An excerpt:
Dating the Yenta was like dating a loaded .45 — aimed at your own head. You never knew when it would go off. You just knew it would be messy when it did. And the odds were better than 50-50 they’d be scrapping your brain and guts off something, even while her mouth was still running.
“It will be fun,” she said. These were the words she always said right before I would be sucker punched in the gut by someone whose life and conduct she couldn’t help critiquing. In this case, “It will be fun” was said while gazing at the door of a dive bar whose clientele had spent most of their food stamp money this week on MAGA apparel.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
But then I saw that grand canyon of a mouth start to open, and I knew I had no choice.
“Sure,” I continued. “Let’s check it out.”
My spleen and my teeth would be the least of my losses that day. So sit back, and hear the story of how I ended up on Death Row, while the Yammering Yenta became the widow of one Rudy Guiliani, and then the lover of one E. Jean Carroll. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
