This whole mad shitski started at NBA’s crib, which is seven shades of narsty, with, like, black banana peels and nacho Dorito fossils from 1984 buried under three layers of tall boys, with this skanko-funk-o-rama hangin so thick you can taste it. NBA, naturally, he’s toasted like a bagel. Me, I’m layin low cuz my main squeeze Squeegie had totally tweaked my shit, an I hadda meet Harry Three Balls at Muscle Beach at midnight, so I thought what the fuck, right? I’m workin on a most worthy stick of Slim Jim, the spicy beefy jerky salty meat treat. NBA, who can’t d-up for shit, has no j, an the weakest wackest tweakiest tude in Venice, the home of weak wack tweaky tudes. Interesting note: even though NBA wears size 15s, seriously, dude’s got canoes at the end of his pegs, Wannabe, she’s this freaky deaky baby I sometimes do a hang with, she tells me the brother-man is surprisingly light in the breadbasket department, which pissed Wannabe off no end, cuz she likes her man to be packin serious meat, which was the only reason she was doin a hang with NBA in the first place, cuz she hates the sad-sack ruckerty-ruck.

Last night I slept at
My friend’s house
He very politely asked me
Do you mind sleeping

With a blue canoe in your room?

I’ve slept with a lot worse
Than that I said
And he laughed
But I was serious

So I got into a strange bed
In this strange house and stared at
Pictures of ballerinas in tutus
Hanging next to Zulus and gurus by the

Blue canoe in my room

I slipped into wild whitewater dreams
Flying rapids madly paddling
Happily cannonballing
Floating in foaming clouds

First day of soccer practice, and someone’s staring at me. When Gwen turned around and caught him, he didn’t look away. His eyes are so deep and blue, Gwen thought, as she dove into them. He was almost smiling. Like he wanted something from her. When Gwen closed her eyes to go to sleep that night she saw that look. Hungry. Blue.

Deep gray clouds shroud
England in mist over
Craggy moors flexing
Their rugged muscles
If you listen hard
Enough you can
Hear Heathcliff crying
CAAAAAAAATHY

White sheep graze aglaze
Chomp chomp chomping
On all that green green grass
A ewe sits on a stone wall
Staring into the infinite
Like a fleecy buddah

One black sheep stands
In the corner of the green field
Wearing black shades
Smoking an unfiltered cigarette
Muttering under his breath
That would be me
If I were a sheep I think
As it starts to rain

This is an interspecies love story. About me and a monkey. Sally the Monkey. Sally and I were hired to act in a Michelob beer commercial. The theme of the spot was evolution. I was cast as a Neanderthal Man. Four hours I sat while a crew of highly-skilled make-up artists glued thin layers of skin-colored latex over every inch of my face, transforming me from end of second millennium American Homo Sapien into Neanderthal. They sculpted a gigantic forehead with a scary hairy monobrow, wee sunken eyes, a flaring nose cauliflowering across my cheeks, thick rubber caveman lips, and huge wooly mammoth-eating fake teeth. My hair was almost fur, extending from the thicket atop my head to my jaw lines, and down both cheeks.

INT. - BEDROOM

CLAUDE plays with a ping pong ball, bouncing it off the wall and ceiling over and over and over and over. CLAUDIA tries to get ready. She stares at herself in the mirror and makes sexy faces.

CLAUDE

We’re late you know. You said to be ready at 2:30, and it’s now 2:47, so clearly we’re late. Not that I care. We’re going to see your family not mine, and your family hates me. Not as much as my family hates you, but they definitely hate me-

CLAUDIA
Claude, please, don’t start-

Prostitution must be legalized. No one should do this work if they’re under-age. No one should be forced to do this work. That’s slavery. But if a grown-up feels their best career opportunity is in the sex industry, it should be their right to pursue that line of work.

Many well-educated, well-intentioned people have told me that it’s in a woman’s best interest for prostitution to be illegal, because legalizing it condones and legitimizes it. Few of these people have ever worked in the sex industry. And those who have seem to confuse slavery with real sex work.

