Alas The Time Is Anon

I was on some websites this morning, hoping to find paid writing work (sort of an oxymoron actually).

One ad I came across was posted by a playwright who wanted people to contribute their personal and heart wrenching stories to her cause of writing a cathartic (and probably boring as hell) one person diatribe to be staged in the subway or some other dark, dank dungeon reminiscent of a medieval torture chamber. In this way she'll hopefully be able to educate the world (or at least the people in Alphabet City) about "issues" while at the same time attracting casting agents to come see her so that she can book the part of the Mom in a "Huggies" commercial, which is cathartic provided you like poop.

Here's some of the ad. Please pay careful attention to the bolded part:

This is a subject close to my heart so I promise to treat it with the utmost respect. If you would like to remain anonymouse, I will do so. If not, you will be given credit when the play is published/performed.

I must say, I love to remain "anonymouse" whenever I can. In New York this comes in especially handy as "we is loaded up with mouses." I wonder if writer Garrison Keillor, the famed Minnesotan, likes to remain "anonymoose" if he takes a writing job in Minneapolis. One thing I'm fairly sure of even though I don't know the man personally: He probably uses SPELL CHECK before he posts an ad.

I'm very tired and will now leave you. Good day.

How Smart Are You, Smartie Pants?

Smarties®, the innocuous yet tart little candies that resemble the placebos a doctor might administer to a hypochondriac, actually have a website. There are regular Smarties® and Tropical Smarties®, which apparently doctors administer to Bahamian hypochondriacs. There is also a "nutritional information" page. Its very "informative." Check out this "info" below:


I was glad to see that Smarties® still contain "Red 40 Lake," "Yellow 5 Lake," "Blue 2 Lake," "Yellow 6 Lake" as those are quite tasty. They also used to contain "Lake Michigan" and "Lake Erie" but the Food and Drug Administration put a stop to that. The entire "nutritional information" page ought to be replaced with the following, in big block letters:

I actually wrote my college thesis on Smarties®. It was entitled "Smarties® And Their Effect On The Economic Upheaval Of The Industrial Revolution." I admit that this was a strange choice given the fact my major was Communications/Broadcasting . A more appropriate thesis might have been "Proper Etiquette For Standing In The Unemployment Line Upon Graduation." My professor referred to my paper as "inane and drug-addled yet with a certain panache." Extra points were given for my use of, in his words, "high quality bond paper," and I ended up with a C+. I intentionally spilled a martini on the paper before I turned it in to make it appear more urbane and sophisticated.

At one point the Smarties® people were saying on their website that the various multi-colored candies had "flavors," and gave a list of same. For example, did you know that the white one was pineapple? I didn't. I thought it was chalk. They've removed the flavor list from the site, apparently because they don't want the placebo administering physicians chasing them around with a big net.

Smarties® have a listing on Wikipedia which lets you know that the "The candies bear a strong resemblance to tablet-style pills, in shape and texture." I believe I already pointed this out, Wikipedia, albeit in a more off hand and pithy fashion. Wikipedia goes on to mention that:

"One individual candy is in the shape of a cylinder with a diameter of roughly 1 centimetre and a height of roughly .4 centimetres; larger ones do exist, dwarfing their european namesake impostors, with a diameter 2.5 centimeters and about .6cm tall... both sizes are double concave."

This relevant point I was not aware of. I firmly believe that if Wikipedia were a town it would be located in Pennsylvania and the motto on its entry sign would say "The Birthplace Of Useless Fucking Minutiae." And who are these "European Namesake Impostors," by the way? Are there operatives in other countries who spy on the Smarties® factory to gain trade secrets?

Part of my thesis was an analysis of the Smarties® flavors, so of course, I was quite intrigued to find the now defunct flavor list years later. You see, in my college days there was no "Internet (© 1995 by Al Gore, All Rights Reserved)," but rather, "Intuition." So, I drank a case of beer and along with that ate a one pound bag of Smarties® to try and ascertain their flavors. Here's the chart I came up with for my thesis (NOTE: there was also no "PowerPoint" back then. I painted this chart with various nutritional dyes I extracted from the Smarties® using a four dollar chemistry set and a blow torch):

Of course after all the beer I drank they seemed to all taste exactly alike. Maybe it wasn't the beer that made me think that.

Hey, at least they're "nutritional."

Customer Service... Hello, Yes?

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Customer service, how may I help you?

ME: Hello...

