Long Island Memories…

The San Gennaro feast –
Three or four times a year in Island Park or in any of these Incorporated little villages they replicate the NYC style Little Italy Annual Feast. ‘FEAST?’ Like these people don’t ‘feast’ all year around, like they need another excuse to fill their insatiable, big, Walmart fashion wearing asses with sausage and peppers, and meatballs, and pizza, zeppolis (deep-fried leftover pizza dough rolled in a horrific, diabetic, and coma producing amount of powdered sugar) and Diet Coke (irony.)

There’s always like the one hot chick at the feast that every fucking dude beats off to or obsesses on and every chubby disgusting chick in the village hates. They wander around aimlessly being lead by Carney like vendors to the next gastric torture chamber, all wearing some stupid T-shirts that they had made at the little stupid T-shirt making booth, shirts like, ‘I’m with stupid’ or ‘Irish and proud’ ‘Italians only’ or fat big bellied assholes with the NYPD t-shirts on. They’re all looking for something somewhere but they never find it. So like they just eat into oblivion and go home and nap, and come back and do it all over again the next day. It’s all gossip world and everyone knows everyone’s business.

A lot of white trash. Who are you to judge these people, you ask? Well, most of my relatives live there, angry alcoholics still blaming the ‘niggers and spics’ for everything. Which is ridiculous and lame because there is like hardly any African Americans or Puerto Ricans or Latins that live there. They are forever defending cops (because their sons, uncles, or some mental deficient in the shit stained, algae-ridden gene pool, happens to be one) most of them have never been outside of New York. Except for maybe like the aggressively white Poconos for trips, where they have some timeshare cabin, or that they paid $24,000 for.

They’re Philistines, their cultural high point of the year is Super Bowl commercials. Quite a few of them develop health problems. Which include but are not limited to hypertension, gout, diabetes, premature hair loss or thinning (the men and the women) even forms of cancer out of self-hatred or possibly living so close to a landfill dump. When I moved back out there in ‘90 my cousin Lucky took me to Pete’s clam bar, which was across a narrow canal from said landfill. He’s slurping down the sixth clam on the half shell while looking out at the seagulls (flying rats as he calls them) on huge mountains of garbage. He was joking, about the proximity of the possible toxicity of the dump to restaurant distance, theorizing on the health dangers.

Then he’s like, “come on you pussy eat some.” I tried, and gagged and threw up a little. Lucky was a New York city cop. His name was a direct result of being born 7 pounds 11 ounces. Which is hard to fathom, because presently because then he was 6 foot 2 inches and weighs 525 pounds, he’s had a crippling food addiction ever since he stopped drinking. As he puts it, “I’ve never met a carbohydrate that I didn’t fucking like.”

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