| “Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua, Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita La Chingada.” “¡Hola amigos!” “We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?” “¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846, when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English. I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my neck. “Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak Spanish. “I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a real Mexican chocha looks like!” “Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos are not going to give up all that loot without a fight. “And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’” “Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio audience?” “Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a home to come home to. “The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray dogs hang out, behind the convention center.” “How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?" “I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in the ropes and bite his knuckles.” “Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero, Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas. He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers, jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas, my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing: Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana Chinga tú chinga tu madre [Ed. See you in Acapulco But first I fuck your sister] “Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?” “Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.” “Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a great warrior like El Grande Bush?” “I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.” “And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily, looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we know about El Misterioso?” “Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South America.” “Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.” “With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!” “Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it over the head of El Grande Bush.” “The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’, I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and bullets are flying.” “Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.” “Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!” “Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.” “And I’m Rosita La Chingada…” “Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!” |
| 200motels POLITICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| Recently it was revealed that a defense contractor, The Lincoln Group, was paid $25 million to develop propaganda to be disseminated in Iraq. One of the themes they proposed, a terrorist version of “The Three Stooges,” was rejected by the Pentagon. Using the Freedom of Information Act, this writer was able to obtain a copy of the script. SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog. CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer. [Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball! [Starts sewing the dog up, singing] I’m singing in Bahrain I’m friends with Hussein Mohammed calls from the other room: MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam? CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe! MOE: What are you doing in there? CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later! Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages. HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph! CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door] Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the room. MOE: I said, What are you doing in here? CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb. MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention. They walk into the living room. MOE: Well, how do you like it? CURLEY: What is it? />MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron? CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything! MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything! CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius! MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing! Abdul walks in. ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us. CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one! MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss. CURLEY: Who made you the boss? MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh! Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up. MOE: Now who’s the boss!? CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe. MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam! Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven. MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave? CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it. MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is. CURLEY: Moe, no! Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces. MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven? |
| 200motels BEIJING OLYMPICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog. CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer. [Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball! [Starts sewing the dog up, singing] I’m singing in Bahrain I’m friends with Hussein Mohammed calls from the other room: MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam? CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe! MOE: What are you doing in there? CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later! Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages. HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph! CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door] Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the room. MOE: I said, What are you doing in here? CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb. MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention. They walk into the living room. MOE: Well, how do you like it? CURLEY: What is it? />MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron? CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything! MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything! CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius! MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing! Abdul walks in. ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us. CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one! MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss. CURLEY: Who made you the boss? MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh! Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up. MOE: Now who’s the boss!? CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe. MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam! Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven. MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave? CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it. MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is. CURLEY: Moe, no! Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces. MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven? CURLEY: [Like a moron] I forgggget! MOE: You forget! Well, here’s something to help you remember! Moe starts chasing Curley around, firing a machine gun. Curley runs around in circles, jumping up and down to dodge bullets. CURLEY: Whoop! Whoop! Scene fades as the theme music plays. THE END |
