I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’ve got no available time to flip toward my essay malarkey this week, and you can thank last weekend’s daylight-saving time blarney for that, what the fock.
Sixty minutes, gone poof!—never to return, like a guy’s retirement “portfoolio” entrusted to the investment ingenuity of Bernie focking Madoff. Gosh darn, sure is a shame our last president never got his way to privatize the Social Security, ’cause why should the government have your money when it would be better off in the pocket of some fat-cat Republican Wall Street knobshine? Hey, you tell me.
And then I’ll tell you’s that a good and seemly portion of
my lost hour was to be spent on whipping out this essay; the rest of
the time I was going to devote to dreaming how I was going to spend the
extra $13 bucks a week I got coming from Washington’s
GOP watered-down stimulus-package-bonanza. That’s an extra $1.85 a day.
Cripes, I’m no economic Einstein, but I’m thinking I might have to move
that private jet I had my eye on to the back-burner for awhile.
However, I have been pricing shoelaces not to mention investigating the
latest in toothbrushes and with this extra dough, I may decide to take
the plunge and upgrade. If
increased consumer spending is the ticket to our economic turnaround,
then ring me up, baby. Me, always a social liberal, but now a fiscal
radical to boot? God bless America.
Even
if I had that time back so’s to knock-off this essay in a thoughtful
fashion, I probably wouldn’t be able to on account of being sort of
depressed by the fact that it’s almost mid-March and you can actually
start believing that a winter around here might take up less calendar
time than the 100 Years’ War. But here’s the thing: Yes, winter may
suck, but did you forget about what comes next? Sure, you get some kind
of spring come in for a week, 10 days, but then you’re right back into
hot-focking-humid summertime with all kinds of insects plus youngish
chowderheads with no school, no jobs and no taste in music doing their
thing and disturbing the peace.
Yes, and speaking of mid-March, ’tis the Irish writer Sam “Chuckles” Beckett who wrote the heart-warming Waiting for Godot, but
it will be me who will write upon the first day of the year the
temperature hits 80 degrees that I’ll be waiting for fall. And speaking
of the Irish, whose big day is coming up Tuesday as will be the gallon
of green beer from the sour stomachs of our collegians on Wednesday, a
little story for the celebration of this debauched day:
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. Gallagher declares: “Your
husband just lost $500 and is afraid to come home.”
“Tell him to drop
dead!” says the Mrs. Murphy.
“‘To drop dead.’ I’ll go tell him then, ma’am,” says Gallagher.
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
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