My time in has-beantown
I was just in Boston. This is an explanation — not an apology.
The town’s got Boston baked beans, Boston scrod, Boston cream pie, Boston clam chowder.
New York’s clam chowder is red. Boston’s white. Like Milk of Magnesia.
1620. Pilgrims. Rough trip. Half made it. Small ship. Heavy seas. Cold, crowded, damp, seasick, scurvy, hungry, 66-day voyage.
No VIP tourist steamship type hot tub, balcony suite, jogging tracks, water slides, rock climbs, snacks or midnight barbecues.
The Mayflower leaked. Lacked shelter and warmth. Nowhere for even a Kennedy to have sex.
There were storms. One body got swept overboard. The meager fare? Biscuits, dry meat.
So why was I in Boston? Who knows. It’s summertime so you have to go somewhere.
On Paul Revere’s ride today he’d say “One, shove the city — two, hit the Cape.”
And Pahk youah cah in Hahva’d yahd? Nobody in the place speaks English.
There’s a thing called a larynx. They don’t use it. Dialogue is through the nose.
Universally annoying
What they did is they made Harvard. Question: So why are their professors primarily left wingers? None ever had a real job?
Never scratched to make a living in the real life of inventory, housing, tenure, style, salaries?
Their life’s work is just to pee on the God-Bless-Us United States?
Boston downtown’s tiny. My hairpiece is larger. You can jump on and off a trolley.
History’s Boston Tea Party, Freedom Trail, the North End, Beacon Hill, Fenway Park, Boston Common, Museum of Fine Arts.
Nightlife? The nearest is in Vegas.
Winter? Grab an Eskimo with a fever. It’s a really nice city.
But: Lousiest is the Boston Globe, which years back wrote an editorial slamming me. They said the town should bar me.
They printed how I was Not! Allowed! There! anymore.
Understand, running around their tiny town at the time was notorious crime boss killer James “Whitey” Bulger. Racketeering, extortion, murder. Him they didn’t mind. Me they minded.
Here’s why. I’d gone to Fenway. To inhale the Red Sox. Mistake!
New Yorkers understand that even the Statue of Liberty can smell Yankee Stadium’s hot dogs. The aroma reaches to Colorado.
Inhaling at least one big, long, fat, red, juicy, aromatic frank is automatic. I can knock off two while ordering a hamburger.
Frank-ly dull
So, Fenway. I order a frankfurter. The thing comes: It’s beige! Beige?! A beige frank? The color of my blouse? I could’ve pinned it on my collar as a brooch.
Who heard of a beige hotdog? The width of a crayon. The thing looked like a dog dropped it.
Face it — if the Pilgrims had known this, they’d have turned around.
We classy exports from Yankee Stadium — inhaling our world-famous, delicious, juicy, extra-long beef hotdogs even without the sauerkraut — we have standards.
They may be low, but they’re standards.
I wrote about this tragedy. The locals resented it. They did an actual editorial.
It was forget the Boston Tea Party, fie on the American Revolution, shove the Battle of Bunker Hill, ignore your John Hancock Company increasing premiums — no longer welcome in their small city: me. Me?
If Moses schlepped down from Mount Sinai now and trekked to Fenway, the tablets he’d carry would be aspirin.
So shove their Sam Adams beer, locally made Monopoly and Dunkin’ Donuts. NYY’s famous extra-long beef hotdogs are The Best.
NOW, back to civilization. Back to New York City, kids, back to New York City.
This story originally appeared on NYPost
