Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
No Dumping
This colossal failure to communicate can be found at the northwest intersection of India and West Street. If you go down there to check it out be sure to watch where you step. There’s feces (canine and otherwise) ALL OVER THE PLACE.
Miss Heather
Interesting Development at 97 Green Street
Although I am very happy to see that someone else hereabouts is fed up with the Green Street Crapfest I do feel compelled to point out that if a person is too fucking lazy to bend over and pick up his (or HER) dog doo, I seriously doubt he (or she) will bother negotiating around a couple of bikes and cinder blocks to get a sack to put said shit in. Even if it is free.
Just a thought.
Miss Heather
Diarrhea Daze: a few thoughts about intelligent design
Spring cleaning at Chateau de Ghetto is not unlike an Easter egg hunt: there is much ‘treasure’ to be had provided one searches diligently enough. I found the above item in our hallway as I was vacuuming the hallway this afternoon. I recognized the handwriting immediately; it is my own.
While the phrase “I’ve Got Diarrhea” pretty much speaks for itself, I’m not too sure what the alpha-numeric annotations pertain to. Perhaps it is some sort of shit cypher, who knows? I sure as fuck don’t remember. The one thing I can assert without a shadow of a doubt is that my finding this item was more than a little bit ironic. I have had diarrhea the last 2-3 days. I have also been busy puking my brains out in the wee hours of the morning.
I am pretty impervious to the common cold, influenza or any other malady that usually afflicts one’s person during the winter season. Regrettably, the same cannot be said about stomach sickness in the early spring. Take my word for it; what I had (and still have) has made the previous clear in the starkest and most repulsive terms.
Staying up all night vomiting and shitting (as I have) predisposes a person to rethink the human condition. This is especially true when the contents of his/her body are flying out of every orifice imaginable at the speed of sound. Gastronomical meltdowns are the mighty crucible that make even the most callous of mankind to look, well, inward. Bearing the previous in mind, I would like to offer some constructive criticism to whoever is responsible for designing the human body.
TO: Mr. G
FROM: Miss Heather
RE: Proposed Improvements to the Design of the Human Body
- The epiglottis is a laudable concept: it routes food to the stomach and air to the lungs. Why did you see fit not to outfit the hindquarters of humanity with a similar device, e.g.; a router that prevents flatus from intermixing with feces? Had you seen fit to do so, the ubiquitous ‘wet fart’— and the abject humiliation and ceaseless laundering that goes with it— would cease to exist. If you do not address this problem I am certain there will be a Nobel Prize and/or world domination for the person who does.
- My epiglottis serves it function during the intake of air and food, but the same cannot be said about acts of expulsion. As a result of this defect, I spent five minutes blowing my nose to get all the FOOD out of it. Ever seen collard greens and lentils come out of your nose? I didn’t think so. Trust me, it’s a sight you will never forget.
- Both ends at once: while the diaphragm is essential to one’s expulsion of vomitus and bowel movements, it has been my observation that when one is ill (as I have been lately) it tends to facilitate doing both of the previous at the same time. Until bathrooms are retro-fitted to address this problem, I would humbly recommend that the rectum and mouth be placed in close enough proximity so as to enable simultaneous discharge into the same receptacle. Human adaptation to this anatomical change will, in all probability, be seamless. If it’s damned near to impossible for me to tell the difference between the utterances people make from the top hole and the bottom one, I do not think anyone else will be the wiser. This will be our little secret.
Your immediate attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
P.S.: If your design is (presumably) intelligent, could you please explain this person* to me? No one, I repeat, NO ONE calls this ‘hood “Green Point”.
If all the previous isn’t enough to make you feel a wee bit queasy, dear readers, today’s “Dung of the Day” will.
Anyone looking for some dog shit and an old douchebag? If so, go to Dupont Street west of Franklin (across from the playground) and knock yourself out.
Miss Heather
*I am a person of action. I would much rather be the broad who is talked about (for chasing dog shit sans compensation in Greenpoint), than to be paid to sit on my ass, sip coffee and pontificate about someone else’s accomplishments— which came to pass over ten years ago. That said, I am completely amenable flogging any miscreant who calls my ‘nabe “Green Point” for a modest fee.
