I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I got tell you that right about now I’m feeling abso-focking-lutely low, down in the dumper, due to the kick of a steel-toed boot the voters delivered to my presidential privates courtesy of the Dairyland primary we had around here last Tuesday. Remember? All I can figure is that this nut-crushing disregard for The Art Kumbalek Democracy Express 2008 For Any and All Political Office proves this: An integrity of sorts, coupled with an honest propensity for the occasional cocktail and a campaign war chest of about a buck two-eighty to boot, is no longer enough to propel one’s butt from his living-room couch all the way to the Oval Office in this day of age, what the fock.

But I promise my supporters, who were apparently too busy or otherwise distracted to haul their lazy ass to the polls and vote—my supporters, all of whom apparently I can count on one finger, and you can probably guess upon which finger that would be—that I intend to remain positive as I toss and turn through this personal nightmare of abject rejection I got to go to bed with.

Which reminds me of a little story: Man goes to the doctor, says, “Doctor, you got to help me. I think my wife’s been dead, maybe two weeks now.” Doctor says, “Good lord, man. Two weeks? What took so long for you to notice?” Man says, “Well sir, the sex is like always, but then I started noticing that the laundry and dirty dishes seemed to be piling up.” Ba-ding! Yes, to remain positive, thankful and hopeful may seem to be politically incorrect attitudes for a candidate seeking higher office these days, but that’s the kind of state of mind I aim to maintain, I kid you not.

On a local level, I’m positive that if the higherups can manage to shit-can manager Ned Yost’s prickly dupa by the end of May on account of an underachieving winning percentage due to the familiar litany of constant what-the-fock lineup changes not to mention you-got-to-be-jerkingmy-beefaroni bullpen management, I believe that our Milwaukee Brewers can win their NL Central Division if not the World focking Series under the helm of new chief-tobacco-chewer Teddy “Ball Game” Simmons.

Also locally, I’m hopeful that during what’s left of our winter, I don’t slip, fall and crack my head open whilst traversing the neglected and treacherous ice-packed perilous sidewalks that abut the south and north ends of Downtown’s Cathedral Square Park. For christ sakes, Admiral Peary’s trek to the geographic North Pole was a cakewalk on the beach compared to the Beer Town pedestrian negotiating the one-block journey from Jackson Street to Jefferson or vice versa.

Hey, if you always wondered what a ride provided by Bell Ambulance might be like, I suggest that a winter walk around this park is sure to has- ten the experience. So who’s responsible for this untended glacial bullshit? The park seems to be property of the county, but maybe the sidewalks belong to the city. And I guess I can’t really blame the city for this neglect since I just read an article in the papers about how busy and vigilant they’ve been in investigating and fining the bejesus out of the Joe Blow private property/business owner who’s misplaced his snow shovel. So maybe it’s the Scott Walker crew heading our Milwaukee County government that doesn’t know inchesthick ice from an asshole in the ground. I’d find that a bit surprising, though. That bunch is so cocksure with the shoveling of bullshit most of the year round, what’s the focking problem with some snow and ice? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that I’m thankful that when I walk out of a barber shop the hair on top of my head is mine, and not that belonging to Duke University basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski, what with the price of shellac these days—not to mention that even for a Polish guy, a last name that begins with five focking consonants dictates an additional set of life-long defensive adjustments to be made. And who’s got that kind of time?

Yes, I could’ve gone negative during this Wisconsin primary. I could’ve related the following story during my own campaign stump stops:

So former President Bill Clinton took to jogging whilst staying in one of our fine downtown hotels as he campaigned for his wife. And wouldn’t you know, on each run he happened to jog past a hooker standing on the same street corner, day after day. Every time he passed her, she would call out to him, “Fifty dollars!” And the former president would respond, “Hell no. Five dollars and you got yourself a deal!”

This went on for a couple of days. He’d run by, she’d yell, “Fifty dollars!” and he’d say, “Five dollars!” Toward the end of the week, Hillary blew into town from campaigning out in O-focking-hio and decided to accompany her husband on his jog. As the jogging couple neared that street corner, Bill prayed that for once the hooker would not be there.

But sure as shootin’, as he and the junior senator from New York passed the corner the working gal was there, and as the former president and first lady jogged by, she yelled to Bill, “Hey Bubba, what the fock. Is that what you got for five bucks? You got screwed. Yeah, you wish!”

Sure, I could’ve gone negative but I didn’t ’cause I’m Art kumbalek and I told you so.