It’s raining acid cats and three headed dogs
Long live the rat with the monkey on its back
Watts rock candy and salt water taffy and daffy
And goofy and dopey and dopey and dopey

Feel the heat fell the heat can you fell it can you fell it

Amerika amerika god shed her tears on me
Shining shoes singing blues
From sea to stinking
See dick run see dick jump see dick bust his hump

In the slick black snotrag sea the oilcan tinman catch me
If you can man she sells seashells and rusty needles by the Eyeshore seashore while the dirty old whore takes it in
The backdoor of the hardcore store

When I’m 16 I’m shipped away to Boarding School for my sins. The school is full of bright, gifted, spindled, folded, and mutilated teenagers, almost all of whom have been kicked out of at least 1, if not several, other institutions of learning. Binky draws amazingly intricate landscapes full of gnomes, raptors, damsels in distress, satyrs, pixies, angels and devils, like a twisted bastard child of Bosch and R. Crumb. And in his spare time he’s slowly filling an industrial size jar with his sperm, 1 squirt at a time. It’s an impressive collection. If you’re into that sort of thing. Popo has one of the most exquisite singing voices you have ever heard, can make a hardened, jaded, cynical, hormone-laced 16 year old weep like a baby. I also heard he would pay you $5 if you’d take a leak on him. I cannot substantiate this, because Popo got kicked out for smoking thai sticks dipped in liquid horse tranquilizer before I could ask him if the rumor was true. Another kid almost got kicked out for hitchhiking all over New England one weekend drunk out of his mind on tequila, wacked on psylicibon mushrooms, with a very reputable socialite from a famous all-girl’s school. That was me. I fit right in at Boarding School.

Given Half a Chance, the Modern American Male Will

a) remain unconscious
b) swim to the surface
c) discuss black holes

Come on down!
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OCD
ADD
ADHD
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Nymphomaniacs
And especially
Psycho-sexual disorders
 

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Why do I do it?

The sky was cold and lumpy as a prison breakfast when I’d arrived late that afternoon, the Portland mist dampening my clothes and soaking my soul.

I’d gotten all the way to downtown before it started caving in on me. I wandered, shellshocked, a Little Bo Peep looking for her lost sheep, drifting to the sadsack section where the raggedy hang under the Burnside Bridge.

I’d been a 1-man monsoon as the Thunder rolled inside me. I tried to push it back but it kept coming and coming and coming, my chest heaving like a suspension bridge in an earthquake.

Laura never talks about It. Never told her dad. Can’t tell her mom. In fact the only person Laura ever told was the Belgian Birgit Behood, who she thought was her best friend. Birgit pretended to be all sympathetic, then launched into some lame-ass story about how somebody stole her backpack in Brussels. Like that was somehow the same. Laura never talked to the Belgian Birgit Behood again.

Weaving and gunning, he whipped it down Fell, timing it just right, so he hit the synchronized lights just as they changed, right on the edge of out-of-control. Divisidaro, Fillmore, Steiner flashed by: boom, boom, boom, George cruising Lili through each light as it turned green, one after another, like magic.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it coming, some big American junker-mobile running the light. That bastard’s gonna hit me, George thought, he’s gonna run that light, and he’s gonna hit me.

Chlorine told me over breakfast that she was leaving me. She said she could never love someone with a face as average as mine. My worst fears confirmed, I wept and moaned inconsolably. Desperate, devastated, I wandered the streets until I found an astonishingly handsome man, and cut his face off with a very sharp knife. Quickly I sewed his face over my own.

When I got home Chlorine was overjoyed by how attractive I had become, and kissed me with unprecedented sweetness. “I can’t believe how astonishingly handsome your new face is,” she sighed.

Bonny could actually feel her teeth rattle. She’d heard people use that phrase before, but until now, she’d never really experienced the phenomenon. Her uterus vibrated with the power chords of Tarzan’s Bloody Stump, as they launched into their almost-hit, “Monkey Hump.”

The black hole that was the Angry Cock & Blushing Bull erupted in a scream from the packed masses, combining with the thunder drum blasts and the ear-piercing drop-a-rhino-at-40-paces heavy metal guitar roar and the booming bass bangs to make a hearing-loss-inducing cocktail.

Bonny made a mental note: always wear earplugs when attending Tarzan’s Bloody Stump shows.

Jamie Ferguson just made the List. I mean seriously, how do you just knock over someone’s Coke and make some lame apology that everyone can see is bogus, and then just walk away? I mean really, what is that all about? If you knock over somebody’s Coke, you don’t laugh, do you? Don’t you go get them a new Coke, maybe? Am I wrong here? Did I miss something? I mean seriously, what is wrong with people?

The List - Updated April 4, 2001

• Jamie Ferguson - Knocked over Coke and didn’t do one damn thing about it. Must die slowly and with maximum pain. The rack.

