This pile of equine effluvia hails from the intersection of Stillwell and Surf Avenue at good ol’ Coney Island. I happened across it yesterday morning after spending an hour prancing along the boardwalk and being photographed by the New York Daily News. I attracted a throng of curious onlookers. I suspect what I was wearing had something to do with this.
On a whim, I decided to grace the parade with my fineass fecal female person. Being #268, I ended up waiting quite awhile before my number was called. I whiled away the time by sitting in the shade; wearing a dress covered with ~10 pounds of CRAP and two cups of sticky caramel topping can make a girl hot.
And “HOT” I was. I know this because a fellow parade-goer took great pains to tell me so.
Male Suitor: You may be covered in shit, but you are beautiful. You look like Cinderella.
Me: Uh, thanks.
After the previous exchange of pleasantries this man (who was clearly enjoying a variety of mind-altering substances) proceeded to go into an illucid five minute monologue about my many charms.
It has been a long time since I have had a man try to pick me up. This is something that simply does not happen. I strongly suspect that my “mojo” has something to do with it. Or maybe it is the way I dress? Who knows. Now (that I am married) I have learned the cardinal rule of attracting menfolk: look like SHIT.
Shove this pencil up your self-involved hipster ass.
The above phrase is emblazoned on (what else?) pencils for sale at the Front Room Gallery. While a little mean-spirited for my taste, I outlaid $10.00 and bought me one because it brought back memories. Or at least one helluva memory, anyway.
Although I have always had the presence of mind not to shove a pencil (eraser OR business-end first) up my ass, I once knew someone who did. Involuntarily being made privy to the aberrant sexual practices of others is one of the manifold reasons I am the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint and you aren’t. It’s no picnic, I assure you.
Just over twelve years ago I worked as a helper for a gentleman who had cerebral palsy— we’ll call him “Juan”. He was a fellow college student whose motor skills were impaired to such a degree that he required help with even the most basic tasks. I would do his laundry, run errands for him, feed him, etc. Over the course of the summer I got to know him fairly well; not only did he have a mind that was sharp as a tack, but it was also a pretty damned dirty one at that. I returned his porno rentals back to the local video store on a number of occasions.
I was not the only “attendant” Juan had; there were three. We each had our respective days. Mine were Saturday and Sunday. Late one Sunday morning I got a phone call from one of Juan’s friends, “Mike”. “You need to come over immediately, Juan is in the hospital.” I hurried over immediately, met Mike, collected a number of Juan’s other friends and we drove to the hospital. En route, I learned what happened.
“Juan got a pencil stuck up his butt and then took a lot of laxatives thinking it would push it out,” said Mike. “HOW THE FUCK DID HE MANAGE TO DO THAT?” I thought to myself. I bet he made one hell of a mess. At the hospital I had the pleasure of being present when the E.R. doctor (who treated Juan) asked him the very same question. Juan replied:
I fell on it.
Before any of you dear readers go off on me for being mean because I am picking on someone who is “handicapped”, let me tell you something. It would have taken a LOT of concerted effort for Juan to “fall” on a pencil in such a manner that it would find itself lodged in his “nether eye”. In a strange way this (very misguided) act was a testament to how tenacious he was: despite a very substantial challenge he doggedly persevered in every aspect of his life. The previous having been said, no matter how “abled ” a person is, he (or she) shouldn’t stick a pencil up his (or anyone else’s) ass. Much less lie to an ER surgeon about how it got there.
This brings me to the photo featured at the beginning of this post. It is a gift I received recently from my buddy Rachael. She found it on Nassau Avenue near the Evergreen Funeral Home. Let’s go in for a closer look!
Hmm… looks sort of like Paris Hilton. Like the body glitter.
Tortilla the cat likes Miss Heather’s new Greenpoint Barbie.
Um, that’s sort of disturbing. Then again, as long as the person who made this sticks to the attempted pencil penetration of inanimate objects, we’re probably safe.
Filed under: Area 51
A friend of mine recently started a blog for his thrift store: The Vortex. Although it only has four entries (as of today), his musings about being a life-long junk dealer are tremendously entertaining. My favorite story thus far is about “Sonny” cashing out $20,000 worth of coins at the local grocery store. Here’s an excerpt:
…It took us all day to shovel the coins into the machine. The machine would conk out from exhaustion every couple of hours too. Kids trying to exchange their piggy bank pennies were turned away by Sonny, “Come back tomorrow when we aren’t so busy,” he would say as if we worked at the joint. He did buy one kid’s change for ten bucks because he was sure that it was at least twenty five bucks, “Stupid kid doesn’t know the value of a penny.”
Do read this story. It is hilarious.
Filed under: Vinyl Siding
After last week’s selection I have been hard-pressed to find an exceptional example of siding to showcase this week. Until yesterday, that is. Before vinyl and aluminum siding became the benchmark in Greenpoint there was asphalt siding. There is still plenty of it to be found too.