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Yes?

ME: Hello, my toaster...

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Yes, how are you today?

ME: My toaster, the "Digital Toast-A-Riffic 435" is not toasting with the correct amperage, and I'm not sure but the lasers don't seem to be working.

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Yes?

ME: Hello?

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Customer service, hello?

ME: Yes, my toaster, the...

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Hello?

ME: Yes, its me again.

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Hello, yes?

ME: There seems to be a connection prob...

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Yes, the connection. Sometimes they break in the main linkage. I can email you a PDF manual, 500 pages in length, where on page 542a subsection B, you can find full instructions for solder...

ME: No, no, I meant the phone connection.

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Oh, I'm sorry. The phone... Weeelllll, if you have the "Toast-A-Riffic 435" you don't have the phone, that only comes built into the "Toast-A-Riffic 437BX." You might consider upgrading for a nominal charge of only fifty dollars.

ME: I meant your phone...

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Oh no, sir, I don't eat toast. My phone is the old fashioned kind.

ME: Listen, I don't want to upgrade to a "phone-toaster." I just want you to repair my current toaster.

CUSTOMER SERVICE: We don't make "phone toasters" anymore sir. The melting plastic and third degree burns resulting from our previous models led to entirely too much litigation. Would you like to upgrade your phone service?

ME: What in the name of...

CUSTOMER SERVICE: I am privileged to inform you that we are a recently acquired sub- division of Markham Tri-Continental Phone Communications And Digital providing phone service to the lower Munsonville area since 1959 and poised to become the next leader in digital communications. I can offer you great deal on a combination of long distance, modem, cable and weekly laundry pick-up for the all time low low price of only fifty dollars a month though in some areas not designated as "service areas" by the FCC the rate may be as much as four-hundred dollars or as little as twenty-five cents plus applic...lick....appp...lic...lickin...apple..AAAHHHPPPP...

ME: Applicable.

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Thank you. Ahhhh...pplicable sales tax and state licensing and usage fees.

ME: My toaster?

CUSTOMER SERVICE: Were you toasting Wonder Bread?

ME: Yes. Why?

CUSTOMER SERVICE: That violates the warranty. You'll have to get a new unit or send it to us for repair.

ME: Fuck off.

CUSTOMER SERVICE: My ass crack or yours?

High Fashion For The Masses

Walmart sells a line of suits. I find this hysterically funny. Some of them have pinstripes on them. I asked the clerk if the mafia shops at the store to which he responded "What?," in that way only the disenfranchised youth of America can do, bolted upright then slouched again and commenced to dragging his knuckles across the floor and onto another helpful customer service experience with yet another satisfied customer.

I tried one on and it was a bit snug and felt as if it was made of paper. When I went looking for the tailor all I could find were some kids stocking sweat pants who kept using the words "ho" and "bee-atch" over and over again, though thankfully not to me. Thankfully for them that is.

Walmart's suit line is called "George." Apparently they were named for the guy who's car trunk they were originally sold from. Walmart charges about 60 bucks for one but I think George used to sell them for about 20 bucks in the parking lot at the Meadowlands on game nights. I believe I once saw a jockey wearing one in the fifth race and I may have even spotted Jason Kidd cutting the errant threads off of one as he walked to his car after a game.

Perhaps in the more bucolic areas of the country people find "the suits of Walmart" (in French, "Les Costumes Du Walmart") high fashion, but here in New York, the capital of filthy streets and night club sophistication, we just find them a bit tacky. And you're reading the work of a man who still owns the pants he wore to his eighth grade confirmation so that's not saying too much for the suits or my fellow New Yorkers for that matter.

Deciding I wanted yet another fun customer service experience I traversed over to Staples, the self-proclaimed "Office Superstore." After firing a starter's pistol to get the attention of the clerk I then asked "Do you sell sell staples here?," to which she replied "Who's that?" I decided to tell her about the Walmart suit clerk in order to entice her to "hook up" with him." From what I hear she did. Apparently he dragged her out of the store by her hair, banging his club on the ground as they left to the applause of management. They live in a cave, have quit their jobs and instead are working on inventing fire and the wheel. Good for them. Kudos, helpful customer service kids. You are a credit to something, and when I figure out what that might be I'll let you know.

I'll talk to you all again soon. I have to run back over to Walmart and pick up some rare wine for a dinner party I'm throwing.

Milton Shackelford, C.N.P.

