LizzieMaine
Bartender
- Messages
- 35,514
- Location
- Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
("Th' naaaarve oov that little snip oov'a garrrl," sputters Ma. "Talllin' me me children coo'da cooom oot bettar if Oi'd BAAARP'D 'm roit!" "Eh," ehs Uncle Frank, frowning again at eggs with no bacon. "Oi've seen waaarse." "An'd YOOOU, Miss Barbara Scanlan!" fumes Ma. "Oi give ye a hoose an' hoom, an' ye repay me by cuttin' me t' pieces behoind me back!" "Eh," shrugs Bink, not minding the absence of the bacon. "Consid'rin' what Mickey give ME. Anyways, I keep tellin'ya I din' say it like t'at." "Well hoo DID ye say it?" demands Ma, slamming her glass of tomato juice down on the table. "I jus' said," elaborates Bink thru a forkful of eggs, "f'zample, neveh min' Mickey. C'nsideh t' wawkin' mout'. Would she be like she is if she din' grow up fulla gas?" "Well," hesitates Ma. "It's loike I say," inserts Uncle Frank, "Ye ain't joost what'chee eat. It's hoo laang ye carry it aroond." "Ye say that," scowls Ma. "whoile ye carryin' it aroond on ye vest!" Uncle Frank looks down, spears the offending speck with a tine of his fork, flips it into his mouth, and punctuates the performance with a deep eructation. "Oi'll be booond..." sighs Ma...)
("We gotta lot ridin' awnis," sighs Sally. "Like Joe's been sayin'. An'ee's right. Even wit' allayez helpin' out, fixin' up t'at place cleaned out what we had lefta t'em bonds we had. An'nez gonna be a lot moeh bills comin' in..." "Yeh," nods Alice, glancing down at the paper with a sigh. "I hoid t'ey laid off some people at t' plant las' week," she continues. "Oveh weh t'ey put phones t'get'eh, y'know? Till'ey c'n get t' pawrts." "T'at ain' gonna do nut'n t' us," denies Sally. "Makin' tubes don' need any'a t'at stuff. Long'seh ain' no tungsten shawrtage. We'll be fine." "Yeh," nods Alice. "We'll be fine...")
("Why Women Cry...")
(WHY IS IT ALWAYS SLAUGHTER????????)
("I wish y'd take'em stupid skates awff," frowns Bink as she and Rosa proceed along Midwood Street toward the Patio Theatre. "People's lookin' atcha." "I gotta practice," insists Rosa. "If I c'n skate awnis rotten sidewawk wit'out fallin' on me can, skatin' awnat new concrete's gonna be a piece'a cake." "When we get'teh," snorts Bink, "ya betteh not skate aroun'at lobby. Ya fawl innat pool wit' t' gol'fish t'ey'll t'row ya out!" "Wouldn' hoit'choo t' take up rolleh skatin'," taunts Rosa. "Ya gett'n milk legs!" "I AM NOT!" roars Bink, as an elderly couple sitting on their stoop exchanges pointed whispers. Rosa sweeps around in a graceful arc and skids to a stop as they approach the intersection of Midwood and Flatbush. "FLOOZY!" echoes a piercing shout emanating from somewhere between the Dragon's Den and Mozelewski's of Brooklyn. "T'is neighbehood," scowls Bink, "is goin' t' t' dawgs." "I don' t'ink," replies Rosa, peering into the distance to locate the voice, "t' dawgs will take it...")
(I bet Ursula Parrott had more fun.)
(This happened to me once, and I had to pay an emergency room $4000 to find out why. WHERE THE HELL WAS MARY WORTH WHEN I NEEDED HER?)
("The mules are raunchy." Oh you romantic devil.)
("Positively Mister Roebuck? Absolutely, Mister Sears!")
(Who needs canaries in a coal mine when you've got chickens in the cow barn!)