Pia Zadora, dude, I’m tellin ya, this shit was, the funniest shit, like, ever. Okay, up front, I don’t know shit about Pia Zadora, you know, what kind of a hang is she, is her shit cool or sketch, like, I don’t know did her old man lock her in the closet with a dwarf in a Santa suit or some shit, you know, I’m just layin down the shit I heard personal, just like I heard it, straight up. But I will say, I got much love for her, much love, and a, like, serious, cosmic voodoo connection with Pia Za-God-damn-Dora, straight up, dude.

People look at me like I’m out of my mind when I tell them I decided to have my penis surgically enlarged. Women especially. They always say, “It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean.” I tell them they never tried to cross the Atlantic in a dinghy. They always tell me they fall in love with the man, not the organ. But they don’t have to listen to the most humiliating question a man can ever hear:

“Is it in yet?”

I’m stumped. I really am. I’m speechless. People are so touchy. It’s jealousy. Gotta be. This idea is so huge. It’s just so God damned big. And people seem stunned that I, a Jew came up with it. Please, who else is gonna come up with an idea this brilliant? I ask you. Because this is more than just an idea. This is genius, if I may say so myself, and who’s gonna stop me? I mean, honestly, who among us has not wanted at one time or another to don the power of life and death, slip on the absolute feeling of superiority, and wear the fabulous uniform of a Nazi. Everybody in their dark secret heart wants to be a Nazi. That’s why I came up with NaziLand. To embrace the Nazi within. And the thing that people can’t seem to understand, is that it’s not real. That wouldn’t be the smell of real Jews coming from the ovens. The gold fillings wouldn’t be yanked from real Jews. The sex slaves wouldn’t be real. They’d all be actors. Like at a Renaissance Fayre, or Disneyland. It’s just good clean fun for the whole family. For a nominal fee you get to put on the uniform, the swastica, those big black boots, and strut around like you’re a member of the Master Race. Have someone to blame for all your problems. There’d be the Oven Ride, the Hall of Scientific Experiments, the Blitzkrieg Rollercoaster. I honestly believe if everyone came to NaziLand for a day, it would ease world tension and bring about a lasting peace among all nations. Instead of harboring wicked fantasies of domination and genocide, which let’s face it, all of us do, people could act these feelings out, and through this cathartic release, build a world where love can flourish, and hatred find appropriate release. I’m telling you, this kind of investment comes along once in a lifetime. You’ll kick yourself later if you pass up the opportunity to get in on the ground floor. Sieg Heil, and Mazeltov, baby!

Hey, look, I know she’s my sister. What do you think, I’m stupid? She’s my sister, I know that. But I mean, who are we kidding here? She’s a fox. I know, I know, of course, I know, that’s why I’m saying she’s a fox, cuz she is a fox. I mean you shoulda seen the way she came to the door Sunday morning. She had on this little see-through nighty thing, I mean fuck me, she was standin there and you could see everything. She’s like a goddess, man, I mean her tits are like peaches, you know, and you could see those nips, man, and they were hard. I couldn’t believe it, big spectacular nobby nipples, it doesn’t seem possible that the girl is sixteen years old. And legs, my God, the legs. She’s six feet tall, you know. Oh didn’t you know that? Yeah, man, she’s six feet tall. Well, of course, obviously, there’s the rub. Who wants to be standin there sportin major wood starin at your sixteen year old kid sister, I mean, come on, you know what I’m sayin? So I’m thinkin, what if we were stranded on a desert island, just her and me, could I fuck her then? What if there was a nuclear holocaust and we were the only people left on the earth – and we hadda like, repopulate the planet? What if I was obliged to do, like, would I? And then I’m thinkin, shit, it’s all so arbitrary, you know, I mean the only reason it’s, like forbidden, is that you don’t wanna procreate with you family members cuz you don’t wanna make mutant monster babies. Well hell, I don’t wanna make babies with my sister. I don’t want to impregnate my kid sister, for God’s sake, what kinda freak would do that? But please, I mean, who wouldn’t wanna fuck her? She’s gorgeous, man, and she’s just so… ripe, you know, yeah, that’s the word… juicy ripe. And the weird thing is, I do love her. I really do. More than one of those jerk-off dawg-boys from her school, I mean, the thought of one of those little morons poppin her cherry makes me wanna puke. The thing is, I could really show her about sex, you know, how to do it right, you know, I could make it good for her, I could make sure she enjoyed it, you know, really take her time, and treat her like a princess, which she is, man, instead of some jerk-off bonin her just to get his rocks off and then breakin her heart, I mean what the fuck is that all about? And damn, she is seriously so beautiful, I mean, it makes my balls hurt just lookin at the girl. I know, I know, I know. What do you think, I’m stupid. I know she’s my sister.

