One night I dreamed I was walking along Manhattan Avenue with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the shit. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one only.
This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints, so I said to the Lord,
“You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there has only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?â€
The Lord replied, â€œThe years when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried— wait a minute— I just stepped in something. Aw FUCK!!!â€
P.S.: I hate this fucking poem.
Filed under: Area 51
I am frequently asked why I created this blog. This is a very reasonable question. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint makes periodic visits to Normalcy; enough so to understand why some might find my painstaking documentation of dog shit, bum shit (my personal favorite), chicken bones and the many other endearing qualities of my ‘nabe to be a bit odd, if not outrightly disturbing.
I have even asked myself this very question on occasion and have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. To be certain I enjoy the ‘prestige’ my (admittedly self-created) title confers unto my person, but I suspect I am searching for something more. Fame? Fortune? A run for
City Council Mayor? Only time will tell.
Recently I made a discovery that frankly made feel a little touched (in the heart, mind you, not in the head— where I am constantly ‘touched’). I was poking around my blog when I discovered a new incoming link. Being an inquisitive person, I checked it out and was astonished with what I found. A teenage girl in Flushing, Queens seems to have been inspired by my rogue activities and has started a blog of her own:
let me give you a little insight into my world and my what goes on in it. i live in the old italian infested portion of queens known as flushing, more commonly known for the ridiculous amount of asians, but i digress. we donâ€™t do much here, not by choice but because thereâ€™s nothing to do. i have a close group of friends. we are, inevitably at times, the obnoxiously loud teenagers you wanna take a machete to. we then bash other, more obnoxiously loud people. itâ€™s quite fun. i have a family, theyâ€™re quite loud and disfunctional. there are days i want to kill them all, but thats how family is: canâ€™t live with em, canâ€™t live without em. life is complex, i realize that and i think about it often: all the aspects of it. and i guess thatâ€™s what thats what iâ€™ll really write about. i donâ€™t think this will be as funny as Miss Heatherâ€™s www.newyorkshitty.com, my inspiration for this blog. but i promise iâ€™ll try to make it something worth reading. thatâ€™s all for now.
Whoa! I have no doubt that when these words were written hell froze over. Or pigs started flying. Or George W. Bush got a brain. (Take your pick.) I may or may not be the best role model to be had for today’s youth, but it makes me VERY happy to see that I have motivated someone to start writing. And when I read her blog this morning I realized that this is a very good thing: she’s fucking hilarious. I particularly enjoyed her “About” statement (which appears to have since been excised):
life as a teenager in new york cityâ€¦cuz weâ€™re not all assholes
I would like to take this moment to go on the record and state that I never found teenagers to be assholes. Not in any more significant numbers than the general population anyway. In fact, I sort of envy them; they can get away with a lot more shit than so-called ‘adults’. This is undoubtedly a sign of my own immaturity and I can live with that.
Follows is a little story a good buddy of mine sent me recently featuring some more (admittedly deliquent and less witty) examples of today’s youth. Enjoy!
I don’t even know why i’m bothering to write this because I can’t do it justice, and it’s going to end up being one of those ‘you had to be there’ things.
But it’s still a good story.
I’m on the way home from work (at a decent hour mind you)–just chillin’ and reading my magazine. The train is crowded and I’m lucky I got a seat. Even so I’m sitting between other people with thick coats to bundle up against the cold, so I’m kind of squished and holding my magazine at a slightly awkward angle.
Suddenly a fight breaks out a few feet away. I can’t see it because of the crowd, but I can hear it because of the piercing trash talk–it’s coming from a group of innebriated 13 year old hispanic girls.
Straight out of a TV show: bitch I’m gon’ kick your ass, you comin out your mouth like that to me! I ain’t gon be disrespected.
All the guys look on with interest, the women try to ignore it. Suddenly there’s a bunch of jostling and the trash talk and it is getting louder–because it’s approaching. Someone gets up next to me and stomps off down the car with a “I can’t take this shit” air. So what happens? Two of the girls’ friends drag their hyped up little asses down, slam them down next to me and then sit on them. They are screaming.
“Shut the fuck up you are not going to fight her!”
“The fuck I ain’t!”
“I’m telling you you ain’t cuz you fight her I’m ‘onna wind up in jail tomorrow morning, fuck that shit. SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
(Piercing 13-year-old screeching ensues.)
This goes on for a bit. With the fighting girls pretending to be calm and saying “hold this bag. It has my money and my cell phone. Hold it for me.
I am calm but I’M GONNA KICK HER MOTHER FUCKING ASS! I’M GONNA TAP DANCE ON HER FACE LIKE SHE WAS FUCKING ROACHES!”
