Filed under: Area 51
For those of you who like to piss on flowers, this man’s products may be of interest to you. I for one like the California Poppy Urinal. I’d pay cold hard cash to see the Governator piss into that badass motherfucker.
(…if I have jam in my pants)
After tossing and turning all night, I attempted to operate on four hours sleep (and two cups of coffee) today. My morning consisted of doing two loads of laundry and scouting the far north end of Manhattan Avenue for dog shit. Between the two previous tasks I ordered a toasted bagel from New Tulcingo.
I said I wanted a bagel with just a little cream cheese. And I got just that— with a fat glob of gelatinous sweet red slime to boot! I discovered this at the intersection of Freeman Street and Manhattan Avenue and got enraged. Instead of doing the rational thing (returning it and asking for another one) I flung the jelly off and cursed with total abandon.
For reasons unknown, a cabbie on Freeman Street found my spasmic fits of profanity interesting. Maybe he thought I was trying to hail him, as incomprehensible as that may seem; I was shouting, shaking a bagel and flinging jelly for chrissakes!
He pulled over on Manhattan Avenue and stared at me.
Me (shaking the offending bagel): Do you have a fucking problem!?!
Nothing. He kept staring.
The cabbie finally got the message when I started flinging jelly at his car.
In the clarity that is 20/20 hindsight, I suspect my menstrual anti-jelly demonstration is penny ante shit compared to what this man sees in Williamsburg, Chelsea or the East Village on any given
day night. Except I wasn’t a kinked-up/coked-up nympho looking for a ride home: I was one very PISSED-OFF Greenpoint Gal trying to get that jelly THE FUCK off her BAGEL!
Please accept my sincerest apologies, cabbie. I meant no harm: you just happened to offer your services to the wrong person, at the wrong place and at the WORST possible time. You guys (and gals) have it hard enough as is. I am sorry if my mixed signals confused you.
When I got home I noticed my little friend surprised me (yet) again. I’l be serving up red jam toast for the next 3-4 days. Yummy. My husband will be delighted.
I found this pile of puddin’ poo at 1075 Manhattan Avenue last night. My husband and I were taking a couple of friends to the Acapulco Restaurant for dinner. They kept walking as I took the above photo, so I had to run to catch up with them. It would be a crime to let such an exquisite specimen go undocumented. In fact, I was so proud of this find that I showed it to them whilest we were dining. (Probably not the wisest thing to do given that we were in a Mexican restaurant. Oh well.)
A connubial debate followed as to whether this feces was of canine or human origin:
- My husband asserted that if said feces was located near a corner or some other means of support, it was human. It wasn’t— and therefore, it must be canine.
- I countered that people drop trou here at the drop of a hat. They have neither the time nor the wits about them to be so discriminating when it comes to selecting a venue for public defecation. What’s more, this pile of shit was located rather close to the Greenpoint Hotel.
Then again, who really knows?
Filed under: Area 51
I’ll be upfront: my responsibilities as The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint are such that I
do not cannot keep track of what our local hipster population is up to nowadays. Thankfully, the Idiotarod was brought to my attention I rode the L train last Saturday.
What these peeps lacked in presentation was made up for by attitude (and one big-ass pole). As Theodore Roosevelt once said:
Speak softly and carry a large stick.
Filed under: Area 51
Last Friday my husband asked me what I wanted to do for Valentine’s Day. I told him that I honestly not giventhe matter any thought. My peculiarly macho temperment is perplexed by sentimentality (and other such slop). My husband learned this the first (and only time) he brought me flowers. I tried to be gracious —and failed miserably. I handled that bunch of flowers the same way I handled the garter my mother sent me before we got married: “Um, thanks.” (READ: What the fuck am I going to do with THIS?!?). My husband ended up putting them in a vase and finding a place where the cats couldn’t eat them.
It was not my intent to come off as an asshole (though I did), I am simply not hard-wired to appreciate such things. Give me an old mug shot, clock components, power tools or some weird (and preferably vulgar) piece of garbage found on the street and my eyes will light up with glee. Give me flowers and my mind goes 404 Not Found. I felt (and still feel) pretty bad about this.
Karma works in strange ways. I learned this the following Saturday when I checked the mail. My lack of planning has been rectified courtesy of the Kings County Judicial System. I have a date this Valentine’s Day. 10:00 a.m. at 320 Jay Street, 2nd floor. As a juror. Lucky me.
Yes, I know it is my civic responsibility— and I suppose I don’t have anything better to do. According to the brief questionnaire on the back of my summons anyway, which wants to know my occupation, employer, “regular days off”, etc. I have yet to come up with answers to any of these questions that won’t get me jailed/fined for contempt. (Any suggestions regading this matter would be greatly appreciated.)
