A Jew, A German, A Mick, A Spic, & A WopA Story by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham I despise Racism & any and all forms of Supremacism, of which Organized Religion is one such shameful example of the many exhibited upon this Earth wherein men think to be better than other men ...
A Jew, A German, A Mick, A Spic, & A Wop Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham Copyright © 2013 Marvin Thomas Cox DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham All Rights Reserved
You might have called it a normal day, if you were to casually drive through New York City's thriving borough known as Brooklyn1. A closer look would reveal that no day is normal in Brooklyn. Every day is an adventure all its own. This day was no different, as Isaac Goldstein parked out front of the Kosher Corner Supermarket on McDonald Ave. He was about to enter the store when he heard a most familiar voice shout his name. “Hey Goldstein, stopin' in to buy a nice slab of pork ribs?” Fabiano Moretti loved to give old man Goldstein hell. “F**k off Moretti! You Wop Schmuck!” “Ah now, don't get personal you Jew b*****d.” Moretti chuckled, “Hey, seriously old man, you gonna make the game at Wagner's this evening? I think I gotta right to win some of my money back, you old fart.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's all you dagos can think about is money, and they say we Jews are a greedy lot. You think I don't have better things to do with my time than to hang out with the likes of you? What would my poor mother say if she knew I was playing cards at a Nazi's house with a Wop, a Mick, and a Spic? She would turn over in her grave is what she would do.” Goldstein wiped his brow with his handkerchief in the afternoon sun, giving Moretti his best scowl. He liked Moretti, but he'd be damned if he ever let the Italian a*****e know it. Moretti grinned, “S**t Goldstien, I don't really care about the money, I just like watching you squirm when the game's not going' your way. You shouldn't be so hard on Wagner, after all it was his Dad that was the Nazi, not him. You coming or not?” I wouldn't miss it for the world Moretti. I look forward to kicking the s**t out of you at cards every chance I get. Wagner is an arrogant German a*s just like all Germans, that's why I like him so much.” Goldstein never smiled. Sarcastic remarks were his version of humor. “A Nazi and a Jew go together like ham on Rye bread, don't you think.” Moretti lost his grin, “Would you stop that Nazi bullshit? You know damn well you like the hell out of Wagner. F**k, you've been going' to his house to play cards for the last ten years. What fool would go to a man's house that he did not like? Oh hell, I forgot, you go for the chance to win money you greedy a*s Jew prick. Besides, didn't your parents come from Germany?” “All the more reason to avoid Germans,” Goldstein retorted. For Wagner, I make a slight exception. A card game is good, even if it is at Wagner's. I'll be there, now leave me alone to do my shopping. My wife will be all over my a*s if I don't get this shopping done for her.” “Man, that Goldstein never gives anybody a break,” Moretti muttered to himself as he walked away. Sometimes he wasn't quite sure why he even talked to the guy. Yeah he did, he enjoyed all the old man's bullshit. The old man was pretty sharp for a bigoted old fool.
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Since the very first evening with the guys together, the game was supposed to start at 7:00 pm sharp, but nobody ever showed up until around 7:30. That's the way it had always been. No matter what anybody wanted to say about Wagner, he knew how to treat guests. There was never a lack of cold beer and snacks. Wagner was a good man who suffered from guilt he, himself, was not responsible for. A man could not help what his father was, or what his father had done. Goldstein fed off of Wagner's guilt, never willing to forgive the Nazis for his family members at Auschwitz. He knew Wagner was a good man. The pain of the past simply would not allow him to tell the man so. Sarcasm was his shield against feelings that might allow him to forgive -- or forget. Edward Torres was the first to bang on Wagner's door, openly dying of thirst for a beer. He found his way to the fridge like a mouse drawn to cheese, inspecting the contents carefully. “S**t! Heineken again.” Torres liked his beer. Even better, he liked other people's beer. His family had immigrated to the United States from Puerto Rico when he was a small child. His mother had withered away in grief after his Dad was killed in a construction accident. Hard work had been the only way he could help his Mom and two sisters, throughout his teenage years. Construction work was in his blood. School, that was for people who didn't have to pay rent, or buy groceries. He grew up to be a big man, a man not to be angered. His sheer size was intimidating. A couple of beers later with Torres feeling all the better, O'Sullivan