Thursday, Oct. 15, 2009

Pop My Top

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I got to tell you’s I’m a little under the crappy weather on account of the annual Columbus Day get-together me and the fellas had the other day over by the Uptowner tavern/ charm school where we toasted repeatedly the significance of discovery until we discovered we were clean out of dough.

And speaking of toasting, I hear that America’s alcoholic sensation known as Art Kumbalek’s Focktoberfest brewed and bottled by the saintly savants at Lakefront Brewery (where I’ll be found 6-9 p.m. Friday, Oct. 16, for the weekly fish fry whilst musicalizing with the mighty Brewhaus Polka Kings) is now available once again for all us discriminating drinkers of beer who know which end is up, what the fock.

Yeah yeah, I got to tell you’s that to discover one’s mug on the label of a premier bottled beer is quite the achievement—’tis a far better thing than landing the feature spot on TV’s “America’s Got Sex Predators,” you betcha.

And speaking of discovery, me and the fellas the other night went agog in wonderment about what is there really left to discover of such a magnitude that it would make all the other discoverers in the history books look like a bunch of focking pikers? And I’ll tell you, it would be to discover what truly lies on the other side of this life—like after you got hit by a goddamn bus—and then return to fill in the rest of us, no bullshit accepted.

That’s right, I’m talking about some courageous soul to cruise the uncharted territory beyond the geographical point of latitude some call the “Stygian shore” (fancy talk for six-feet deep). I’m sure a trip like this can’t be any piece of cake ’cause you’d think that after all these hundreds and thousands of years of Homo sapien time, some kind of Lewis Meriwether, some kind of Clark Magellan, surely would’ve taken the time and trouble to come back and report to the Earth-bound rest of us about just what the hell goes on post- Bite the Big One, no matter what.

Cripes, you just got to think the first guy who actually comes back from being croaked with some solid documentation—photos, curios, trinkets—is going to find himself to be one heck of a popular guy with the media, ain’a?

And you’re a focking nitwit if you’re playing the devil’s advocate with me by recalling all those dopey fabrications you see on some cheesy TV show—the gauzy inventions of some bull-shitting dreamer talking about getting read his last rites whilst getting all warm and fuzzy over the blaring bright lights that barely clarify the friendly mugs of deceased loved ones in the near distance; but then, just before their eternal embrace, he’s yanked back to reality by a phone call of the thirddegree from the hospital billing department interrogating him as to how the fock he plans on paying for his sweet brief heavenly sojourn.

Do not believe this malarkey.

For christ sakes, there’s all kind of stories you hear about an alleged afterlife, like this one: Bill Clinton and the Pope die on the same day, but a mix-up in the afterlife paperwork sends them to the wrong places: the Pope goes to hell and Bill goes to heaven. After a couple of days they fix this problem and the Pope gets on the escalator to heaven and Bill gets on the other to hell. The two pass each other on the way and Bill asks, “So how bad was it down there?” The Pope says, “Not so much, just all the time hot and noisy, but I’m glad to be going up to heaven now. There’s one thing up there I have been looking forward to.” Bill asks, “What’s that?” And the Pope says, “I want to meet the Virgin Mary.” Bill shakes his head sheepishly and whispers to the Pope, “Too late, buddy.”

Ba-ding! But being the man of science that I am, I will only accept empirical evidence concerning what happens after you’re deader than a doornail from somebody who is gravely dead, not just pretending—yeah, I’m talking about some guy planted for at least a couple, three months from whom you get a call in the middle of dinner, or just shows up at your door some night and says, “Hey, you ol’ douchebag, how ya doing?” And I’d like to be that guy— the first stiff to re-ford the river Styx, hit the talk-show circuit and give you the lowdown from sixfeet under. Personally, I find it very difficult to believe it’s not been done yet. You’d think by now some enterprising knob would’ve found a way. I mean, what’s the focking problem? The afterlife must have one hell of a security system that even Hou-fockingdini can’t get out of, ain’a?

No sir, seems those who have passed on from this life don’t give a rat’s ass about us still here. It’s as if it’s us who have ceased to exist, and I’d like to find out what the deal is with that ’cause I’ll tell you, when I get to that other side, I will do my damnedest to at least drop you a postcard: “Hey, wish you were here.” That’s a promise, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.”

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