I started giggling at this point, so they start hamming it up for more attention. I keep reading my magazine and start emitting calm vibes.
Next thing you know one of the fighting girls is leaning her head on my shoulder. One of the caretaker friends says “bitch quit leaning on that lady’s shoulder she dont’ like you. Oh wait, yes she do, cuz you look white.” They start giggling but they all calmed down.
It was a New York moment.
Ah, the lost pleasures of youth…
I had high hopes for today. I knew exactly what I wanted to write about. I had my laundry readied to wash. I had even procured a box of hair dye to touch up my ‘outer borough’ roots. Thanks to the ticking time bomb that is my apartment building, these carefully laid plans totally went to shit.
Unlike my husband, I wake up in a pretty affable mood. I do not need much time to ready myself for the rigors of the day. Give me 5-10 minutes to get dressed, wash my face and brush my hair and I’m good to go. This morning was no different. I got up, got dressed and dove right in reading my email. Here’s the one that started my day. It is from my neighbor upstairs.
Gahhhh, letting you know of a shitty situation:
There’s been the most annoying leaky drip occuring for the past two months or so in my kitchen right above the radiator that’d fill buckets in 2 days or so. Didn’t really bother me too much. I def. let the Stupor know about it….This morning there was a dimple, then it turned into a major dent, and just as I was about to leave it turned into a collapse. There’s shit all over my floor, sink, everywhere… I’m pissed off cause I went downstairs to let those douchebags know that it happened and that I needed them to, at least, look at it and see how messed up it is since I have to go to work and the bastard said “he doesn’t care.” (! – Ed. Note) Point blank. No fooling.
He can’t play that no speaking english role cause we had some words that translated in any language, knaw mean?
Anyway, I finally contacted the Stupor. He says someone will be around at 9:30ish. But I went ahead and placed a complaint at 311 with HPD: Complaint # 3712820.
I said there’s been a constant leak. No response from landlord. Hole in ceiling due to lack of maintenance.
Do you have a digital camera so I can snap a few photos for records?
This crap is messed up dood.
Shit. This building is just like herpes: when left untreated, you get ‘outbreaks’ (such as this). Unfortunately, there is no pill this building can pop to suppress its inner rot. The landlord doesn’t care anyway. He’s too busy putting the screws to us and plotting ways to (FURTHER) inflate the rent rolls for the building. Cocksucker.
After writing my neighbor back, I popped over to The Gowanus Lounge. Life is one sick son-of-a-bitch. The last thing I needed at this particular moment was being reminded of the atrocity slated to blight much of my block. But that’s exactly what happened.
Six stories and 130 Units worth of glass covered crap. Great. The one reason I really like my block (as fucking ugly as it is) is that it is not densely populated. I am not up to my eyeballs in people and their stupid little problems. I guess I should enjoy this while I still can, because in just over a year I will be deluged by entitled affluence and triple decker strollers teeming with ‘Frankenkids’. Dear god: please kill me now.
By far, the best part of the 110 Green Street
offal advertising copy laid before me was this ‘mission statement':
The developer will focus on creating a “lifestyle” for residents as a key selling point for the units. Other amenities planned for the project include concierge, fitness center, wireless internet throughout the building, a library, children’s playroom and indoor pool and sauna.
CONCIERGE?!? Let’s get something straight: no one— I am mean NO ONE is too busy or too ‘important’ to handle their own shit. Period. I don’t care if you’re Donald Fucking Trump; if you cannot be bothered to schlep your ass the the Duane Reade (for example) and buy your own goddamn A 200 Pyrinate or diapers for little Timmy McPussyfart you (and your children) deserve to writhe in squalor. Get off your fat lazy ass and do it your self.
This goes double for anyone crackheaded enough to think that living in Greenpoint requires concierge service. Only a bona fide prick would not find such expectations to be ridiculous. Because it is. VERY. RIDICULOUS. Let’s face facts: if you’re moving here, it is because you do not have the money to buy in Long Island City or Williamsburg. Cut the crap. Or I’ll cut it for you.
Having worked my self into a fighting fucking mood, I called my husband and told him about my morning. He had a wonderful idea: we should get Mr. “I don’t care” from downstairs hired on as 110 Green Street’s new concierge. I’d pay cold hard cash to see that: asshole vs. asshole.
Photo Credit: Miss Heather. As I write this I am doing what this (admittedly cute) little girl is doing— except I am not looking for something to eat; I am trying to give myself a lobotomy.
