super Tuesday primaries and was now a stone-cold lock for the 2008 presidential nomination of the Democratic party.

Now, the one distraction I can foresee on my horizon that may prevent me from devoting 110% of my time ensconced in my dinky department, firing up a hot focking toddy now and then again, wrapped in a green-and-gold blanket whilst perusing any and all Green Bay Packer minutiae that comes my way through the TV, is that my neighbor got tied up with a little judicial situation concerning a boatload of overdue parking tickets; so he asked me to stop by his place once in awhile for the next couple, three days and throw his canine a bone or two and make sure it hadn’t croaked from thirst.

For this favor, I ought to be knighted for sainthood ’cause my definition of “man’s best friend” does not include anything on four legs that has no facility with the flush toilet beyond its service as a bubbler, for christ sakes. No sir, me and natives of Fido-world don’t exactly have a lot in common; although I do envy their uncanny ability to relieve themselves anywhere they focking feel like it outdoors and not get arrested.

What kind of life is that anyways, to be a house pet: You can’t read, you can’t figure how to turn the TV on, you can’t mix a nice cocktail, smoke or gamble. No wonder a lot of your animals don’t live that long—who the fock would want to? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you one more thing before I go, something I read that gave me the heebie-jeebies, here excerpted from last week’s “News of the Weird” section in this paper: “A research team… has produced a colony of ‘supermice’ whose physical abilities are the rodent equivalent of those of gifted humans. By modifying a single metabolism gene, researchers enhanced the mouse’s ability to use body fat for energy, creating a mouse that can run five hours without stopping, live longer and maintain the ability to breed at three times the age of ordinary mice…” What the fock, ain’a?

They’ve finally gone and done it. I beseeched years ago that our scientists stop studying and otherwise focking around with the mice. Here’s what we know, and all we need to know, about mice: One, they scare elephants. Two, they always try to get in your house without knocking. Three, they always enjoy a good bowel movement inside your box of Post Toasties. Four, the only place a mouse belongs is at the bottom of your bottle of Coca- Cola, so you can collect big bucks for mouse-induced trauma syndrome.

Once they make the super mouse, they’ll need to make the super cat—who, just for starters, will toss you off a ten-story roof to see if you land on your feet. Then the scientists will need to produce the super dog, who will take a monster crap on your leather La-ZBoy and then rub your nose in it. That will suck, big time.

What these secular scientists really ought to do is come up with a super genetic human being. And they can start by studying that quarterback we got up there in Green Bay— lord knows we all could use more like him, one way or another, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.