Wallnuts After Dark
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Saturday, August 31, 2013
Wallnuts After Dark: What's With the Miles Cyrus in the Rubber Underwears?
So I hear this Miles Cyrus dame created quite a big stir the other night on one a them awards shows on one a them channels that the kids watch that shows all a them musical videos. I saw some a the pictures and a bit of the act and I gotta admit it, I don’t get what the heck is goin’ on there.
I’m still a hip cat for a guy who’s seen a lot and been around the block a couple a times, an so I have no fears that any a youse might think I’m a square for sayin’ so.
Once ole’ Billy Wilder tole Miss Monroe that she couldn’t always walk around wit her nubs hangin’ out if she wanted people to treat her right. She kinda listened, but still loved it when she caught guys starin’ at her knockers.
But she was Marilyn Monroe and could get a way wit it even thought things wound up bad for her. This Milo stasch ain’t talented or good lookin’ enough to prance around in underpants that my Aunt Jo woulda worn after she lost the ability to toilet herself. Toilet herself, I says.
An one more thing. That Mama Luke who stood up there and let Miles rub up against him and his bird should get slapped for lettin’ her get away wit that. I forget that Scarole’s name, I think it was some kind a dame’s name, but whatever his name really is, he should be called Twat for bein’ a part a that.
One time Edie Gorme – God rest her soul – made some kind a off-color remark to Frank during a show at the Copa an he wouldn’t look at her for the rest a the night, an the next day she was gone. She wound up playin’ gigs in Scranton, Pittsburgh, Buffalo and a bunch a other toilets for two years.
So anyways, these gals better straighten up and fly right or else they’ll be playin’ gigs in places where they put ice in the urinals, you can’t get a decent slice a pizza (pronounced “Beet-za” or “A-beetz”) and the champagne they got is flatter than them plains a Nebraska. Or that hooker’s schwanz after the nosejob Frank made her get to look more like Ava. Schwanz, I says.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Wallnuts After Dark: What's Wit This Friggin' Canada Football League, Eh?
So the other night I’m switchin’ through the channels, as is my wont, and I come across this Canada Football, and at first I was happy to watch the football, but then I thought I was havin’ a stroke wit all a the guys on offense runnin’ towards the line a scrimmage before the ball’s snapped an wearin’ these crazy uniforms. My wont, I says.
Then I noticed they’s playin on a bigger field wit more guys on a side an wit an end zone that’s bigger than my Aunt Tessie’s googutz. Googutz, I says. I mean is this football? Why did them Canadians have to go an ruin America’s best thing asides from Frank and Jack Daniels?
At first it kinda looks like the football but then the more you look at it the worser it looks. Kinda like when you see a pretty dame an then when you get real close an start talkin to her you realize she’s a re-tard or some other kinda wacko, or has a booger hangin’ from her schnozzola or some kind a schmutz stuck in her teeth.
There ain’t nothin’ worse than somethin’ you thought was Jake, becomin’ a bad scene.
Another thing, I didn’t realize they’s has so many black guys in Canada. Madon, who knew? Then I got to wonderin’, you know, how blacks was called, “colored” and “Negro,” before settlin’ on African American. So do they call Canadian blacks “African-Canadian?” Am I wrong when I ask that?
Hey, I ain’t got no beef wit no one and don’t care what they wanna call themselves, I just don’t wanna go to Canada and say the wrong thing to the wrong guy an get into some kinda beef, if you catch my drift.
So if this guy I know from the neighborhood, Elbow Grease Vito, showed up wearin’ one a them Deadlock wigs wit the light color ends, would he’d look better than he does wit his current Dome Piece that looks like a veal cutlet? Just wonderin’.
This Canada football reminds me a the time Meyer T. Fleishman (he used to say the “T” was silent. Fuccen funny guy.) got me involved in the music business. When he told me he was gonna put me wit a band, I was figurin’ I was gonna wind up wit somethin’ like Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. But instead I wound up with this group a dirty British Pischocs that was called “Fudge Tunnel,” an had a record album called “Hate Songs in D Minor,” or some fuccen thing.