I busted a gut when I noticed this summons was signed by one “Nancy J. Sunshine”, the County Clerk. This was the crowning turd. Whoever generates these notifications, unless he/she is totally bereft of ANY sense of irony (which is entirely possible) probably laughs their collective asses off at this. I know I would if I were in their shoes.
Amusingly enough, I knew a girl named “Sunshine” in grade school; she was anything but. A better name for her would have been “Overcast with freezing drizzle”. Suffice it to say that she was not a very happy person. I blame her (ex-hippie) parents for this. (BTW: I hate hippies.) That said, I hope I get to see “Ms. Sunshine” during my ramblings in the Kings County Courthouse. I envision her as either a dour and humorless office frau or a burned out ex-hippie. Maybe both.
As far as I’m concerned we have a date— and I am not the least bit happy about having to call her the night before to confirm it. If Ms. Sunshine wants to play the field that’s her prerogative, but don’t expect me to go along with it. Asking me questions about my employment status or demanding that I wear proper attire only fuels my ire: I got enough of that crap when I dated. The fine bachelors of this city (in all their resplendent “Peter Pan” glory) are what moved me to import my (now) husband from out-of-state.
Then again, if juror selection is anything like the dating scene I have little to worry about. If personal experience repeats itself, I will be quickly and resoundingly rejected. Probably for being an over-educated weirdo who won’t put out.
Photo Credit: Destiny Crider
For those of you who have ever wondered how I can stomach chasing dog shit, I would like you to meet Frances.
I have been the custodian of this cat for 13 years. She is arguably the filthiest feline I have ever encountered in my life. “But cats are supposed to be graceful and fastidious creatures?”, you ask. Not this one. I suppose she missed “Hygiene 101” during her ramblings as a stray kitten in rural Texas. Maybe she simply doesn’t care? Regardless of the cause, the effect is the same: a Texas-sized helping of fucking nasty.
The products to be found on her ‘business end’ would make Navy Seal beg for mercy. Her ass is best likened to a Sharpie Marker of SHIT. Have you ever seen a four foot long skidmark? I have. More than once. The “front end” isn’t much better: for a cat who clearly never cleans her butt, she has some foul-ass breath. She is also loud. Very loud. ETHEL MERMAN FIGHTING SHELLEY WINTERS OVER A TWINKIE LOUD.
Don’t get me wrong, readers, I love Miss Frances (AKA “Stinky”). Once you get past all the rough edges, she’s a cool cat. She’s gotten a little (more) cantankerous in her old age, but she is a very sweet and gentle animal. When I’m sick she will not leave my side. The fact that she has served our resident feline bully, Tortilla, his own ass on occasion doesn’t hurt either.
But “Stinky” (and her stinktastic ways) have been unusually prolific of late. At 3:00 a.m. this morning she pulled off a calamitous caper that undoubtedly will be THE distinguishing achievement in her career as one fucking gross cat…
My husband was snoring, so I slept with my head at the foot of the bed. This may strike many of you as being odd (it is), but I have learned that this is the most effacive means of handling this problem. On top of his snoring, my husband is one of the deepest sleepers I have ever met: punching him repeatedly in the ribs doesn’t WORK. He just grunts and goes right back to sawing logs. I lie there thinking to myself “god I hate you”.
THIS MORNING, 3:00 a.m.
I roll over and awaken to the sensation of COLD, MOIST fur against my foot. This was Frances’ ass; she had just used the litterbox. The copious ‘fleece’ that graces her butt often renders her unaware of having sopping wet ass. “Goddammit Frances!” I bellow and shoo her off the bed. My husband grunts and I try to go back to sleep.
Shortly thereafter Frances found her way back to the head of the bed. I became aware of this when I heard a sound not unlike a plunger dislodging a clog from a toilet: Miss Frances is going to barf. And she did. Twice. The first time I didn’t react fast enough and she spewed rancid cat food all over the bed, soaking the sheets and a pillow sham. I lunged forward, and in so doing, kicked my husband in the head. He kept on sleeping.
I realize taking the Lord’s name in vain is a big “no-no” in some circles, but at 3:15 a.m. it was the best epithet my sleep-deprived little brain could muster. I’m certain he’d understand.
I get Frances off the bed and she spews again. This time on a rug I had shampooed only a week ago. I wander into the kitchen to get some paper towels to clean it all up. At this point I didn’t even care if I got gack juice all over my hands; I am not sleeping in anyone else’s puke.