I remember it as if it were yesterday except that today will be yesterday tomorrow and let's face it; that was then and this is now.

I had hit the skids and had skid marks on my undies. Night after night I would drown my sorrows in cheap bottles of hooch and the comforting, hairy arms of a venereal hooker. "Ladies Of The Evening," some call 'em, but to be frank, she may have been a guy. Anyway, I'll never know for sure.

Life ain't easy when you ain't got the dough, or the yeast for that matter. If you haven't got either at least don't forget the butter. You can't make Hollandaise sauce without butter. But sometimes you gotta find out about life the hard way. A dame who was the waitress in my favorite diner would always say "Where's the beef?" Me, I always say "Where's the butter?" But that's just me. To each his or her own I guess. That gal was crazy in my opinion. Ahhh, who am I kiddin'? Live and let live, I guess.

My name? OK. Milton Shackelford. Oh yeah, and I'm a C.N.P. That stands for "Certified Notary Public." What do I do? Verify signatures, administer oaths, stamp things with an official seal I have, that sort of thing. It's dangerous work sometimes. Lots of intrigue. The ladies love it. I wear a suit, sometimes even a tie. I get to travel. Once I went to Paris. And to the Bronx County Courthouse to put my stamp on some writs. I guess I should mention that I went to Paris when I was in the service, before I became a C.N.P. Maybe that doesn't count, but I've been there. I'm going to Jersey Tuesday, but I don't have to bring my stamp with me because I'm only going to a Bar Mitzvah. I ain't certified there anyway so if they had something for me to stamp, like if the kid gets a diploma or something and the Rabbi has to sign it, I wouldn't be able to. God Damn Jersey; they always have to make everything hard. Ahhh, who needs 'em. I can stamp in Connecticut with my New York certification and anyways it's nicer there. Damn Jersey. Anyway I'm Catholic and maybe they need a Jewish Notary. Damn Jersey. Ain't nothin' but trouble.

My office? It's a booth in the lounge at "Nunzio's Bowl And Blow" out on the Grand Concourse. No overhead, see? Nunzio's an OK fella; he never tried to kill me or nothin'. I just gotta take his sister out once a month and we're aces. Ain't too bad if you can get over her moustache. She's got 'em all over the place. Halitosis too, but I overlook it. The rent is free and Nunzio knows people and like I says, there ain't no overhead. Unless you count all the hot dogs I eat; I gotta pay for those. But I bowl for free so that's good. And anyway it's only once a month that I gotta take his sister out so I ain't complainin'. Except she is really hairy and has stinky breath but like I says it's only once a month. Maybe if I talk to Nunzio he'll let me take her out once every TWO months. That would be great. But only if it don't upset the applecart. I don't want Nunzio killin' me or nothin', which he ain't never tried, but he might if I upset the status quo. You know, the applecart.

Remember I told ya in the beginning that I "remember it as if it were yesterday?" What I meant was when I first found out about training to be a C.N.P. It was a slow news day and I remember seeing the ad on the front page of my morning newspaper:

Yeah, I'll never forget. When I saw that ad I figured my ship had finally come in. I had done all sorts of jobs and been bad at every single one.

Cab driver. Second day out I crashed the cab into the side of a building that some kids had painted a mural of the Lincoln Tunnel on. Tried to drive through it. Damn kids. Saved me from havin' to go to Jersey though. Passenger died unfortunately. Almost got the chair for that but they let me go. It was all a frame up. Damn kids.

Sherpa. Saw the ad for that on a score sheet at "Nunzio's Bowl And Blow." Didn't realize you had to go to Tibet. They drugged me, those bastards! I ain't no mountain guide, that's for sure. Can't even find the Lincoln Tunnel. Almost got the chair for that. Well, at least Tibet is better than Jersey. Damn kids. Damn Sherpas.

Night watchman in an old church down on Allerton Avenue. I was so gassed all the time I was there that I can't even remember the name of it. Saint somebody or other I think. Saint Hoopla? No that's not it. Is there a Saint Hoopla? I wonder if there's a patron saint for notaries. Maybe that's who Saint Hoopla is. There sure are a lot of saints and anyways I was drunk.

My main duty at the church was to sit in the Sacristy and guard Father O'Hallorhan's cassock. One night a guy climbed in through the window while I was on duty, told me he was Jesus, and said he had to borrow it. I was so loaded that I let him do it. Turned out to be Freddie the Wino. I almost got the chair for that and I lost the job. Damn kids. Damn Sherpas. Damn church.