came jovially through the front door; a strange sort of guy considering his background. The old saying went that, “God created whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world.” It seemed kind of funny to all the guys that this red headed Mick would not touch a drink, insisting he never had, never would. Red headed Irish men were reputed to be impulsive hot heads. Killian O'Sullivan apparently was the exception to this erroneous misconception regarding the red headed Irish. Goldstein respected him for his calm demeanor and intelligent wit. Of course, he generally expressed this respect for O'Sullivan by way of his naturally gifted Jewish sarcasm. Lukas Wagner, in his usual manner, always took a back seat to the other guys. He would busy himself in the kitchen preparing snacks until everyone arrived before coming out to be sociable. A small thin man, always hidden in the crowd, Wagner never seemed to tire of serving, toting beer from the fridge to the table, and passing out snacks. He was quite the educated man, though he never let on. He tried hard to just be one of the guys, but never quite fit in despite his efforts. Even in a Poker game, he was somewhat out of place. He was simply too smart for the conversation around the table, even for Goldstein and Goldstein was no dummy. Tonight's game would be a repeat of just about every game played at Wagner's over the years, lots of beer consumed, lot's of cussing over money lost, lots of bragging over pots won and, of course, lots of arguing over things that would never change anyone's opinion one iota. Nothing ever changed, things were more intense from time to time, but they never changed. Tonight would be no different. Somehow, Wagner took it all well. If it ever bothered him, he never said anything. It was doubtful that the guys would even notice; far too busy immersing themselves in gambling and beer drinking, and that wholeheartedly. With little fanfare, Goldstein quietly entered Wagner's home with his usual scowl, as though his face might crack if he were to dare smile. The a*s chewing his wife had given him earlier in the day continued to ring in his ears. He winced at the very thought of her angry face after he had returned from the supermarket. Sometimes he wondered why he ever married her. He guessed, after all these years, it was a bit late to wonder about that now. “Are we gonna play cards or what!,” Moretti shouted, in strutting through the front door. Moretti was always the last one to arrive, and the first one to complain about the game being delayed. Wild women, alcohol, and tardiness were his most glamorous of attributes. He was a hell of a worker, when he went to work. Like Torres, he liked his cold beer. Countless jobs had been his to gain and lose, shortly thereafter, only because of his absenteeism and tardiness. No matter, every job he lost seemed to roll off his back like water off a duck's. Moretti was a loud, friendly, up in your face kind of guy. Often he would look down at his chest as he felt a finger pushing him back to within proper speaking distance. Guys tended to be uncomfortable with another guy talking mere inches from their face. Moretti, habitually, would never figure this out. He just couldn't help himself …
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“Alright, so bring on the beer. Hope you got some Budweiser this time Wagner!” Torres knew damn well that Wagner never bought anything but Heineken. He had already inventoried the fridge to find, once again, that nothing had chanced since the first time he nosed his way into Wagner's fridge so many years ago. Torres was the kind of guy who liked to find a chink in your armor. Never had he been able to discover even a crack in Wagner's, though the cracks were there if one were to look in the proper places. “What'll it be guys?” Wagner queried as he sat down and began shuffling cards. The usual, seven card stud?” “Why change things now!” O'Sullivan was the first to sit down. He enjoyed these guys, a******s though they were. The rest of the boys rose from their seats in the living room and flocked to the kitchen table like pigs to slop. Goldstein demanded his usual seat at the table as though it had something to do with his game, while the rest of the guys grabbed the first available seat. The brawl for who would take whose money was now officially on …