The way I see it, if I ever awaken in my own gastronomic by-products, well, that’s my own fucking fault. I will make the stoic trek to the laundromat and wash away my sins without complaint. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint has standards. They may not be lofty ones, but they are standards, nonetheless.
Upon completing this (UNWANTED, but necessary) task I went back to bed. My husband started murmuring questions about what happened. I ignored him. And after kicking him in the head a few more times, I finally fell asleep.
Filed under: Area 51
A couple of days ago I found this on the way to the supermarket. It pissed me off. A LOT. I must have yelled at my husband over the phone about this item for at least 10 minutes. This is something I rarely do: usually when I bark at my husband it is due to something (real or imagined) that he did. He was a good sport though, and took one for the team.
After I collecting my senses, I forwarded this item to Hollaback NYC… and they ran it January 24th! Thanks
guys gals, from the bottom of my little heart!
While it is not the purpose of this blog to flog my feminist beliefs, I suspect that even the more moderate among you would find this offensive. The year is 2007, not 1957. This is not funny; it is pathetic and degrading. Not just to women (who it clearly objectifies), but also to the Hispanic market this item is clearly geared towards.
I would like to congratulate the creator of this masterpiece of racial stereotyping: I hope you realize (wherever/whoever you are, pendejo) that Hispanic males are not the only users of your product. I can only imagine what goes through some poor Latina’s mind when she shops for a phone card and finds THIS in the offering. I have no doubt that any children she may have in tow will find it instructive: a piece of ass is worth two bucks. With the pervasive racial discrimination and illegal evictions (among many other things) blighting my neighborhood, I am certain this is just the thing to make my Latino neighbors feel empowered. Way to go, guys!
In closing, I would like to state that IF I had the stomach to do so, I’d sit on my ass eating Ho-Hos for as long as it takes in order to achieve the ‘critical mass‘ necessary to smother you in the folds of my fat white liberal butt.
P.S.: Fuck you.
1/25/07 5:28 p.m.: Holy shit! I just realized that the previous missive is about class politics. I s’pose being married to a card-carrying Commie has colored my view of social issues after all. And I am the last one to figure it out. Silly me. Color me pink(o)!
Filed under: Area 51
I found the above UBER rat on Mott Street last weekend. Appropriately enough, he and his companion grace a storefront occupied by an exterminator. If the purpose of these Bens-on-steroids is to invoke fear in my person (and move me to make a date to implement the final solution of rat-kind), it fails miserably. Had this store been open I would have asked the proprietor if he would be willing to me sell one of his rats. Nevertheless, ever since I saw these two bad boys (or girls?) I have had rats on the brain…
The newer readers (of this blog) may not be aware of my affection for rats. Hell, the picture my husband and I emailed to our respective families announcing our wedding was taken in front of a scab-busting rat. Miss Heather likes her some rats. And you should too.
Contrary to popular belief, rats are highly intelligent creatures and I for one find their resourcefulness inspiring. If one was to discard all prejudice and take a broader view of things, I doubt he or she would find any real difference between our society and that of our subterranean counterparts. In fact, I would go so far as to say that there is no better representation of the resilient New Yorker spirit than the humble rat. Just like New Yorkers, rats are constantly thinking, adapting and on the make.
Sadly, the same cannot be said about most of our American brethren; a populace epitomized (in my opinion) by an obese dowager at Wal-Mart loading up her rascal scooter with Michael Landon movies and Precious Moments figurines*. There is a very sound reason why most of the world thinks Americans are fat, lazy and stupid: most of us ARE. FAT. LAZY. AND STUPID.
But not the fine citizens of New York Shitty: we are a city of Do-ers. We may not always do good things, but I’d rather cast my lot with eternal damnation than be forced to watch “Highway to Heaven” for five minutes, suffer ‘salads’ made of iceberg lettuce or a Jell-o concoction with all manner and variety of processed food product suspended therein. ‘Nuff said.
The previous pedantic rant out of the way (and boy do I feel better), I’d like to share a little nugget of joy (in the form of a letter to the editor) I received recently from a fellow enthusiast of the absurd. NOTE: In the interest of maintaining the anonymity of my source, names and locations have been changed.
Why not solve the rat problems in a fairly neutral way. Man has been hunting since caveman days. We could open up the main dock walkway for hunters only between dusk and 8 p.m. on Monday nights. The city police could supervise. Rat hunting permits could be issued at a cost of $100 per month adding revenue to the city. Only .22 caliber rifles would be allowed and night vision goggles would be required. Hunters would line up along the pier and shoot the rats as they came out of the rocks.
Since the invention of dumps, rat hunting has been a sport loved by millions. Why not let the city make some money and solve the rat problem in a way that would create joy for our citizens and allow them to get their aggressions out in a way that would benefit the public. An antiques dealer on the Upper East Side has adopted a similar plan to battle the vexatious homeless people blighting his storefront and it appears to be working!