She was the girl of his dreams: lovely as an 8 iron with a wee fade that lands soft as eider down on the green, nestling 6 inches from the pin; strong as a downhill drive that rides a stiff wind to the Promised Land; sweet as a curling 40 foot birdie putt that dies beautifully in the bottom of the hole; rugged as a 4 iron out of the deep rough that ploughs through the gorse, hops over the fringe and rolls courageously straight at the flag, steady as she goes; brazen as a knockdown 5 iron smacked through a gale that checks up just below the hole; rare and exquisite as a 1 iron that flies straight and true, finding the green of a par 5 in 2; spectacular as an eagle chip that donuts round and round the rim, before sliding in and plopping in the cup with a pop.

This morning I’m going to have my blood tested for the human immunodeficiency virus. I’m taking the AIDS test, and I’m sure I’m gonna flunk. I walk into the Bob Hope Clinic in Hollywood, California. Bob himself is not there with a golf club wisecracking about his birdies and hookers. Oh God, Samantha - I did her without a rubber. “Hi Samantha, how’s it goin’…? Excellent… Me? I’m great. Oh by the way I have HIV, and so do you probably. Okay, have a nice life then.” Little vicious mutant warriors hellbent on pillaging my immune system, laying waste to my holy grounds, ravaging my virgins, savaging my knights, and beheading my King. Lori - sucked my unprotected dick. You can’t get it from fellatio, if you’re the fellatee, right? Or is that toilet seats? Wasting away in a hospital bed, a pariah with tubes stuck in every hole, no friends, no family, nobody wants to look at my concentration camp skinny, weeping sore-covered ass. When he died he weighed thirty-five pounds. Janet - condom broke. Snap. Oops. Me and Magic Johnson. Brad Davis. Keith Haring. The Wall of Shame gets a new 8 x 10 hung on it every day. Sophia – We did it about a thousand times without even a shred of protection. Maybe there is a God. Maybe there is a Heaven. And a Hell. And Satan. Maybe that’s where I’m going. Straight to Hell. And what about Arlene? Miss Prim and Proper, Miss I only did it with five people, only one of them just happened to be some lunatic love healer who boffed his way through Africa and Bangkok where everyone’s infected, I mean she had a ton of sex with this rampant loon, nary a condom in sight, shit-filled sperm flying willy nilly.

“Son”, said Father, as he stroked his voluminous gray mustache in a manner he hoped provoked an air of gravity, “there comes a time in a boy’s life when he must give up the toys of childhood, and take up the yoke of the… ship of manhood. Do you follow me, Son?”

“No, Father, I don’t,” said Young James, who was, in fact, lying, since he followed Father precisely, but loved more than anything to watch the old fellow squirm.

Harry liked being an asshole. He was a natural. The more people hated him, the more Harry liked it. He tormented his assistants. Threw things at his kids. He used sex, money, food, and anything else he could think of to torture his ex-wives. All six of them. He prided himself in being the cheapest, stingiest, nastiest asshole in America, land of assholes. He never gave presents. He never gave a compliment. He’d cut off a finger than hand out a tip.

Harlan was not an unattractive man. Tall and thin, razor sharp blue eyes, long graceful fingers, smart face, and a sweetness that was not apparent until you knew him a very long time. His hair stuck straight up, but he often sported an ancient Sherlock Holmes hat. He always wore oversized overalls. Striped. Like a railroad man. He had three pairs of them, and they were in various states of disrepair. He cloaked himself in a long thin gray raincoat, and wore big thick boots, perpetually mud-covered. Harlan never shaved. Not once in his whole life. Drove his mother crazy, drove his girlfriends crazy, and the few times that he ever had a job, it drove his bosses crazy. Which I suspect is one the main reasons he never shaved. Harlan had a monumental vein of stubborn streaking through him, which he inherited from a long line of tall thin stubborn men with sharp blue eyes. So with the Sherlock Holmes hat, the mud crusty boots, and the burning bush of a beard, he looked sort of like a cross between a homeless psychotic ex-professor and an action figure from the Bible.

 9-11-02

I’m stranded in Amsterdam, my country’s on fire, and I can’t stop crying. I couldn’t wait to get here, and now I can’t wait to get out, get back, get home. I’m from the cynical generation, distrustful of our government and imperialist military madness. But today I’m all red white and blue as the shock rocks through me in waves. Four thousand miles away, and I’ve never felt more American in my life. Not American in a let’s-nuke-‘em-back-to-the-Stone-Age way, but like a wounded animal tends its own, licks its wounds, and faces a future suddenly thrown into violent uncertainty .