Filed under: Area 51
I found this at the Jay Street/Borough Hall stop of the A train yesterday. While I applaud this person’s ingenuity (advertising ON a subway map will get your message out to A LOT of people), I do harbor concerns about the caliber of person who might take this guy up on his offer. This ad hoc advertisement is located one block away from the Criminal Court Building after all…
Filed under: Area 51
I came across this shirt at a new store in the ‘hood: Alter. They also sell one with the Greenpoint Terminal Market screenprinted on it. WAY COOL.
Can you think of a better way to show your Greenpoint pride? I think not. I also loved this jacket. Very cute. Check them out!
109 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
I found this outside my bedroom window last weekend when I was inspecting latest salvo of piss that Clarence, the local tom cat, saw fit to discharge there. I immediately showed my new find to my husband and told him I was going to tape it to the headboard of our bed. This has yet to happen.
Be advised that this fine example of misguided masculinity has been added to my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“. I’m not even going to bother deconstructing it because, quite honestly, it is 7:00 in the morning as I write this and it is too painful a task.
Maybe it’s the coffee speaking, but this image makes me feel the need to take a shit.
Last Sunday I rooked my husband into accompanying me as I went on another (albeit smallish) fact-finding mission*. Our route was as follows.
West Street has never failed to deliver (large quantities of dog shit) before and this occasion proved to be no different. Here are a few of my favorite shits.
65 Green Street
SHIT Tac Toe! I won! I won!
79 Green Street
This is just plain scary. And last but not least, my personal favorite from…
150 West Street!
It was a very fruitful trip— and the dog shit I found was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, if you know what I mean.
When I reached Kent Street I noticed yet another group of older buildings that seemed to be awaiting a date with the wrecking ball. I went in for a closer look. And when I did, I found this. I walked another 5-6 feet and found these.
It would appear that had stumbled upon a trail, a Skidmark Row if you will, of grannie panties that spanned 59 Kent Street. Fascinating.
So if any of you:
- woke up last Sunday morning (after several rousing trysts at Mary D’s the night before) and found yourself wondering “Gee, where’s my underwear?”
- have fantasies involving Estelle Getty, The Golden Girls, getting golden showers from golden girls— or all of the above
- find the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” lady strangely arousing
- have a thing for underwear resembling Depends undergarments
today’s your lucky day! Go on down to Kent Street (I have indicated the location on the above map with a red dot) and dig in. And when you’re done, why not swing by Brooklyn Bridge Marriott tomorrow afternoon for this?
*After what transpired earlier that day, I felt my husband owed it to me.
I woke up on Sunday about 30 minutes after my husband. I got out of bed, put on my pajama bottoms (which were exactly where I had left them the night before: at the foot of the bed) and wandered into the kitchen. After I had managed to plow through two cups of coffee, my husband charged into the living room babbling “You aren’t wearing the striped pants, are you?”
“Striped pants?” I thought to myself.
Husband: Yeah, the ones you are wearing. I found those wadded up in the cat box this morning.
I must had worn these soiled ‘striped pants’ for at least 20 minutes before my husband saw fit to notice and/or tell me. I am still trying to figure out why the hell he didn’t simply put them in the dirty laundry hamper instead of putting them back on the floor. Gross.
Thus far today I:
- have been awakened by the moron next door slathering more asphalt on his ghetto-ass roof.
- witnessed a number of fire trucks and police vehicles descending upon the mega-demolition site on my block.
- had to climb over a massive pile of shit our resident hipsters have seen fit to store in the stairwell so I could gain access to the roof and photograph said fire trucks and police vehicles.
- learned from my Section 8 neighbors that our landlord threatened to turn off the heat and hot water FOR THE ENTIRE BUILDING at their latest court-ordered arbitration hearing. The only response I could muster to this bombshell was “That’s really fucking stupid”. (Because it is.)
- have been preparing to slog through a fucking snow storm tomorrow because I have been selected for jury duty.
Suffice it to say that my current mood is less than stellar. But strangely enough, none of the above-listed bullshit is to blame. Nosirree. This, dear readers, was (and still is) the crowning turd of my day.
Off the top of my head, I can think of at least six coffeehouses (seven if you include Duncan Donuts) in this ‘hood. This is a less-than-original concept. I’d love to meet the rocket scientist who, in his infinite wisdom, decided that yet another coffee shop (and an overpriced one at that) is exactly what Greenpoint needs. Why doesn’t he toss in a couple of banks and another fucking Thai restaurant while he’s at it?
Today’s “Dung of the Day” can be found in front of the Murder Bar (better known to non-locals as “Tommy’s Tavern”) on Freeman Street at Manhattan Avenue.
Otherwise, I have parsed through Cafe Press’s merchandising opportunities (for New York Shitty) and found the following products of particular interest:
- Doggie coats: for the obvious reasons.