| “Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua, Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita La Chingada.” “¡Hola amigos!” “We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?” “¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846, when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English. I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my neck. “Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak Spanish. “I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a real Mexican chocha looks like!” “Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos are not going to give up all that loot without a fight. “And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’” “Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio audience?” “Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a home to come home to. “The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray dogs hang out, behind the convention center.” “How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?" “I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in the ropes and bite his knuckles.” “Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero, Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas. He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers, jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas, my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing: Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana Chinga tú chinga tu madre [Ed. See you in Acapulco But first I fuck your sister] “Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?” “Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.” “Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a great warrior like El Grande Bush?” “I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.” “And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily, looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we know about El Misterioso?” “Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South America.” “Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.” “With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!” “Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it over the head of El Grande Bush.” “The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’, I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and bullets are flying.” “Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.” “Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!” “Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.” “And I’m Rosita La Chingada…” “Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!” |
| 200motels POLITICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
The Happy Camper |
| 200motels SCANDALS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| On May 17 I received a telephone call from Kim Shamsky of Vinmar Staffing, which has my resumé on file, offering me a job shoveling shit at the Bronx Zoo. I accepted with alacrity and offered to bring my own shovel. In addition to offering me the job, Kim told me of her intention to sue me in civil court, screaming that she would “crush” me, “bankrupt” me and have me thrown in prison for writing jokes about her long-running lawsuit accusing her ex, former Mets slugger Art Shamsky, of infecting her with a plethora of sexually related diseases as a result of his purported liaisons with women, men, canines, discarded inflatable sex dolls and an abandoned, bedbug-infested mattress that he found while rummaging through a dumpster in the alley behind the Fulton Fish Market. Naturally, I was elated at the prospect of being sued for slander by New York’s version of the Octomom. She has availed herself of every imaginable opportunity to publicly humiliate her ex-husband who, after suffering twelve years of marriage to a woman whom he claims spit on him, excoriated him for being old, insulted him unmercifully and threw hysterical screaming fits on innumerable occasions, decided to walk out on her and take a good portion of her money with him. A lawsuit like that is a win-win situation for any defendant who would know how to defend himself, of which Art Shamsky, being a retired baseball player, was basically not capable. He had no choice but to hunker down in the face of a vicious barrage of insults and suffer in silence, even as Kim gave multiple newspaper interviews accusing him of being a notorious degenerate pervert, ambushing him with a video crew in tow to scream at him after he emerged from a charity event, and filing an endless stream of court documents purporting to expose his vile sexual proclivities. She even set up a web site, www.artshamskysucks.com, to do to him the same thing she accused me of doing to her. As I read this vile swill on an ongoing basis, I wondered, “How come there’s never a comedian around when you need one?” Obviously, all the good comedy writers had left for the coast. That more or less had left all the heavy lifting to me. To make matters worse, I actually had been acquainted with this Kim Shamsky a few years previously when I had accepted an assignment from her to work at a low-level bureaucratic function at the law firm of Paul Weiss, which was one of the most gruesome experiences of my life. My contact with Vinmar Staffing at the time was limited to filling out a weekly time sheet and receiving a meager pittance of remuneration for my services. I knew Shamsky was a little bit peculiar, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was only after I had ceased to be employed by Vinmar and she had hit the papers, big-time, with an unending stream of vile purification against her ex, that I realized what a treasure trove of comedy material she offered. I have unfortunately been cursed with some of the worst employers in New York, which is saying a mouthful. Previous to Shamsky, I was engaged by Helmer Toro as industrial relations manager at H&H Bagels, where I helped him negotiate a collective bargaining agreement with Local 2 of the Bakery Workers Union, managed his factory in Hell’s Kitchen and his two retail stores, ordered his factory supplies and performed quality control functions. Toro thanked me for my services with an unending campaign of insults and personal abuse, threw up obstacles to make my job even harder when it suited him, and forged my signature on documents of incorporation, leaving me exposed for a $20,000 debt to the New York State Department of Taxation, which obliged me to go to the newspapers to get this monkey off my back, resulting in a charming little poem I wrote about him which was excerpted on Page Six of The Post, reading, in part: “He’ll go down in history like the Three Stooges On the Mount Rushmore of monumental scrooges” Toro also threatened to sue me, or worse (he keeps two loaded revolvers in the safe of