Filed under: Area 51
Being a child of the 70’s, I grew up in a very mod, mod, world: white carpet, white shag rugs, white furniture, glass-top tables and lotsa, lotsa chrome. I suspect this is why my interior decoration style is one part Pee Wee’s Playhouse mixed with one part Kurt Schwitter’s Merzbau.
Chateau de Ghetto is an anthropological hodge-podge of “what the fuck?” my husband and I have painstakingly collected over the years.
- Need a piece of the 3rd Avenue Rail? Check.
- Want to peruse Congressional Globes from the Buchanan Administration (with indices)? Check.
- Have a craving for two velvet paintings of Malcolm X? Got you covered.
- Looking for a three foot tall plastic dolphin? You better believe I have it!
There is not a white surface (or any surface for that matter) that is not covered with assorted objects de arte. The overall effect is one of horror vacui and seizure-inducing color. Here is BAD ASS lamp I made out of a child’s mannequin, joss paper and other neat stuff this week…
Santa Claus doesn’t come to Greenpoint anymore. This task was delegated to middle management after Santa jack-knifed his sled on a pile of icy dog shit and borscht-laden vodka vomit on McGuinness Boulevard in 1998. He broke his coccyx and no amount of Viagra or Levitra could redress the injuries he sustained— much to Mrs. Claus’s dismay.
Sex in traction is not Mrs. Claus’s preferred means of action, if you now what I mean.
A heated exchanged followed (between Mr. and Mrs. Claus) and it was agreed that Santa’s solitary Polish reindeer, Blitzen*, would be responsible for servicing Greenpoint. Drunk with newfound Managerial power (and a shitload of vodka), he sub-contracted his duties out to the most plentiful (and cheap) labor force to be found in Greenpoint: RATS.
Looks like this one** didn’t make it. Too bad. The list of people who deserve dog (bum?) shit in their Christmas stockings only gets longer and longer nowadays…
*His real name is “Blitzed”. Santa thought this name would not set a good example for children, therefore it was changed to “Blitzen”. “Blintz” was totally out of the question.
Disgruntled readers: send me angry missives deriding my stereotyping of Polish people to your heart’s contentment. I have a last name so Polish I might as well draw a slab of kielbasa instead of writing it out. Let me suffer in peace.
**From 261 Banker Street
The pay sucks but there are many fringe benefits to being the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint. The hours are pretty good, as are the working conditions: Chateau de Ghetto has no dress code to speak of, there are no annoying co-workers to contend with and drinking on the job is perfectly acceptable— if not mandatory.
Last week I not only received turd-shaped cookies (with peanuts in them!) from my best friend Rachael, but the following gem made its way to my inbox.
I happened to get a glimpse of the attached scene going on in our backyard. The dialog I overheard is below.
Doo Doo Dan: Ma, I really donâ€™t think your broom can handle this one â€“ itâ€™s huge.
Commando Carl: I think I can lift it.
Moo Moo Ma: Carl, that thang is huge. I have never seen anything like it. Maybe we should call cousin Sam. I heard his wife Heather is an expert on this sort of thang.
Doo Doo Dan: I donâ€™t know. They are more familiar with Greenpoint. This suburban stuff is maybe a lot bigger. In all my trailer poop cleaning days I have never seen anything near this size. What could it have come from?
Commando Carl: Big foot? I did see a yellow mountain moving the other day â€“ perhaps Armageddon is comin.
Moo Moo Ma: Dan â€“ just get on the phone and call cousin Sam and letâ€™s see what Heather thinks about this.
Those Wall Street types can keep their six figure bonuses (and all the stress that goes with it). Just give me a fresh pile of shit (replete with dialogue) to ponder over my morning coffee and I’m happy as clam. It gives my life a sense of purpose.
Two days ago something remarkable happened at Chateau de Ghetto: actual professionals were spotted on the premises doing plumbing work in my neighbor’s apartment. I even saw them dragging a dysfunctional toilet down the stairway.
