From the wild and wacky world of favorite funnyman Jean Shepherd, a dozen truer-than-life tales of tailgating on the Jersey Tumpike, infuriating infants, and other everyday catastrophes, defeats, and humiliations that are the familiar fate of Americans everywhere. Jean Shepherd was one of America’s favorite humorists, his most notable achievement being the creation of the indefatigable Ralphie Parker and his quest for a BB gun in the holiday classic A Christmas Story . But he was so much more, a comic Garrison Keillor–like figure whose unique voice transcended the airwaves and affected a whole generation of nostalgic Americans. A Fistful of Fig Newtons is classic Jean Shepherd—sidesplittingly funny and sardonically irreverent. It is a brilliant comic assessment of American life—all of them delivered in Jean Shepherd’s witty, classy, unforgettable style. “One of our great major humorists . . . [Shepherd] writes about our life and times, the ordinary bits and pieces that every American recognizes and that are loaded with meaning for us all.” — New York Times Book Review “Shepherd has a style and a vision all of his own . . . A Fistful of Fig Newtons is as bright and pleasant a diversion as one is likely to encounter.” — Library Journal “Certainly the greatest American humorist of the last twenty years, and arguably one of our best writers, period . . . A Fistful of Fig Newtons is an excellent introduction to those who know no Shepherd, and refreshment to those who do, and who would trade almost anything to be able to read him again for the first time.” — National Review From the wild and wacky world of a favorite funnyman, a dozen truer-than-life tales of tailgating on the Jersey Tumpike, infuriating infants, and other everyday catastrophes, defeats, and humiliations that are the familiar fate of Americans everywhere. From the wild and wacky world of a favorite funnyman, a dozen truer-than-life tales of tailgating on the Jersey Tumpike, infuriating infants, and other everyday catastrophes, defeats, and humiliations that are the familiar fate of Americans everywhere. From the wild and wacky world of a favorite funnyman, a dozen truer-than-life tales of tailgating on the Jersey Tumpike, infuriating infants, and other everyday catastrophes, defeats, and humiliations that are the familiar fate of Americans everywhere. For many years a cult radio and cabaret personality in New York City,  Jean Shepherd  was the creator of the popular film  A Christmas Story , which is based on his novels  In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash  and  Wanda Hickey’s Night of Golden Memories , and which has become a holiday tradition on the Turner Network. Jean Shepherd passed away in 1999. You let other women make a fool of you . . . I banged on the steering wheel as Peggy Lee belted it out in her mean, silky, snotty, "get me some money" voice. "YEAH, YEAH!" I hollered stupidly as Billy Butterfield's trumpet rasped out the bridge. You sit there won'drin' what it's all about . . . Stuck in rush-hour traffic, the maniac in you takes over. The mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel was four blocks and two thousand cars away. My radio was tuned to WNEW, the only station that the bastard can get in midtown Manhattan. In a way, that curious misfortune might have been one cause of what was to follow. WNEW is an instant time warp leap into the past. A flick of the knob and you're magically back in the 1940s and '50s of Peggy Lee, Dinah Shore, Ella Fitzgerald, and a lot of singers who haven't made a record since Eisenhower retired to Gettysburg. My mind ticked over idly. I hummed, I whistled, I spit out the window. You sit there won'drin' what it's all about . . . The radio buzzed obscenely, a rank, juicy Bronx cheer of a buzz, and quit. God dammit! I thumped my fist on the plastic dashboard, sending up motes of cigarette ashes from the ashtray, but the radio remained as silent as a dime-store Buddha incense-burner. If there is ever a time when you need a car radio to keep you company, it's in a long line of creeping traffic. I thumped the dash. No luck. All the while my eyes were darting back and forth over the traffic; left, right, rear mirror, right, left, rear mirror, clickety-click-click, in the style of the true urban driver. There's always a yellow cab or a Puerto Rican in a battered van, marked ACE PLUMBING SUPPLIES, ready to beat you out for every precious inch. Nerves is what it takes, nerves of steel; cobalt steel. Fighting your way to the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour is no place for lady drivers with blue hair or frail stockbrokers with rimless bifocals. An airport bus sent a blast of diesel fumes that caught me fair and square, a clean shot. "Braak, braaak"-my city cough rattled my ribs. "BORK!" Suddenly there was a brief opening ahead. I shot forward, skittered through the line like an NFL halfback and gained a full car length on a cursing Connecticut driver who got caught lighting his cigar. I ca