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The Kid on Taco Bell
The Kid on the War in Iraq
Send my 90-year-old Aunt Cee Cee over there. Sus!
And fond memories of growing up in the old neighborhood (Canarsie, Brooklyn, as if you didn't know), including—
Tommy and Teresa's Sex Problem
With a Name Like Johnny Farta, You're Gonna Have Problems
Richie the Retard Gets Laid (Well, Almost)
Handjob Annie and the Flying Baby Batter
And a s***load more. All new stories and rants, here for the first time!
From the man who VH1 called "one of the internet's most prolific pundits."
Her name was Ann Marie Hanratty, but we all called her Hand-job Annie. You don't have to be a fuckin' Alvin Einstein to figure how she got that nickname.
Annie was a couple of years older than me and my pals, maybe nineteen or twenty. Word around Ninety-second Street was, Hand-job Annie would whack you off for two dollars, anytime, anywhere. Shit, I seen her myself, doing the job on Louie Lombardi in the alley behind Scrappy Bernstein's candy store right there on Avenue K.
Two dollars was a lot of scratch back then, but, as Louie Lombardi told us later, "That Annie can work a dick smoother than one of Scrappy's milk shakes."
I should mention here that Louie was a cheap fuckin' cocksucker. He was so fuckin' cheap he'd shit in a shoe box to save the nickel for a pay toilet. What was even worse, Louie would borrow money and never pay you back. Once he asked me to loan him a dollar. He still owed me six bits for the turtle he sold me that croaked an hour after I got it home, so I told him to go screw. So the little bastard had the fuckin' balls to say I was tight with a buck. Louie, if you're out there someplace reading this, you stingy fuck, yeah, I was tight. So was your sister.
So Louie Lombardi's springing for two bucks for a hand job was better advertising for Annie than a fuckin' neon sign. Pretty soon, every guy in Canarsie with a stiff dick and two bucks was keeping her busy. (She worked as a nurse for old Doctor Bindelbender and always had plenty of rubber gloves and Vaseline for when she was moonlighting.) Don't get me wrong-Annie wasn't no whore. She gave hand jobs but nothing else, no cocksucking or what went after. She was a nice Catholic girl who went to mass every Sunday. Shit, Frankie Coletti once told me how Hand-job Annie belted him in the mouth when he tried to pinch her left tit while she was jerking him off.
The best Hand-job Annie story, though, was the time Sammy Zuckerbrot took her up to do him in the balcony of the Brooklyn Paramount during a matinee of a Dean Martin picture called Who's Got the Action, which, come to think about it, sorta makes sense. Sammy saved the two dollars out of his pay from pumping gas at Kronski's Shell station on Tilden Avenue.
Now I got to tell you that Sammy Zuckerbrot was hung bigger than Hopalong Cassidy's fuckin' horse. Jews got a reputation for having tiny dicks but that's a lot of bullshit. Sammy weighed 130 pounds soaking wet, and half of it was cock. It looked like one of those big Hebrew National salamis that used to hang in the window of Pinskey's Kosher Deli. Eddie Fallon one time put a tape measure to it in the locker room. Soft, that monster was eight inches.
"How big does it get when it's hard?" Eddie asked him.
"I don't know," Sammy said. "I always pass out first."
So we called him Sammy the Shmeckle (shmeckle being Yiddish for "Jew with a gigantic cock"). Sammy was the biggest and Annie was the best, so I guess it was inevitable that they'd get together. What happened to them became the stuff of Canarsie legend.
It helps to know that the Brooklyn Paramount was a fuckin' palace in its day, with, like, eight hundred seats and The Brooklyn Paramount theater, a few years before Hand-job Annie did Sammy the Schmeckle in the balcony and all hell broke loose. (Photo courtesy Brian Merlis, www.brooklynpix.com) a screen two stories high. Used to have vaudeville and big stage shows back when dinosaurs roamed Flatbush Avenue. It's where I saw Ben-Hur and Spartacus and Lawrence of Astoria.
It was a four o'clock show on a Tuesday, so the joint wasn't too crowded. Annie and the Shmeckle had the whole front row of the balcony to themselves.