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Their get together always began fairly quiet and cordial. A few beers later, come 10:30 pm or so, tongues whetted and dragging, the conversational volume would begin to rise exponentially with each guy sitting at the table blaming the other guys, that guy also adding to the increasing volume level himself. The only exception to the developing situation was always the sober guy amidst an ever growing collection of beer bottles, Mr O'Sullivan being that individual to whom the task, of presiding over those who were inebriated, always happened to fall. At times it might happen sooner, or it might take place a bit later, but it always took place. It was simply a matter of time before the conversation, steered towards its argumentative path by the guiding hand of alcohol, turned to either politics or religion, sometimes both at one sitting. Tonight's episode turned out to be that of religion. “ I tell you guys, if the Roman Catholic Church had the authority it had in the old days we would not be seeing the war and strife we witness in the world today!” Everyone that knew Moretti agreed that if a contest were held for the ability to speak loudly, he would be a shoo-in. Wagner hated arguing but, he was Lutheran, and avidly anti Catholic. “I suppose we would not have Church orchestrated genocide as we had in the past, either, Moretti. Have you forgotten the Inquisition?” Taking a sip of his beer, Torres entered the conversation, looking squarely into Wagner's eyes. He too was Catholic. “No of course we haven't, it was a terrible thing, but even terrible things serve a purpose.” Goldstein was not one to listen to bullshit. “What the hell good purpose do you think it served Torres, to help Columbus and his ship loads of desperate men discover the new world because they were all Jews, forced to convert to Christianity, fleeing from the persecution of the Roman Catholic Church? Have you any idea how many Jews were butchered by the Church simply because they refused to convert to Christianity? S**t man, do you have any knowledge of your own ancestry, your own background!” Goldstein was loving this. He had been waiting a long time for this moment, the moment when he would drop a small bomb on Torres. And he had chosen to do it loudly ... O'Sullivan held up a hand of caution, “Okay guys, if we're gonna talk about religion let's keep it civil, okay. We're all friends here, right? Come on, surely we can talk and play cards at the same time -- and that without being so a*****e rude as to abruptly cut in on top of what your friends are trying to say in expressing their opinion same as you. Ain't a damn thing so important to be said here that it justifies disrespectfully talking over the top of what someone else, your f*****g friends, are trying to say, a******s! Whose deal is it anyhow?” “Civil my a*s,” Morretti mumbled, then returned to being loudmouthed, “It was you Jews, Goldstein, who murdered Jesus, and you have the nerve to wonder why the Church is against you!” “Sarcasm disguised Goldstein's anger as he replied, “I am sorry to correct you in front of all our friends Moretti, but it was not the Jews who murdered Jesus, it was the Romans. I believe they are today referred to as Italians. You are Italian aren't you, Moretti, or am I mistaken?” “It makes no difference who put Jesus to death. The Inquisition was wrong. The Catholic Church was wrong. Jews were not the only people the Church persecuted. They were quite willing to slaughter anyone who dared leave the Roman Catholic Church, or refused to convert to it.” Wagner was proving himself unusually outspoken this evening. Torres grinned through the bottle pressed against his lips. He was certain he had discovered his sought after chink in Wagner’s armor. “What's up Wagner you taking' the Jew's side in this? You think that will make up for your family's past?” The nerve had been struck, the chink found. Wagner, who was rarely angry at anyone, lashed out with surprising fervency. “I can live with my father serving in Hitler's army as a Nazi guarding the Jews at Auschwitz. It's hard, but I can live with it! Can you live with your ancestors murdering Jesus? Goldstein just happens to be right here!” “Easy guys, easy does it.” O'Sullivan could sense the tension building in the air around them. “Look, we're all friends here. Of no fault of our own, we all have different religious upbringings. Hell, we grew up in completely different cultures. Our parents taught us what their parents taught them. We know better than to talk religion, most especially, when we're drinking, but we do it any damn way. Well you guys do, I just listen and try my best to keep the peace. I love the s**t out of you guys. I consider you all to be my friends. But, a wise man once said, 'Religion is bullshit2.' Maybe, he was on to something, because I hate this bullshit bickering! Like I said, let's keep it civil. Come on, let's play cards, shall we? Or, did we did we come here just to piss each other off?” The answer seemed to be obvious, as O'Sullivan's words were clearly heard by all, but handily ignored by determinedly hard headed a******s on an alcohol induced, agitate the situation, mission. Goldstein was not about to let Torres off the hook -- not now. “Torres, you and Moretti are supposed to be my friends, yet you hate Jews in general. You preach love and forgiveness, yet you openly speak of hatred for the Jews, showing only them anything but forgiveness.” He had Torres's attention now. And if looks could kill ... “Torres do you have even the slightest inkling of what your name likely means in Hebrew? When