“Who’s that? Who’s talking to me?” Moscowitz said, still dazed by the mystical slam-bang postmortem that had transmogrified him into a crustacean.“It’s me, Moe Silverman,” the other lobster said.
“O.M.G.!” Moscowitz piped, recognizing the voice of an old gin-rummy colleague. “What’s going on?”
“We’re reborn,” Moe explained. “As a couple of two-pounders.”
“Lobsters? This is how I wind up after leading a just life? In a tank on Third Avenue?”
“The Lord works in strange ways,” Moe Silverman explained.
A segment from a new story by Woody Allen in The New Yorker, in which two of Bernie Madoff’s victims die, find themselves reincarnated as the swindler’s potential dinner, and plot to get revenge. It’s short and cute and I totally blogged it for the sly drop of Gossip Girl vernacular alone. O.M.G., indeed.
It’s a third world dictatorship, and the strong man has a list. On it are the names of every known American film critic, from the blogs to the Chicago Reader to Ain’t-it-Cool to The New Yorker to the two wiseass Koreans who used to man the cult counter at DVD Palace on 44th and 8th. They’re already on the road, the death squads. Your door bows in, storm of boots, and before you know it you’re lined up on your knees alongside J. Hoberman and 3 Black Chicks.
I saw it coming a long ways off, so I dressed in militia rags, became a scout helping round up all those poor bastards. I did my best to drown out the whimpering as I double-checked restraints and supervised the digging. But something tugged at my conscience during the second or third corral. It gave me an idea of how to save the critics.
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