50 Bucks and a Case of Ice-Cold Bottled Beer
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, sorry to say that I am not able to whip, nor pump, out a heavy-dutifully thought-invoking essay for you’s this week on account that I be otherwise occupied with slapping together what I would intend to be my Gala Commencement Graduate Spew ’09 for the Graduates Be They of University; College; High, Tech, Trade, or Matchbook School; Middle School; Academy Charter Institute of Some Learning for Young People; Grade School; Prison Substance-Abuse Good-Neighbor Sanity Program for Early Release; Pre-School; Nursery School; Daycare Center Who Employs a Bus Driver Who Can Conduct a Head-Count.
Why? Because it’s that time of year, and I could use a paying gig, you betcha.
And what of my speaking fee as it would affect you’s tight-budgeted school administrators, not to mention the wanna-be embezzling lady suburban-school bookkeepers undergoing divorce proceedings because they’ve developed a fat ass large enough that even a black guy couldn’t appreciate and so they’ve acquired a gambling habit as to substitute for what had been their wifely duties as required by the con nubial boudoir?
Anyways, to address your scholastic assemblage, I ask fifty bucks in cash upfront to be followed by a case of ice-cold bottled beer following the ceremony. Done and done. (How’s my punctuation? Call 276-2222.)
So, right now I’m working on my intro. I’ve always believed that an effective address ought to kick-off with a humorous anecdote that underscores a concern of the day—that being the sad state of fatherhood—and how that concern may be cross-culturally total bullshit, or not: To wit:
So two cannibals, father and son, were elected by the tribe to go out and get something to eat. Deep into the jungle they went, where they waited near a path. Before long, along came a little old man. The son says, “Hey Pops, how ’bout that one?” And the cannibal dad says, “No son. Not enough meat to even feed the dogs. We’ll wait.”
Little while later, along comes a really fat lady. Son says, “Hey Dad, she’s plenty big enough, ain’a?” and the dad says, “We’d all die of a blocked-artery heart attack from the fat in that one. We’ll wait.”
And so maybe an hour later, strolling along the trail is an abso-focking-lutely gorgeous gal. Son says, “She is perfect. Please don’t tell me we will not eat her.” Cannibal dad says, “No, we’ll not eat her either.” Son says, “Why the heck not?” And cannibal dad says, “Because we’re going to take her back alive and eat your mother instead.”
And then I’m thinking I might follow that up with some all-ages-appropriate comments vis-vis personal freedom and the American taxpayer as it applies to the inhalation of fine tobacco and its support of our way of life as we know it.
Just so you know, it has been declared that about a year from now, a guy or gal will no longer be allowed to smoke in a bar, nightclub or restaurant, what the fock. We’re not talking about a maternity ward, Sunday Mass or a kinder-focking-garten for young asthmatics, no sir. We’re talking about a goddamn bar for christ sakes. I would like to think that if one doesn’t appreciate smoke in a bar, such a one would accept that freedom to rather keep their sorry green-ass at home where they can perform their lonely yoga exercises and be otherwise diligent with the policing of their focking asshole cat’s litter box. Hey, we may as well put that war with Iraq to bed because when you can no longer light up a nice cigarette in an American tavern, the terrorists have won, what the fock.
A tavern, or bar, was invented
in the olden days so that the average mankind could enjoy a vice or two
before his head was lopped off by the crusading liege lord du jour. Any
tavern whose clientele will be pleased to return home not stinking of
tobacco smoke is a tavern I will prefer not to visit.
And don’t give me any of that health malarkey the anti-crowd like to use to douse your enjoyment of a fine tobacco product. According to a study I processed years ago, I learned that the average life-span of the average Tom, Dick and Dickless got one hell of a lot longer after Sir Walter Raleigh discovered the cigarette than it was before the cigarette, so put that in your peace pipe and smoke it mister.
Yes sir, you can look it up yourself if you don’t believe me. Back in the olden days of the Dark Ages, long before your regular Joe Six-Pack could take a break and blow a square, civilized people lived in dank castles, grew old and croaked by the age of twenty-focking-five.
Today in the modern time following the advent of the tobacco-delivery system courtesy of Sir Walter Raleigh from somewheres in the very early 17thcentury, you can now find professional baseball players at the young age of 35 who chew the chaw and play competitive ball on major league teams to the tune of one-two-three million bucks a year. Funny you don’t hear more about extended life expectancy and personal wealth connected to the so-called “evils” of tobacco, ain’a?
Now I’m not saying that cigarette smoking is the only reason people live longer today than they used to—indoor plumbing and appropriate dress for the elements have probably helped some—but I am saying that you never hear about the connection between smokes and longevity. Kind of makes a guy wonder what else he might not be hearing about, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.