Hooray For Global Warming!
Some of you might have noticed that yesterday’s offerings on New York Shitty were few. There are several reasons for this:
- January 7 is my birthday and sitting in front of a computer is not my idea of a good time.
- It was damned near sixty fucking degrees outside.
- When the weather is unseasonably warm, New York’s more colorful citizens come out to play and I like to join them in the revelry.
I saw this guy when I made an emergency trip to Ricky’s in the East Village. While a little difficult to see in this photograph, he even sports white mascara. It’s the above attention to detail that impresses yours truly, even though I could do without the swastika. Anyhoo…
In order to get to Manhattan I had to ride the Crosstown Local.
Behold, the Tyson of Liberty! The riders might have given the G a failing grade for service, but I give the riders an A+ for artistic prowess.
Here’s a nice close-up of Jesus presiding over the destruction of Manhattan. Speaking of Jesus, here is an annotated poster from the Metropolitan platform.
I don’t remember how the original poster read— what’s more I don’t care. I’d rather be edified by the epistles of crack during my wait for the Crosstown Local. It just makes sense.
It would appear those wacky Williamsburgers agree. They just can’t get enough of the stuff! But enough with the drug humor, let’s get back to Greenpoint.
A patron on the Queens-bound platform has a more scatological take on this (ubiquitous) Cloverfield poster. Upon closer examination I discovered there’s a little something for everybody.
An ejaculating penis.
A pair of gravity-defying breasts and an explosive fit of flatulence. The latter piece of imagery (rendered in Colonoscope) of reminds me of something I read on The Poop Report recently. It was penned by one “Farmer Brown”:
…I stood up, cursing a flowing string of swear words like a preacher caught in a whorehouse, and delivered one final foghorn fart that made me want to puke my guts up like a jock after a Colt 45 binge.
In closing, I might be one year older but I haven’t really grown up. Miss Heather still loves her some good scat chat. For those of you who don’t, I apologize for offending your more effete sensibilities.
And don’t forget: the Santalope loves you!