I am not so naive as to think that my landlord (or the Stupor) was behind this development. I have lived in this building for four years and know better. The overall demeanor of the Stupor (worried) and his toadie (anxious) leads me to believe that someone in this building took matters into his own hands. Good for him.
Not knowing the particulars of the situation, the one thing I can safely assert is that whenever the Stupor gets that ashen expression on his face, it was precipitated by something that will make me quite happy. Getting ripped a new asshole (or being fined by one of the city’s various housing/building code enforcement agencies) is the usual catalyst for his despondent face.
I won’t lie: I derive a great deal of pleasure from his misery. This is because he is a lazy, lying fuckweasel whose ineptitude and bad attitude have made me (and a number of other tenants in this building) very unhappy on a number of occasions.
That said, after seeing a number of online solicitations for “Douchebag of the Year” I have decided to create my very own award for the Stupor: “Shithead of the Year”. What garnered him this prestigious title, you ask? Read on and find out!
Category #1: Distinguished “Workmanship”
Here are a few pictures taken after he replaced our sink (because a pipe broke and flooded our kitchen with raw sewage).
Not surprisingly, after being thoroughly saturated in murky water that area of our kitchen floor sunk. This made installing the new sink a challenge. How did the Stupe make it level, you ask? By throwing a dozen of filthy, old floor tiles under one corner! *DUH*
Where do you start with these two photos? Well for one thing, while our Stupor grasps the concept of a second class lever (see the photo featuring the linoleum tiles above) he is not endowed with much mental mettle when it comes to abstract reasoning. Concepts such as “time”, “space” or “planning” are incomprehensible to him.
To his credit, he did secure a real plumber ASAP to fix our busted pipe. What he did not do, however, was to TAKE MEASUREMENTS so he could purchase a cabinet that would accommodate the new plumbing. His attempt to “bring the mountain to Mohammed” netted us:
1. another water leak and
2. no hot water in our kitchen for 24 hours because he torqued the spigot so tight that even a pair of vise grips couldn’t make it budge. BRAVO!
Category #2: Rousing Rhetoric and Fuzzy Logic
Management? WHAT MANAGEMENT?!?
On second thought… I suppose if one were to apply the kind of ‘logic’ (sophistry?) that proves that Iraq and Afghanistan are functioning democracies, this building is, indeed, ‘managed’. BADLY.
Category #3: Words Fail Me
Thus far we have reviewed the Stupor’s lack of abstract reasoning, ghetto-fabulous work and lack of proficiency in written English. While annoying, none of the previous (individually or combined) are enough to earn him the title “Shithead of the Year”. The following narrative (which I posted in the public area of our building a month ago for everyone’s edification) describes the crowning achievement which, in my humble opinion, makes the Stupor a shithead par excellance. Enjoy!
As my last tale (regarding having to turn away KeySpan 11/5/06) indicated, the Superintendent claimed not to have a cell phone. Today I discovered that nothing can be further from the truth.
You see, several months ago (July?) the landlord (Dumb) gave me a phone number to contact the Super (Dumber) so we could coordinate a time for him to work in our kitchen. The number I was given is 718-669-WXYZ.
Jump forward to September of this year.
I needed to contact Dumber, so I called this number. I got no answer, so I left a voicemail. I got no call back.
The next day I asked Dumber if he got my message. He said no. I asked him if 718-669-WXYZ was his cell phone number.
HE SAID HE DID NOT HAVE A CELL PHONE!!!
Jump forward to today, November 9, 2006. At 7:55 a.m. We got a call from Dumber. The caller i.d. indicated that this call came from, you guessed it:718 669 WXYZ!!!
Frankly, I do not know which bothers me more:
1. The fact that he lied to me.
2. The fact that I fell for it.
3. He thought I would/could not get his phone number off our caller i.d…
-Sick of this bullshit
Way to go, Stupor! Your inability to even LIE competently (and your unawareness of caller i.d. which has been around for ages) have netted you the title “Shithead of the Year”!
You can rest assured that you are NOT getting a tip this Christmas. And although this title doesn’t have a trophy per se, I don’t want you to go away empty-handed.