I come to find that this group played something called Sludge Rock that sounded like the noises I’d hear when Butchie “The Butcher” Rizzo used to settle up wit deadbeat skells who had skipped out on debts owed to the Scarfo boys down there in Philly. An another thing, when I got back from seeing the Fudge Tunnel play a gig out in L.A. where one a them pissed on stage durin’ the show wit Mrs Wallnuts sittin’ right there at Ringside, front and center, I had Skinny D’Amato pay old Meyer a visit that he ain’t never recovered from. An he never was heard from again, by the way. Except from his proctologist, I’mst bettin’.
So anyways, for as much as I love the Pigskin, I’ll be leavin’ that Canada Football League watchin’ to others. It’s like that Canada Bacon, it ain’t no bacon, it’s friggin’ Taylor Ham!
Saturday, August 17, 2013Wallnuts 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.
Saturday, August 10, 2013Wallnuts After Dark: I'm on the Friggin' Vacation
You know, even I need a vacation. Youse all may think I am past the time a usefulness, but I’m doin’ stuff all a the time.
Just last week I saw a guy about the thing he had an issue wit an then spoke to some other guy about a certain situation that required my unique kind a expertease. Then I had to go an see So-and-So about this an that, an I was friggin’ exhausted.
So I said to Mrs Wallnuts, “Annette,” I says, “we gotta get away for a couple a days. Pack up the Lincoln an let’s head down to A.C.” So I’m in A.C. gettin’ a little sun and havin’ a few pops whilst playin’ a little Craps and Blackjack. Annette’s into the Poker, but I ain’t never had any luck with that so I lays off.
It’s kinda dead down here though. Not all hustle and bustle like you’d think it would be or like it looks in those ads where they tell ya to, “Do A.C.” As a matter a fact I was in the new place they built that’s already in bankruptcy, The Revel, an on a Saturday night there was only one Crap table goin’ in this huge casino that’s as big as a Airplane Hanger.
It’s a far cry from the days when Martin and Lewis were playin’ gigs to packed houses in joints all over town. When you look at Vegas out there in the middle a Yemensville with nothin’ but desert bein’ wildly successful and compare it to A.C., You can see how the straights can’t run nothin’ proper.
Leave it to the suits to mess up a formula that the Mob made their bones on. I mean, come on, Our Thing has been makin’ dough hand over fist on gamblin’ since the Catskills was Kittens an these Mama Lukes runnin’ the state have figured out the only way to lose money on gaming. Madon!
It’s like them Mo-mos in New York takin’ a bath on OTB. I mean how do lose money makin’ book on the Ponies?
Anyways, I gotta go. Annette is all fired up to tan her Ninns and I need me a Cutty on the Rocks.
Monday, July 29, 2013Wallnuts After Dark: Who Gives a F@&$ About This Royal Baby?
Management apologia: This edition of Wallnuts After Dark should’ve run over the weekend, but I simply didn’t see it. Because I got drunk and downed a sixpack of HoHos while watching DVRd Jeopardy. That Alex Trebeck is a wily minx.
But since the DB1 is about to have his own Jewish Princess, let us celebrate the virgin birth with a lil’ Wallnuts After Dark:
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Madonna Mia! All over the CNN and the TV this week was this story about the kid that prince and princess had over there in England. But as my barber Frankie the Wop says, “Who gives a Fucc?”
I mean this whole Royalty Family thing to me is a scam. After all, they do nothin’ but live off a the money a them Brits that work, and they live like Kings in palaces and castles. And shit. I guess because they is Kings. What kinda tripe is that?
If their last name was “Gambino,” they’d all be sittin’ in jail somewheres wit a Racketeering charge hangin’ over their heads. Things are goin’ in the shitter over there, an yet people is all gaga over these lazy royalty mooks livin’ high on the hog. An over here people are so nuts about these Brittunculi you’d think these cavones is part of somthin’ to do wit us when they ain’t got nothin’ to do wit us. Na mean?
I never could figure out why everyone was so over the moon about that Princess Diane broad who was married to the prince that looks the back side a my balls wit them big ears and a horse face. I mean, I’d hit it, but she weren’t no Connie Stevens. Back side a my balls, I says.
Then there’s that one prince kid a hers who looks like the guy she was bangin’ behind her prince husband’s back, and not like the prince hisself. Yet I ain’t never hear anyone say anything ’bout that, how that one prince is too sharp lookin’ to be the son a that other ugly prince.
