I’m hotter than the salted water I cook my cavatelli in over the fact that the ribbon on my Smith-Corona ran dry so I have to call in my column to my stupid editor so he can bang it out instead and now my trusty messenger pigeon Gabbagole is out of a job!
Look, you all know the ol’Screecher likes to do things the old-school way, and that means breaking a sweat and making a racket at the typewriter for hours as I pound out my latest and greatest prose for your personal enjoyment.
But I bet you didn’t know that it’s not so easy these days to find a typewriter repair shop to replace the keys that my fingers like to hit more than one at a time, oil the hammer, and install an industrial-strength return lever so I can speedily move up a line and over to the left without sending the carriage out the window of my penthouse apartment at the beautiful Harway Towers in Bensonhurst!
I tell you folks, this here problem is just the latest conspiracy in the attempts to shut me up that started when that aforementioned editor pulled my column from its most popular syndicated outlet and replace me with a cartoon character!
The other part of the conspiracy begins and ends with my so-called “pals” at Acess-A-Ride, who are constantly trying to take away my hard-earned right to be taken via chariot door-to-door to and from anyplace in the city for the price of a MetroCard swipe.
So you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that when I heard about Councilman Chaim Deustch’s plan to let users of this so-called “service” sound off on just how bad it actually is on Monday night in Coney Island, I immediately put in a call to get a ride over there so everyone could hear me roar!
And that was my first mistake! First of all, you can’t call Access-A-Ride more than 24 hours in advance to book a chariot, apparently because they don’t have calendars over there that go past the next day. And once I told them where I was headed and what I was prepared to do, I’m confident they immediately put me on the “no-fly” list!
So I hatched my latest foolproof scheme to outsmart the dimwits that answer the phone over there: I’d plan a trip to the Staten Island Mall (there was a sale at Penny’s) and back, then have a sudden “change of plans” and have them take me directly to Coney for the big meeting.
The first part worked out just fine: they got me to the Rock in record time, and my lovely wife Sharon was able to shop to her heart’s content. We even had time to pull up a chair at the Appleby’s they got over there and enjoyed some French onion soup, chicken, shrimp, and that dip that I like there. The artichoke dip. I go crazy for that. (Speaking of which, here’s a Screecher tip: When you run out of chips to dip into the artichoke dip, you can use your finger to scoop up the rest!)
Things went down hill when we were ready take the trip home. My chariot came just a little bit late, and with plenty of time to get me to me latest soapbox.
But — and here’s the but! — when I told the driver of my “change of plans,” he told me there was no way he could alter the schedule. Curses!
Now, here’s the kicker — we were about two blocks from my house when he got a call on the CB. Apparently, he had to make a pick-up at W. 37th Street near Sea Gate at the end of Coney Island — and I was about to be taken for a ride!
So instead of getting home in time to attempt to make it to the meeting on time atop my trusty steed Tornado, I ended up on a tour of Surf Avenue!
By the time I got home it was too late, and I was too tired to head over.
Apparently, that driver got the message.
And I wasn’t able to vent my grievances.
Instead, I rolled up to the kitchen table and enjoyed the extra order of chips and artichoke dip while watching “Jeopardy.”
But they can’t stop me: Next week, I’ll be screeching about all the problems with Access-A-Ride right here in this space! Be prepared, Councilman Deustch!
Screech at you next week!
