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Wednesday, Dec. 9, 2009

Tiger Buy the Tail

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I got one big honking quandary on my hands these days, I kid you not.

As the people’s perennial political candidate for whatever office needs filling, I don’t know if I ought to throw up my hat into the ring for Badgerland governor, mayor of Beertown, or maybe county executive and/or sheriff. All of these gravy trains deliver more salary-pay than I’m currently unloading as the people’s pundit, so I guess I better get my sorry ass in gear and choose which public teat I prefer most to suckle from, or something like that.

Off the top of my head, I can’t recall when any of these goddamn elections are to be held, but I’m guessing that if I don’t soon slap together some informational fliers so’s to erect my qualifications on the pedestal, I’m going to miss the top-banana boat, kit and kaboodle.

So I got to get over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school and confab with my campaign brain trust, except they’re not open yet. So first, I’ll slide over by this 24-hour joint that slings the hash and Joe whether you like it or not. Come along if you want, but you leave the tip.

Hattie: Why if it isn’t little Artie Kumbalek, what’s your pleasure?

Art: For crying out loud, it’s Hattie. Hattie Venta, at this time of day? I thought you only worked the graveyard shift. The regular gal, Bea, isn’t sick or something, is she?

Hattie: Oh no, Artie, she’s at a funeral. Somebody from her church got the swine flu and broke his neck on the basement stairs when he went to get the inflatable Christmas manger he puts on his roof this time of year.

Art: He should’ve had the wife do that. Cripes, I guess we can’t all be wise men, ain’a? Reminds me of a little story: Three ministers and their wives, Presbyterian, Southern Baptist and a Methodist, are on a cruise. They all come down with severe food poisoning and die. The next thing they know, they're standing before St. Peter at the gates.

First in line is the Presbyterian and his wife. St. Peter shakes his head and says, “Sorry, can't let you in. Yes, you were moral and upright, but you loved money too much. You loved it so much, you even married a woman named Penny.” St. Peter waves his hand, and bingo! Down the chute to Hell they go.

Second is the Southern Baptist couple. St. Peter says, “Sad to say, can't let you in either. Sure, you abstained from liquor, dancing and cards, but you loved food too much. You loved food so much, you even married a woman named Candy!” St. Pete waves again, and boom! Down the chute go the Southern Baptists.

The Methodist turns to his wife and whispers nervously, “Doesn't look too good, ain’a Fanny?”

Hattie: Isn’t that cute, and in italics to boot. And now I’ve got a nice little story for you that maybe you could put in that little article you write for the newspaper: This drunk at a nice holiday party asks the host, “Do you have green toilet paper that says ‘fock you’”? The host says, “‘Green toilet paper that says ‘fock you’? No, we don’t have that.” Drunk says, “Oh, sorry. Guess I must’ve wiped my ass with your parrot. Never mind.”

Art: ’Tis the season.

Hattie: So let’s say we cut the chitchat, Artie, and you order something—or do I have to call the cops on you for loitering?

Art: Jeez louise, Hattie. I just sat down and there’s nobody else here.

Hattie: Listen mister, I can’t have you taking up a valuable stool if you’re not going to order anything. Tiger Woods might stop in, and he’ll need a place to sit.

Art: Tiger Woods? You got to be jerking my beefaroni, Hattie.

Hattie: He goes for waitresses, Artie. Don’t you pay attention to the news? I don’t know how he likes his pancakes, but I got a large stack for him right here.

Art: I have seen some photos of his waitress friends, and I do believe he goes for the large stack when it comes to pancakes. Now, I don’t mean to disappoint, but Hattie, I think he likes younger gals than you might be, and maybe the kind whose weight might be less than a par 4 yardage, tee to cup.

Hattie: You talk like a sausage, Artie. He’s Tiger, and I’m a cougar. I like the younger man. And to think the poor man is married to one of those Swedish strumpets who believe that nakedness is next to godliness.

Artie: Yeah Hattie, you’d be Tiger’s cougar if he were drawing Social Security; otherwise, I just don’t see it. But I got to run before you get too busy. Here’s a tip for the company and bending my ear, Hattie-licious. See you next time.

Hattie: Oh Artie, you’re a little devil, aren’t you. Take care.

(OK, it’s off to the Uptowner. If you see me there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)