I had an exceptionally difficult time writing yesterday’s post. This was not due to a mental block or anything of that nature, mind you; my Internet connection was very, very sluggish. I cannot count the number of times I lost copy-edits because my connection timed out. This was more than a little infuriating.
Is it just me or does it seem like every time some politician or self-proclaimed pundit wants to create a “hot button” issue it invariably involves the Internet. As Larry Flynt put it:
Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one.
In fact, I’d even go a step further and assert that the majority of opinions I read regarding the Internet are tendered by assholes, but I digress. Be it privacy, spyware, pornography, spam, blogs or online predators I have heard a litany of ‘experts’ pontificate about them all. Often.
Honestly, none of the previous subjects really move me. I do not like having to clean out my inbox several times each day because an army of online assholes is trying to sell me medications designed to pump up a pecker I do not possess (among many other things), but I have grown to accept it as an occupational hazard. What does disturb the living shit out of me, rather, is the fact that every fuckwit, half-wit and their damned dog has Internet access and has seen fit to block the information highway’s colon with semi-literate offal.
These people should not be allowed to have computers. Come to think of it, they should not be allowed to have telephones either. The only means of communication that should be made available to such people is either the U.S. Mail (so their 2nd Grade handwriting can be enjoyed by all) or the Jerry Springer Show. At least on the Jerry Springer show you get a couple of cat fights or a boob shot to wash down the pieces of human debris parading before you.
Case in point: the following is an actual email exchange between one of my friend’s neighbors (here in Greenpoint) and some other e-tard with one extra chromosome and way too much time on her hands. Apparently the woman was very proud of her repartee and wished to share this accomplishment with my friend. Uh-huh. Being the proud author of this turd is sort of like going to a battered women’s shelter to pick up chicks: both are more than a little pathetic.
Ghetto Trash: listen you ugly fat bitch stop talking to my boyfriend just b/c your man beats you doesn’t mean you have to talk to mine!!! peace
Greenpoint Trash: hahahahahahahahahah u are one crazy ass girl! dont hate the palyer hate the game hahahah your crazy!! oh and by the way i aint fat hahahahaha!! i look the bomb you got issues!!! hahahahahahahahahah
GT: actually you are fat… stay the fuck away from him, fattie peace out
GPT: listen mamacita, dont hate on me cause he was my man b4 he was yours!! hahaha i don’t want him, and im a grown ass woman, and he is a grown ass man and i will talk to whoever the fuck i wanna talk to, if you see me as such a threat come out to BROOKLYN where we kept it fucken gully and i could pound your ass out hahahahahaha your so corney! grown the fuck up!
GT: he even said you were fat and he felt bad 4 u b/c u liked him so he’d throw u the bone every once in awhile then he dumped your fat ass for someone who was actually hot so i really wouldn’t call him “your man” and talk to whoever the fuck u want just not him and bitch i would u up so fuckin bad
GPT: hahaha yooooooooo your really fucken psyco! take some medication! your like 4 feet shorter then me you little leprichaun!! ahaha i could step on you! and im not gonna say anything to incriminate saul because im smarter then you and what we talk about is between us! and what we had is between us!! thats why we were together for 4 1/2 years you dumb cunt rag! you need to check yourself! and yes i will keep talking to him just to piss your little leprichaun ass off! so fuck off!! come to brooklyn!!!!!!! come out here if your sooo rough and tough! hahah i will stomp you out! i dare you! your too pussy to come out here!
GT: have fun trying to talk to him when he blocked you.. listen stop talking to me i don’t associate with ugly people
“Come to Brooklyn” I like the ring of it!
The powers that be should integrate this masterpiece into the Brooklyn tourism ad campaign. I can see it now: an actor dressed like Walt Whitman recites the previous verse stoically while a video montage of cat fights and topless shots (featuring some of Kings County’s finest ladies, naturally) runs in the background. I can’t guarantee this will increase tourism, but you can rest assured you will have the viewer’s undivided attention.
