By Larry Flesler

The 4th of July traditionally starts the Summer for me and thus I am taking a week off from my get fit routine and heading to my cottage. I’ll try to get in a little exercise but can make no promises regarding my diet (on the way here, I bought 3 pounds of Canadian bacon, a case of Coffee Crisp and a 12 cases of Labatt Ice).

I like to get an early start and head up to my cottage at Waverly Beach in Canada. Stu and Marie arrived last night and we unpacked while sharing a pitcher of

Albany Street residents left to wonder, “How come nobody’s taking my money and screwing up the neighborhood?”

By Hardy Astrom

The streets are quiet.  No one is screaming, no squealing of tires.  There are no gunshots. No turf wars, no fighting over insignficant issues that come down to nothing but pride and narcissistic self-importance.  No one looking to extort money and spend it on their own status in the ‘hood.

The West Side has never had it so good.

Albany Street, often a haven for criminal activity, is usually run by members of the ‘CorruptSin’ and ‘Da’ Kriminalz’ gangs.  Both gangs promote community improvement and hold residents hostage with exorbitant ‘fees.’ 

Special Ruse Get Fit Series

By Larry Flesler

I need to find a gym in my quest to slim down. I asked my old pal (and ever-slender) Van to give me a hand.

We started at the Scotch and Sirloin and leafed through the Yellow Pages while dining on steak with mushrooms and onions. An ad for a 24 hour gym around the corner caught our eye so I called and asked if I could stop in and visit with a personal trainer. The man on the phone identified himself as Carl and said he would be glad to see me in one hour. 

“Didn’t I Meet You At The Stabbing?”

By Caroline Hack

Why am I the first person the cops question when somebody is stabbed?

There are like, 35 people standing on the same street corner that I am, but for some reason I’m the interview in demand.  I’d say it’s because cops generally like a wiggle with their half truths, but this was on the lower West Side.  There’s more wiggle down there than on my Aunt Sally’s cheeks when she’s running from one of my Uncle’s well-thrown forks.  I got half the back fat of most of the West Side ladies, but perhaps because neither of