Who knew the sleeping angel was capable of murder? Death danced through our apartment with a heavy hand in the early 1960s.
Tonight @6pm @ the Meyer Lansky Tribute @ the Sony of Pony show @ Cornelia Street Café I’ll tell a tale of murder.
I’ve crushed the story down to its essence leaving only the gory details. If your stomach is strong and you’re a fan of mothers who turn on their young, I've got your ticket!
Son of a Pony ~ Meyer Lanksy Tribute
Tonight @ 6pm
Admission $ 7 includes a free drink
By the end of the second week, the science project in the dummy’s stomach was in full swing. Dad caught the stench first, his face looked like he ate a sour ball, but Mom was the one who ripped the dummy off Rory’s lap. She held Jerry’s mouth to her nose causing her to swoon and choke. When she recovered, she walked over to the step ladder and buried the dummy, head first, up to his waist in the brown garbage bag. All I saw were Jerry’s legs hanging over the top. I held Knucklehead tight and sung the show’s theme song low. “Hoo ray, Haa rah!, Its Winchell Mahoney Time, its Winchell Mahoney Time, Its Time for fun.”
The dummy’s swift death opened a nightmare of disappearing stuff.