So what the hell did I have to lose? I called. I got trained. I took the test. It had about a hundred questions, some normal and some loaded with all sorts of foreign, Latin type words. I'll never forget the first question. It was one of those "yes/no" things. "Do you have a pulse?" They told us in notary class that would probably be the first question and we should answer yes unless we didn't think we had one but that might work against us becoming notaries.

The second question was a bit tougher. It was something like:

"In the adjudication of a writ of eviction executed at the place of said execution of evictor writ pursuant to Deloros Ipsum of Ipsum Facto, if the attorneys are present with the high sheriff in an adjudication of defecant pursuant to the law henceforth adjudicated does said witness of oath need to witness said signature of adjudicator?"

I just said yes. I didn't really know. Fifty-fifty chance, right? Don't know if I got it right, but I passed the test. In notary class they told us to guess most of the time, so that's what I did. You might think that being a big time Certified Notary Public is just witnessing a signature and stamping a document. Maybe you're right. But I don't think you are, 'cause that test was a bitch, so I think I'm a pretty important fella. I don't mean to swear but sometimes us C.N.P.'s don't get no respect.

So that's my story. I got my license. I date Nunzio's sister once a month, smelly though she may be and I get my free rent. Freddie the Wino? He went to the chair for killing a Sherpa. I saw it, up at Sing Sing. Had to stamp the death warrant with the witnesses signatures once it was all over. Warden signed it. Did you know he's a lefty? Father O'Hallorhan walked the last mile with Freddie and Freddie didn't even flinch. First time I ever saw him sober. Freddie that is. Father may have been loaded; I don't know and anyway that ain't my business. Just witness the signatures, that's all. Father even forgave us for the "cassock incident," as he likes to call it. Right before they threw the switch on Freddie I asked Father if there's a Saint Hoopla but he just glared at me. Wasn't in the mood I guess. Oh well, doesn't matter much now that Freddie's dead. I'll tell ya, that death house smells a lot worse than Nunzio's sister's breath, maybe even worse than Jersey.

The state only let's me charge two bucks for each action I perform as a C.N.P. That ain't half bad considering the fact that sometimes I just sort of stand around and look official. But hey, I'm so well known now that I make at least fifty bucks a week. Times are good. Everyone in the Bronx comes to see me when they need a notary. Even the hookers.

Damn hookers.

Amish Man Kills Neighbor: May Get Talk Show

LANCASTER, PA, MARCH 14 2007 (GNS)-

Ezekiel Stones, an Amish Lima bean farmer, was arrested this morning by Lancaster Police and charged with the murder of his neighbor and rival Lima bean farmer, Jebadiah Rumford.

Stones, 57, shot Rumford, 45, twice in the head with a homemade balsa rifle following a dispute over whose beans contained the most fiber. The two had been feuding silently for years, and even broke a code of Amish non-violence last year when they threw cow chips at each other during a county fair. At the time Stones had been upset that Rumford's cow had defeated his in animal spelling bee.

Pennsylvania State Trooper Brian Johannsen, who arrested Stones, said that the shooting was precipitated by a staring contest that took place early this morning.

"The Amish don't talk very much, so these two guys used to stare each other down to see who would break first." said Johannsen. "I guess this time it just went a bit too far."

Neighbors of the two had no comment and one even went so far as to throw a jar of peach preserves at our photographer.

Stones' horse, on condition of anonymity (his name is Phil) told us that his owner had been depressed for some time and was thinking of shooting somebody to "release the tension."

"I've never dealt with anybody so tight in my entire life," Phil said, "even Quakers find him boring."
The horse went on to say that the feud was driving him crazy and he actually thinks it was in everyone's best interest that Rumford was killed.

"He wasn't very sociable and his barn-raising and quilting skills were marginal at best." Phil then counted to four with his right hoof, ate some oats and fell asleep.

Stones was arraigned this afternoon in Lancaster County Court on one count of second degree murder and two counts of endangering the life of a rooster. He's being held on five-hundred thousand dollars bail or a barrel of fresh churned butter, depending on which is easier for his family to come by.

In a related story, Stones has been offered a syndicated talk show, pending the outcome of his trial. Tentatively titled "Ezekiel" the show would explore such controversial topics as "Square Knot Or Sailors Knot," "My Wife Slept With My Neighbor's Goat" and "How Much Manure Is Too Much Manure?". When asked how Amish people would receive the show given the fact that they have no televisions, executives from the syndicator, "Tri-State Hauling," had no comment.