his 80th Street store. Both his ex-business partner and one of his brothers mysteriously died). Anyway, Toro has got bigger problems than me to worry about: after of years of robbing Peter to pay Paul and shifting his assets back and forth like a three card monty game between his dummy corporations, his stores and his factory were seized last week by the NYDOT, and standing right behind them is the IRS, who also holds liens on his properties, including his residence in the Colorado condominium on West 70th Street. According to Toro’s brother, Juan C. (“Johnny”) Toro, whom he employs as a refrigeration and truck mechanic, Toro started out as a pool-hustling teenage sharpie in the Hunt’s Point section of the Bronx, where he would clean out the marks and then run to his Cadillac, which Johnny would keep idling, to make his escape. After serving in Vietnam, which Toro himself described to me as the happiest memory of his life, he got a job rolling bagels by hand and then opened the store at 80th Street and Broadway. Helmer expressed the ambition to his brother to marry a Jewish woman, of whom there was no shortage among his client base, because, in Johnny’s words “they had the money”. He succeeded in that ambition, marrying a naïve, trusting female dentist whose family bankrolled his factory on W. 46th Street, and Toro expanded into the delivery route and export businesses. Unfortunately, the bakery business being an unbelievably cutthroat industry, Toro immediately found himself behind the eight ball. First, the union, after a bitter, tooth-and-claw multi-year battle, succeeded in organizing his workforce, putting Toro at a permanent disadvantage against his non-unionized competition. Then, he was undercapitalized, being obliged to equip his plant with obsolete, antiquated machinery, which let to unending battles with regulators such as the Fire Department and OSHA. Finally, Toro’s own pool hustler proclivities induced him to take chances with the fiscal authorities. In order to keep operating, Toro continually tapped his wife’s family and leveraged himself and his operations to the hilt. While I was working for him, his strategy had settled on a plan to sell the 46th Street property and move his operation to New Jersey, where he felt he would be able to get out from under the thumb of the union. My collaboration in the latest round of collective bargaining negations, where I had written all the documentation in English and Spanish, negotiated for him at the bargaining table and actively lobbied the employees to pressure the union executive to sign the loaded agreement I had written, the provisions of which I am still prohibited from disclosing because of a confidentiality agreement that may still be applicable despite the company’s imminent demise, were groundbreaking for the state of New York but still did not go far enough to put him in a competitive position vis-à-vis his better financed non-union competition like Bagel Best, which works out of a modern, fortress-like facility in the Bronx. The enormous hygiene and regulatory problems concerning the dilapidated manufacturing facility in Hell’s Kitchen were putting unbelievable pressure on me and Toro, who was himself at the breaking point because of his tax and debt problems, would come down to the factory early in the morning and scream at me for the unbelievable mess left behind by the night shift, even though he knew perfectly well that I had just arrived myself. But taking his problems out on me was his system for burning off steam. Finally, I just walked out. Not that I would have stayed much longer anyway. A few weeks later a letter arrived at my home naming me as an officer in First Toro or Sixth Toro, I forget which, Family Partnership LLP, and dunning me for a twenty thousand dollar share of Toro’s tax assessment. That set off a whole new round of fighting. It was under those conditions that I went to work for Kim Shamsky’s agency, which is located in a shabby little three-person office on East 34th Street. I considered her just to be a typical garden-variety nuisance. It was only after she broke into the papers with her insane attacks on Art Shamsky that I came to a full appreciation of what a boiling cauldron of venom and malice was erupting within that seemingly banal and inconsequential individual. Let her sue me if she wants to! She is not a private citizen who is the target of slander and vicious innuendo but, rather, a person who elbowed herself into the public forum on the lowest possible level , initiating a monstrous campaign designed to humiliate another public figure, her ex-husband, by exposing him to what are unsubstantiated and undoubtedly fictional accusations concerning the intentional contamination by him of her reproductive health, which she described in the most graphic terms before the mass audience. By going public in such graphic and vociferous terms, she exposed herself as a legitimate object for satirical treatment. Shamsky was in the papers again just last week, declaring herself to be a “happy camper” about the out-of-court settlement of her lawsuit against Art Shamsky. This “happy camper” remark was her feeble attempt to put the best face on her being forced to concede defeat. According to the terms of the settlement as described by The Post she received nothing, nothing! Kim Shamsky and Art Shamsky were obliged to undergo physical examinations, which revealed nothing, and Art Shamsky’s attorney had a clause inserted that prohibits Kim from any more public harassment of him. In the meantime, I intend to continue writing my blog as usual. This blog site contains over 500 stories, including many hundreds about baseball and sports. Out of those, there are maybe four references to Kim Shamsky, all concerning her public campaign against baseball star Art Shamsky. If she and her attorney find that any of that material is actionable, then I shall defend myself vigorously in court and in the court of public opinion. Helmer Toro also underestimated my ability to defend my own interests. Helmer may be a very flawed individual, but compared to Kim Shamsky, he is a freakin genius! Helmer has his own problems. Last week his operation was seized, then reopened, then seized again, this time with the Tax Department declaring its intention to put the whole mess up for auction. I bear him no malice. He got too big. If he had been content to just operate his 80th Street store, which was profitable and famous, instead of striving to be a big-shot capitalist, he would have had a happy life with his successful, loyal wife and all his lovely children. As for Kim Shamsky, forget her! I may be an impecunious writer suffering through tough times, but I am holding up rather better than the Helmer Toros of the world, and I am sure not a Shoot The Freak target bozo attraction in the Coney Island sideshow of Kim Shamsky’s mind. Her last words to me were, "I want you to go to hell and die!" Naturally it all boils down to what she wants. When all the temper tantrums and destructive behavior are analyzed and peeled away, it reveals a woman possessing an emotional age of about two years old, like a spoiled infant stamping her feet, demanding an ice cream. |
