Gone fishing.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And I don’t know about you, but I’m having one heck of a hard time believing it’s already the fourth month of this new year. Cripes, here I am still in negotiations with the aftereffects of the hangover I came down with the first of January and apparently...

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So I got to tell you, what with all the college basketball on TV lately that I had to watch along with the first pitch or two of another Major League Baseball season plus figuring my taxes, I haven’t had a whole heck of a lot of time to pay attention...

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, right now in real time it’s Tuesday, April 1, for me. So I got to tell you that I just flew back in from voting and boy-oh is my franchise tired, you bet, I kid you not.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I really ought to declare one of those socalled disclosures that politicians make when they get the sense that the shinola is indeed turning to shit.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And come to think of it, let’s hold on a cotton-fock-ing-picking minute here, stop the music, stop the music.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So I just now heard that the crime-fighting ex-attorney general and governor of New York, Eliot “The Untouchable” Spitzer, got busted for some kind of shenanigan involving “crossing state lines.”

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I heard the news today, boy-oh, I tell you. It reminded me of a little story: A young reporter went to a retirement home to interview an aged but legendary explorer.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I got tell you that right about now I’m feeling abso-focking-lutely low, down in the dumper, due to the kick of a steel-toed boot the voters delivered to my presidential privates courtesy of the Dairyland primary we had around here last Tuesday. Remember?

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I was watching that Grammy music show the other night and I got to ask that if any of you’s got the phone number for Tina Turner’s plastic surgeon, please get in touch with me why don’t you.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, right now I don’t have the time to whip out a big honking essay for you’s that’s going to match up with the goddamn deadline I’m supposed to cram up my dupa weekto-week; so sue me.

So, now you are to get a free few hundred bucks from the government so’s you can stimulate the economy, big focking deal. If you got a car, exactly how many times will that fill up the tank when you pull up to the pump, empty?

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear America’s Dairyland despairing, the varied requiems to Super Bowl dreams I hear.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I got a couple, three things on my platter that’ll keep me from whipping out a full-blown essay for you’s once again this week.

I'm Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, I got to tell you that I’m getting a tad nervous, lo, these days, when it comes to the presidential compartment of The Art Kumbalek Democracy Express 2008 For Any and All Political Office—Whatever You Got Needs Filling I’ll Fill It ’Cause That’s The Kind Of Guy I Am

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And so another holiday season comes to a close—for most of you’s, but not for me, no sir. As I’ve said many times before, for a guy like me everyday’s just another focking holiday, I kid you not.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, one more essay before Christmas, and this is it. So read it and weep, or read it and sleep, or don’t even read it at all, what the fock. I understand that you may not have the time to read further than this, what with the hustle, bustle and schmutz of the holidays after all.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, I’m still on special reporter assignment to research the whereabouts of the future, so I’m short on the wherewithal to pony up an essay for you’s this week.

’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, sorry to say I can’t dish out a fully blown essay for you’s this week, on account of because I’ve been called away on assignment, what the fock.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So let me tell you’s, it’s been one goddamn piss-poor hell of a week, I kid you not. And since it’s that time of the end-of-the-year when I got a boatload of vacation time up the jock that if not used pronto will turn into a lump of shinola come New Year’s, I figure to take a day off right here, right now; and there’ll be no chock-jammed essay for you’s this week, what the fock.

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So yeah yeah, it’s that time of year: tradition. And as I try to conjure up something, anything, that I can be thankful for, it’s tradition that the only thing I can think of is that I’ve never had to hear myself say in a court of law, “But your honor, she said she was 18, I swear.”

I`m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz, what a world, ain`a? So listen, I hear there`s some kind of writers strike been declared by a bunch of Hollywood knobs that call themselves the Writers Guild of America. It seems these are TV and movie guys and gals who`d like to be better compensated for the dick jokes they steal that then get conversationally bantered during a prime-time sitcom or used by Pauly Shore as a scene-topper in his next silver-screen laugh riot, what the fock.