Long Island Railroad Batshit Crazy
The unsolicited old school advice continues into the new year as we wait for the 5:33am train into the city
Eighteenth in a series of conversations I had with Tom da Lung Eyelund Carpenta on the train platform before our early morning commute into Manhattan…
“Woah! Youse see dat? Holy Shit, I feel like we just got hit by a Tommyhawk cruise control missile fired from Ole Country Road!
What da fuck was it? Way too fast ta be a bird, way too slow an high altitude ta be a leapin cat or gigantic rat.
Youse know why? Cause it was a bat! Dat’s right, some fucken guy bilt belfries all over his yard not far from da Metro Nort stayshin, an now da flyin little furry vampire basterds is out loose all over da town.
Aside from being more annoyin den da kids an almost as scary as da wife, dese bats perform a useful porpoise, one a which is chowin down on mosquiters, better bug killers den anyting youse can buy at Home Despot.
I don’t know how dem flyin rodints do it, seein in da dark wid da use a sonar fer ears. Dey see a whole diffrint world, Son, like night an day only fer dem it’s an all-day night where dey hear instead a see, see by hearin or some shit like dat. I heard dey can hear weird frequencies, an will land right on top a yer head just fer kicks, freakin youse da fuck out.
Fer eggzample, my aunt Sylvia got dive bombed once wid hunderts a dese freaky fuckers, must a tuned right inta her annoyin frequency, an zoomed right inta her Marge Simpson beehive. I bet she releases subcutaneous signals or somethin, every damn bat in Carle Place plugged right in ta her bullshit. At least she don’t get bit by insectisoids no more, dat old wind bag.
My boy Tommy, Junia likes bats, dough, chases after em like dey’re cats, while my older son Antony couldn’t care less, not even scared of em or nuttin. Now in case youse aksed even dough youse didn’t, I have anodder son named Tommy, an we just call him ‘Tommy,’ or if it’s really confyoozin, he gets called ‘Second Tom,’ jus ta be clear.
Now my brudder Steve has a son Tom, too, just to keep things interestin. I also got a cousin Ed dats got anodder son Steve, which really fucks just about everbody up, includin me, Ed, Steve, Tom, an our boys, Tommy, Junia an Second Tommy, too. Da wives got nuttin ta do wid dis shit, tank gawd they keep outta dis mess.
What da missus can’t keep her mitts outta is da bats a all tings, one a which we had in our attic flappin around one summa. Cousin Ed’s son Steve was hangin out with Tommy, Junier, an deys was wonderin what da hell was up dere, drivin da wife nuts wid angziety.
“I’m callin da eggzterminators!” she screamed. “Oh, hellllll no,” I said, not wantin ta pay a deductible higher dan if we all got cancer an got irradiated.
My solushin: I wanted ta send aunt Sylvia up dere, let her check it out. Wid any luck she’d a vanished widdout a trace. My plan would den be ta visit her again in a few monts, an if she creeped back out den move her to da belfrie on dis fucken guys lawn, an twice a day feed her cheese an horseradish.
Could da be our five-trudy-tree train ta da City a Sin? Indeed it is, our chance ta get away from our naggin spouses an spoiled rotten bats — I mean, brats. It’s too early fer dis shit, Son.
Have a nice fucken day!”
More Tom for you…