An another thing, ain’t these current princes and queens the relatives a other kings and queens an those Sars who ran Russia an Germany, or some fuccen thing? I mean this whole arrangement has got Mob written all over it. A bunch a families get together an divvy up territories an whatnot, and get a piece a the action all over the joint. Sounds like “Our Thing.” Am I right when I say that?
Now this new princess or duckess broad that had the kid, an the press an all a the women is droolin’ all over her. She looks like your run a the mill Stasch that sits around the house all day, gets her nails done and winds up bangin’ the Cabana Boy. Stasch, I says. Take away all a that make up an fancy threads an she’s just another plain Jane.
Again, I’d hit it, but I’m just sayin’.
If this dame was married to some CEO or some hot shit doctor all a everybody would be rippin’ into her for being too uppity an married to someone who is greedy or makes too much money. But for some reason I can’t figger out everyone loves this prince’s wife for doin’ nothin’ other than bein’ a rich princess. She must have a Golden One.
An one last thing. What if this new baby prince kid is a retard? What do they do? I bet if these fancy pants j’drool s had a tart kid they’d lock it up an you’d never see or hear anything about it.
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Saturday, July 13, 2013Wallnuts After Dark: What's Wit All a The Friggin' TV Channels?
Back in the day there was only a handful a TV stations. It was Channel 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11 and then in the 60s the Finnochs started showin’ up on Channel 13 on the PBS. If there was a show on it was easy to find since they was only these 6 channels.
I knew Joe Franklin was on Channel 9, which was WOR, an so I never forgot to watch his show or couldn’t find it. Another thing, these channels use to be known by their letters, so Joe was on WJZ that changed to WABC an then he moved to WOR that became WWOR.
I guess them letters weren’t as confusin’ to me as all a these 3-number channels I got on my TV these days. I mean who the F@#k ever thought they’d be a channel 596? An let’s not talk about how many Clams this is costin’ me…..
When the cable first started an they gave me that box that looked like a typewriter wit all a the buttons that was connected to another box by a wire that went to the TV, I couldn’t figger out how all a them channels was fittin’ trew that little wire. I mean I could unnerstand how all the channels could get sent trew the air an into those Rabbit Ear antennas, or whatever the f@#k they was called, an into my TV. Na mean?
Then they came up with the satellite TV that never made no sense to me as they had to send the TV shows up inta space before sendin’ them back down to a dish on my roof that had a wire to the TV. Again wit the friggin’ wire! That seemed like an awful lot a trouble to go to to get Regis and Kathie Lee. Am I right when I say that?
So cable got more channels an more confusin’ an they gave me this remote control that was bigger n a black jack Knuckes Rizzo use ta use to knock out skells an that looked like it was for a friggin’ space ship, or some shit.
I liked the remote that had on, off, volume and channel. Kinda like how I like my cocktails wit two ingredients, one a which is ice.
Now we got this Fiat or Fios or whatever the f@#k it’s called and now I gotta have my phone and computer all mixed up wit the TV. It’s like havin’ your two Goomads and your wife all gettin’ together to play Canasta. Nothin’ good can come from that. A fannabala!
Plus, back in the day, we had the TV Guide that tole us what shows was on where an when. You got a whole week a TV in that magazine every week an there was stories about TV people and a real jake crossword puzzle in it, to boot.
Now we got that cable guide, or whatever the f@#k it’s called, that makes my head hurt with all a the colors an channel abbreviations an them 3-number channels that I can’t never remember. An what makes all a this worser is that there ain’t never no good shows or movies on anyways, even when I go an check out what’s goin’ on around channel 920.
At least in the old days when there weren’t nothin’ good on, I only had to check 6 channels and it wasn’t costin’ me nothin’.
Saturday, July 6, 2013Wallnuts After Dark: I Hope Youse Had a Happy Friggin' 4th of July
You know, some might accuse me a bein’ old fashioned, but to tell you the truth, I am old fashioned. Actually, despite all a the folks who act like they is hip or cool or whatever the Fucc they call it, old fashioned is exactly what they are, and what people want.
That’s why them cable shows an movies about them Mafiosos was so popular. They took them old time Dago mob types and put ’em in modern times wit the modern problems, but they was no different than the old Mustache Pete characters from the 1800s that was the original gangsters. OGs, I says.
