Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

Wallnuts After Dark: On the Beach With the Jews

As I said, I’mst down at A.C, for an little R ‘n R with the Missus and have been spendin’ a little time wit some a my crew, both new an old.

Now I need my peace and quiet as much as the next guy, but it’s kind a hard for me to go down to A.C. and be totally incommunacating an not see some a my paisanos and my good Jew friends. So what I do is I don’t tell no one I’m here for a couple a days so I can get my alone time with Mrs Wallnuts.

There is a big difference between the Jews and the Goombas, everybody knows that, but havin’ ’em all together makes it that much more noticeable. And on the beach, fuggetaboudit!

First of all so many a these old school Guinea bastards don’t know how to friggin’ dress at the beach. Blind Frankie Petrillo – who ain’t really blind – shows up wearin’ a Cabana shirt wit some kind a bathin’ trunks but he’s got on black fuccen knee-high dress socks and loafers an he’s carryin’ a chair that looks like it came from his fuccen kitchen dinette set. Hand to God.

I says, “Blind Frankie,” I says, “Oofa! Where the Fucc do you think you is?” He just shrugs and sets his chair down like everything’s normal.

An it takes a lot to embarrass me, but c’mon with this get up! And the chair, Madon!

But you ain’t never seen or heard nothin’ ’til you spend time on the beach with Jews. First of all, they never stop talkin’ like God-forbid there’s a friggin’ second a silence. It don’t matter what, but everything’s a fuccen topic a conversation.

An I got a mix a old Jews and new Jews I hang wit. There are some a the retired dinosaurs from the Lansky Crew and then there’s the New Jews who run the diamond and precious metal business out a Brooklyn, these Acidic Jews or some fuccen thing. And their wives…

It don’t never stop. “The sun is too hot.” “Oy, it’s cold when the sun goes behind the clouds.” “This beach is sooo sandy!” “The water is too rough to go in!” “Look at that bathing suit! You can see her Kishkahs and whole Tukhus, she must be a shiksa!” “What say you we try the pool?” “These towels are too rough. What are they made of, sand paper?” “Who made this beach chair, Dr Mengele? It’s torturin’ my back!”

It never friggin’ stops. And they never stop talking about the next meal. Now, not the food itself, which is somethin’ the Wops is always jawin’ about, but the meal. When? Where? Shall we take out or have it delivered? Do room service, order Chinks, go to Buffet, eat by the pool? Ah, vaffanculo!

We just have breakfast and we’s just settlin’ into our chairs and Moe Gectman wants to know where we’s goin’ for lunch. Walkin’ back from lunch, Zig Tuchbein starts askin’ about dinner. Between that and the constant yammerin’, it’s friggin’ exhaustin’.

Now me, I just like to sit an watch what goes by. I have my chaise lounge an umbrella, a book, the TV Guide an Reader’s Digest, an maybe a drink or two. I used to have a portable 8-track tape player but that’s on the fritz and can’t get it fixed, so I can’t listen to my music.

I’m all for a little small talk, but the constant chatterin’ drives me bananas, so I had to tell ’em I was gonna scram so I could get some relaxation. But now I’m stuck with Blind Frankie an the rest a the Wops, who ain’t no bargain neither.