This made my day. Although I am a vegetarian and abhor animal cruelty, I do like good satire. What’s more, senseless violence gives me a serious case of the giggles. (I chock this up to being raised in Texas; I can’t help myself.) Being the kind of person who has to have the last word on everything, I generated a counter-proposal:
Back in the old days, there was an establishment in NYC called “The Sportman’s Hall”. Kit Burns (the proprietor) would pay street urchins a nickel a head for rats to stock his rat pit. Yes, I said “rat pit”.
Not having television (ipods or radio), people back then had to get a bit creative (and repulsive) when it came to an evening’s entertainment. And I ask you, what could possibly be more entertaining than betting on how many rats a man can stomp to death wearing steel-tipped boots in a set period of time?
The way I see it, you could conscript your local juvenile delinquents/jail population to procure the rats. To spice things up a bit, local government (city council?) could be determined by who can kill the most rats (in the above manner) in two minutes. No costly elections— most people (in my opinion) shouldn’t be allowed to vote anyway. Just look at our president elect.
Feel free to pass this idea along to your local authorities.
P.S.: I have had an intriguing afterthought; why not take the rat pulp and whip up some rat burgers? These can be served at the local jail, day care, soup kitchen or via Meals on Wheels.
Many of the problems we Americans face today can be solved with a little footwork and good ol’ New Yorker know-how. This is what makes us feel superior to everyone else (and we are). If any small town yokel begs to differ, dear readers, say what any real New Yorker would say: Fuck You! It’ll give him/her a rousing tale to tell their grandchildren about going to the big shitty (during commerical breaks).
In closing, I would love to see the New York City Council
‘elected’ chosen in the previous manner. The sight of Christine Quinn stomping rats in a pit might make me queer for life.
Think about it.
*Those little angels your Aunt Tilly finds so precious are representations of DEAD BABIES for crying out loud! And some people have the audacity to suggest that I have issues?!?
Filed under: Area 51
Perhaps it was my encounter with a subway masturbator at Queensboro Plaza (and the five hour layover at the Queens County HQ of the Transit Police needed to prosecute him)?
the crackheaded driver that plowed into me and my two buddies while crossing 46th Street (RIGHT BEFORE MY WEDDING and being told that since I didn’t go to the hospital— FOR A BRUISE ON MY ASS they wouldn’t investigate/prosecute)?
But I find the
development rampant speculation at play in Long Island City mystifying. Personal safety concerns aside, I cannot for the life of me figure out why. Quick access to Manhattan and skyline views are to be had there, but little else. For a ‘nabe that likes to market itself as being “hip” and “artistic”, it isn’t. Sure there’s P.S. 1, Silvercup Studios and a number of art galleries there, but where are the cheap digs, liquor stores, bars, and other facilitators of vice my artistic brethren crave?
Unlike Williamsburg (which had
real struggling artists in residence not too long ago), LIC appears to have made the quantum leap from being an industrial wasteland to the playground for the artsy fartsy elite. Where are the dives? Where is the quirky art supply store? Shit, where’s a fucking grocery store?
Needless to say, I was rather pleased to find the following poster at the Vernon-Jackson stop of the 7 recently.
Long Island Shitty people— they’re just like us!
I have often wondered why there is so much dog shit on Dupont Street. Of all the blocks in my part of the ‘hood, Dupont is by and far the worst when it comes to crap. It’s fucking gross.
My initial theory was that dog owners were letting their canines crap with total abandon behind the old folks home (Mary D’s). And after last week’s fact-finding mission, I determined this to be true. What is surprising is WHO the statistics suggest as being the responsible for this doggie doo death gauntlet. Read on and draw your own conclusions.
The area I covered was a small one: Clay, Dupont, Eagle and Freeman Streets between Manhattan Avenue and Franklin Street. How much shit did I find? A LOT.
SEVENTY PILES OF SHIT IN FOUR BLOCKS.
Note: These are conservative figures. I often encountered mounds of dog shit and was forced to estimate how many separate bowel movements were present.
The above pie chart illustrates how much dog shit was found on/adjacent to Mary D’s versus the rest of the block. What is especially telling was the amount of shit located immediately outside and DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET from the rear exit of this facility (at 80 Dupont Street).
God I hope it was dog shit I saw back there; what kind of place are these people running?!? Maybe this is a new part of President Bush’s Medicare Plan? Hell if I know— and I don’t think I want to find out.
Elder abuse concerns aside, here’s a brand-spanking new “Crap Map” for your entertainment.