They ain’t many shows about these hip-hope musical rapper types because nobody really gives a shit about ’em. Oh sure, the kids buy the music, but when it comes down to it, nobody is hummin’ any kind a rap tune when they’s walkin’ down the street, playin’ a M&M song as the backdrop to a romantic moment or puttin’ that music into any kind a serious movie or play unless it’s about one a them rappers killed by another rapper in a drive by shootin’, or some shit.
So, Happy 4th a July.
Frank used to have huge 4th of July gigs at his place in Palm Springs. Orgies, really. Everyone who was lookin’ to get their nuts off would show up, especially the Finnochs. I remember once walkin’ in on two a these guys goin’ at it hammer and tongs makin’ The Animal Wit 2 Backs in Frank’s cabana. Oofa.
But hey, as my Aunt Ro-Ro used to say, to each his own. She also used to say there’s a top for every pot, but in this case I ain’t never seen no top fit into a pot like that. Na mean?
At another one a these parties I hooked up wit Connie Stevens – or was it Connie Francis? – an took her back to my place for a little shenanigans. She had a great face and primo knockers, but when she took her pants off her legs looked like a couple a undercooked Calzones. Anyways, she was quite a handful in the sack. I forget which was which and when was when but I know it happened wit both of ’em.
So I put on Jerry Vale’s album, “The Jerry Vale Italian Album.” Frank would a killed me if he knew I had that album, but it got Guinea chicks wetter than a fresh Buratta Mozzarella on a August day in Canarsie. She had the orgasm right as Vale was hittin’ the high note on the song, “Amore, Scusami,” an pulled us right of a the bed. Madon!
To this day, every 4th a July I play that Vale tune whilst me and Mrs Wallnuts is havin’ our intimate moment, and the fireworks really go off, if you catch my drift.
Saturday, June 29, 2013Wallnuts After Dark : Madonna Mia! That Madonna Is One Classy Dame
I been watchin’ a lot a the TV lately as my Lumbago has been actin’ up somethin’ fierce for some reason or another.
I think it might a been that crate a Cuban cigars I hadda pick up last month when it was delivered. And by delivered I mean taken at gun point from a cargo plane that was smugglin’ them in for some a them guys from Jamaica. And by Jamaica I don’t mean Queens, but some a them Schwartzers that have the long hair that looks like something my blind Aunt Lucille used to knit. Anyways…
I’m switchin’ around the channels and I come to a concert with that Madonna broad. Que Bella! That’s my kinda classy dame.
I wish I remembered the friggin’ channel it was on, but these days we got more channels than there are places where Jimmy Hoffa was supposed ta be buried. I can’t find me the TV Guide magazine anymore and the guide on the TV is too confusin’ wit all a the colors and channel abbreviations. And don’t get me started on the friggin’ remote control. Madon!
So this Madonna chick is dressed in these tight, black plastic or leather or whatever the Fucc kind a material these song and dance broads is wearin’ these days, and a tight shirt that was just tight enough, and I was mesmerized. And it was sexy tight not that kind a tight where you could see her Cooch and her Charley’s and the whole lunch. The Whole Lunch, I says.
I turned the sound down cuz Mrs Wallnuts was sleepin’ on the couch an I didn’t want her wakin’ up and spoilin’ the fun, if you know what I mean. So after I rubbed out a good one I got to thinkin’ a the time Grace Kelly was on the set whilst filmin’ High Society wit Frank and Bing when she was the classiest piece of ass in the world.
Sure she wound up givin’ Frank The bizness in one a the storage closets on the back lot wit me, Dean, Normy Fell and Buddy Lester watchin’ trew some Peep Holes, but Kelly was such a swank dame she could get away wit it. Now sure she didn’t go around grabbin’ her crotch like Madonna still does at the age a 55, but come to think a it, I ain’t never seen no dame grab their own crotch, not even that Domenica Somethin-or-other who used to hang around Nathan’s in Coney Island and blow everyone back in the day.
Back to Madonna. I remember her when she was a kid on the MTV and now she’s an old lady. But I gotta admit they ain’t any 55-year old broads I seen that look as good as she looks, even though she’s had some of that cosmic surgery that messed up her face a little. Hey, it’s her life, right, an if she wants to try an look as young as possible for as long as possible, who is we to knock her down? Am I right when I say that?