The above Fred T. Sanford-esque “wall” alone employs at least five types of vintage siding for your viewing pleasure. If you think the sight of this is ugly (and I for one don’t), wait until you see what has gone up across the street.
I am going to go out on a limb here and make a prediction: fugtastic and cheap-looking Neoclassical condos are going to be the “vinyl siding” of the future.
Filed under: Area 51
Those of you who have ever wondered if female shmoos have tits (and you know who you are), the answer is “yes”. One tit, to be exact.
Rebecca11222 (who submitted this priceless photo) writes:
Am I supposed to be aroused by that? Like I really should rest my sexy but then that shmoo uni-boob made me wet?
To wit, I replied:
Maybe it would pump a male shmooâ€™s â€˜nads. If male shmoos have â€˜nads.
After recently learning that an online dominitrix used one of my poop pictures to torment her “slave”, I have ceased to discount any form of sexual activity as being too perverse to be plausible. If I find out that this woman received compensation for her services and saw fit not to compensate me for the use of one of my photographs, I’m gonna get HELLA PISSED. But I digress.
Anyone into single-titted shmoos, go on down to Union Square and knock yourself out*. Don’t mistake the previous tip as an indication that I want to hear about your tryst: I don’t.
*Come to think of it, maybe Mel Gibson didn’t call the female police officer “sugar tits” after all. Maybe he wanted him some shmoo tits and (being drunk) it just came out wrong.
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday afternoon I discovered an apartment for rent in Blissville, Queens.
It appears to be a rather sizeable one too.
As any real estate wizard will tell you: location and amenities are everything. And this place delivers, albeit in more ways than one.
Not only is your new home conveniently located next door to a laundromat, but you are also mere steps (or a phone call) away from an establishment called “Foxes”. Of course, man cannot live on compensated companionship alone; a few lap dances (or running a load of laundry after the aforementioned bumps and grinds) can make a man hungry.
Mmmm… titties-n-Taliban toast…
Before attending yesterday afternoon’s Q & A session at the Newton Creek Waste Water Treatment Plant I walked along Greenpoint Avenue. This picture-taking trek ended up lasting two hours.
As I approached 329 Greenpoint Avenue I was very hungry and needed to go to the bathroom in the worst imaginable way. Apparently someone at the intersection of North Henry Street recently had a similar problem. And having that indomitable Greenpoint “can do” attitude, he (or she) elected to do a little multi-tasking.
Shit-battered ribs: it’s what’s for dinner!
On Greenpoint Avenue (across the street from the Newton Creek Waste Water Treatment Plant) it is, anyway.
I found the above sign yesterday on Greenpoint Avenue in Sunnyside, Queens. Whoever made this clearly lavished a lot of attention upon the illustration at the top right-hand corner. The raffish little rabbit peeking out from behind the tree is a nice touch. If this sign is any indication, Sunnyside lives up to its name.
Now, for the sake of comparison let’s look at a sign I found right here in “The Garden Spot” the day before.
To: Whoever uprooted all our chillie pepper plants + picked all of our basil leaves
Its so frustrating to grow something & then have it destroyed.
It would appear that someone on Green Street has a taste for basil.
Filed under: Dog Shit Signage
Today I am going to share with you two dog shit signs that have recently been brought to my attention.
Per Ari’s Blog (where I found the wonderful image to the left), this sign reads:
Be a mensch (human being) and clean up after him.
The sign on the right (courtesy of Eva101) is pretty self explanatory. Those of you who wish to behold this pup poopin’ in the posies in person can do so at the New York Public Library on 42nd Street.
Eva101 opined about her find:
One would think that a written sign (CLEAN AFTER YOUR DOG) would do in front of the New York Public Library, since the very existence of the Library assumes that there is a reading public out there…. perhaps the sign’s intended audience is – DOGS!? Or they really mean no shitting on the lawn (whereas the other sign means that it is technically okay to shit IF one cleans up afterward)… beats me….
To wit mlyn_blanche replies:
believe me as someone who works in a library, most of the people who come through the doors need this level of instruction. People seem to think that since the library is a public building, it’s ok to not pick up after their dog…
So there have you. While dog owners in Jerusalem are admonished in Hebrew, the New York Public Library sees fit to go with a more graphic means of getting the point across (presumably because their patrons can’t or WON’T read.). God help us all.
P.S.: I would like to give special thanks to Xris over at Flatbush Gardener for tipping me off to the Jerusalem dog doo sign. It really brightened up my day.
ALSO— for those of you who might be interested, Xris will be co-hosting a blogger meet-up in Flatbush, Brooklyn this upcoming weekend.