Photo Credit: Miss Heather
Ghetto-ass Credit: The Stuporintendent of Miss Heather’s apartment building
Filed under: Area 51
Not unlike a chihuahua, I am a diminuative, nervous and noisy creature who has no reluctance whatsoever starting shit with someone twice my size. I have done so often and the “Joe Six-pack” on the receiving end of my verbal wrath usually just stands there like a slack-jawed idiot. Go figure.
The best I can reckon is being born of frontier stock has given me this power. At a mere 4 feet 9 inches, my grandmother was one of the scariest people I have ever met. Come to think of it, my grandmother scared the shit out of a lot of people. This is why a guest minister was brought in to give the sermon at her funeral. (She had called the current pastor at her church a “jackass” over lunch.)
That said, the one group of people I will not fuck with are cabbies. I have encountered my fair share of them: a few of them were really nice, most were indifferent and a couple scared me shitless. Last week I encountered a cabbie who seemed damned intimidating at first, but ended up being quite cool.
My evening started like this…
I went to an office holiday party with my husband. For reasons only known to him, my husband chose to regale the head of his department with a tale I have heard many, many times: the “Miss Heather’s husband gets arrested for operating a bicycle under the influence” story.
My husband likes to tell stories. He does so often. TOO often. But I will recount this tale to you, dear readers, because it is germane to this post. (God only knows I have heard it enough times to know it by rote memory anyway.)
Lawrence, Kansas ca. 1994:
Miss Heather’s husband is riding his bicycle home on the sidewalk. Miss Heather’s husband also happens to be drunk. An officer from the Lawrence Police Department decides to “pull him over”.
The officer observes that Miss Heather’s Husband is intoxicated asks for identification.
Miss Heather’s husband refuses to tender said ID.
The officer persists, pointing out the obvious:
You’re operating a bicycle while intoxicated.
To wit, Miss Heather’s husband went off on some half-baked Marxist-Leninist rant:
No, I am not giving you my ID. This is not Soviet Russia. If it was, at least I’d get decent healthcare. Here you don’t get SHIT!
This extemporaneous speech did not go over well. Miss Heather’s husband went to jail. And in jail Miss Heather’s husband remained— for an entire weekend— because he didn’t want to pay a $40.00 fine. Now jump forward to…
New York, New York December 2006:
My husband and I left the party and had dinner. Afterwards, we hailed a cab to take us home.
Miss Heather’s Husband: We need to go to Greenpoint.
Cabbie: You’re KILLING ME.
(Thereafter the Cabbie goes into a tirade about how it took him one whole hour getting into Manhattan from Long Island City. He eventually regains composure and becomes very chatty.)
Cabbie: Those Po–LACKS over there have it good. They bought those houses back in the 80’s and look at what they’re worth now.
MHH: (chimes in)
Cabbie: When I moved to the United States I got an apartment on the East Side for $75.00 a month. Look at the prices now, you can’t afford anything. The other day I had a fare who was talking on his cellphone about a deal he made worth $200,000,000. He got the deal because the other guy was having an affair with his secretary. Can you imagine that?
MHH: (chimes in and a discussion about the disproportionate distribution of wealth ensues)
Me (to self): SHIT, here we go…
Cabbie (raising his voice): …It’s not real! None of it is real!
MHH: Of course it isn’t real; our currency is worth little more than the paper it is printed on.
Cabbie (louder still, nodding approvingly): YESSSS! I LIKE you!
ASIDE: Those of you who are old enough may remember the movie “Back to School”. One of the more memorable parts of this movie is when Thorton Melon (played by Rodney Dangerfield) gets into an exchange with his history professor (played by Sam Kinison) about the Korean War.
Now imagine you are Thorton Melon but you are not in a classroom. You are inside two+ tons of Detroit steel negotiating Manhattan gridlock with Sam Kinison behind the wheel. Scary indeed.
MHH (to Cabbie): Where do you come from?
Cabbie: Hungary— and I’m never going back!
I glanced over at the hack’s license. His name is Attilla. Only fear kept me from laughing my ass off.
