Uncle Slappy called early this morning and he was loaded for bear. He had, of course, been checking in with me, his favorite nephew, throughout the "super storm," (the insurance people had created that designation to avoid paying "hurricane" damages) and he knew I was ok on the Upper East Side. This morning his call had a different agenda: diatribe.
"I was listening to NPR," the old man began "and they were giving the disposition of traffic on the bridges and tunnels in and out of New York."
"That's right, Uncle Slappy," I moderated, "today's the first day back for many people."
"Nothing has the same name it used to have. The Triboro Bridge is now the RFK Bridge named for that little scrotum twister Bobby, who, it should be said, was a lawyer for Joe McCarthy."
A Slappy and an elephant never forget.
"The 59th Street Bridge is now the Ed Koch Bridge. He's not even dead. Any day now he could be found in flagrante delicto with a little boy, and then what? They change the name again?
"And the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel is now the Hugh Carey Tunnel. The man was a shitty governor, so they name a tunnel after him."
"That's the way things are, these days, Uncle Slappy. At least it's not the 'Citibank Tunnel.' It could be worse."
"That gives me an idea. Name something after David Dinkins the schvartza mayor with the fancy mustache. And since there are no bridges, tunnels or airports left, let's change the name of all those shops to 'Dinkins Donuts.'"
"Dinkin's Donuts, not Dunkin' Donuts" I clarified. "Are you done now Uncle Slappy?" I asked during a pause for a breath.
"Yes," he laughed. "This was quite sufficient."
The old man hung up the blower still laughing under his breath.