From the City that Always Sweeps

From łhe Ciły That Always Sweeps From łhe Ciły That Always Sweeps

BY ART KUMBALEK

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So we’re here, August for crying out loud, the Dog Days—or diēs caniculārēs as they said in the ancient country of Latin before it sank to the bottom of the sea. Yes sir, it’s those days this time of year “marked by dull lack of progress,” as was my schoolboy study of Latin so marked, you betcha.

But as a guy who said back in May that fall couldn’t come soon enough, the good news is that this ferkakta U.S. Supreme Court conservative majority can’t wreak hog-wild havoc ’til the first Monday of October on account they get some kind of extended summertime recess from squashing citizens’ individual liberty, what the fock.

The bad news is that it’s August; so yet 31 more days to try my soul with the heat, stupidity, bugs and noise. And yes, a secondary translation of diēs caniculārēs means that for our young scholars, another summertime full of shoplifting, sneaking smokes, scoping internet porn and burning bugs with a magnifying glass soon comes to a kibosh but good. In a few scant weeks it’s back to the books—as long as Republican-controlled school boards allow any book in the classroom besides the focking Bible and a biography of Jerry focking Falwell—as the challenge of opening them as rarely as possible for the next nine months awaits.

And speaking of dog days, my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine is up by his cold-water cabin there north of Hayward on the Upper Eau Claire Lake. And on his way up, he sees this sign near a farm house, “Talking Dog for Sale.” Here’s the story:

Jimmy figures “what the fock,” so he rings the doorbell and a guy tells him the dog is in the backyard. So Jimmy goes out back and sees this mutt sitting there in a lawn chair. “You talk?” Jimmy asks. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” the mutt says. “You got to be jerking my beefaroni,” Jimmy says, “so, what’s the story?”

Dog says, “I discovered my gift as a pup and thought maybe I could help the government and earn some nice coin to buy my own food that’d be better than the crap-out-of-a-bag I’d get from some fockstick owner. So I got in touch with the CIA and in no time they had me flying from country to country, sitting in rooms with spies and world leaders, ’cause no one figured a dumb dog would be eavesdropping the conversations. I was their most valuable spy for eight years—that’s 56, my time. But flying around the goddamn globe all the time got old. I wasn’t getting any younger and wanted to settle down. So I got a job at an airport to do some undercover security work, which was mostly wandering near suspicious characters, sniffing butts and listening in on conversations.

Well sir, to make a long story longer, I uncovered a score of nefarious dealings there and was awarded a bunch of medals. Settled down with some bitch, had a mess of puppies and now I’m retired.”

Jimmy’s flabber is abso-focking-lutely gasted. He goes back to the farm house and asks the owner what he wants for the dog. Owner says, “Ten bucks.” Jimmy says “done deal” but asks, “This dog is in-focking-credible, so why the hell on earth would you sell him?” Owner says, “Did that dog talk about the CIA? Yeah, right. That mutt is so full of shit. You can’t believe a focking word he says and I’m sick of it.” Ba-ding!

And August is the month of state fairs across the land, which reminds me of a story:

Ed and his wife Edna went to the state fair every year and Ed would always say, “Edna, I’d like to take a ride in that there helicopter.” And every year Edna would say, “I know Ed, but that helicopter ride costs 20 dollars, and 20 dollars is 20 dollars.”

But one year Ed and Edna went to the fair and Ed said, “Edna, I’m 81 years old. If I don’t ride that helicopter this year, I may never get another chance.” And Edna said, “Ed, that helicopter ride costs 20 dollars, and 20 dollars is 20 dollars.”

The pilot overheard them and said, “Folks, I’ll make you a deal, I’ll take you both up for a ride. If you can stay quiet for the entire ride and not say one word, I won’t charge you, but if you say one word it’s 20 dollars.”

Ed and Edna agreed and up they went. The pilot did all kinds of fancy maneuvers but not a word was heard. He did all his tricks over again, but still not a word. They landed and the pilot turned to Ed, “By golly, I did everything I could think of to get you to yell out, but you didn’t.” And Ed said, “Well sir, I was gonna say something when Edna fell out, but 20 dollars is 20 dollars.” Ba-ding!

Okey-doke, time to let the dog out, been asking too many questions I can’t answer; so, as the song goes, “See You in September,” when we can say “Go Pack!” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.