From
The Shepherd Express:
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world,
ain’a? So how’s my college tournament basketball bracket doing? Thanks
for asking. I’ll tell you’s, I could’ve chosen Trump University to go up
against the Electoral College in the national championship game and my
goddamn bracket would be none worse for wear than it is right now, what
the fock.
Anyways, from where I’m sitting here and now good lord, I’m looking
at the first day of spring. Focking swell. All it means to me is one
step closer to summer’s hot and humid, sticky suck-ass insected weather
that makes me feel like I’m living in some Fourth World sweatshop of a
country instead of being an upper-Midwestern American. So spring, thanks
for nothing.
Yes sir, March 20, one of only two days in the whole year when
lightness and darkness slug it out to a standstill. A tie, a draw—what
they call in the sportsworld “kissing your sister.” And in the olden,
olden days when there were even more weird-ass religions afoot than
there are today, this day was marked as one of a handful of rites those
people had during the year where they’d take the day off to celebrate by
slaughtering a barnyard animal or three as some kind of nutty
sacrificial offering to the deities du jour.
Now, I’m no religious expert but I’m telling you, just imagine if
those wacky ancestors were on to something, that maybe they knew
something we don’t know or have forgotten—that hacking up a perfectly
good goat or cow on the first day of spring actually did buy you a
couple extra days of sunshine during the year or relieve your toothache
or provide some other kind of beneficial good.
Come to think of it, maybe my NCAA bracket would be more successful,
perhaps even perfect, if before filling it out I had first sacrificed a
couple, three goats over by Cathedral Square Park. After all, college
basketball is like a religion to some, so what the fock. March madness,
indeed.
And if you’re still hungover from St. Patty’s Day Week-and-a-focking-Half, here’s a little story that may make you feel better:
Six retired Irish guys were playing poker in O’Leary’s apartment
when Paddy Murphy loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest and
drops dead at the table. Showing respect for their fallen brother, the
other five continue playing.
A bit of a while later, Michael O’Connor looks around at the
surviving five and asks, “Oh, me boys. I believe we have a bit of a
situation here. Paddy is dead and someone surely must tell Paddy’s poor
wife. Who will it be then?” They draw straws. Brendan O’Gallagher picks
the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don’t make a bad
situation any worse.
“Discreet? I’m the most discreet Irishman you’ll ever meet.
Discretion is me middle name.” So Brendan O’Gallagher goes over to
Murphy’s house and knocks on the door. Mrs. Murphy answers and asks what
he wants. O’Gallagher declares: “Your husband just lost $500 and is afraid to come home.”
“Tell him to drop dead!” says Mrs. Murphy. And O’Gallagher says, “‘To drop dead.’ I’ll go tell him then, ma’am.” Ba-ding!
Hey, I almost forgot I was going to give up work for Lent, so
speaking of Catholics let’s get out of here with this little story:
Imagine the shy young lad’s surprise when the
Pope sat down in the seat next to him for the flight destined for New
York City. Shortly after take-off, the Pope began a crossword puzzle. “This is really swell,” the young man thought. “I’m really good at crosswords and if the Pope gets stuck, perhaps he’ll ask me for assistance and I’ll get a gold pass to heaven.”
Shortly thereafter, the Pope turned to the young man and said, “Excuse me my son, but I suddenly seem to be blocked on this crossword puzzle. Do you happen to know a four-letter word that ends in ‘unt’ and that refers to a woman?” Only one such word leapt to the mind of the young man, a word he felt should not be uttered in the Pope’s presence. He thought a moment and with a bolt from the blue turned to the Pope and said, “I believe your holiness that it is the word ‘aunt’ you seek—a-u-n-t.” And the Pope said, “Oh my. Of course, my son. ‘A-u-n-t.’ God bless you. I don’t suppose you happen to have an eraser?”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
https://shepherdexpress.com/advice/art-kumbalek/thanks-for-taking-my-call/
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