Ask Uncle Cooclah No. 5

Dear Uncle Cooclah,

You are from New York and quite frankly, I am not from New York. Can you please tell me why New Yorkers are so pissy and irritable all the time?

Quite Simply Yours,
Okie Opie From Okefenokee A Hick With A Heart Who Has Been To Muskogee

Dear Whatever The Fuck,

Please see the accompanying diagram:


These weather patterns combined with the fact that many of us are up-wind from New Jersey help to contribute to our obnoxious demeanor.

I hope this answers your question you fucking moron.

Dear Uncle Cooclah,

The fifth race tonight at Yonkers: #7 or #3? How 'bout the exacta?

Coughing Up Some Phlegm,
Old Man With Two Teeth Who Hangs Out In The Grandstand Smoking Luckies With No Filter

Dear Mucous Man,

You old World War II codgers with your charming ways warm the cockles of my heart. This being said, your analysis of tonight's fifth is reminiscent of a shithead.

Why the hell are you playing the exacta? You know you never hit. Take the 6, 5, and 3 in the NINTH race trifecta and skip the FIFTH entirely. The 7 and 3? You're such an asshole, you lovable old coot.

Now go see a lung doctor and call me in the morning.

Dear Uncle Cooclah,

Check this out:

Pretty good, right?

Formulaically Speaking,
Hy Ayecue From Hyde Park

Dear Heidi Ho,

Sorry but no. After I was done chortling I corrected your formula and submitted it to the Nobel committee for consideration, under my name of course:

I hope that for the sake of science that you have not submitted your crappy formula to any well known journals for publication, although I doubt they would publish it anyway. Next time add bananas.

Fran Cooclahlee (affectionately known as "Uncle Cooclah") is a well known syndicated advice columnist and physicist who also owns a hot dog truck. Please feel free to post your questions to him here. While he can't get to everyone he promises not to come to the homes of those he can get to.

GEOBIT: J. Arthur Spurbington

GEOMOP WORLDWIDE NEWS SERVICE- 3 Hours Ago-

J. Arthur Spurbington, the famous inventor and financier, died this morning in Brooklyn after a long bout with diarrhea. He was 159.

Jarrock Arthur Spurbington was born on April 15, 1847 to Goatsmanaring Spurbington and his wife Bernice in Parkinsons, Kansas. His father, famous for inventing a product known as "The Artificial Sphincter," encouraged his son to explore his inventive side from a very young age.

Moving to New York City in 1870 at the age of 22, Spurbington quickly got a job working as a bookkeeper in a meat rendering plant. While there he got the inspiration for his first major invention, "Bull Taps," which he patented and made millions from. These were tap shoes specifically designed for cattle so that they would have something to pass the time with while awaiting slaughter. These also helped to increase the amount of protein in the meat.

Several profitable land investments made him even more money and by 1879 he was one of the richest men in America. Bored with the life of inventor and financier he decided to take the job of Marshal of his hometown of Parkinsons in 1880. His adventures were later chronicled in the 1950s television Western "That Darn Marshal Guy From Parkinsons, Kansas," which lasted for a season on ABC and starred Liberace in the title role.

While breaking up a fight in a saloon one night in 1885, Spurbington noticed a woman breast feeding her child and found this strangely titillating, no pun intended. Figuring that other men might also find it exciting and wishing to avoid riots in the town he came up with his next major invention, "Uncle Hermione's Boob Juice," named for a relative on his mother's side who had invented mail fraud and was later lynched by the townspeople for marrying a goat. Made from a mixture of beets and old coffee, it proved quite popular as a substitute for mother's milk and it remained so for fifty years, making Spurbington even more millions.

Spurbington gave up the job of Marshal to Wyatt Earp in May of 1886 after losing it to him in a game of Cribbage. It was at this point that he decided to take a stab at writing. His first book "Life's One Essential Truth," instantly became a best seller. The truth was simply this: "Grape Nuts® are hard to chew." He then went on to explain in detail how one might chew them successfully and to offer other applications for them, including using them to build roads or to train doctors as to what kidney stones look like. It also led to his last and greatest invention in 1898, the "Grapenuts Softener," which he placed on the outskirts of Parkinsons and which people would travel to from miles around to use for a nominal fee.