Annie always made you pay her in advance. How do I know this? None of your fuckin' business, that's how I know. So before the Shmeckle could even get into his fuckin' M&M's, Annie was already getting impatient and started yanking down his zipper.
"This ain't no date, sport," Annie said. "I got another appointment in an hour, so get it out and get it up."
Now this was the first time the Shmeckle ever did anything with his pecker that didn't involve his left hand (the Shmeckle was a southpaw) so he was nervous as a virgin on a Greek freighter. His hands were shaking like he had the fuckin' palsy. Pressed for time, Annie slipped into one of her rubber gloves and reached into the Shmeckle's Fruit of the Looms. When Annie yanked his massive sausage out, she cried, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph-it's bigger than Rhode Island."
She demanded another dollar. The Shmeckle hadn't planned for any unexpected developments like this. He only had some pocket change-two dimes, two pennies, and his lucky quarter. (Though it wasn't too fuckin' lucky for him that day, as you're gonna see.)
Hand-job Annie settled for the forty-seven cents and the rest of his M&M's.
The Shmeckle was worried he wouldn't be able to get his rope to rise-this wasn't exactly how he imagined his first fuckin' sex encounter would be-but Annie was a pro and she had his shvantz standing at full attention in a heartbeat. Plus, Sammy confided later, "I shut my eyes and pretended she was Natalie Wood."
He also didn't pass out.
Well, Annie's just getting down to business when who walks into the Brooklyn Paramount but Joe "Joey Notches" Santucci and a couple of his gorillas, Cockeye Pastorini and Mickey "Cupcakes" LaRusso, real hard-asses in a neighborhood full of hard-asses. You think I'm bullshitting? Canarsie was so tough back in those days, our high school newspaper had a fuckin' obituary page. Recess was for evacuating the wounded.
Mickey got his name because he was crazy for Hostess cupcakes, ate fifty of 'em a day. He was a dentist's dream, with half his teeth missing. When he smiled his tongue looked like it was in fuckin' prison. What was worse, he was jealous of anyone who had more teeth than he did, which was just about everybody in Canarsie. Not a problem for Mickey Cupcakes, though-he'd just walk up and smash you in the mouth so fuckin' hard you'd be shitting molars for a month.
Cockeye Pastorini was, like, one of the scariest-looking fuckin' mugs in Brooklyn, which is no easy deal, believe me. His left eye was always half shut and his right bounced around in the socket like a fuckin' pinball, making it tough to tell if he was talking to you or the guy next to you. Cockeye was what today they call an "underachiever." At the age of nine, he set the all-time record for being the youngest kid ever booted out of P.S. 171, something to do with Cockeye pushing the teacher, Miss Toffelmeyer, out the third-floor window.
Joey Notches had just gotten his button like a week before and was now a made guy with a very well-known Mafia family, a real rising star. Not somebody you wanted to fuck with. He got his mob nickname on account of every time he whacked someone, the crazy bastard would carve a two-inch notch in his left arm. Now, some folks I know might think cutting bloody gashes in your own fuckin' arm was taking the job a little too seriously, but that was Joey Notches. When he wore long-sleeved shirts in the middle of fuckin' August, you knew he'd just capped somebody's ass.
So Joey Notches, Mickey Cupcakes, and Cockeye Pastorini take three seats in the row directly under the balcony. Right above them, Hand-job Annie's working her magic on Sammy the Shmeckle's shmeckle. Of course there's no way either one of them could've known who was sitting directly under them watching Dean Martin trying to get Lana Turner into the sack. Mickey Cupcakes is unwrapping a package of Hostess cupcakes; Joey Notches ain't eating anything because he had the trots the day before. Cockeye is munching on some hot buttered popcorn.
Up and down, up and down Annie's stroking Sammy's rod. He's making little grunty noises of pleasure so she knows he's about to come. Experienced cock jockey that she is, she knows to point his shvantz away from her, if she doesn't want to get a faceful of joy juice.
"Oy gevalt!" Sammy cries out, and erupts like fuckin' Krakatoa. A huge glob of baby batter jettisons straight up and sails over the balcony railing in a graceful arc, and lands flat on top of Joey's head.
Now, I don't know much about physics or any of that scientific shit, but as someone who did a little bookmaking, I got to say the odds of this happening are about 250,000 to one.