a man loses his identity he soon forgets who he is. This is why we Jews refuse to assimilate into the nations wherein we reside. We cling to our identity as Jews so that we will not forget who we are as a people.” “So what! Who gives a s**t what you people do. You gotta point here Goldstein? Cause if you ain't I about heard me enough!” Torres fumed angrily. Goldstein took a long, deep, breath, readying himself to strike the fatal blow. “Torres, in the past it is very likely that your name was altered ever so slightly in order to disguise your identity -- to hide who you are from those who persecuted your ancestors. Your name, Torres, originates from the Hebrew word Torah, which means teaching or instructions. At some point in time, now passed, it is highly probable that your ancestral identity was Jewish. Your ancestors were probably forced to convert to Christianity as Conversos in order to save their lives and the lives of their children, or else you would not be here today. It's funny isn't it, you really hate yourself. You're a Jew who hates Jews! But don't fret my friend, no decent Rabbi would have you, because your turncoat ancestors betrayed their own faith by becoming Christians for the simple sake of saving their Inquisition persecuted hides -- your miserable a*s hide.” There was a split second, when you really could have, literally, heard that proverbial pin dropping to the floor, of deafening, holy s**t, silence before Torres exploded, sending his beer bottle flying from the tabletop, with O'Sullivan, instinctively, directing a stern look towards Moretti, as his hand clearly signaled the man, in no uncertain terms, to zip it and not say or do a damn thing to make things worse than they already were. All he could do was hope the Italian b*****d would heed his sign language advice -- that and wait and see what happened next, and something was damn sure fixing to happen. Rising from his chair, he met Goldstein's sparkling, tit for tat, gaze with an eyes ablaze look of incensed trembling rage that, most assuredly, would send any sensible demon scrambling for cover within the very pits of hell, itself. “That's f*****g bullshit, old man! I ain't no damn Jew!” Goldstein smiled, coolly and ever so slightly, while never averting his eyes from those of Torres, as he savored this moment of putting a friend in his place with a heaping spoonful of his own racist medicine. Torres continued addressing Goldstein with his best pissed off Latino stare down; a piercing glowering down your nose and drilling directly into the eyes of your opponent, cold as f*****g death, look which was fully intended to convey an indisputable message of, “I'll rip your f*****g head off and s**t down your shoulders, old man!” To his chagrin, the stubborn a*s old man refused to be intimidated by Torres' evil eyed fiery glare; a glare he'd handily used over the years, in forcing some pretty tough men to back down or get their asses whipped. But Goldstein truly appeared unshaken, steady as a rock, showing not a sign of being intimidated or frightened, much less backing down -- and this pissed the big man off even more. At the same time, and within that same breath, of wanting to punch his friend right in the kisser, the old man had just earned his respect -- simply because, he did refuse to back down. The old man had a set of stones, for damn sure. What the hell would this old fart call it? “Chutpzpah3!” The old f****r had “Chutzpah,” and for that he would ease off and give his friend the respect he deserved -- had clearly just earned as a man that would, no doubt, take an a*s whooping if that was what it took to stand his ground. Torres despised men who cowered down, and this moment of learning what Goldstein was really made of caused him to like the old b*****d even more than he already had. His anger began to melt away, in knowing that he had dealt his friend misery for several years now, just because he had thought he could always get away with it. Ever so slowly, his projected face of utmost fearsome intimidation began to be replaced with a warm smile as he continued to carefully appraise Goldstein -- man to man, eye to eye. In fact, he was vaguely entertaining the notion of offering Goldstein a respectful handshake in burying the hatchet of a trading-insults-in-jest situation that he, himself, had brought about. He might just do that, maybe, later on after the game was over, with everyone swilling down one last beer as they tallied up their crying a*s losses, or set themselves to bragging about how much they had won from the suckers at the table. Keeping his eased gaze affixed upon Goldstein, while sliding back into his chair, he realized he'd underestimated this old coot -- and he was man enough to admit it. As if, somehow, reacting in betrayed opposition to Torres' softening mood, Moretti chose this, exact, moment to open his big a*s instigating mouth. “Torres does sound a hell of a lot like Torah,” mimicked a s**t stirring, agitating, Moretti. “Maybe