By Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek
and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I just got the info
that Powers Boothe (“Guyana Tragedy: The Story of Jim Jones,” Con Air, Sin City, The Avengers, “Deadwood,” etc.) the deeply
magnificent TV, movie, actor’s actor from out of Texas, has passed. Age 68.
Died in his sleep. “Natural causes,” they report. Hey, put me down for one of
those: Age 68. Natural causes. Died in his sleep. Count me in, what the fock. (Which reminds
me that, at my age, I really need to get more sleep. Put that on my bucket
list.)
Yes sir, natural is the way to go in each and every
way, I hear. Jeez louise, every other goddamn TV ad begs you to buy this or
that ’cause it’s “natural”; so this or that has just got to be gosh darn good
for you ’cause it’s “natural,” you bet. No artificial substitute, please, like
cancer, bus runover, gunshot. Got to be natural.
And I figure that dying in or during your sleep, of
natural causes, is also a financially sound way to bid adieu—to say “aloha,
all” before a boatload of MRIs, PET scans, CAT scans, X-rays, chemotherapy,
lying in a ho$pital bed puking sick for weeks, sends you to bankruptcy and the
poor house from the bills from the crappy or nonexistent health insurance
bullshit. Yeah, I’ll take the “natural” croak in my sleep—cuts costs, I figure.
Ha! Take that, you focking HMOs.
Cripes, just
this morning I heard some knobshine on the radio gasbagging ’bout the skyrocket
costs for the health care, and that if all the people took more of what-you-call
the preventative measures, these costs could enjoy a bit of shrinkage. That’s
just got to be good news for the uninsured, ain’a? Take your preventative
measures—that way if you get good and honking sick, it might only cost you one billion focking bucks instead of two for christ sakes.
And speaking of shrinkage and healthcare, I’m
reminded of a little story (Paul Ryan, Speaker of the House of Reprehensitives,
I hope you’re reading):
So
this American tourist goes on a trip to China, where he got pretty frisky with
the ladies. A week after he came back home to the greatest country on Earth, he
awoke one morning to find his manhood privates covered with bright green and
purple spots. Perplexed, he went to see his doctor.
The
doctor, never having seen such a thing, ordered a bunch of tests and told the
guy to come back in two days for the results. Two days later he returns and the
doctor says, “I’ve got bad news for you, sir. You’ve contracted Mongolian VD.
It’s very rare, almost unheard of here. We know very little about it.”
Our
randy tourist is a bit relieved and says, “Well, give me a shot, a pill, and
fix me up, doc.” And the doctor says, “I’m sorry, there’s no known cure. We’re
going to have to amputate.” In shock, the guy says, “That can’t be focking
possible. I need a second opinion!”
So
the next day, the guy seeks out a Chinese doctor, figuring it’s a disease from
his neck of the woods and he should have experience treating it. The Chinese
doctor examines him and says, “Ah yes, Mongolian VD. Rare disease.” The guy
says to the doctor, “I already know that, but what can you do? My American
doctor wants to amputate!”
The
Chinese doctor shakes his head and laughs: “American doctors always want to
operate. Lotta money for them that way. No need to operate.”
The
guy breathes a sigh of relief as the Chinese doctor continues, “Yes, no need to
operate. Wait two weeks and it will fall off all by itself.” Ba-ding!
Anyways, I got
to run. Time to slap together some kind of résumé for that honcho FBI job
opening. If our Milwaukee County Sheriff’s name can be bandied about to be our
nation’s top dick, I don’t see why my name can’t also. Besides, I look snazzier
in my signature headgear than he does his, what the fock.
And I can’t
forget to thank my constant reader Ingrid Mae for her so-much appreciated
support and benefactoring, you betcha.
And cripes,
where does the time go I ask, ’cause I also better not forget to hone my annual
commencement address to our newest batch o’ graduates who’ve been painstakingly
educated to the point they couldn’t find their butt on a map even if they were
focking sitting on it. America: We’re No. 1! Want some fries with that?
(Reminder: Fifty
bucks and a case of ice-cold bottled beer is my standard fee for addressing
whatever kind of group you got needs addressing.)
And in regard to
what I can possibly say concerning the golden future that awaits our commencers
just beyond the pale, what I got so far address-wise is, “There’s no business
like show business, so get a focking job”—which is just as far as I got last
year, so what the fock, guess I’m finished, time for a little shuteye ’cause I’m
Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.
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