Up in the balcony, Sammy and Hand-job Annie hear someone, probably Joey Notches, cry out, "What the fuck!?"
His first thought is that a pigeon got into the fuckin' theater and crapped on his head. He dabs his finger in his hair and feels something sticky. It ain't pigeon shit. Or soda. Or even spit, he's beginning to realize with some alarm.
"Son of a bitch!" Cockeye says next as some of Sammy's load plops into his popcorn.
Only Mickey Cupcakes is spared. "What?" he asks. "What the fuck is goin' on?" He's been concentrating on the movie. They missed the first twenty minutes so he's naturally trying to catch up with the plot.
"Someone jizzed on me!" Joey Notches says indignantly, and looks up. It could only have come from above.
Back then, it was hard to imagine anyone's being crude enough to choke their chicken in a movie theater. Of course, this is still a few years before all them X-rated porno joints started popping up all over the city and guys were whacking off to Deep Throat and the floors were sticky enough to pull the soles right off your fuckin' Buster Browns.
Joey Notches stands up and looks up at the balcony. Even with the movie showing, it's still too dark to see anyone. He shouts, "You fuckin' piece of dirt-I'm gonna blow your fuckin' head off, you prevert!"
"Holy shit," Hand-job Annie says. "That sounds like Joey Notches. Let's get the hell out of here-he'll kill us both." And he would.
Sammy quick tries to stuff his sausage back into his pants and gets his balls caught in his zipper. Annie grabs his arm and hauls him away through a side exit door. They run down the fire escape. For Sammy, each step is a new adventure in agony.
Joey stomps up the aisle to the lobby and takes the steps three at a time up to the balcony, Cockeye and Mickey Cupcakes right behind him. Joey's beyond pissed-he's gonna personally strangle whoever did this and wasted a good haircut he'd gotten that very morning.
They get up there and the place is deserted except for old Windy McCafferty the piss bum, sleeping one off. Joey knows McCafferty probably hasn't gotten a stiff dick in years but he ain't thinking too straight at this point, so he and Mickey and Cockeye kick the shit out of Windy anyway, out of sheer frustration.
Sammy and Hand-job Annie get down to the street (Sammy's freed up his testicles by this time) and they go their separate ways, but not before Annie says to him, "You won't tell anyone about this, sport, if you wanna keep living."
Sammy doesn't need any convincing. He knows all about Joey Notches.
A few days go by and Joey Notches never does find out who jizzed on him. He lets it be known around the neighborhood that he's willing to pay a hundred dollars to anyone who might have some information. Joey's a made guy, and made guys aren't supposed to get baby batter splattered on their head. It makes him look bad.
Then one night in McTweedie's Bar and Grill, Sneed Hearn the bartender asks old Windy McCafferty why he's all beaten up. McCafferty says, "'Twas that Italian reprobate Joey Santucci and his gorillas. Someone shot their wad off the balcony and they tought it was me. Like I'd ever do anything that revoltin'."
"Yeah, I tink I heard about that," Sneed Hearn says. "I've no love for that dago bastard Joey Santucci, but I got to admit the whole affair is pretty disgustin'. Any idea who might've done it?"
Windy McCafferty says, "I'm not certain, but I thought I saw Ann Marie Hanratty in the front row with some man."
"Hand-job Annie?" Sneed Hearn asks. "That would make sense then, wouldn't it?"
He pours Windy a double Hennessey on the house and walks off to call the Sons of Garibaldi social club where Joey Notches hangs out. Sneed Hearn drops a dime. Who couldn't use a hundred dollars?
The next morning, Joey Notches and his boys pay Annie a visit at Doc Bindelbender's office. They lock Bindelbender in a closet and Annie's on the verge of a close encounter with a scalpel-Joey threatens to cut her fingers and put her out of business-and she gives up Sammy the Shmeckle as the jizz-shooter.
Joey and his boys catch Sammy on the corner of Flatbush and Avenue U.
"You had a good time with your cock, now say goodbye to your cock," Joey says as Mickey Cupcakes and Cockeye try to hold Sammy down. There's blood in Joey's eyes-he's become the fucking laughingstock of Canarsie and it's all this little Jewboy's fault. Joey's still got Bindelbender's scalpel and he has every intention of separating Sammy from his shmeckle. Joey and his boys played rough.
