In Woody Allen’s memoir, Little Jew Balls. No, I mean Crimes and Misdemeanors, the Early Years. No, Curse of Christina Tightchoochie. No, Too Bad Soon-Yi doesn’t have any twin sisters. No, Yellow Tail at home over Streetcar Named Desire on Broadway. No, Husbands and Epstein’s friends on Facebook. No, Everything You Wanted To Know About Judges Who Love My Movies who have no problem releasing Illegal immigrant rapists just jailed by ICE agents, primed for deportation, because Homeland Security is so passe and Weapons of Mass Destructions Years. No, Midnight In Soon-Yi after offering Mia’s babysitter the Chamomile Cosby Tea special. No, Nipples That Taste Like Spring Soft Seaweed Never Sour Pussycat. No, Don’t Wear Makeup Soon-Yi because you’ll look older than I want you to already. No, it’s Mia’s Bananas for insisting Frank Sinatra fathered Ronan or else Frank’s goon squad would be off the races and I’d be sleeping next to a decapitated Secretariat. No, Shoot The Ping Pong Ball Out Your Snatch Again one more time, to help my dear friend Dick Cavet snap out of his crippling depression or else you can’t be sent back to that orphanage in Laos where Mia plucked you out of dirt poor obscurity SOON enough. No, Small Time Sleepover Crooks. No, Love and My Private Geisha, who’s allergic to Oxy Pads, so she remains forever adolescent young in my eyes. No, Soon-Yi’s Interiors read, Me So Horny, for Woody’s Wood Only. No, Manhattan’s Top Pubescent Publicist. No, Star Fucker Memories. No, A Midnight in Mariel Hemingway’s Cubbie Hole at Dalton Prep Elementary. No, Broadway Danny Knows, Blown Up Actress Snatch Blows, No, Celebrity Teen Snatcher Immunity. No, Another Happy Ending. No, Manhattan Murdering Hymens. No, Mighty Mouse Allen. No, Everyone Says I Rocked The Cradle Of Love With You. No, Deconstructing Eating Chinese In, without having to order in, versus scarfing down more veal piccata at Elain’s again. No, Sweet and Sour Lowdown on being charged with culturally appropriating Somalian pirates taking a dip into in the hymen jacking game throughout the Caribbean next to Lolita Island. No, Soon-Yi Love Triangle Dream With Lucy Lu. No, Whatever Works To Give You Sustained Stiffage Through The Night. No, To Rome With an Elite Yelper On Yelp. No, Blue Balls Has-Been. No, Magic in Soon-Yi Fondling My Thinking Balls during my downtime between shooting pics. No, Irrational Prude Rubes. No, Café Polanski, Got My Back Society. No, its, Festivals Of Won Ton Suds In My Mouth. That’s it, in Woody Allen’s memoir, Festivals of Won Ton Suds In My Mouth, he repeats a quote by Emily Dickenson when stating, “The heart wants what the heart wants.” Or in Woody Allen’s case, this means a bunch of stuck together old Polaroid shots of a half-naked 9-year-old Soon-Yi. The only pics missing from Woody’s collection was the one of Soon-Yi crying on the cover of Time Life Magazine, Challah. Fago The Great lives, to dump on another funny man celebrity of his day. With some luck, The New Yorker will print my flaming funny prose in the Shouts & Murmurs section by May.