I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, for this week’s essay I figured I’d do a little research, make a couple, three phone calls and etcetera, so as to figure out why the AM-radio Rush Limbaugh character hasn’t been arrested for high treason yet, what the fock.
Cripes all-mighty, this guy has stated that he hopes the president of the United States fails. HEYYYY!!! Since when did a leader of the grand-old Republican Party come to share the aspiration with the likes of a Vladimir Putin from commie Russia, or a head honcho Red Chinese guy, or cave-dwelling turbantoting mass-murderer godless-radical Osama been-Hidin’?
There used to be a popular phrase that made the rounds back in the ’60s: “America, love it or leave it.” And I can’t believe that anyone who desires our president to fail, especially right here right now, could love America. So Rush, to you I say “Bon voyage, you fat fock.”
And Rush-skie, if you’d like some company on your journey out of here, how ’bout you take along a bunch of some other knobshines who gasbagged their asses off at the recent Conservative Political Action Conference, such as the wicked witch to the west, Minnesota Rep. Michele “You be da man” Bachmann, and John McCain’s boy-toy Joe a Plumber but Dumber. And what the fock, take along keynote speaker America’s Dairyland Rep. Paul Ryan, why don’t you. He’s the one who addressed his fellow nutbag radicals, “Conservatives, it is time to begin the job of taking back our government.” Wait a second, whose government? By “whose,” does he mean the conservatives’ government, the one whose tax-cuts for the rich plus smash-and-grab free-for-the-taking market economy during eight years of executive Bush rule and six years of Republican congressional majority has sent all of our economy into the deepest depth of despair? Sorry Paul, your government, that being the lack of government, stinks, and it might be best all around if you were out of work just like the other ten-out-of-nine residents of your hometown Janesville, the residents that you’ve somehow bamboozled into electing you to represent. Yeah, the people seem to always be a sucker for a guy who sports a nice haircut, and nothing else. God bless.
And, I’d like to investigate the
possibility that somewhere in an alternate universe, President Barack
Obama and Louisiana Gov. Bobby “Bobby” Jindal are not politicians, but instead are actors on a TV show. It’s a show based out of Mayberry, North Carolina,
that features colorblind casting. Barack plays the sheriff of the town,
and Bobby plays his deputy, Bernard “Barney” P. Fife. Gross
deputy-ineptness utterly ensues.
And I thought if I had room enough in this essay, I’d mention the statistic I think I heard the other night on the TV news that 1 out of every 39 Badgerland residents are involved with the state correctional system. Soft on crime? I’m thinking that ought to be the issue in the state Supreme Court election coming up soon. One out of 39 in handcuffs, can’t we do better than that for christ sakes? Do we want a namby-pamby judicial system or do we want a goddamn focking Inquisition? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you that I just don’t have the time to whip out the big investigative pipe that I had planned to, what with the Daylight Savings Time bureaucracy sneaking up this weekend to steal 60-minutes worth of an hour from me, and you. That stolen hour’s got to come from somewhere so I figured it may as well be the hour I would’ve spent pumping out this essay, what the fock.
Yes sir, that lost hour is the
one I plan on using to finish off that book-novel Finnegans Wake by
the Irish guy what’s his-name. I started it some years ago but got
sidetracked. I still got about a 650 pages to go, so please, no one
tell me how it turns out, OK? I also figured to spend the rest of that
hour on watching the first four episode-seasons of TV’s “Lost” that my
buddy Little Jimmy Iodine recommends to lend me with that newfangled
DVD machine for the viewing. I hear it’s a show that tells you that you
could die, but then you can still be alive somewhere later. Abe
Lincoln would’ve loved this show. One evening he gets shot while
watching a crappy play in D.C., and then later, he’s alive sipping on a
Tom Collins whilst on the receiving end of a nice backrub administered
by a native gal on a Tahiti beach.
Plus, I got to spend time and figure what to give up for Lent, which now will be finishing this essay. But to leave you—speaking of wakes, not to mention this “Wisconsin Senior Information Update!” notice I recently got in the U.S. mail from someplace in Indiana regarding a nice plan to cover 100% of my funeral expenses—I will leave you with this little story:
old friends meet each other on the street. The one says to the other,
“What brings you my way today, after so long?” The other says, “I’m
coming from the cemetery. I just buried my mother-in-law.” The
one says, “I’m sorry to hear the news. But why is your face scratched
all over?” And the other says, “The burial was difficult. She put up a
hell of a fight.”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.