by Art Kumbalek
Next, how ’bout those heart-attack Packers? Next up, Vikings. And then it’s the team that shall not be named unless you say “Redskins.” There’s still a big heap of hoopla in regard to the offensiveness of that nickname and how it ought to be removed and changed. To this I say: No shit, Sherlock.
Lost and forgotten in all the hubbub is mine own groundbreaking work in this field from way-back in 1988 when I questioned the city of Cleveland’s baseball team’s use of the image of so-called Chief Wahoo—the wild-eyed, toothy, single-feather head-banded caricature of some kind of Native American. Offensive? No siree, some would say. It’s just our way of saying, “Thank you for the gift of your homeland, oh Great Red Man. In return, we shall show honor by making you a focking sports team mascot.”
Jeez louise, aren’t team mascots supposed to be testicle-chewing wild animals and stuff, and not Sapien beings? Hey, if you got a Cleveland Indians, how come no Chicago Polacks with a logo of a hammer smashing a thumb, or a couple, three guys with a light bulb and ladder? What the fock.
Yeah yeah, 1988 and newspapers are ancient history. The media-Internet biz these days is a young people’s game, what with their navel-gazing yet butt-boring blogs, their talismaniacal PodCast iPod YouTube Twit ju-ju voo-doo malarkey that’s deviously designed to disenfranchise the voice of the cranky old fart, an old fart who remembers well when the only cable a young person had came as a pair that you sometimes would attach to the battery terminals beneath the hood of your good-for-crap third-hand 1962 Rambler American ’cause you and the fellas had gone Downtown to sneak into the Princess Theater to catch the latest Russ Meyer motion picture and it was following the climax of Russ’s latest boobathon that it was discovered that the keys to the locked with windows butt-up-tight 2-door rustbucket decided to play hard-to-get, secure with their position in the ignition, that the motor was still running, sort of, that the switched-on headlights were a dim diminutive remembrance of their once-virile virility, and most importantly, the six-pack of Kingsbury that was to be quaffed over a cleavage-critique of Supervixens during the drive home was in the goddamn trunk, unretrievable and—seeing as all that (hold on, I lost my place—why don’t you go have a smoke while I insert a new paragraph).
Anyways like I said, the communication racket via this so-called “social media” seems today to be one for and by the young people and conservatives. And all I can say is “FU.” Maybe it’s time a guy my age ought to think about a second career, and I’m thinking about checking out the greeting industry. Cripes, how hard can that be, to stand at the front door of This-or-That Mart and eyeball the dregs of the hoi polloi as they meander by, so’s to alert security in the event that any one low-brow shopper should appear a little extra nutty.
And you know what? Given mine own legendary celebrity—I once shook the hand of funnyman Louis Nye; in 1969 Chicago, I was party to a nightclub performance provided by Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull and Savoy Brown for five focking bucks, Jack; with my own eyes from up the block, I saw Bob focking Hope enter the Mason Street entrance to the Pfister Hotel—I may even attract extra customers à la shell-shocked former heavyweight champ Joe Louis when stuck at a casino gateway.
What savvy store manager wouldn’t want a guy like me cooling his heels by the store door, knowing it could mean an extra buck two-eighty in sales of batteries, diapers and cat food per shift-of-mine due to increased foot traffic? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you that you don’t have to tell me that the craft of greetings-manship won’t always be one big piece of pie like a cakewalk on the picnic beach. My buddy Little Jimmy Iodine, who has dabbled in the greeting vocation, told me he once worked a joint down by there on South KK when this big-mouth, unattractive plus grouchy gal walked through the entrance dragging two kids and screaming obscenities at everyone within earshot. Jimmy says, “Good morning ma’am. Nice kids you’ve got there. Are they twins?” And this foul-mouth hag says to Jimmy, “Hell no. One’s nine and the younger one’s five. What the fock would make you think they’re twins. Are you blind or just goddamn stupid?” So to make the best of an awkward situation, Jimmy says, “Neither, ma’am. I just can’t believe you got laid twice.” Ba-ding!
