I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Yeah, Art Kumbalek, essayist, philosopher, penman opinist, blathering log man, people’s poet, private dick, apostate, custodian, inkslinging hack, researcher, latitudinarist, sappy sentimentalist, lexi-focking-cographer, banterer of conversation, waitress tipper, two-time Pony League all-star at second base, plus metaphysician not to mention one heck of a cunning linguist when it comes to the mother tongue, what the fock.

Yeah, you could pretty much say I’ve done it all and seen it all to boot; although I’ve yet to shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die, to tell you the truth. Nor have I ever paid, or will I ever pay one red-cent for goddamn water in a fancy bottle. I might be many things but I am not a focking idiot. It’s water. I can barely stand to drink it when it’s free like it always ought to be in the numberone country in the world. Hell, if anything, they ought to pay you to drink it, not the other way around, God bless America.

I had some weighty matters I had planned to address in this week’s essay. For starters: contemplation of a personal gubernatorial run ’cause I figure the respected name of Art Kumbalek would sound mighty nice come voting time to the Badgerland voter when tossed into the candidate pot that so far includes Jim “Butt Boil” Doyle, Mark “Alfred E.” Neumann, Scott focking Walker and the assorted nutbag jagmeisters—you know the ones, the illegitimate offspring conceived of a Dairyland union ’tweenst Tommy Thompson and Ed Hou-Seye.

I also thought I might address the apparently dwindled summertime festival attendance around Our Town, on account of the economic distraught that seems to leave me, you and Joe Blow without much of a pot to pee in. For the Summerfest, I would’ve examined the benefit to be accrued with the addition of a Bourbon Tent as well as a Topless Tent of Exotic Dancing, so as to attract the dollar out of my wallet from a guy like me. And I am not alone.

And for this French Fest Bastille Days Downtown coming up—Drink Beer in the Street and Oui-Oui in Les Boulevard—I would look at a way to attract a more culturally diverse patronage, a patronage that would be brave, not cowardly, in pissing away their spend-able francs on parlez vous and what-not.

I might suggest that this shebang could garner the annual international attention and fervor like the “running of the bulls” they got this time of year every year over by the Pamplona, Spain. And what explains this bull-running’s near religious appeal? A writer in The New York Times said the other year, “… the festival is one of the few occasions in the modern world where the average person can confront death in such a short, sharp and concentrated way.” So why not during the Bastille Days we periodically let loose a couple, three rampaging bulls at the swell corner of Jefferson & Wells so as to attract the wealthy international traveler bent on confronting death? You tell me.

And then I’ll tell you if that’s not exciting enough for the average thrill-seeking person in the modern world who hails from a foreign world, we could strip this adventurer naked and then tape hundred-dollar bills to his forehead and bare-butt as he runs up Center Street, down National Avenue, traverses North Teutonia and meanders quaint East Brady Street at 4 a.m.

Anyways, I’m not able to consolidate this contemplation into a coherent essay this week, ’cause talk about confronting death in such a short, sharp concentrated way, what’s up with the spate of celebrity-showbiz deaths of late? It’s got me flummoxed, I kid you not.

What the fock, you got your David Carradine, Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Billy Mays, Karl Malden, Gale Storm, and that guy what’s-his-name who used to manage what’s-their name?

Then from the sports world, you got your former NFL quarterback Steve McNair, dead at the age thirty-something—cripes, talk about getting sacked, ain’a? To put it in ESPN terms, I’d say there was a severe breakdown in protection for the all-pro, don’t you think?

And yet, Keith Richards still walks, smokes and twangs among us. Go figure. I guess the old Stones’ tune had it right sort of—“It’s just a shot away.” True, but it’s really all about the aim, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.