That’s what the sign in the window said. I wanted to get my ears pierced. But I never had the time. So I went inside, and approached the woman behind the counter. She had 24 visible piercings. I know because I counted them. I told her I wanted my ears pierced. She said that was not a problem, but they couldn’t see me for at least an hour, because the technician was on his lunch break, but I could leave them if I wanted, have them pierced overnight, and pick them up in the morning, which was fine with me, as I had a pressing engagement. So I gave her my ears and she gave me a ticket for them. She told me to be sure not to lose my ticket. Then she told me again. She said, “Be sure not to lose your ticket.” Twice. That’s when I first thought maybe some funny business was going on. But one has thoughts like this frequently, and they never come to anything, so one ends up thinking it’s just another unreasonable fear one has for no reason. Only of course this time, that was not the case. Because when I got home, my ticket was gone. I searched everywhere. Relentlessly. It was not to be found. As if it were made of disintegrating paper. So naturally when I went back the next day and the pierced woman asked for my ticket, she did not seem surprised at all when I could not produce it. Ho hum. Business as usual. I catapulted from suspicious to furious, which explains why I then catapulted over the counter to retrieve my ears. A mountain of hard pierced flesh backhanded me. Can you imagine? I weigh a hundred pounds. On a heavy day. I fell to the floor, and I could taste blood in my mouth. I had not tasted blood since I was fourteen and tasted my menstruation. It tasted very rich and full of iron. I crawled back around the counter, got up, and screamed at the pierced people that they would be hearing from my lawyer. Now I have to get a lawyer. One feels so gutted at times like this. And I’ve discovered, much to my dismay, that a person with no ears faces discrimination in the work place, in romantic situations, and even when dining. But more importantly, what are the pierced people doing with all those ears?

Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? I useta wear $500 socks. They won’t even lemme in Macy’s anymore. It’s not everybody can say that. I can sneak in, but they always catch me and then they throw me right out again. Don’t ask. I’m serious. Don’t ask. You hear about that building on 54th street that fell down? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. One day, you’re walking along, minding your own business, and the next minute a building falls on you. Plus they killed the embassador from Switzerland. Switzerland, Switzerland, Switzerland! Clocks, chocolate, yodelling. I can’t yodel. Can you yodel? And they stole all that money from the Jews. 100 billion dollars. Nazi money. They have to pay it back. And do you think I’m gonna get one red cent? One thin dime? One plug nickel? Not on your nelly. Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? That’s all I want to know. Just that one thing. I was a Cesarian section. Me and Cesar. Cesar and me. They hadda rip me out kicking and screaming. I remember grabbin’ onto the tubes, screaming, "You’ll never get me out alive!" But they cut me out. Story of my life. I used to wear $500 socks you know. My old man had an anger management problem. Live by the sword die by the sword. The bigger they ar,e the harder they hit you. Ignorance is 9/10 of the law. I’m lactose intolerant. I got mercury poisoning from my fillings. I got boulders in my kidney. And do you think I could get one lousy apology? One lousy apology? One lousy apology? I had a cat. Bobby Joe Jones stuck a firecracker up his ass and blew him to Kingdom Come. Where is Kingdom Come? What do you think? Seriously, what do you think? I hadda psychotic break. They kept me up for eight straight days, lights were shining out the top of my head, colored lights, I saw Joan of Arc, she was on fire, she was on fire, and she was telling God a joke about a horse in a bar with a long face, and a frog with a bartender on his ass, she hadda French accent and she was on fire, and she was laughing. But here’s the thing. This is what I wanna know. Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me?

I fucked a retard once. Oh, yeah. And I don’t mean somebody who’s just stupid, I mean a genuine bona fide total retard. She was hanging out by the Bridge in the park, and as soon as I seen her, I knew this chick was all messed up. Her head was too big at the top and too small at the bottom, like a ice cream cone. No shit, she probably wears a size twenty hat, but you could pop a balloon with her chin that’s how pointy it is. And her puss was all red and splotched-out, and her teeth were all nasty and brown and wore down, like she gnashed the hell out of em. And her body was all out of wack, you know, she had these big linebacker shoulders, little bitty titties, kind of a gut, and a monster truck ass, and tooth pickin’ legs, and you could see everything cuz her shorts and her t-shirt were three sizes too small at least. And when I got closer, guess what? She had cross eyes. No shit. You know, like when you’re a kid and you cross your eyes for a goof? Only this shit wasn’t no goof, this shit was for real. Her face looked like a jack o’lantern that got carved by a kid who didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

I’m 37 when I meet Bobbi. 2 b’s. 1 i. She’s what the Beach Boys were singing about. Perfect sunny blond bangs. Perfect perky nose. Perfect California body covered with a perfect California tan. In her perfect apartment perfect couples kiss perfect kisses hung from all the walls.