- Baby bibs: because what goes in the front inevitably finds its way out the back. I’m considering offering a rebate to Park Slope parents if they purchase and USE this item. Naturally, I will demand photographic evidence that the latter came to pass.
- Postage stamps: pay off your student loans with style!
- Thong underwear: although I have never been a fan of them, emblazoning the front of fannie floss with a pile of shit makes a certain amount of sense. Consider it a harbinger of things to come because I have little doubt that poo is exactly what you’ll find on the business end after you peel them off the wearer.
And (to shamelessly steal a quip from Vice Magazine) I will not shave my hairy ass before modelling them. Perhaps I’ll even pull a Farrah and select a pair that is two sizes smaller to better showcase my assets.
This is not an idle threat: it’s a promise.
Hugs and pisses,
Filed under: Area 51
As I continue to slog away tidying the apartment and listen to the landlord doing god-only-knows-what to the building next door, I have found ways to amuse myself. On Tuesday, for example, I had the task of parsing through an enormous pile of Chinese take-out condiment packets. In so doing, I discovered a handful of old, stale fortune cookies. Yummy. Instead of simply throwing them out, I decided to play a little game: fortune-telling for felines.
First up, Bodhi.
You would make a good lawyer.
This is very appropriate. As it happens, Bodhi regularly humps our female cat Uni (or any other cat in this apartment— male or female— that will sit still long enough) despite having no berries toÂ power his twig. Having dealt with attorneys on a number of occasions, I am of the opinion that persistence, not intelligence, is the defining characteristic of those who engage in this profession. I will refrain from making any wise-cracks about their propensity for ‘screwing people’ because it is simply too easy.
Next up, Uni.
The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.
Once again, this is right on the money. After being severely chastized by our vet for having overweight pussies, my husband and I put them on a diet. This endeavor has been for the most part successful. I say “for the most part” because Uni has only managed to get fatter. I honestly don’t know how she does it, but firmly believe this is an act of spite on her part.
Last up, Tortilla.
You will have good luck and overcome many hardships.
If I had to liken Tortilla to a person, it would be George W. Bush: neither is endowed with much in the way of intelligence and both are bullies. You will notice that the above photo appears to show Tortilla drooling. He isn’t; I took this photo after I caught him trying to eat liquid laundry detergent. Not. Very. Bright.
Whereas our fearless leader has an army (and god) to back up his little big man agenda, Tortilla is a quite large and exceptionally strong animal. He makes this known to the other cats here at Chateau de Ghetto on a regular basis— which is why my husband and I have erected a barrier between the bedroom and the living room. Not satisfied with merely picking on someone his own size, Tortilla takes great delight in accosting Uni.
On the evening of this psychic reading, dear readers, Tortilla got a break. Sort of. After exercising his god-given mandate to be a colossal asshole all afternoon, Tortilla managed to tear down part of our fortifications. Instead of diving into the bedroom and getting down to business (which would get him shot with the water gun immediately), he decided to stand on top of the gate and stare down at Uni menacingly. Subtlety is not one of Tortilla’s strong points.
Upon hearing the noise, I wandered into the bedroom to see what was going on. I found Tortilla pacing along the top of the gate and got the water gun. Despite his cognitive challenges, Tortilla knows this item by sight. He also knows I take great delight in shooting him in the face with it and turned his body around so as to make clear aim at his face impossible. And there he stood, looking over his shoulder at me with a “Fuck you, what are you going to do now?” expression on his face.
What I did was shoot him in the ass. Repeatedly.
Bulls Brown eye! Tortilla didn’t know what hit him. He just stared at me with a mixed expression of confusion and abject hatred. I spent the next 15 minutes laughing my ass off while Tortilla fast and furiously cleaned his.
Feel free to call the ASPCA, PETA, Animal Care and Control, the FBI, CIA and/or the regulatory agency of your choice and report my ass. I dare you. You can rest assured that after the various and sundry authorities parade through this apartment and become acquainted with Tor Dubya Bush they will all walk away with the same opinion: this cat deserves to have U.N. sanctions levied against him.
Little Dick Men Photo Credit: Miss Heather. For the life of me I cannot understand why I didn’t post this earlier. Maybe I got busy, who knows? This morning I emailed this fine image to my husband with the suggestion that he post it on the conference room door in his office. I don’t think he’ll do it though: he uttered some nonsense about liking his job and not wanting to get fired. Oh well.
I wish I had me some little dick men. I bet they’d help me clean all those hard-to-reach areas behind the toilet that gross me out to no end. Perhaps I should ask the landlord next door for some? SHSH!