Toxic Ass Sits
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, this old-school tune is gosh darn stuck in my head as I walk this land with broken dreams while I have visions of many things—like money’s happiness is just illusion, filled with sadness and confusion. And I wonder, what becomes of those broken-hearted, who had dough that’s now departed? Fock if I know. Never had any to be departed from; so you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you that I can’t even imagine the living hell it must be these days for those poor economic misfortunates who had scooped up a couple, three pricey new fancy-schmancy Downtown Milwaukee condos so’s to turn around and sucker-sell the kit and kaboodle for profit before the boondoggle bubble bursted. But here’s a tip: If you got million-dollar condos you can’t peddle that times are tough for you’s, St. John’s over by N. Van Buren Street passes free sandwiches for the needy most Sundays, just so you know.
As for me, when times are tough, I know I’m off to
the Uptowner tavern/ charm school for a nice cocktail, except they
shan’t yet be open at today’s early hour. So first, I’ll plant my dupa
over by my favorite open-daily 23-hours and 59-minutes restaurant for a
relaxingly light-on-the-pocketbook repast. Come along if you care but
you leave the tip. Let’s get going.
Bea: Hey there Artie, nice to see you. What’s your pleasure?
Bea, how ’bout a nice cup of the blackest, thickest and cheapest cup of
whatever you’re calling plain-old American coffee today. And by “old,”
I mean to say if it was brewed anytime after yesterday noon, it’s too
fresh. I want a cup of the kind of coffee that in a road construction
emergency, you could use to patch a faulty abutment; coffee that any
online wimp-ass under the age of 30 would keel over dead from the heady
aroma; a cup of coffee, Bea, that if somebody from OSHA was nosing
around, you’d be fined for storing said coffee in an unsealed vessel.
You got anything like that? put my safety gear on first?
Art: No problem, Bea. I’m not going anywhere, what the fock.
Bea: There you go, Artie. So what do you hear, what do you know.
Christ sakes, I know it’s only a couple weeks ’til Easter Sunday and I
still haven’t given up anything for Lent. That can’t be good, so they
say. How ’bout you Bea, you give up anything for Lent this year?
I keep working the hours I’ve been working to make ends meet, I’ll be
giving up the ghost, and there won’t be anything holy about it.
bless you, Bea. I’ve come to feel the same way about quitting something
for the Lenten season the same way I feel about quitting something for
the New Year’s resolutions.
Bea: How’s that?
Art: Winners never quit; and quitters never win. I’m a winner, ain’a Bea?
Bea: Yes you are, Artie. A winner.
Art: Darn tootin’. You see, Bea, some years ago around the start of a Lent, I got struck down by one of those epiphanies. There I was, all stuck on what I ought to deny myself for the next 40 days or so. Was I going to give up that third pack of smokes of the day, give up the fifth beer, cut down club? And then it hit me—I would give up giving up. Give up giving-up anything.
And especially give up anything I learned during my glorious grade-school days spent at Our Lady in Pain ’Cause You Kids Are Going Straight to Hell But Not Soon Enough. No ma’am, I then and there decided to LIVE LIKE YOU MEAN IT.
Bea: Hold on Artie, live like “who”?
Art: Live like “you.”
Bea: Live like me? You’d want to live like me?
Art: Hell yeah Bea, I’d like to live like you do, and I mean it.
my. I think I understand what you’re saying, Artie. It’s just that the
use of the second person singular or plural pronoun “you”
dipsy-doodling with your nominative or objective case can get a gal
like me a bit flustered, and I mean it.
bless you, Bea. Perhaps best we save further dipsy-doodling for another
time, so I guess I better run. But thanks for the coffee and for
letting me bend your ear there, Bea— utiful. See you next time.
Bea: My pleasure, Artie. Always nice getting talked at by you. Take care. (OK, off to the Uptowner where you’ll cover my bar tab and I mean it, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)