October 9, 2017

The longer I am away from Bayonne the more I appreciate it. You learned saloon etiquette, you learned to tell the buttered side from the dry, and, more importantly, you learned what not to do. And yes, this has to do with Harvey Weinstein.

Can we stipulate that he is a particularly unhandsome guy? He is about 2 steps short of Quasimodo comparison and that he gives guys with beards a guilt by association 

redolence. Let the record show that I am both a calorically and folliclely challenged, bearded, somewhat disabled senior citizen.

Since I am deep into the back nine of life I like to look back on certain events of the front nine.

A wife who was better in the bad times than the good, the $5,000 lunch in 1978, the $42,000,000 tax bill, a wasted trip to the Supreme Court, the ’66 Margaux and the ’70 Petrus, the Concorde, the 2+2 E-type Jaguar on Mother’s Day, some scholarships in my father’s name, and a boy and a girl who turned out to be good adults.

I had 28 semesters of tuition, 26 of which were a snap, 1 of which was a reach, and the last one was American Expressed and Bank of Nunzio financed.

One of the highlights happened in the short, terrible reign of Jimmy Carter, the worst President of the 20^th century. The only 2 things he did that were to his credit were #1 – he alone in American History did not get to nominate anyone to the Supreme Court and #2 – his terminal ineptitude. His speeches made my hair hurt and caused my finger nails to curl backwards. That guaranteed that the Great Reagan, in league with the Polish Pope and Lady Thatcher, was able to beat the Russkies and save the world. Divine intervention? Why not?

But I digress.

Courtenay, then my 9-year-old daughter, was being bullied by a girl 2 or 3 years older. I went to the principal, a man who earned his title, Roland the Worm, the old-fashioned way for surcease. I found none.

The bullying continued.

I stopped it the old-fashioned way. I did tell you I was from Bayonne, didn’t I?

I drove on to the lawn of the bully girl. I pounded on the door until someone opened it. The girl’s father was shielded by her mother. I told him that that the next time his daughter bothered my daughter, the next time a dog barked at her, the next time leaves fell on her I would beat the shit out of him and that I would take my chances with a jury.

My daughter was never bothered again.

Chazzer Harvey “settled” harassment claims with at least 8 women. Lard Kennedy, Liar Dodd, and Handsome Billy from Hot Springs taught the Pig Man well, “They’re just chicks, sperm depositories, that’s all.” Lard told him you can get away with killing them. “Non-malodorous fecal matter syndrome” means you, AKA “God” according to Meryl Streep, can trap one of them in a corner and spank your monkey until you sprinkle a nearby – thankfully – potted plant.

These women have fathers, husbands, uncles, and sons.

Why didn’t someone take a whip to him? Somebody should have pounded his substantial Pillsbury Dough Boy arse into silly putty. He would have had to take his socks down to take a dump. And there wouldn’t be a next time.

Just like it would have happened if he lived in Bayonne. 

KS