I’m
Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hope your Lenten season got off to a
hell of a lot smoother start than mine own did. I’ll tell you’s, the first
Wednesday evening of this month it dawned on me: “Hey nitwit, it’s been Ash
Wednesday all day long and you haven’t even begun to think about what to swear
off all the way ’til Easter, for christ sakes.” Yeah, I may be a
way-out-of-practice Catholic, but the one practice I still show up for is the
practice of giving up some penny-ante practice or two for Lent in hopes my
piddling sacrifice may be enough to leave Heaven’s door cracked at least an
iota or two, what the fock.
So there I was,
Ash Wednesday, 8 p.m., hankering to give up something, pronto. Smoking? Yeah,
fat focking chance. I was already into my second pack, Jack. Drinking? That’s a
good one. Like I said, I was aiming for leaving the Pearly Gate cracked, not
sainthood. My weekly essay for this here newspaper? Ding-ding-ding-ding!
Which is to say,
unless I fall off the writing wagon or am threatened with job dismissal for
focking following my religious beliefs, you won’t see me shining around this
page ’til after Easter, April 16, praise the lord.
But
before I go, allow me to pronounce that with Dairyland’s gubernatorial election
coming up like a bad burrito next year, that I’m all in as your candidate of
choice, you betcha. And my first order of biz as your new state overlord—just
as it’s been for my last several candidacies for the office—would be to reduce the law-abiding age from 21 to 16
for when a Badgerite could plant his or her booty atop a barstool, order a nice
bourbon and tell the bartender to leave the bottle, and I’ll tell you why.
Like I’ve said
in the past, having a couple, three belts never fails to make me feel like a
focking adult with something to say, and I can’t imagine it also wouldn’t turn
the same trick with any snotnose katzenjammers currently ’neath the age of 21;
and lord knows they sure as hell can use any passkey to adulthood we can give
them, what with their delinquent ways and inability to afford higher education.
The sooner we get them into the world of adults where we can keep a focking eye
on them, the better. That’s why.
As Guv, I’d
choose to put kids in bars instead of
behind bars. Let them come down to
the tavern to sit down with the regulars, the men and women who belly-up to the
bar day in, day out; let these kids sit down, have a few and listen to the
voice of smoky experience, the voice that says, “Kid, you’re not so focking
tough. For starters, you’re mixing good booze with soda. I could drink you
under a table anywhere, and still be
able to adjust the color on my TV.”
And then these
kids could take this alcoholic knowledge and stamina with them when they get
carted overseas to fight with the terrorists. I ask you: These acts of terror
around the world these days? The work of sober people, plain and simple.
Uptight, cork-in-the-butt, sober people.
Let me reiterate: It’s been
said that alcohol loosens the inhibitions. No focking kidding, why else to
drink it, ain’a? All I’m saying is that if these terror nuts drank, maybe it’d
loosen their inhibition toward acting like regular normal sane people who, if
nothing else, know that bombs, mortars and children don’t mix.
I believe that
enforced mandatory drinking ’cross
the globe might be the real key to combating nut terror activity. The drinking
man knows that no matter what abso-focking-lutely needs to be done can always
wait ’til tomorrow, or the day after or even the day after that, what the fock,
what’s the hurry.
Should everybody
drink as much as they can, all the time? Perhaps not. Surgeons and bus drivers
spring to mind; also, the so-called “mean” drinker, often called a “domestic
terrorist.” Yea verily, not much a threat on the worldwide terrorist scene
since the asshole is usually too busy taking it out on “loved” ones to mess
with the outside impersonal world, but I can’t believe we couldn’t find room at
Guantanamo for knobs like those.
Anyways, I
forgot what my focking point was, so let me just say that our worldwide sober
nuts need to relax, have a cocktail, so that the only inner-voice they hear is
the one that tells them not to blow-up a bunch of kids, but instead whispers
into a red-eyed ear, “Hey, it’s OK. Have another. You still got tomorrow, and
so should everybody else,” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
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