Category: Neighborhoods (Page 1 of 3)

Ailing Polish Hill Resident Asks Family to Donate His Body to Kielbasa

(Article credit → Joe Szalinski, @poetry_hugger)

POLISH HILL – Terminally ill Polish Hill resident Stanley Mroz has requested that his family turn him into kielbasa for purposes of research, according to sources attempting to say their goodbyes through discussions if brining human flesh “will take the edge off.”

“All the power to him,” said Mroz’s neighbor and cousin Gabriel Ludeso, “but not my power. Never again. I had a suspicion he would try something weird like this when he approached me at that party in ‘98 asking if I thought humankind could be ‘faster, stronger, and better complement a potato dish,’ so I relinquished his power of attorney a while ago.”

Other members of Mroz’s family expressed hesitation upon hearing his plan.

“Just another thing he does where he watches movies and gets unusual ideas,” said Mroz’s granddaughter Linda Stefinn, an expert in artificial intelligence. “He just re-watched Transcendence, so he asked me about trying to upload his consciousness into kielbasa, indefinitely extending his existence so he could keep doing kielbasa research on himself. He even seemed more sure of such a plan’s success if his human body became the kielbasa, too. Kind of wish he had put this kind of effort into making my softball games.”

Mroz addressed followers in a video on social media regarding his plea. 

“This is the culmination of my studies,” he said as the video transitioned to a still of him pouring a kielbasa from one beaker to another. “I only hope in death I can continue to help others discover more regarding this wondrous sausage. At least, if I cannot change the world, perhaps I can be in its hearts, minds, and maybe even the stomach of some guy slammed at Gooski’s.”

At press time, Mroz had reportedly interrupted the priest’s last rites to ask him if Jesus had ever specified “an ideal fat ratio” for transubstantiation.

2 Half-Informed Hot Takes on Little Italy Days Because We Were Blacked out at Nico’s

The Little Italy Days festival — the annual event that sprawls across Liberty Ave. is beloved by some and loathed by others, but one thing is for certain: we missed pretty much all of it because we were absolutely toasted at Nico’s Recovery Room for its entire duration. Even spent Saturday into Sunday sleeping there under one of the booth tables. Seriously, they either missed us or just figured it was easier to let us be than to coax some tequila-saturated snoozers elsewhere. Anyway, here are three so-so hot takes we honestly just kind of stitched together from social media after we had assured friends and family that we were OK.

#1: The people were great.

Personally, we loved everybody we encountered throughout the weekend. Was it because they were enabling our reckless bets of rounds of liquor on sporting events we know nothing about? Maybe, but that doesn’t change just how great it was to talk to Patti and Bill and Shawn and Lisa and, well, we’re still looking through our camera roll and messages from unsaved numbers to identify the rest.

Guess some people had some bad interactions, too, though, so that sucks.

#2: The food vendors keep getting — we don’t know; what’s the better play here — worse? Sure, let’s go with that.

We bet they had a lot of those generic carnival food vendors, didn’t they? Ones that sell, like, 10 different ethnic classics, but none of them taste all that good? At least that’s what it looked like on Twitter.

Oh, we also saw the Italian gyros. What the hell? But for real, we were just BLITZED like hell by early afternoon, so we would’ve eaten the ass off a skunk and we could do worse than a pandering gyro stand.

People at Angelo’s are just lucky one of us skinned their knee on the way there — and vomited three or four times, but that’s correlation, not causation — or we would’ve run that place out of gnocchi and garlic knots for a month.

***

Listen, we really dropped the ball on this and we’re sorry. If it’s any consolation, we are still hungover and this draft is being finished in a hoodie, with a cold compress, hopelessly sunken into the couch while we blare season 5 of ‘The Simpsons’ on repeat.

We’ll do better next year, and if anybody hears from the one of us who ended up leaving to go to Lou’s, please alert emergency services immediately; they’re about to call off the search.

Leprechaun With Gigantism Sick of Being Mistaken for Good-Humored Drunk

SOUTH SIDE FLATS — 1,271-year-old leprechaun Donegal O’Shannassey, whose stature resembles that of a normal human due to gigantism, “has had enough” of heavily intoxicated St. Paddy’s revelers mistaking him for a fellow partier refusing to break character, according to sources insisting they would prefer to be left alone over an Irish Car Bomb.

“Aye, another year of suffering among this staggering collection of imbeciles,” said O’Shannassey, groaning as a 20-something patron in a “Fuck Me, I’m Irish” shirt posed with him for a selfie. “My kind is known for saying, ‘Don’t break your shin on a stool that’s not in your way,’ but I might break a glass in a human’s fucking face if they ask one more time about my ‘Lucky Charms.’ Suppose this is why Santa recommended I go out in a hoodie.”

The creature lamented that the holiday’s tendency for excess nullifies what makes his presence a worthwhile experience.

“In the old days, everybody had a charming tale about some wee craic they had with Donegal one March afternoon,” it said. “Now when I try to pull a harmless practical joke, some hare-brained, blithering meat sack nicknamed Dump Truck tries to pummel me into dust. Besides, how am I supposed to stir up mischief when I just watched a lad clog the bathroom sinks with paper towels and then vomit in each one of them? Mary and Joseph, I’m an eons-old prankster, not a monster.”

Several celebrants have complimented the ageless being’s demeanor and appearance, which they’ve mistaken for a carefully orchestrated act.

“That dude’s commitment is epic,” said bargoer Pete Haddad, oblivious that he was asking a millennium-old supernatural lifeform if it wanted a shot of Fireball. “He must’ve had to practice that voice for hours: I knocked him out a couple hours back with a rear naked choke and when he came to, he started cursing in, like, Yiddish or whatever without missing a beat. I’m still not convinced it isn’t my buddy Kevin, though.”

As of press time, sources report that O’Shannassey is hurriedly chugging a pint after a group of young men announced they plan to honor it with 39 consecutive jukebox plays of the “traditional Irish classic” ’Shipping Off to Boston’ by the Dropkick Murphys. ♣

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