Home / Columns / Art for Art's Sake / Art for Art’s Sake
Wednesday, Jan. 30, 2008

Art for Art’s Sake

Package Stimulator

Google+ Pinterest Print

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, about this so-called stimulus package your U.S. government all of a sudden dreamed up for the economy, all I can say is you got to be jerking my beefaroni. And here’s why. It was but three weeks ago right here on this page where I pronounced to the American voting public that the presidential compartment of The Art Kumbalek Democracy Express 2008 For Any and All Political Office—Whatever You Got Needs Filling I’ll Fill It ’Cause That’s The Kind Of Guy I Am—Campaign had a bigtime announcement guaranteed to bone-up the commonweal of this country. The announcement went something like this: “Vote for Art Kumbalek and as soon as I park my butt in the Oval Office, I promise that you got $28-grand right off the top coming to you. The only question you’ve got to answer for yourself this election is this: Do you want your dough in cash or is a check acceptable?”

(Just so you know, I’m considering fine-tuning the moniker of my political campaigns from the familiar “The Art Kumbalek Democracy Express 2008 For Any and All Political Office—Whatever You Got Needs Filling I’ll Fill It ’Cause That’s The Kind Of Guy I Am—Campaign,” to the more succinct “Vote for Art Kumbalek or Take It Up the Poop Shoot, Sideways, Once Again.” Just so you know.)

So what the fock happens? Ten-days, twoweeks later, the president and the knobshines in Congress all of a sudden go “Eureka!” and promise “out-of-the-blue” to send a couple, three hundred bucks to each of the American people, sometime, soon, down the road. Jesus H. Christ, I don’t want to say the timing of this official handout seems a tad suspicious, but as Bard Shakespeare, the original Avon man, once said: “Alas, this rose smells like a rotten worm can from Denmark, what the fock.” Amen.

So, now you are to get a free few hundred bucks from the government so’s you can stimulate the economy, big focking deal. If you got a car, exactly how many times will that fill up the tank when you pull up to the pump, empty? You going to be able to pick up for a measly couple hundred bucks one of those HDTVs that cost the same as a day’s worth of dental work with no insurance, costs two days worth of dental work with insurance? You bet.

No sir, a couple, three hundred buck stimulus-package for the guys I know would mean money poured back into the economy May- June to the tune of extra Mountain Dew, Cheetos, Hostess Cupcakes, beef jerky, half-adozen cases of ice-cold Pabst Blue Ribbon, liter of Old Granddad, plus various sundries. And if that don’t kick global-domination wannabe Chinese economic ass and restore this country to economic ground zero, me and you ought to wonder what could, ain’a?

Wonder no more. Our current president has his “tax cuts.” No sir. Art Kumbalek for President will have his permanent “war cuts.” We’re out of I-focking-raq. I support the guys and gals of our troops by bringing them home where they belong, along with the dough we are to spend on this misadventure to boot.

Democracy. We hardly have it here, what the fock. To expand our brand to these fractious tribal/ethnic lands of topsy-turvy is like promising 12-months of 70-degree weather to the happy-go-lucky Finnish chained to Hel-focking-sinki. Ain’t going to happen. Whether we leave this Babylonian godforsaken hell-hole today, tomorrow, or the next day, they will have their new Saddam come calling the shots, again, and again.

So what this war is costing us day-in, dayout, will be flipped over to the Art Kumbalek War Cuts—$40-, $50-, $75,000 will go to each and every American, with the exception of Vice President Dick Cheney and his cronies plus anyone else connected to this Republican administration from whom we’ve been taking it up the butt sideways for nearly eight years. Those assholes have already made enough dough—who knew gutting our Constitution could be so judiciously lucrative?

(Oh boy, hold on. There’s a knocking at my door. I got my fingers crossed that the stimulation package I ordered, to be paid for with the stimulation-package benefit I got coming, has arrived, prepared to whip some tip-top sense of dollars and cents into me, in the here and now. You know, screw these suicide Muslim focksticks. I pray daily that the virgins they encounter in their Allah afterlife are the same as the virgin sisters who taught us kids Catechism and fear of the lord back in fifth grade at Our Lady in Pain That You Kids Are Going Straight To Hell But Not Soon Enough—“Hey Nimrod, here’s your first virgin, Sister Margaret Mary the Mauler, kiss your balls goodbye brother.” Fock those virgins, so to speak. When I get to Heaven, I want a girl who’s been around the block, know’s what for and knows from a pair of stockings, high heels and a Pall Mall, not to mention a respect for the sunny-side of life, ’cause I’m, Art Kumbalek and I told you so.