Today I had the pleasure of accompanying my husband on a bourbon acquisition trip to Sunnyside, Queens. This trek was precipitated by the (READ: his) discovery that there was no 101 proof Wild Turkey whatsoever in our apartment. There hasn’t been any for several days; I know this because I am the one who polished it off (that shit works wonders for cramps). Feeling mean-spirited and menstrual, I placed the empty bottle back on the shelf and waited for him to notice. Three days later he did. Today.
After much whining on his part about “having to go to Manhattan or Astoria” to get his high octane (self) medication of choice* and how mean my act of trickery was, etc., I took action. I went online and searched for liquor stores located in Sunnyside, Queens. My logic was as follows:
- I remembered my husband talking about having the “perfect” cocktail at an Irish pub in Sunnyside recently.
- The mixed drink in question requires the use of Wild Turkey 101. To him it does, anyway.
If there is a bar in Sunnyside that keeps Wild Turkey 101 in stock…
- There must be a demand for it and…
- if there’s a demand for it, the local liquor stores probably carry it.
Voila! 8-9 years of college/post-graduate education put to good use!
I called the “Lowery Liquor & Wine Company”. The kindly woman at the other end of the phone assured me that they had 101 proof Wild Turkey in “one liter bottles”. We hauled ass to the Greenpoint Avenue stop of the B24 without delay. I even spied a choice piece of turdage en route. On Green Street— or Manhattan Avenue, take your pick.
I will gladly traipse along the “Boulevard of Death” if it means my husband gets his drinky and shuts the fuck up. Besides, riding the B24 means I can savor the splendor that is Pissville within the confines of an air-conditioned bus.** Long story made short, my husband got his booze and is now contentedly watching episodes of Robot Chicken (courtesy of our TIVO).
Now that he is out of my hair I have time to recount a morsel of Greenpoint goodness from the days long gone. Today’s selection dates from the August 17, 1889 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle and is entitled “Excuses For Being Drunk”. Enjoy!
EXCUSES FOR BEING DRUNK.
Justice Goetting Is Furnished With Quite a Number.
Yesterday the bulk of the business before Justice Goetting consisted of assault and battery cases. Today, by way of a change of fare, the larger portion of the business consisted of intoxication cases. The pleas and excuses of the prisoners were various and amusing.
“I went to see my folks in Greenpoint. I live in Myrtle Avenue, and I was tired,” said Miss Jennie Hullback.
“But how came you to be found drunk in the cellar of a house on Manhattan Avenue?” said the Justice.
“I used to live there.”
“Ah, $10 or ten days.” And Jennie was hurried to the rear.
“Well, Maggie,” said the Justice, addressing Mrs. Meyer, a fresh arrival at the bar, “have you ever been arrested before for being drunk?”
“Only wanst, yer Honor (with an amiable simper) and Justice Naeher discharged me.”
“But you don’t expect to be discharged this time, do you?”
“Well, (with a supplicating look) I leave it all to yer Honor.”
“Well, I’ll let you off with a fine of $3, or three days in jail, whichever you prefer.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to take the days.”
Frank Cunningham, of Greenpoint, was the next called.
“Was he drunk yesterday?” asked the Justice of the officer who arrested him.
“Drunk? Why he is never sober,” said the officer, and the Justice left Frank the alternative of dollars or days.
“What,” said the justice, “You here again?” as he recognized Mrs. Mary May, who, with her husband, had been fined by him yesterday $3 each for being drunk. “Were you drunk again last evening?” he asked.
“Well, yes, your Honor, I was drunk, but I was not paralyzed drunk; I had only drunk beer.”
“Where is your husband?”
“Oh, he went home.”
“And you went home and got drunk. Ten dollars or ten days.”
Mrs. May was piloted to the rear.
Mrs. Annie Howe, of Oakland Avenue (now McGuinness Boulevard— Ed. Note), was next called.
“How” (said the justice, unconscious of the fact that he was perpetuating a pun), “did you come to get drunk?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Howe, “a lady friend of mine came to see me and we drank a little too much beer. I have never been drunk before.”
“It is a bad business getting drunk, but anyhow I’ll suspend this sentence: you can go,” and she did not stand on the order of going, but, bowing departed with all speed.
Mrs. Mary Boylan, of Manhattan Avenue, accounted for her appearance before the justice on the charge of being drunk by saying, “Your Honor, I was very weary and I went to the Greenpoint Avenue police station to rest awhile and the officers thought that I was drunk when I was only tired.
From now on I am using “The Mary Boylan” defense, it beats trying to blame the cats.
*This is one of the perverse ironies of living in Greenpoint. On any given day there are people passed out at the intersection of Greenpoint and Manhattan Avenue, liquor stores are open every Sunday (all of which offer a mind-boggling array of vodka)— and yet there is no 101 proof Wild Turkey to be found. Go figure.
**”Circles” (36-21 Review Avenue) has since been rechristened “Rush Hour”. The awning describes this establishment as being a “gentelman’s club“, so be sure you’re donning a dinner jacket when you stuff that hard-earned cash into those g-strings. This is a class establishment.