Now 50 years of age, Spurbington was worth half a million dollars, which was a huge sum of money for that time. He decided to retire and promptly fell asleep (after taking a strong tranquilizer he had invented), not awaking again until 2004 and somehow ending up in Flatbush, Brooklyn asleep on a bench. Realizing he might not have much time left and having never been married he wandered into a bar and proposed marriage to a woman he met, Tessie Tatata, a 35 year old entertainer who was working there. They were married in 2005 and one year later gave birth to a 50 year old dry cleaner who they named Sidney.

Spurbington had been suffering greatly in recent months due to some bad Sushi. Doctors think this is what led to his untimely death.

"He was a nice old dude, kinda ancient like Dick Clark or something, but he was real cool." his widow said in a statement to the press right after his death. "I want everyone to know how much I loved him, not just for his money, which I will inherit and use to raise my 50 year old child, become famous for no good reason, and make frequent trips to Bermuda with."

A private funeral will be held Tuesday in Brooklyn after which the body will be shipped to Parkinsons, Kansas and buried inside of a horse.

Nick DaBaba

A friend of mine told me that she was going to have her hair cut at a place that featured a choice of 500 different celebrity styles, a Bose surround sound type system with soothing music and pleasant scents pumped throughout the salon, sort of an aroma therapy while you get your coiffe. The price for all this; a bargain basement $250. She said I ought to consider having my hair cut there. Yeah, OK.

My hair is worth twelve dollars, which is exactly what I pay to have it cut. Well, its actually fourteen because I give the barber a two dollar tip, which I consider quite generous since there is only one barber at the shop I go to and he owns the place.

The barber is an old Italian guy named Nick, so old in fact that I think he may be Dante's father. You want a choice of celebrity styles? Nick has plenty to offer you. Like most old Italian barbershops he features a wall of photos with names, some autographed, to show you the type of celebrity cuts he can provide:

You need entertainment from a high tech system when you get your haircut? Nick has a high tech entertainment center atop a shelf in a corner of the room. It features the latest in modern entertainment, especially on Saturday afternoons when the rabbit ears seem to pick up UHF particularly well:

There's even more entertainment when I'm there because I set Nick up with straight lines. I don't even have to say "lines" really. All I have to say are "words." Here's an example of what I'll do when I'm sitting in the barber chair (the parenthetical contains the translation of the broken English).:

ME: Baseball?

NICK: Too much-a money, all the time with-a the drugs, no good, a-no good, buncha bums. She's-a no game no more, bull-a-shit.

(Baseball players are all overpaid and take steroids. They also lack moral fiber. Therefore the game is not what it used to be and can best be described as a hypocritical lie.)

ME: Music?

NICK: What music? There's-a no music now, all bull-a-shit. No good, a-no good. Sound-a like shit. I'm-a go home tonight watch-a the Lawrence Welk on-a da UHF.

(I don't care for today's music scene. When I go home tonight I'll turn on cable television and watch re-runs of Lawrence Welk on PBS).

ME: Barking?

NICK: God Damn-a dogs, all-a day long gotta make-a God Damn noise, (to dogs) shut-up-a for Crissakes! This-a woman gotta keep-a da dogs quiet, never shut up! Gesù, Giuseppe, Maria help-a me please! (bangs on far wall of shop in hopes the dogs may all of a sudden acquire cognitive reasoning and heed his request for peace and quiet)

(I knew when I rented this place that it was next door to a dog groomer who also has a kennel for boarding, yet I still complain incessantly about the barking. At this time I should like to implore the Holy Trinity for help with this grave situation whilst I rap on the wall to try and obtain a consensus).

Aroma therapy you say? Of course Nick has aroma therapy in his shop! There's the smell of Barbasol, Pinaud, Clubman Talc and that blue liquid in the big glass cylinder used to sterilize the combs. And on Saturdays, to go along with the high tech entertainment, Nick's wife Rosa provides treats for the customers on a big plate. These of course enhance the aroma (see the piece "Scent Of The City" for more on this):

So there you go. A complete salon experience at a great price.

I myself am partial to the "Joe # 1" as my choice of cut. I feel that I am comparable to Joe DiMaggio in the same way that Anna Nicole Smith is comparable to Marilyn Monroe. I own a Yankee hat, I'm Sicilian and there were fishermen in my family.

$250 for a haircut?!! BULL-A-SHIT!!