Cabbie: There’s no difference between the Soviet Army and SS Officers. They both used big German Shepherd dogs to scare people. Those dogs are smart, I tell you. There is nothing wrong with Communism; the Russians just didn’t know how to do it. After Lenin died they kicked out all the Jews and became a bunch of thieves…
Me (thinking to self): We’re crossing the Queensboro Bridge, only 10 minutes to go…
Cabbie: …one time three Russian soldiers boarded at my grandparent’s house. They got drunk and one shot the other two dead over a game of cards. Can you imagine THAT?!? The officer tried to blame my grandparents. He called them partisans. I’m getting out of here. When I retire I’m going to move to Brazil where I can eat fish for a dollar a day.
Me (looking at husband): ?
Cabbie (crossing the Pulaski Bridge): Those Po-LACKS sure have it good. Do you know what this real estate is worth now?
Me (finally mustering the gumption to join the rant): Yeah, but the old-timers can no longer afford the real estate taxes. They’re getting pushed out. Especially the elderly. It’s not right. But you want to know what really pisses me off?
Cabbie and MHH: What?
Me (pointing): There’s a retirement home over there on Eagle Street…
Cabbie and MHH: Yes, and?
Me: …the dog owners around here walk their dogs behind it and let them shit all over the place. They don’t even bother to pick it up. The people who live in that nursing home have to look at THAT SHIT EVERY DAY! It pisses my ass OFF!
Cabbie and MHH nod in agreement.
Then it came time for Attilla and us to part ways. We were home. Greenpoint: Po-LACKS, blue-chip real estate, dog shit and all.
As I was getting out of the cab, my husband asked what the fare was. It was $11.00. We gave Attilla $20.00 and told him to keep the change.
Dear Attilla, wherever you may be today…
I like the way you think. I’m going to be watching you.
Yesterday I set forth with my trusty digital camera and documented the shit-laden apocalyptic wasteland that Green Street has become. After asserting in this post that development has precipitated a deluge dog shit, I decided to put my theory to the test. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint is not one to state findings without the data to back it up.*
After crunching the numbers, there does appear to be a relationship between development and dog shit. However, it is a more subtle one than I had initially projected. For example:
By all appearances the above chart suggests that there is no relationship whatsoever between development and dog shit. But if one looks at a breakdown by location (and bears in mind that 110-142 Green Street is the area being razed to build condos) a trend begins to emerge.
Note: The closer an undeveloped property is to the development site, the more dog shit there is to be found.
In addition, even-numbered properties (those on the same side of the street as the development site) seem to be harder hit than their odd-numbered counterparts across the street. Mere coincidence? I think not.
Still don’t believe me? Check out the shitcam.
*I prefer to leave this practice to our Chimp in Chief, thank you.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
When I saw the following at 144 Franklin Street today two words came to mind (after the requisite What the fuck?): anal probe.
It makes sense that extra-terrestrials would troll this neighborhood for research subjects. The more colorful citizens here drop trou in public with disquieting regularity anyway, so why not “catch them with their pants down”? Literally.
I’d even go so far as to conjecture that some of the test subjects probably like it. It’s a “win”/”win” situation for all involved!
Regardless, I am happy to know that they use protection. I wonder if they use the rubber fingertips to phone home?
Foolishly, I thought my block being razed to build craptastic condos would abate the proliferation of dog shit some. I gotta tell you; this assumption certainly made an ass out of me! It’s only gotten worse. Nowadays it’s getting more and more difficult to dodge the stuff.
With my “workload” doubled (tripled?), the task of determining the “Dung of the Day” has become more time-consuming and thought provoking.
Do I go with diarhhea or firm bowel movements today? Human shit or dog shit?
How about some puke to spice things up?
The list of pressing concerns that lies before me goes on and on.
I usually go with my instincts, whimsy and caprice. That’s what I did today, anyway. Hailing from 148 Green Street, I present to you “Choadan”.
In closing, I would like to remind my readership that I want submissions. Send me your shit! Specs and instructions can be found here.