Plus, we all know we’d bang her if we had the chance. All I’m sayin, a classy dame is a classy dame. A classy dame, I says.
Saturday, June 22, 2013Wallnuts After Dark: What's Wit These Suicide Girls Schevotzes?
So the other night I’m switchin’ channels on the TV and I come across this show on the Showtime that is about these Suicide Girls, who is these half naked broads wit tattoos and the boobs pierced and weird haircuts. I didn’t know if I was gonna sprout a renoB or run from the room cuz I was scared. Na mean?
I mean the nakedness ain’t so bad but the other stuff I don’t know. Ya know? Sure, beauty is in the eye a the beholder, but in this case I don’t think I’m beholdin’. Or some shit like that.
Maybe the whole point a these dames is to confuse us an that’s what’s attractive. But I gotta say, I don’t ever remember gettin’ a turgid shwanz cuz I was confused. Maybe you modern kids get turned on by this new take on beauty, but for me I’m happy with great gams, some big jugs and a primo keister. A Primo Keister, I says.
Even that old Greek philosophizer Aristotlemeyer said, “To be beautiful, a living creature, and every whole made up of parts, must present a certain order in its arrangement of parts.” But I guess all a that just means if the boobs is where the boobs is supposed to be and the Snapper is in the proper place, then a dame can be beautiful. Then again, what I read about them Greek philosophizers they coulda been talkin’ about a young boy, and I don’t want no part a that.
Back to these suicide dames. Hume posited, “One person may even perceive deformity, where another is sensible of beauty; and every individual ought to acquiesce in his own sentiment, without pretending to regulate those of others.” Posited, I says.
Now see, Hume is one a those guys that if he was around the old neighborhood I woulda given him a shot in the chops cuz when he says stuff he makes my head hurt. I hate that.
So after I took a few Excedrin and my headache felt better I start to figure what Hume said about deformity has somethin to do wit guys who can Bust a Nut over dames wit tattoos and all a that other shit that us old-timers see as bein’ weird and killin’ wood, and that one man’s Chicken Cacciatore is another men’s Baccala Salad. Am I right when I say that?
An I guess it’s kinda like how some guys can look past a broad who has an annoying voice and can’t cut the mustard in the sack cuz she’s a real looker, whilst other guys don’t mind an ugly dame if she’s got a nice way about her and also bangs like the Dickens. Some guys like chicks who is all marked up like a retard’s doodle pad with metal shit stuck in they’s eye brows and the cooze, even. Who knew?
So when it comes to broads like these Suicide Girls, I guess I just have to agree to disagree, or some fuccen thing.
Saturday, June 15, 2013Wallnuts After Dark: What's With The Facebook and the Other Sociable Mediums?
I gotta say, I don’t get this whole thing with The Facebook and The Twitter and all a the other sociable medium thing-a-ma-bobs that people is usin’ today. I mean it’s kinda ridiculous to be tellin’ everybody everything you do by postin’ updates and pictures. And shit.
I tells ya what, if I had ever picked up the blower to call Sinatra to say, “Hey Frank, I’mst heading over to the Villa Maria to go see Nick Manna, the Greek Perry Como, sing,” he woulda said, “Who the Fucc cares,” and tole me to go Fucc myselves. Na mean?
But that’s what people use The Twitter and The Facebook for. On the phone, Pazzo; on the computer copacetic. That don’t make no sense.
And all the “thumbs ups,” and forwards and follows and hashtags and usin’ the friggin’ @ and # signs that I don’t even know what they is, and whatnot. Ah Fannabala, my head hurts from it all. If some guy snapped a photo a me with his cell phone whilst I’m out havin’ a few with whomever I decided to have a few with, and don’t want no one to know about, I’d punch him in the mush. At least.
The last thing guys I know want anyone to know is where they’s at and what they’s doin’. I mean I love Mrs Wallnuts, but as sure as God made little green apples, I don’t need her knowin’ my whereabouts when I’m abouts, if you know what I’m talkin’ about.
Guys used to go to great lengths to stay under the radar. Louie “The Fin” Finnocola wouldn’t never use no phone, no one knew where he lived, never got no mail, didn’t have a phone, would never say good night and would just walk out a place wit out tellin’ no one he was leavin’. Somehow he always knew what was up and where to be and I don’t know how the Fucc he knew all a the stuff he knew.
