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Wednesday, Oct. 21, 2009

Saloonatics

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, the Packers don’t look too good, our gridiron Badgers can’t hold a lead, and about twice a day I’m nearly run over whilst legally traversing a crosswalk in downtown Milwaukee by some one-handed shiny-car motorist numb-nut or numb-twat who’s too busy to pay attention to pedestrian traffic on account of the goddamn cell phone pressed to their ear so as to move and shake the important business of their desperatelyclichéd lives, WATCH OUT.

And so yes, it’s time for you’s to elect Art Kumbalek as your next governor. I promise to get things fixed. I promise to clean up all schmutz, and if there’s a problem, we’ll get that corrected, you betcha.

Now the most important thing I need to do to get the 2010 Art Kumbalek Democracy Express for Governor rolling is to find out just exactly when this goddamn election is scheduled to take place, and so I’ll need to forgo whipping out an essay for you’s this week and instead meet up with my campaign brain trust over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the corner of Hysteric Center Street & Humboldt, so’s we can figure which end is up. Come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.

Little Jimmy Iodine: You got to be jerking my beefaroni.

Julius: I shit you not. I heard we bombed the moon the other day, and I want to know if there’s been any word yet whether or not we nailed Osama. So far I’ve heard nothing.

Ernie: Bin Laden’s on the focking moon now?

Ray: No shit, Sherlock. You seen the pictures of Afghanistan—makes the moon look like Palm focking Springs, ain’a? Of course he’d want to hide his turbaned ass in a nicer place. Stands to reason.

Emil: So it’s true: the NFL isn’t going to let Rush Limbaugh own one of the teams?

Herbie: Seems so. Majority of the players are black you know, and the players union got concerned when they heard that Limburgher thought a good off-season workout would be chopping cotton.

Ernie: And what’s with the cheerleaders they have now these days? Cripes, I was on the computer Internet to see them up close, and I swear they all look more than a bit manly. When Obama clears up that “don’t ask, don’t tell” with the military, he could move on to the NFL, I kid you not.

Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.

Art: Hey gents. What do you hear, what do you know.

Emil: I hear they want to combine Powerball with the Mega Millions for the lotteries.

Julius: You bet, that’s the centerpiece to the Republicans’ new health-care plan. They figure that with those lotteries combined, the jackpot ought to be big enough for the lucky winner to afford a year’s worth of health insurance.

Herbie: That’s sure as hell a step in the right direction for the Republicans. It’s better than what the congress guy, “Albert Einstein” Grayson, from focking Florida no less, said the Republican plan for American health care was: “Don’t get sick but if you do, you’re best off to die the day before yesterday.” Now it seems the Republicans have decided to go bipartisan with Obama on the “hope” thing. The average Joe Blow with no insurance can hope to win a big lottery jackpot—if he so happens to choose to play—and then pony up to the HMO.

Little Jimmy: HMO. I forget what the “M” stands for.

Julius: Mafia. These health companies are nothing but a big protection racket. Now, they don’t necessarily come by and bust your kneecaps if you don’t pay, but if you should happen to bust your kneecaps and you haven’t paid, you got yourself a situation, mister.

Emil: I think it sucks, ’cause think how much higher the odds of winning a lottery are going to be when you got more players involved.

Herbie: Emil’s right. To win just the Powerball, the odds are about the same as Sharon Stone waltzing into this joint and administering a big ol’ juicy hummer whilst you sit nonchalantly on your bar stool. But if they combine those games of skill, the odds jump up to Sharon Stone and Britney what’s-her-name walking in here to tag-team your schwanz. Not likely, my friend.

Art: But I hear your odds for a nice hummer increase if it’s a Sheboygan tavern you’re in. Anyways, kind of reminds me of a little story:

So this surgeon goes to examine his blond patient after an operation. Doctor says, “You'll be fine." She says, “Thank you doctor. But how long will it be before I’m able to have a normal sex life again?" The doctor shakes his head, hesitates to answer; so the gal says, “Doctor, what’s the matter? I will be all right, won't I?” Doctor says, "Yes, of course you'll be fine. It's just that no one has ever asked me that question after having their tonsils out." Ba-ding!

Little Jimmy: You got a gift for speaking in italics, Artie. You really ought to think about running for office some time.

(Hey, it’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)

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