I’m madder than one of my throngs of loyal readers who was left scratching his head last week when some hack rewrote my column without my permission or approval.
Look, you all know the ol’Screecher has a certain successful formula that he likes to stick to when writing his column, and it goes a little something like this: I’m mad about something ridiculous that happened to either me or a good friend or a random person that called me because when I screech, people listen; I explain the obvious to my like-minded contingent, who never question the fact that I am absolutely correct, and accept as gospel every word I write; I wrap up with something nice that happened in the neighborhood, or drive home my point in a way that convinces everyone (with the exception of a few nameless nudniks who don’t have the guts to say who they are in the comments below) reading that I am correct; I tell you that I will be back next week, screeching about something just as important even though I haven’t thought of it yet.
It’s a very simple formula that has paid dividends for me for years. Not only was I able to solve a myriad of neighborhood problems, I got paid to do it — with an ironclad contract that runs through my 100th birthday and beyond that gives me final cut on everything that gets printed.
Until last week! When I picked up my latest copy of the Brooklyn Graphic off the coffee table in the living room and turned to my column, my eyes practically bugged out of my head!
Sure, my handsome face was still on the page smiling back at me, but the words were definitely not mine, and that shocked — shocked — me.
So the first thing I did was make my lovely wife Sharon get me the phone, and I put in a call to my editor, who usually does a darn good job, but clearly dropped the ball in this case.
He didn’t answer, so I demanded Sharon drive me down to the office at MetroTech to give that nincompoop a piece of my mind.
Now, I don’t need to tell you that we drive a 2011 Hyundai Elantra (Touring Edition) that is a perfect size for her 110 pounds and big enough to take Tornado with us when we travel.
However, the passenger seat is way too small for my huge body, which gives me a hankering for that old 1973 green Plymouth Fury I drove for years.
So we were headed Downtown when I spotted the Nathan’s on 86th Street and Seventh Avenue. Sharon saw me salivating and immediately knew it was already time for a pit stop.
My knees were killing me and I didn’t have Tornado with me to take me the into restaurant, so I figured we would get the goodies to take home by going through the drive-thru. But Sharon was determined not to take the food home and said she would buy everything and we could eat in the parking lot. I handed over my American Express and visions of hot dogs were dancing in my head.
Sharon really outdid herself with my credit card, as she always does, and carried everything back to the non-Plymouth.
That little tiny car was a sight, with big me and Sharon with our four arms figuring out what to eat first, hold first, empty first, and use the empty frank container, large soda container (take that Mayor Bloomberg!), and French fry container to put the necessary condiments atop.
My bride even brought me a container full of sauerkraut for my hot dogs. And one small mustard packet (she don’t like mustard).
Now if I were to put the condiments on the franks, they would have been delicious, but time consuming. So I opted to eat the franks resting them in the sauerkraut container between bites, and quickly, so Sharon could use the hot dog tray to spread out the French fries, using the ketchup, pepper, and salt to flavor them (as if Nathan’s French fries ever need flavoring!).
It took us an hour to figure out the logistics needed to feed us.
With my belly full, I forgot all about the problem with last week’s column until I got home, picked up the newspaper off the coffee table, and the whole thing happened again!
So I had lunch and dinner at Nathan’s that day, and it just goes to show you that it always works out for the Screecher!
Screech at you next week!Read Carmine's screech every Sunday on BrooklynPaper.com. E-mail him at email@example.com.
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