I’m Art Kumbalek and man, oh, Manischewitz, what a world, isn’t it? So, listen, I just got back from that crappy what-the-hell primary in August (?) and I think it went pretty, pretty well. I didn’t feel the need to kick any fascist MAGAshole “polling watcher” in the balls, and besides, I got to check a loud NO WAY on the two Republican asshole-led state constitutional amendment referenda that I thought, if passed, would totally suck, no joke.
(Vote: a formal indication of a choice between two or more candidates or courses of action, typically expressed by ballot, show of hands, or orally.)
So, hell yeah, I felt damn good walking off the concrete slab of Zeidler Municipal Downtown on a sunny Tuesday morning with my “I Voted-Yo Voté” sticker in hand and a happy, patriotic smile on my face. USA, USA, USA. You should have been there.
I like voting, I always have, even back in 1972 when I first exercised my right to vote. Back then, you had to be 21 years old to force your choice on a Dr. Emmett Brown-like machine while the curtain was drawn behind you.
Yes, sir, 1972 (still upset that I couldn’t vote for Bobby Kennedy for a second term). You had to be 21 to vote, but 18 was certainly old enough to be whisked away to a faraway jungle for no good reason whatsoever. USA, USA, USA.
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Being able to vote on issues where the majority wins is the right thing to do all over the world, no matter how old you are.
My goodness, I wish it had been like that back when I was in school at Our Lady In Pain when I was little: “You children are going straight to hell, but not so fast.” (School motto: “Discipline, our specialty.” My goodness, the sisters had to spend a summer in the Orient every five years to learn the latest torture methods, no joke.) We Katzenjammers had the right to vote. What were we supposed to vote on? On this: Voting out Sister Margaret the Mauler to be replaced by Sister Celeste, what the hell.
Be that as it may, it has left me stunned that, in my advanced years, I may have to forego one or two of my mind-numbing weekly essays—inconceivable as that may seem—because I have suffered a heart attack, lung cancer, liver disease, being trapped under the wheels of a cross-country bus, and so on and so forth.
So who would be best to temporarily fill this page occasionally?
I thought to myself, this must be one of my political campaign advisors from the uptown tavern/charm school, majestically wedged into fabled Center Street, where today is always at least one day before tomorrow and yesterday may well be today.
I asked each of them to submit a short writing sample to prove their worth. Here’s what I’ve received so far:
Julius
With the next presidential election looming like a rotten burrito from the night before, I need to know how long this damn abortion uproar has to linger like a hangover from hell, huh? You damn idiots, as if a little compromise is so bad? In theory, personally, when I calculate the cost of an abortion I might have to bear, compared to 18 years of sneakers and so on, I light a votive candle for Judge Harry Blackmun.
Yeah, whatever came of the compromise, I’d damn well like to know. It would mean the best of both possible worlds: Abortion, OK, but maybe not according to your ideal timing preferences; so maybe instead of doing a second trimester thing, you’d wait until the damn fiftieth trimester, when the kid is about 13 and talking naughty words to you. Sure, that might seem late in the pregnancy to the average pro-lifer, but you could appease them by accommodating them and letting them execute young shoplifters and masturbators around that age, right?
People need to learn to compromise, like the grand old American statesman Henry Clay. In Whitefish focking Bay they even named a street after his butt. No one remembers what political party he belonged to, but party and Whitefish Bay don’t seem to go together anyway, so whatever.
Emil
Artie wanted me to write something for his little article in this hippie newspaper. OK. The guy is a complete idiot and a cheapskate to boot. The end.
Herbie
OK, it’s been 50 fucking years since a bunch of Republican shit clowns They went to the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee and started the whole Watergate mess. And I wonder why there was never a Warren Commission to uncover a conspiracy that killed Bobby Kennedy. If there had been one, I’ll bet you 2:80 they would have found Dick Nixon under that pile of manure, what do you think? Nixon hated the Kennedys, and he also knew that RFK would have given him a good telling off in 1968.
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Nixon was brought to power by the itching finger of a bloodthirsty asshole from fucking Jordan, some kind of backstabbing asshole with two first names—Sirhan Sirhan. Wait. Two last names? No. The same two names—for heaven’s sake, what the hell is that?
Nixon had Bobby K. eliminated, and I can prove it. Take the name “Nixon” – swap the vowels (that’s the “i” and the “o,” for you uneducated idiots) and then spell it backwards. What do you get? Damn “Nixon.” Now take “Sirhan Sirhan” and swap the names. What do you get? That’s enough said.
Little Jimmy Jod
Damn, I tried, but I just couldn’t write anything better than what Artie usually does sometimes. But I know he enjoys entertaining his readership with a little story here and there, so how about this:
A young girl says to her mother, “Instead of buying me clothes for my birthday, could you maybe send them to all the other girls who don’t have any?”
“And who could they be?” asks the mother.
“The one on Dad’s computer.”
Bad!
Thank you gentlemen for your contributions. Apparently I have to keep myself in shape as an Irish Fest fiddle player to preserve truth, justice and the Upper Midwestern way of life, because I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.