you are a Jew after all!” “Hey are you trying to help, or make things f*****g worse here, Moretti!” O'Sullivan's face was beginning to turn every bit as red as his hair. “Ah hell, O'Sullivan, I just like getting a rise out of everybody. I like to see what it takes to piss'em off. Wagner, are you pissed off yet? How about you, Goldstein, you bigoted old b*****d?,” Morreti was grinning from ear to ear now. “I'm no bigot!” Goldstein shouted defensively. “Sure you are,” an instinctively backsliding Torres insisted, “You openly voice your hatred of Germans, when your own parents were German Jews -- while insulting us for hating Jews.” I'd say that makes you a bigot. S**t fire, we're all bigots here, except maybe for O'Sullivan, who never says much anyhow.” And then, sliding smoothly into Goldstein's corner, he added, “Ain't that right, Wagner? Like father like son?” In an act of pure poker playing heroism, O'Sullivan rose to the occasion in jumping out of his chair to preemptively intercept and block the flurry of blows about to be unleashed -- between a ticking time bomb Wagner and a fired up Torres looking to save face -- by quickly leaning across the table with both hands pushing the, risen to the occasion, pissed off men back into their chairs, as they sought desperately to get at one another. Fortunately, the only real damage done was to O'Sullivan, and that was more in the area of dignity from enduring the flying drops of spittle that were taking to flight between the two as they ranted and raved -- a flurry of yelling, cursing, name calling, and trying to get their opinionated two cents worth in, all at the same f*****g time -- as though they were, both, unmistakably, rabies infected, vicious mad dogs. Alcohol can sometimes accentuate such behavior from, normally sane, rational, intelligent, men subliminally hindered, interactively, by a society acquired, ingrained, ulterior motive's ax to grind. As all wild eyes began to regain their sanity of focus, it was to the hilarious sight of O'Sullivan belly down on the tabletop like a floundered fish run aground, desperately grasping the shirt fronts of Wagner and Moretti as though seeking the mercy of another gulp of water laden air. It was a sight that brought on an immense sense of shame to each of the, alcohol imbued, argumentative participants around the table. Shame has a tendency to render even the most talkative man at a loss for the right words to say -- words to adequately describe foolishly childish behavior; foolishly childish behavior that everyone present knew must end, if they were truly intent upon remaining friends ... … Wagner, regathering his deceptively meek and mild composure, looked down at the table for a moment, nursing his beer, before saying anything else, aside from the words of provoked anger which had poured forth from his mouth only moments before, in senseless, self defense motivated, rage ... “I know you all consider me a, stiff shirt, wimp of man, but I will tell you now I have never had a bigoted bone in my body until I met you guys. Or should I say you a******s? Bigotry breeds bigotry. You should hear yourselves the way you talk to one another, poking and prodding, insulting and belittling each other all in the name of making yourselves feel better at your own friend's expense. Do you? … Do you feel better …?” This seemed like a cue. O'Sullivan extracted himself from the tabletop, stood up, straightened his shirt -- no worse for wear -- and headed straight towards the fridge, stopping just long enough to pick up Torres' -- fortunately, empty at the time it took flight -- anger-discarded beer bottle from the hardwood floor. “Anybody need a beer? He's right you know. We're supposed to be buddies. What does it matter our religion, or where the f**k we came from? I can take a joke. I can take it and I can dish it out, but all in fun guys. When we stop laughing and begin to raise our voices, we're not having fun anymore. We can pretend all we like, but when we behave like this we have ceased, for a moment, to be friends. Is it really worth all that?” An invisible cloud of silence descended upon the kitchen table and those who sat in the chairs around it. There had been many arguments in the Wagner home in the past, right here at this very table. Never any quite like this one. Wrong is wrong no matter how you paint it. The five men sat looking at each other, three of them drinking their beers, waiting to see who would give first. Even when it was time to make amends, their manhood always stood in the way. It was a silence that actually lasted less than a minute, but it truly felt like an eternity -- an eternity spent wondering if their unusual friendship of all these years had come to an abrupt end this very night, due to the simple fact that they were too damn bull headed to be that first one to speak up in attempting some semblance of damage control as an honest effort to salvage their friendship, if nothing else, for the sake of their weekly poker game ...