Joey says, "You think your fuckin' rabbi chopped a lot off your peepee? Wait'll you see what I'm gonna remove." What they don't realize is, even guys as small as Sammy are capable of just about anything when they think their willies are on the line. Using strength he never knew he had, Sammy caught Cockeye off guard with a perfect left hook to the jaw, dropping him on the spot. Then he somehow ended up throwing Mickey Cupcakes through the front window of Chin's Chinese Restaurant, which is a pretty goddam tight squeeze. When Joey came at him, Sammy kicked the bastard hard in the gut and left him rolling around in the gutter, wailing in agony.
In our world, hitting a made guy like Joey Notches was as good as signing your own fuckin' death certificate. Joey Notches might have been crazy but, as the saying goes, he wasn't stupid. He knew good manpower when he saw it. He ended up giving Sammy a pass on both the baby-batter-on-the-head and for roughing up his crew. (Mickey Cupcakes ended up with thirty stitches in his scalp. Not from the shattered glass but from Mr. Chin's wife braining him with a cast-iron frying pan for breaking their window.)
He put Sammy to work making tribute collections and leaning on guys who were delinquent with loan-sharking payments. Sammy became a one-man collection agency and was pretty good at it until his parents packed him off to some college in, like, fuckin' Kansas to get him off the mean streets of Canarsie.
As for Joey Notches, he got into his car one day to meet some guys from Junior Gavoni's crew in Brighton Beach and was never seen again. Rumor is, Joey's helping support the foundation of a high-rise apartment building on Eighty-third and Madison Avenue.
And so it was. What the fuck-some stories do have a happy ending.
You know, the Big Man gets a buttload of e-mails a day from all over the world. A lot of them write to tell me how much they love my Web site and the way I can talk all kinds of shit about stuff that pisses me off. A lotta good people out there agree with the Big Man but everything's so fuckin' politically correct today people are afraid to open their yaps.
Shit, tell a fag joke and you get every fudgepacker in Greenwich Village picketing outside your house.
Tell a fuckin' lesbian joke and that fat Rosie O'Donnell and her gang of jackbooted bull-dyke buddies will cut your shmeckle off.
Tell an Arab joke and you got a billion fuckin' Muslim towelheads bringing a fuckin' jihad down on your ass.
Tell a Jewish joke and you get every lawyer in the fuckin' Manhattan Yellow Pages threatening to sue.
You can't even tell fuckin' Polack jokes anymore, like the one about the Polish couple who get married. On their wedding night, the husband, a virgin, is too fuckin' dumb to know what to do. So his wife tells him, "For God's sake, just take that thing you play with and stick it where I pee." So what does Polack do? He gets his bowling ball and puts it in the fuckin' sink.
Out of them 1,500 e-mails the Big Man gets each day, maybe two of them are from assholes who find me offensive. Fuck you if you can't take a joke. People like me because I say what's on my mind and don't pull no punches. My attitude is, fuck you in the ear if you're offended. You don't like what the Big Man's got to say, then don't go to my fuckin' Web site. You want nice, go watch fuckin' Oprah and quit e-mailing and saying I'm gonna burn in Hell when I die for all my dirty language and shit. (And if the Big Man does end up in fuckin' Hell, the first thing I'll do is kick Satan's ass and run the outfit myself.)
What's interesting, though, is that a lot of people out there e-mail me and ask for my advice on all kinds of shit. And I got to speak the truth-I'm flattered people trust me enough to ask my opinion about their personal problems. I ain't saying I'm Dear fuckin' Abby but, believe me, you could get a hell of a lot worse cause I been around awhile and I know stuff.
Excerpted from Go F*** Yourself by MIKE CARACCIOLO MICHAEL BENSON Copyright © 2008 by Mike Caracciolo. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Posted December 14, 2007
Even if you don't know the Kid From Brooklyn from his website, you'll still laugh yourself sick. The Kid dumps on everything from the price of Starbucks coffee to the ban on trans fat and getting sick at Taco Bell. Highly recommended!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 19, 2008
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