Green Street Shouter

January 20, 2007 by
Filed under: Area 51, Crazy People, Greenpoint Magic 

Last weekend my husband and I took a day trip to Long Island. Not only was our destination eerily bereft of dog shit (or any kind of shit, for that matter), but it did not have the bountiful array of exotic (and noxious) aromas and sounds I have grown to savor. In other words: it was nice. A little too nice.

This sentiment was later confirmed when I read the local newspaper. It is my belief that:

  1. Most people need to be kept occupied at all times, otherwise they will find the least constructive means possible to busy themselves and
  2. having no greater problems to tackle, most people will become pathologically fixated some bit of minutiae which (for some god-forsaken reason) they feel compelled to share with others via the local media.

The end product (to an outsider like me) is downright hilarious by virtue of its sincerity, hyperbole and syntactical fuzziness. Case in point:


I have found things much more disturbing than “a strange dog” outside my back door. In fact, most creatures that scare the piss out of me have two legs, not four. Perhaps it is New York City’s failing school system, but I was under the impression that dogs can’t read. Therefore, a sign admonishing them to stay off school property is useless.

The “Crime Blotter” section offered up this choice morsel.


Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.

But if you want the son of God gracing your front yard it will cost you $100. Master Card and Visa accepted. No checks.

And as with any society you get malcontents: brave and inbalanced souls who persist against overwhelming odds in ripping the man (and his bullshit sense of propriety) a new asshole. My kind of people, like this fine gentleman.

I think Mr. Greenwald needs to find his way to Greenpoint. We have numerous yellers here (Spanish-speaking, Polish-speaking and English-speaking) he can exchange yelling tips with or talk shouting shop. Perhaps he can apprentice to become a bi-(or tri-)lingual yeller? This would expand his aural abuse potential tremendously. Who knows, he might even find a nice yelling woman to settle down with, have a few l’il yellers and they’ll shout away into (at?) the sunset together. (And husband says I am not the romantic type. PAW!)

As it happens, my very own block (Green Street) has a yeller-in-residence. He makes his presence known about once a month. What this man is so worked-up about is anyone’s guess; his oratory sounds like something belched out by the “Walrus Man” in the movie “Star Wars”. Completely unintelligible, but laden with heart-felt emotion.

Last week “Walrus Man” demonstrated his newfound command of pronouns. At 11:00 p.m…

Fuck you! (loud crash) Fuck this!

and 12:15 a.m.

Fuck it! (loud banging) Fuck you!

I craned my head out the window, but couldn’t see him. The next morning, however, I found this next door to our building. This man is such a BAD ASS that even his imaginary friends draw blood.

Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Long Island!

Miss Heather


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