Carmine The Lip Reads To Ms. Pulaski’s Fourth Grade Class

Hey, how youz little kids doin’? Remember me? I’m Sonny Boy The Lip’s dad. Come’re, Sonny Boy, and give your old man a kiss. Come on, don’t be embarrassed. I kissed my old man ‘good morning, I’ll see ya later, I’m back and good night’ every day until the day he died and after. Okay, never mind. I’ll let you slide this time, but come out from under your desk. Everybody can still see you, ya know. Didn’t I never teach you nothin’ about hidin’?

Anyways, Class, it’s nice to be axed back to read to yiz … although, technically I wasn’t axed back and it ain’t even my turn in the rotation — it’s the little colored girl in the front row’s father’s turn, but I convinced him to take a powder and let me go. Don’t cry, little girl. He ain’t whacked or nothin’ yet; he’s just restin’ in a safe place. I’ll tell you his whereabouts when I’m done here.

I know the last time I read to yiz it didn’t go so good, what with all the curse words and callin’ Rumpelstiltskin Rumpledforeskin and Rumbastillborn. Your teacher, Miss Pulaski, set me straight about that s**t. She’s pretty hot for a Pollack broad, ain’t she, guys, huh? Her t**s are a little small for my taste, but I’d f**k her. Stop cryin’, Sonny Boy. I only meant if somethin’ bad were to happen soon to your mother, God forbid.

Anyways, the story which I chose to read today is one of my favorites because it’s about the construction industry and the problems caused by non-union workers: The Three Little Pigs. Who’s excited to hear this story? Huh? Jesus F***in’ Christ, don’t all yell at once. Come on, yiz’ll love it. It’s fun and you’ll be tricked into learnin’ some important lessons.

Alright, screwyizall, I’m readin’ it anyways, and since I’m a sensitive kinda guy, I ain’t gonna show the scary pictures that I know one hundred percent money in the bank will make yiz s**t your pants … unless I hear one peep out there, and then all bets are off. Capice? Ya know what? I ain’t gonna read this after all. Since I know it so good, I’m gonna wing it. Ya know, recite it from memory; the way my old man told it to me, may he rest in peace. Okay, so here goes: The Three Little F***in’ Pigs.

Once upon a time, there was a papa bear, a mamma bear and three little pigs, who were adopted because the mamma bear didn’t want the papa bear’s d**k anywheres near her. It seems she caught him f***in’ his secretary in the a** and, besides being really pissed off at him, was afraid of the clap. Why didn’t she leave the rat b*****d? some of you may be axing yourselves. Because she was a dutiful Catholic wife with no marketable skills, that’s why. She wasn’t stupid — just not as hot as the secretary. And Catholics don’t divorce; there are other ways out of a marriage. But that’s another story for another day.

Anyways, one day, the secretary’s cockholded husband decided to get even with the papa bear by cuttin’ his car’s brake lines. And listen up, because here comes the first valuable lesson. The lines weren’t cut all the way through, because you want the brake fluid to slowly leak out. That way, the brakes won’t fail until the victim is drivin’ real fast down a curvy mountain road. And then KAF****N’BOOM. Arrivederci, motherf***er.

So, anyways, the papa bear is toast and the cockholded husband should be feelin’ good, right? Wrong, because the dips**t all of a sudden develops a conscience, the pansy-a**. So he tells his wife — who was bangin’ the papa bear — and he tells the mamma bear what he done. His wife the whore freaks because she thinks she’s next in line to be worm food. So she splits, never to be heard from again, which is too bad because she got some dynamite moves in the sack, includin’ some s**t only fags usually do. The mamma bear don’t know what to make of this guy, but down deep, is glad her sonofab****in’ husband is croaked.

And then she says to this guy — and I don’t know where this s**t came from, but it was the right thing to say and makes me respect her even more than before — “Do the right thing; take this here gun and blow your f***in’ brains out.” Beautiful, right?

And now listen up, because here comes lesson number two. The a**hole goes home, puts the gun to his head and pulls the f***in’ trigger. Dead as donuts, right? Wrong. He puts the gun to his temple instead of in his mouth, flinches a little so the gun moves, and the p***k shoots himself through the ear and into his brain. So instead of being croaked, he’s a godd**n vegetable for the rest of his life. Look, little kids, sometime your boss may axe yiz to take one for the team. But you gotta eat your gun to do it so you’re whacked, not a veg. Put the gun in your mouth, close your lips around it like your suckin’ a c**k and pull the trigger. This way, you can flinch a lot and still get the job done.

Okay, so now what? So the mamma bear says to her three little pigs … I bet yiz thought I forgot about the little b*******s … “I can’t stand lookin’ at you three jerks. You remind me of that no-good dead husband of mine. Yiz are gonna have to move out and get your own place. Actually, it’ll be best if you live separately for the sake of this here story.”

So, they left and each built his own house. Pig Number 1, not a member of any construction labor union, decides to build his house by himself out of straw. Straw? Are you f***in’ kiddin’ me? Straw! How’s that gonna work out? Whatever.

Pig Number 2, another non-union moron, hires a non-union crew to build his house out of sticks, which is better than straw, granted, but not much. Plus, the crew don’t know d**k about how to build a proper foundation. Stupid p***ks.

Pig Number 3 thought he was hot s**t because he hired union workers on the side at non-prevailin’ wage and got a nice brick house built. What he forgot to do was wet the beak of the union rep … you know, slip him a grand to look the other way regardin’ underpayin’ his crew.

So now the union rep — we’ll call him the big bad wolf — has a hair up his a** for this pig for not givin’ him his due. He’s also pissed at the other pig brothers because no union workers were contracted for their cribs. So he rounds up a bunch of dues-payin’ union members and pays a visit to the three little scabs, who made it easy for them because the stupid motherf***in’ non-union scab a**holes built on the same lot. Besides violatin’ the buildin’ code, it don’t make no sense to be bunched up like that … you know, bein’ sittin’ fishes all in a row and such.

So the mob … pardon me … the dues-payin’ union members go to the first pig’s straw house and they start to laugh their a**es off because they know that what’s comin’ is goin’ to be so f***in’ easy it ain’t even funny. The union rep axes the first pig, who’s inside his house, whimperin’ like a godd**n girl, “Hey, Pig, you like cigars?”

The pig says, “Yeah, I guess so.” So the union rep takes one last big drag on his stogie so now the end is glowin’ cherry-red, and he flicks it onto the straw house. It burns to the ground in two f***in’ minutes and the first pig runs into the second pig’s stick house, yellin’, “Whatever you do, don’t say you like cigars.”

Which didn’t make no difference because the mob … s**t … the fellas just pushed the stick house over 1-2-3. The union rep, laughin’ his a** off like a crazy motherf***er, grabs each pig by his uvula and throws them into the third pig’s front door, smashin’ it to s**t. The union rep says to the petrified scab pigs, “The union is confiscatin’ this here house for our new headquarters. Get the f**k out … and yiz owe us for a new door.” And they ran away and didn’t stop runnin’ until they all dropped dead, the stupid p***ks.

So, as yiz can plainly see, there are two morals to the story. One: if you’re gonna bang somebody else’s wife, whack the b***h’s husband before he whacks you, and Two: don’t f**k with the union. The end.

Okay, okay. Yiz can stop cryin’ now…and come out from under your desks. I can still see all of yiz, ya stupid little s**ts. You too, Miss Tiny T**s.


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