At this time in my life I have given lots of careful thought to what I want in a mate, so I won’t again choose the person capable of doling out the most misery possible to me and mine. So I boil it all down to a simple check list I can refer to at any moment, so I won’t waste any more time chasing and wooing and having sex with the wrong woman. This, I believe, demonstrates the depths of desperation I’m plumbing at this point in my life. Here’s what I come up with:

Harrowed, harried, and haunted, Billy glances at you with uncertainty leaking out the corner of his eyes. He wants you to like him, but he doesn’t think you do. He wants to do the right thing.

Hellooooooo, my name isss Arnolfo Jhalenka Arrarrrrripe Pimenta Jhimello, an’ I be joo waider dis eeb’nin’. Firs’ I like to congra’ulate joo on joo won’rful taste in dinin’ at Chez Gourmand. Essellen’ choice, sir. I am a Yemini, sign uff de tweenss, my frien’ coll me Beauty & de Beas’, I am fruuuuum Rrrrio di Jhanero. I wass een de ‘riyinal cast of “Cats” - Meooooow! - an’ I broke my li’l paw, dios Mio, was God’s way uff breengeen’ me here to be wit’ jhoo tonigh’. My muther wass an artis’, an’ my father wass a mmmmonster, is-n’ dat alwayss de way? Joo need anytheen’ joo yust theenk ‘bout it, an’ Ay weell be here, to take care uff joo ebbry need. Now lemme tell joo ‘bout our ayspecialss dis eeb’nin’, Chef Paulo is beddy ‘cited ‘bout dem –he heff beddy bad night with Mikkeleenia, joo seen her een Beektoria’ Secret, she a cray-see bay-bee, hothothot! Por appetisserss, we got be-youteeful bay-bee seal aytoufay, joo would kiss joo gran’muther with joo tongue for dis; we gotta ssssensational snow leopert rattattooee with ‘stralian bandicoot rrrrrramoulade; an’ a faboolus Ridley sea tur’le, Galapagos tortuse, an’ Yawksbeell marsh tur’le soup, I heff some earlier, I cry, I star’ cryeen’, okay, I wass ‘motional, but it wass de soup, too. Now for main course we haff a grillt Cammerrrrroonian mandrill, smother’ een brown whoopeen’ crane an’ eendeego snake sause, with payppercor’ swit potato. Joo eat dat joo say, “Arnolfo halenka Arrarrrrripe Pimenta Jhimello, I yam go-een’ to put joo een my will.” An’ we got frickassee sssnow leopard, ‘merican bal’ igle, an’ Bosssnian Fallow deer boo-ya-base with lima bin cous coussss - I lub sayeen’ dat, cous coussss! - an’ de bitteriss greens money can buy, bay-bee dese greens iss more bitter dan a bar full uff drunk queens at closeen’ time; an’ finally, de Chef Paulo’s spessssiality – de Wild Thing – name apter me. French wild boar, with wild rice, an’ wild ‘sparaguse, I don’ know why dey’ wild, dey juss sit dere far assss I can tell, but dat’s what Paulo tole me, so dat’s what I tell joo. Joo een town from somewhere? I knew it, don’ ask me how, it’s a geeft, what can I say, to be honess, it’s a blesseen’ an’ a curse. I give joo li’le tip, no pun ‘tended, go down to Hallowin P’rade tomorrow, it’s de bess show een New Jork an’ it’s free, I swear on my muther, better than any show on Broa’way, it’s where all de talent iss, I gonna be dere, bay-bee, doeen’ my Carrrmen Mirrrranda, de fruit with de fruits on de head. It’s no’ like it jused to be, back in de day, oh bay-bee, dose were de days my frien’, it wass bee-youteeful, joo should heff seen de boysss getteeng’ dere freak on, boysss boysss ebbrywhere, joo juss snap joo feenyer it wass like International House uff Pancake’, bay-bee: butwheat, buttermil’, Belyian waffle, whip cream, cherries, an’ lotsa nuts. No’ like dat no more. No more. No’ like it wass back den…