DATING TIPS FOR PSYCHOPATHS

Believe it or else:

Yours truly had his tonsils removed back in the mid 50s, not in a hospital or in an antiseptic clinic or doctor’s office, but in my kitchen, specifically on the kitchen table at 41 Library Street in Revere, Massachusetts.

Weird but true.

Dangerous?   You bet your ass it was dangerous!   But in our working-class neighborhood at the time, it was a viable and - most importantly - cheaper alternative to a two-day hospital stay.   Putting me in a Pediatric Ward would’ve tapped the crap out of my parental units.

As it happened, some palpably fly-by-night surgeon was going door-to-door in Revere offering to perform the extraction in your house for fifty clams or so.

So when the boy next door had HIS tonsils successfully removed, my folks signed me up, like pronto!

I guess they picked the kitchen table because there was more light in the kitchen than in any other room in the house.   I remember my Aunt Dotty - a semi-retired RN - assisting with the operation.    I remember being anesthetized with ether.    ETHER, for God’s sake!

At any rate, the next thing you know, I’m safe in my bedroom being plied with ice cream.   My paternal grandmother, a cafeteria worker at the local high school toddled over with a paper bag filled with purloined ‘HOODSIES’.

That night, the rest of my family enjoyed a boisterous supper at - I kid you not - the freaking kitchen table!

Smoked Shoulder, I think.