Mah-doan
Here’s a pic I posted to my Facebook feed that seems to have been overlooked, perhaps because of the holiday. The hearing impaired little guy is sending out an S.O.S. in sign language.
Headline from foxnews.com: “LINDSEY GRAHAM: Balanced budget amendment needed to get US fiscal house in order.” And, fellow Americans, rest assured that it will be adhered to as rigidly as pols adhere to the debt ceiling.
Since none of the prime parking spots were open today, I passed on the book shop. Without sunshine, I would have had to sit in the car, the display adjacent to it. The time off allowed me to put a big dent in preparation for the publication of Curious Sicilian. More on that manana. Meanwhile, here’s the first page or so of a chapter from what I believe is my best work, Killing:
The convention center was decorated for the holidays. The crew was seated in a circle, eating lunch, conversing, when Tony entered, small package in hand.
“Whattaya got, fat boy?” said Sandy. “Candy? Holdin’ out on us?”
“A CD for my daughter — Madonna’s best.”
Dante frowned. “Whattaya you doin’, Toe? That ain’t good for a thirteen-year ol’ girl.”
Tony shrugged uncomfortably. “What do I know? Besides, she’s fifteen now.”
“Yeah? Mahdone, time flies.”
“She’s got tits now.”
Laughter erupted as Tony pulled his shirt away from his nipples.
“Gimme ‘er number,” said Sandy.
“How ‘bout a bullet in the head instead?”
The atmosphere became raucous for a moment.
“I don’t care how ol’ she is,” said Dante. “It still ain’t good for ‘er.”
“What do I know? That’s what she asked for.”
“Whattaya mean: ‘What do I know?’ The bootahnana dee-owl’s everywhere you turn — TV, radio, the papers. You couldn’t miss ‘er if you wanted to. You ain’t afraid Stacy’ll turn out like ‘er?”
“She could cry all the way to the bank,” Sandy interjected, mouth full of food.
“You’re the bigges’ hypocrite goin’, San’.”
“You wouldn’t pop ‘er if you had the chance? Say that an’ you’re the bigges’ hypocrite goin’.”
“I’d floss with her pubic hairs,” said Pete Jr., who was lying on his side, head propped on a hand, music magazine spread before him.
Everyone, even Ben, laughed.
“Her music sucks,” said Sandy, “but so what? She’s so hot. That’s all I care about.”
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