ART FOR ART'S SAKE
FROM THE CITY THAT ALWAYS SWEEPS
So by the time you read this, together we will have experienced Columbus Day, Indigenous Peoples’ Day, Hallo-focking-ween and (supposedly) a presidential election, not to mention the possibility of a visitation by aliens from outer space (it is 2020, don’t forget), possible appearance of another novel virus that makes COVID seem like an ice-creamed stroll on a brightly colored sea-shelled beach with a balloon (it is 2020, don’t forget), and what-not. But only you will know how it went, ’cause right now I’m time-stuck in early October. So, really, I don’t know what to tell you’s, what the fock. Cripes, by the time you may be able to read this palaver, I could’ve already dropped over deader than doornail, how ’bout that? You may have already my obit before you read this page. Yeah, the obit with the headline “Art Kumbalek,” and then continues for a while downhill from there. Good lord, I haven’t even thought of an epitaph for the gravestone yet; although, I am leaning toward something like this: “Your call is important to us. Please remain on the line, and someone will be with you shortly.” And speaking of Columbus Day, and of me dropping over deader than a doornail out of the blue, as I’ve said in the past, 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
86
|
Shepherd Express
discoverers in the history books look like a bunch of focking suckers and losers. 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. You bet I’d 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, what the fock. And being the man of science that I am, I will only accept empirical evidence concerning what happens after you’re croaked cold from somebody who’s been gravely dead, not just pretending—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 yes, I semi-enjoyed Columbus Day last month, as usual. 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. Used to mine comedy gold back then, ain’a? “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 month or maybe 528 years in the future, it is discovered you are fool’s gold. What a world. In conclusion, as a public service to you’s parents needing to do the home-schooling, I offer at no charge the following science project for the katzenjammers:
METHOD: Place four worms into four separate jars for 24 hours, thusly: 1. Place first worm into jar of alcohol. 2. Place second worm into jar of cigarette smoke. 3. Place third worm into jar of sperm. 4. Place fourth worm into jar of soil.
RESULTS: 1. The first worm in alcohol—croaked. 2. Second worm in cigarette smoke— focking croaked. 3. Third worm in sperm—croaked. 4. Fourth worm in soil—lived.
HYPOTHESIS: As long as you drink, smoke and have sex, you won’t get worms. So let us not forget that as one ages the quest for knowledge should never cease, and so we recall the words of Socrates, or maybe it was Anonymous, I forget— must’ve skipped class that day:
“BRUSH YOUR TEETH AND STAY IN SCHOOL, I DON’T CARE WHO THE FOCK YOU THINK YOU ARE.” I second that emotion, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
Photo by shironosov/Getty Images
I
’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here it is, the essay for the November monthly print edition of the Shepherd Express, which means if you’re reading these words it must be sometime early-ish November; however, I’m right now slapping this baby together—I look at my calendar—it’s the second week of Focktober, what the fock.
Illustration by DenPotisev/Getty Images
BY ART KUMBALEK