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… At eternity's end, Goldstein cleared his throat as he set his empty bottle aside, reaching for another. “Perhaps I am a bigot -- an old pot who calls kettles black. I never thought so until now.” He popped the cap off of his fresh beer and took a long pull. “I am a stubborn man. I was taught to be stubborn, stubborn and proud. When my parents were in Germany, under the Nazis, if you were not stubborn you did not survive. Sometimes even then, you did not survive. My Grandparents died in Auschwitz. My parents were able to flee to America. You are right, my parents were German Jews. I have taken my anger towards Hitler's Third Reich out on poor Wagner, here, for ten long years. He has never done me any evil, not even a cross word. I saw his shame and guilt over his family's past and, rather than console him, I spent my time being rude to him in his own home. “I am not alone in this rudeness. Which of us has ever brought beer? Who among us has brought snacks? Yet, he has provided, both, for all these years, while we snubbed him to his face. Wagner, despite his Christian religion, is a more righteous man than all of us put together. I seldom apologize. I do, however, ask forgiveness when I come to realize I have been wrong. I seek that forgiveness now, from Wagner, and from you all.” His friends were literally dumbstruck. No one knew what to say. It seemed best to just say nothing, and let the old man get what he had to say out of his system. Goldstein set his beer down in front of him, picking at the label as though in deep thought. There were several moments of silence before he chose to speak again. To everyone’s amazement his face suddenly broke into a smile. “I have been wrong about you German Nazis, Mick, Spic, Wop sons of b*****s! Today I have come to realize you really are my friends. Next week, we should take this card game to my house. The beer and snacks are on me. You are all invited. God forbid should the Rabbi find out I've had Gentiles in my home!” The expression of every man at the table, except Goldstein's, froze solid in absolute shock at what their ears had just heard. Slowly, enjoying this moment, Goldstein began to laugh. “I'm joking you pricks! About the Rabbi! Can't an old Jewish man make a joke? Of course you are all invited to my house, and the beer's on me. 'Least until the wife runs me out of my own home!” Looking a little confused, for a brief moment, his friends burst into laughter with him. They laughed not so much because their friend was laughing, but because they had never seen him laugh. Wagner sat, beer in hand, pretending to not be wiping a stray tear from his eye. Moretti, displaying his usual ornery a*s grin, spoke up. “If I learned to like your sorry a*s Goldstein, I guess I can learn to like Jews … Or, just plain ole Heineken buyin' stiffs from Germany.” Goldstein held up a cautioning hand. “Let's not get mushy here. Next thing you know you'll want me to like Wops just because you're my friend. Worse, we might look up one evening and find ourselves playing cards with a Muslim.” “I still don't believe I'm a Jew. You'll have to prove that to me, Goldstein,” Torres chided, apparently still a bit angered at the thought of Jewish blood flowing through his veins. Dead silence followed Torres' words, while those around the table found themselves wondering whether the pissed off fireworks were about to recommence. He even looked pissed off, as he sat his beer down, and looked intently at everyone around the table -- before he broke into a huge a*s grin. “But, you know, it's funny you should mention Muslims. I met this guy at work, this Arab dude, who's nice as hell, and I came here this evening to discuss whether we should invite him to come and play cards. With all the excitement I kind of got sidetracked.” Goldstein grimaced, slapping his forehead in feigned dismay. “Oy Vey, I'll be banned from of the Temple for sure! Then, he smiled again, in chuckling, “What the hell, invite the Arab b*****d to come play cards! A fine bunch of sons of b*****s we are. No, a damn fine bunch of friends we are!” O'Sullivan sat at the table, mouth agape. Reaching for a beer he smiled, “I gotta have a beer. I lost my a*s tonight. I played bouncer and referee to a bunch of religious a******s. I listened to grown men stumble upon the enlightening discovery that, after ten f*****g years, they were friends. Hell, I could have told you all that! This is too much bullshit for any Irishman to handle, all in one day … And stay sober!”
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Laughter rocked the Wagner house that night like it had never rocked it before, nor likely has it ever rocked the old home quite the same since. An unbreakable bond of friendship was kindled that night; a bond stronger than a mere hand of poker; the kind of friendship that drives men to run to each others aid in times of trouble, and carry the troubles of a friend upon one's own shoulders if need be, no matter how far the journey, or how great the cost. For true friendship has no nationality, culture, religion -- or complexion ...
Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham in his early twenties (Written April 6th, 2013) 1 Brooklyn -- Brooklyn is one of the five boroughs of New York City. It is not the largest NYC borough geographically (the borough of Queens is), but Brooklyn is the most populous New York City borough. https://www.tripsavvy.com/where-is-brooklyn-new-york-443052 2 “Religion is bullshit” -- George Carlin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8r-e2NDSTuE 3 Chutzpah -- balls; nerve; guts; gall; audacity http://www.yiddishslangdictionary.com/word/259/chutzpah © 2023 Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de GrahamAuthor's Note
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1 Review Added on February 19, 2023 Last Updated on February 19, 2023 Tags: Life, Existence, Philosophy, Humanity, Society, Cultural-Diversity, Racism Bigotry, Prejudice, Discrimination, America Author
Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de GrahamSmalltown, TXAbout“Hello! Welcome to my profile page. As a Creative Writer, I pen a variety of material that ranges from piss poor attempts at Poetry, to morbidly Dark Fiction, to investigative, in depth, re.. more..Writing |
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