I AM CALLED THE SCARF

No pictures, i m Incognito; Marc Anthony Gamberony at your service, here in the Wild West, where I am Pissed Off In Witness Protection.

It 's for my own safety, but man, I can i even get a little vino or a taste of marinara sauce Forg-----et A----bout it!!!!!!!!!!

I told my mother, "either you cook Italian or Western, the Bar-B-Qued Brajole ain't cutting it."

My mother is off checking out the Back 40, in her black dress.

I'm trying to break this big horse, but I don t know, nothing works, I tried bribing him with an anisette cookie, no dice.

 

My wife misses the old neighborhood, great, we go back there,

I’d miss breathing. It was all I could do to escape;

I dressed as a Hari Krishna, shaved my head, it was terrible, people gawking at me,

tossing me freaking quarters, hey you wanna contribution aim a Fiver my way ok?

The robe was terrible, it made me too airy, know what I mean, every gust

of wind gimme a chill not a thrill, plus my shorts ran up and I chafed like I been

dragged along Mount Rushmore. Ah well, I was a mob guy, I knew the score;

it was either talk or do 20 years in an orange jumpsuit, FOR---GET A BOUT IT,

easy choice. All s I need, standing outside the shower watching some 300 pound

inmate named Rufus play let s hide the knotted soap on a rope. OH

yeah that s a Kodak moment in my life. Some I got sent numerous places (I ll

tell about them later, The Freakin Rain ForEst etc), but now I’m here,

the law has managed to turn NICKIE NEWARK into THE HORSE WHISPERER.

The corral, is that what you call it, is a mess, all these animals doing their duty,

I stepped in something the size of a toaster over. And these boots are

genuine, expensive, get it? I try to be nice to them, I gave the goat my

empty beer can and he just left it; what I didn t take the label off? I’m

feeding a goat, not recycling.

 

My wife Marie and my mother "Nana", came West with me; am I tortured or what? Nana's got a cat who's like 32 years old,

she calls him Puss N Boots, I think he oughta be called Dead And Buried. He s got one and a half teeth, broken claws, tiny tuffs of fur,

no whiskers, and a tail that s constantly in the question mark position. His litter box is akin to some futuristic hell spawn of toxicity;

although he s so old, he don t even know if he s in the box ornot. I could put him anywhere+ he'd unload; on the stereo, on the placemats,

I could run him through the blender and he d poop. Never mind him worrying a mouse, he d amuse a mouse, heck he couldn t tell a mouse

from a grizzly bear. I get him catnip, he smells it and throws up, I get him a cat toy, he forgets and pees on it, I get him a scratching post,

he falls off of it like a sky diver. Basta!!!! Basta!!!!!!!