Anyways, thanks to constant reader Ingrid/Mae as always, and now I got to go fill out some job applications, so see you around ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
From: https://shepherdexpress.com/advice/art-kumbalek/wahoopatuli/
Lost and forgotten in all the hubbub is mine own groundbreaking work in this field from way-back in 1988 when I questioned the city of Cleveland’s baseball team’s use of the image of so-called Chief Wahoo—the wild-eyed, toothy, single-feather head-banded caricature of some kind of Native American. Offensive? No siree, some would say. It’s just our way of saying, “Thank you for the gift of your homeland, oh Great Red Man. In return, we shall show honor by making you a focking sports team mascot.”
Jeez louise, aren’t team mascots supposed to be testicle-chewing wild animals and stuff, and not Sapien beings? Hey, if you got a Cleveland Indians, how come no Chicago Polacks with a logo of a hammer smashing a thumb, or a couple, three guys with a light bulb and ladder? What the fock.
Yeah yeah, 1988 and newspapers are ancient history. The media-Internet biz these days is a young people’s game, what with their navel-gazing yet butt-boring blogs, their talismaniacal PodCast iPod YouTube Twit ju-ju voo-doo malarkey that’s deviously designed to disenfranchise the voice of the cranky old fart, an old fart who remembers well when the only cable a young person had came as a pair that you sometimes would attach to the battery terminals beneath the hood of your good-for-crap third-hand 1962 Rambler American ’cause you and the fellas had gone Downtown to sneak into the Princess Theater to catch the latest Russ Meyer motion picture and it was following the climax of Russ’s latest boobathon that it was discovered that the keys to the locked with windows butt-up-tight 2-door rustbucket decided to play hard-to-get, secure with their position in the ignition, that the motor was still running, sort of, that the switched-on headlights were a dim diminutive remembrance of their once-virile virility, and most importantly, the six-pack of Kingsbury that was to be quaffed over a cleavage-critique of Supervixens during the drive home was in the goddamn trunk, unretrievable and—seeing as all that (hold on, I lost my place—why don’t you go have a smoke while I insert a new paragraph).
Anyways like I said, the communication racket via this so-called “social media” seems today to be one for and by the young people and conservatives. And all I can say is “FU.” Maybe it’s time a guy my age ought to think about a second career, and I’m thinking about checking out the greeting industry. Cripes, how hard can that be, to stand at the front door of This-or-That Mart and eyeball the dregs of the hoi polloi as they meander by, so’s to alert security in the event that any one low-brow shopper should appear a little extra nutty.
And you know what? Given mine own legendary celebrity—I once shook the hand of funnyman Louis Nye; in 1969 Chicago, I was party to a nightclub performance provided by Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull and Savoy Brown for five focking bucks, Jack; with my own eyes from up the block, I saw Bob focking Hope enter the Mason Street entrance to the Pfister Hotel—I may even attract extra customers à la shell-shocked former heavyweight champ Joe Louis when stuck at a casino gateway.
What savvy store manager wouldn’t want a guy like me cooling his heels by the store door, knowing it could mean an extra buck two-eighty in sales of batteries, diapers and cat food per shift-of-mine due to increased foot traffic? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you that you don’t have to tell me that the craft of greetings-manship won’t always be one big piece of pie like a cakewalk on the picnic beach. My buddy Little Jimmy Iodine, who has dabbled in the greeting vocation, told me he once worked a joint down by there on South KK when this big-mouth, unattractive plus grouchy gal walked through the entrance dragging two kids and screaming obscenities at everyone within earshot. Jimmy says, “Good morning ma’am. Nice kids you’ve got there. Are they twins?” And this foul-mouth hag says to Jimmy, “Hell no. One’s nine and the younger one’s five. What the fock would make you think they’re twins. Are you blind or just goddamn stupid?” So to make the best of an awkward situation, Jimmy says, “Neither, ma’am. I just can’t believe you got laid twice.” Ba-ding!
Anyways, thanks to constant reader Ingrid/Mae as always, and now I got to go fill out some job applications, so see you around ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
From: https://shepherdexpress.com/advice/art-kumbalek/wahoopatuli/
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment