By Ross Barkan

Holy shit, I’m old and angry. You have no fucking idea. What? Cooney what? Shut the fuck up, Jeremy, I don’t want any ice cream. Fuck.  Lemme tell you young shitdicks something. If I ever catch you goddamn ice wagon-asses on my fucking lawn I swear to God I will get the fuck off my Hoveraround and smack the shit out of you with my ox cane. I fucking will, don’t press me. What, Jeremy, Islands? Yeah there should be a place to put the blacks. Stealing my damn medicine.

Oh, Coney Island! Thanks, limpdick, next time, don’t whisper like a shit-eating little girl.  Get a paper cone and yell that garbage. Yeah, I got memories. Fuck, I lost my virginity on the Cyclone back in ’19. Some hot fucking broad she was, I think I was twelve at the time, and I Jack Dempsey-ed her ass into the ground. Those were the days. Back then, there weren’t any sissy politically correct fuckhead hippies with all their “rules.” A man could get a good under-aged fuck on the Cyclone. If his bowels were loose, like mine are every goddamn hour, he could dump his truck of shit in the nearest outhouse. Good times. Lemme tell you, and if you couldn’t shit, Coney Island had this great enema booth for a nickel. A nickel! That was just after the Great War when the people were friendly and you could get a tube shoved up your ass with a smile.  Jeremy, by the way, I’m gonna need another enema in an hour, so quit playing with your dick and come take off my pants.

Good times.
Good times.

In my day, Coney Island was a man’s park. Not this rinky-dinky, namby-pampy, sissy-wissy, lollipop-fucking amusement shithole they closed down a few weeks ago. No! There were wooden horses and real cotton candy. You young assrabbits ever ate fucking cotton with sugar? Grab a piece of cotton from your night shirt and just chew? Hell no, too busy with your Ebays and your musicmaphones and whatever the fuck else that assclown Herbert Hoover shits down your pants. Alfred Smith will be the next president of the United States if my name ain’t…fuck I can’t remember.

Back in the 20’s people swam in fucking real bathing suits. If rubber one pieces didn’t get the ladies wet, nothing would. I fucked Marilyn Monroe’s grandmother underneath the boardwalk. I nearly soiled my diapers just now thinking ‘bout that.  I remember the time Yankee center fielder Earle Combs came down to Coney Island. He was my favorite because he really hated the blacks. Those were the days. They had Coney Island for the whites and Black Coney Island for them jangling, corncob good-for-nothin’…fuck I forgot where I was going with this again. Jeremy, I need a fucking towel. No, shit-for-tits, the yellow goddamn towel with the thick lining I sprung another leak. Goddamn that Hoover.

Yes, them were the days when women and the minorities weren’t sassing about this and that. Just good angry white motherfuckers like me and enema booths, enema booths as far as the eye could see! They had the moving pictures at Coney Island too. For a damn nickel you could see Chaplin and a kangaroo give Orson Wells a reach around. Moving pictures today are for shit, I tell you. Last week Jeremy, my good-for-nothing-except-for-maybe-sweeping-my-skin flakes grandson took me to see a moving picture. It was all colors and flying shit and shapes and other random horeseball malarkey that I couldn’t follow if I was Kaiser Wilhelm shitting rainbow colored goats. Which reminds me, there were a few smelly Krauts in the front row and I told Jeremy to fetch me my liberty cabbage gun so I could blow those goat fuckers back to hell. Jeremy, who a woman wouldn’t fuck with a fishing pole, ignored me.

Someday when they kick those whitish Cubans out of the Major Leagues and the horseless carriage breaks the impossible 30 mile per hour barrier, I hope to get the hell back to Coney Island. There were some good times there. Beating up darkies, fucking broads, beating up darkies, moving pictures, darkies again, enemas…ah it makes an old man want to cry.  If only they didn’t surgically remove my eyes last Christmas. Those were the days.

Now get the fuck over to my Hoveraround Jeremy it’s a god damn shitstorm in my trousers.


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