Another Nine Months In the Hole
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, to these school districts whose goose-step supervisors decided not to allow their student rabble to hear our American president’s back-to-school speech, I have but one question: What the fock?
I hear that these
nay-saying schools are of a white suburban-rural variety and that the
adults out there got the heebie-jeebies that their kids would be
hypnotized to cluck like communist socialists after listening to a
Democrat president from Chicago, not to mention the fear that since our
commander-in-chief is a black guy, he’s bound to pump up the volume in
praise of a lifestyle that’s got crack and whores as bedrock.
But it’d be irresponsible if these kids didn’t get addressed by a public figure as they begin another year of reading, ’riting and ’rithmetic. So, since these schools of learning refuse to hear the words of a successful presidential candidate now in the White House, perhaps they may be interested in the back-to-school address from a repeatedly unsuccessful white-guy presidential candidate, yours truly, now headed to the Uptowner tavern cum charm school.
And just so you’s know, my experience with crack has only been when the plumber comes by to bend over and unclog my focking toilet, and the only whores I’m familiar with are on Fox Network News and talk radio.
what follows is my abbreviated speech to your September students,
patched together from previous attempts at such a thing. Fifty bucks
and a case of ice-cold bottled beer and I’ll come by and deliver the
whole enchi-focking-lada personally. Anyways, it goes something like
Art’s Brainwash for School Kids
fellow students, so another summer of screwing around, shoplifting,
burning bugs with a magnifying glass, screwing off, binge drinking,
screwing, and bike stealing—whether you be the stealee or stealer—has
come to a close. And now you embark on a months-long quest to harass
one poor, underpaid teacher or another if by nothing else than your
mere presence whenever you do bother to show up. God bless.
Yes sir, “back to school.” The three most dreaded words in the English language for those of a certain age, which reminds me of a little story: Kid comes home from his first day at school. His Ma asks, “So, what did you learn today?” Kid says, “Not enough. I got to go back tomorrow, for crying out loud.” Ba-ding!
At this juncture, allow me to get my remarks to the little kids out of the way first; and you kids, I want you to listen carefully because I’m only going to say this once: SNOT IS NOT A SNACK FOOD, I kid you not.
And now as far as you older students, I’ll make my pronouncements brief ’cause I know like everything else, it’s just going to go in one ear and out the other ’til I’m blue in the face since you’ve heard it all before haven’t you, you bunch of smart-asses. So relax, and smoke ’em if you know somebody old enough to go get ’em.
Now, the best thing you’s can do about school is to quit your
bellyachebitching about it. I know it’s tough, it stinks, it feels like
prison (yeah, prison, for some of you’s who feel that way, take heart,
the day may come when you will then reflect back on these days as a
valuable preparatory experience for cooling your heels in the cooler).
And I know you’ve got one hell of a lot to learn, compared to if you had to go to school, say, 2,000 years ago. For example, how hard could geography have been back then? For christ sakes, they only had a couple, three countries. Piece of focking cake.
So, the other day, first day of school, I saw a young man of school-age purchasing a video game at the mall. I said, “Excuse me, son. Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” He replied, “Go fock yourself, pops.”
Yes, “Go fock yourself,”
indeed. Hey man, if only one could actually fock one’s self, that
sure-as-shootin’ would diminish the rigmarole a guy’s got to go through
just to even get a shot at dipping his wick, ain’a? No flowers, no
dinner, no dancing, no dimming the lights to the point where a
gentleman can’t even find the focking ashtray, no meeting the parents,
no long walks on the goddamn beach or in the focking woods, no
excruciating dialogues about “What are you thinking?” and no boring-ass
movies with subtitles, no remembering bullshit anniversaries and the
hell with birthdays, no blather chatter on the telephone. No sir, none
of that malarkey, because now sir, you can fock yourself.
And so in conclusion, the most important thing for you’s students, young and old, is to have a dream and maintain it, repeatedly. My dream is that I could fock myself literally; your dream may involve some other kind of outcome. Swell. Just dream of something, anything, that’ll help you get up the next morning/afternoon/whatever, even if that dream is the excuse you can’t turn in your homework to teacher because your dog ate it right before a relapsed Michael Vick killed him.
And if you should go on to college, here’s an important tidbit that you may come to appreciate down the road: Never, ever, mix good booze with soda if you know what’s good for you, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.