F*cking Argentina and 10 More Tales of Exasperation

By Gregg Greenberg

F*cking Argentina and 10 More Tales of Exasperation by Gregg Greenberg is a compilation of short stories that dive into the American phenomenon of being in a near-perpetual state of aggravation. Greenberg's anthology brings together eleven original pieces of work, each with their own slice of independent and distinct plot lines but all converging on the universal theme of exasperation. They run the whole gamut of scenarios, from the titular story "F*cking Argentina" wherein the country is once again in bankruptcy and a polite game of tug o' war plays out on a porch, to "A Journeyman Tennis player's Prayer" with a low ranking U.S. Open contender begging God for a comparable opponent. Both stories end with the superlative f-word, which showcases at some point in other stories, and a guaranteed chuckle from their readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098353315

Book preview

ISBN: 9781098353315 

F*cking Argentina and 10 More Tales of Exasperation 

Copyright © 2020 by Gregg Greenberg

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For Mushy

ex·as·per·a·tion

/iɡˌzaspəˈrāSH(ə)n/

Noun

a feeling of intense irritation or annoyance.

Contents

Chapter 1: Weinberger’s Back-to-School Night

Chapter 2: Fucking Argentina

Chapter 3: Officer Krupke Strikes Back

Chapter 4: The Last Couples Dinner

Chapter 5: A Journeyman Tennis Player’s Prayer

Chapter 6: It’s Not You, It’s BFJ

Chapter 7: Malodor on the Number Five Express

Chapter 8: Back Off Baxter!

Chapter 9: Panic in Shubert Alley

Chapter 10: A Side of Exasperation on the NJ Turnpike

Chapter 11: Little Timmy’s Birthday Battle

Chapter 1

Weinberger’s Back-to-School Night

Weinberger couldn’t take it anymore. Pretending to appreciate the finger paintings thumbtacked to the walls was simply not doing the trick. For that matter, neither was creating animals with the pipe cleaner taken from the nearby arts and crafts table.

Nothing but nothing was working to kill precious time. And his inability to use mental telepathy to make the second hand on the clock over Ms. Swimmer’s head move faster only heightened his splitting headache held over from a long day of work.

Only ten minutes left, he rationalized. 600 … 599 … 598 …

Maybe I’ll do that, Weinberger thought. Sit here and count down the seconds until 9 p.m.

597 … 596 … 595 … 594 …

His hands could feel the powerful gravitational pull of the cellphone in his Brioni suit’s breast pocket. Lord he wanted to check his messages so freaking badly.

Still, he fought the urge to remove it, loosening his tie instead. He knew full well the hell he would face if his ex-wife discovered her ex-husband was singled out for scrolling during Jacob’s back-to-school night. It would be an even worse hell than listening to Ms. Swimmer go on and on about the cognitive benefits of sensory bins. The calls, the texts, the e-mails … the shame! The entire Upper East Side would soon learn the chilling tale of Mitch Weinberger, lousy father who cares more about his cellphone than he does his son’s education.

Oh, and it would get back to her. He had no doubt about that.

Word would travel and travel fast, all the way from Fifth Avenue to York and back in the blink of an eye, he rested assured.

But who would it be? Which of these propriety policing pigeons would stool on him?

He surveyed the room, searching for the potential snitch.

Would it be the overly attentive mother in the Lily Pulitzer top at the table next to him? Why on earth is she taking notes about the importance of block building? It’s block building for Pete’s sake, not calculus! Yeah, she definitely seems like the tattling type. Or, what about the Deadhead dad in the front row sporting socks and Birkenstocks? Would he be the rat? He’s acting all laid-back and chill, but you know those guys are all full of …

AAAGH! CRAP! Weinberger bit his lip to conceal a sudden burst of searing pain in his lower lumbar region. Six-foot-tall men are not meant for sixteen-inch chairs, dammit!

He quickly, yet subtly, shifted positions to allow the blood to flow once again through to his lower extremities. Better, but still far from comfortable, like rising to a higher level in Dante’s Inferno. Nerve-pinched or not, Weinberger remained trapped in this fist-clenching, teeth-grinding hell.

He checked the clock again … 540 … 539 … Ms. Swimmer had moved on to the significance of sharing. His agony grew with each passing second.

The grown man grabbed a red Crayola from the pack and began scribbling on a piece of yellow craft paper. If God was testing him, he thought, then let’s make it multiple choice…

(A) North Vietnamese prison

(B) Soviet Gulag

(C) Colonoscopy Table

(D) Colonoscopy Table in a Soviet Gulag

(E) All of the above

Weinberger stared down at his work and chuckled to himself. He thought back to his own kindergarten class four decades or so ago. He remembered his own teacher, Ms. Palermo, and wondered what she looked like now. Probably pretty old he thought. Or, more likely, pretty dead.

E, whispered a woman seated on a nearby stool, startling Weinberger out of his flashback. The answer is ‘E’.

How do you know the question? he asked her.

Easy, she replied in a hushed voice. It’s ‘Where would I rather be right now?’

Weinberger giggled again, this time, however, a tad too loudly.

EXCUSE ME! boomed a voice from the front of the class. In the back of the room? Mister…?

 Weinberger looked forward. Ms. Swimmer and the rest of the room’s occupants, however, were already staring back at him.

Weinberger, answered Weinberger, filling in her blank. Mitchell Weinberger, Ms. Palerm… Ms. Swimmer, he added, quickly catching himself before mistaking the young educator for his