By Art Kumbalek Oct. 11, 2016
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man
manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, the other week I was wont to flip
the page of my kitchen-wall calendar (Strumpets
of the South Seas) ’cause that’s the kind of guy I strive to be—organized,
punctual, cocksure of handy, perhaps useful, information like which is the
correct goddamn month of the year currently underfoot.
I was informed that we had now entered
the bittersweet month of Foctober. I took a quick perusal of the dates to
remind myself whether there were any big-time holidays where everybody got the
day off so’s they could visit relatives and drink their beer all day long. The
answer was “No, sir.” But I did discover that Columbus Day fell on a Monday,
Oct. 10, this year, and my head began to spin.
WHAT THE FOCK? Oct. 10? Any schoolboy
worth his old-school salt knows that Columbus Day is supposed to be Oct. 12.
Cripes, I’m sure that date would even be in the Bible if that good book had had
the foresight to cover stuff that happened at least through the year 1492. I
don’t know how the heck anyone can get such a simple, straight fact wrong
unless he or she belonged to the Republican Party, what the fock.
Focktober 10? When the hell did Columbus
Day start getting short-shrift shifted around like the birthdays of Washington,
Lincoln? Hey, without Christopher Columbus, there never would’ve been presidents
Washington and Lincoln. In case you forgot, Cristoforo Colombo whilst
sailing the ocean blue discovered the New World; although, personally, I wish
he’d rather discovered a cure for the common cold.
Yeah, the New World. Sounds like one of
those fancy theme parks, ain’a? And what a roller coaster—but it only goes
down, down and down, so I hear.
I’ll tell you, those Italians still go
big-time for Columbus in a big way. But in truth, they ought to be kicking
themselves on account of way-back-when they wouldn’t cough up squat to finance
his sea cruise. If they had, I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty things’d be
different. South of the border there, they’d be speaking Italian and eating
ravioli instead of speaking Spanish and eating those fragile tacos where after
you take one bite, you’re picking the rest of your focking meal out of your
lap, gracias for nothing.
On the other hand, nowadays with all the
Indians in charge of the organized gambling, it’s just as if the Italians had
moved in and set up shop first anyways, so what the fock.
But speaking of discovery, as I’ve said
in the past, and now here again, it’s no secret that I secretly desire to be known
in the future as “the discoverer of all discoverers”—to make a discovery of
such 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, what that would
be is 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.
And I’d still 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 six-feet-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-focking-dini can’t get out of,
ain’a?
Yeah, the afterlife, lot to discover
about that, you bet. And 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’s been gravely dead, not just pretending—yeah, I’m talking
about some guy gone 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, buddy, how ya doing? Do I have news for you!”
But I guess we go to discovery with the
discoverers we have. And I enjoyed Columbus Day, as I always do. No bills in
the mail ’cause there’s no goddamn mail. And I recalled fourth-grade October recess
from so long ago, when us wags fresh off our history chapter on Columbus would
come up with our own names for his boats—the Hyena, the Pinhead and Santa’s
Diarrhea. We used to come up with some pretty good shit back then, I kid you
not.
“Used to”: the definition of age, any
age. One day you think you’re the toast of the town, but then it could be the
next day, the next day, the next month or maybe 524 years in the future, it is
discovered you are junk. What a world, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you
so.
Related: https://theshepstore.kostizi.com/
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