Dung of the Day: 201 Montrose Avenue
The pervasive theme this week (for me, anyway) is taxonomy. When not parsing through(and snickering at) petty quibbling over what constitutes ‘East Williamsburg’ versus what is Bushwick (don’t EVEN get me started on that whole ‘West Bushwick’ thing), I have been engaged in a friendly debate with Kevin Walsh (of Forgotten-NY) as to whether 128 Beadel Street is in ‘East Williamsburg’ or Greenpoint. As some of you may remember, this is where the coolest house EVER happens to be located. I do not think I need to state what my position on this topic is; it’s pretty obvious. (*cough* GREENPOINT *cough*)
All of this controversy has given one hell of a headache— which I will remedy with a can (or two) of Busweiser after I present today’s “Dung of the Day” hailing from 201 Montrose Avenue. Call it ‘East Williamsburg’, call it Bushwick— it makes no difference: both are full of shit. Literally, that is.
What is remarkable about this turd is its placement atop of a 1 1/2 to 2 foot tall snowdrift. The canine (or homo sapiens) who discharged this big ‘un must be pretty tall— and clearly cannot shit and chew gum at the same time.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I had to tease you Kevin, it was simply too tempting. No offense intended. 🙂
Clinton Hill Represents
Filed under: Dog Shit
The one thing that constantly amazes me about the dog shit problem in New York Shitty is that many people will complain about it, but few, very few, will actually step up to the plate. Shit or get off the pot— or more accurately, PUT UP OR SHUT UP!
I have parsed through enough chat rooms (where Brooklynites piss and moan ad nauseum about unattended dog poo in their respective ‘hoods) to become a bona fide shit cynic. Perhaps even a dog shit snob. “How bad can it possibly be in comparison to, say, Dupont Street, McGuinness Boulevard or THIS?” I ask myself. With good reason: Magic Johnson may very well pimp fund much of my block to build luxury condos, but I doubt he has enough ‘magic’ to motivate canines and humanoids not defecate here. And they do. A LOT.
My inner ‘Doubting Thomas’ was confirmed by the numerous comments I encountered from Prospect Heighters that had a distinctly vigilante tone, e.g.; take the offender’s picture and post it online, etc. Dime store Dirty Harrys (of dog shit). I have no doubt that these idle threats were issued from the comfort of air-conditioned (and dog shit free) cubicles contained within the numerous corporate dungeons that populate our fine city. The last time I went to Prospect Heights I got the distinct impression that it had become Park Slope Lite: a Park Slope for people too light on cash to live in Park Slope.* But I digress…
I, the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint, prefer to condemn the behavior, not the person— and get a few chuckles along the way. Which brings me to…
last week when Robin Lester of the Clinton Hill Blog responded to my solicitation for shit. She wrote:
Haven’t forgotten about sending the pics! I took a good crop this morning, so I should be able to send them tonight w/ info.
And she delivered:
All (were) taken on the west side of Waverly Avenue between Lafayette and Willoughby (2 blocks only), Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the area in question, here it is:
And here is what she sent me…
One shit.
Two shits.
Three shits…
Four!
Five turds, six turds, seven turds and…
Much…
Much…
More!
Miss Heather
*This criticism is NOT directed at the earning power of Prospect Heights residents. I could care less about that (and I am undoubtedly much more poor than they are anyway). I hate the attitude— and the stroller moms. This ‘nabe is INCREDIBLY cool in its own right— why sully it by affecting Park Slope manners?
P.S.: Robin, give a shout out to Rosie Perez for me if/when you see her. She is fabulous. And, oh yeah, thanks for the shit!
Greenpoint is well hung (and/or delusional)
The male ego has always been a source of fascination to me. As time has gone by I have come to the realization that earning 70 cents on the dollar is a very small price to pay for not bearing the burden of life-long severe social retardation many of my XY chromo brothers seem to be afflicted with. For example…
Several years ago I came across a personals ad for some gent who lives(d?) in Greenpoint. After listing his interests, hangouts (the Pencil Factory) and describing his appearance, he closed with his biggest, uh, enticement for the ladies:
Only women who know how to handle large equipment (10″ +) need reply.
Whoa dude, put that thing away! Greenpoint is a pretty small place. For the next several months I found myself wondering if the guy sitting next to me at the Pencil Factory— or waiting behind me at the grocery store checkout had an anaconda in his pants. This is no way to go through life.
Which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from India Street…
Greenpoint, where the turds are hung like just their men: too big (and TOO close) for comfort.
Miss Heather
Manhattan Avenue Yummy Taco
Much has been said, but little has been written about this dining establishment. So, in the interest of the general public, I will endeavor to do so here and now.
Speaking as someone who has spent most of her life in the southwest, I have certain expectations when it comes to Mexican food. I am not a snob; some days Taco Bell is every bit as tasty as Taco Chulo to my taste buds. But finding baby corn in my nachos freaks me out. That’s what I found when my husband brought me nachos from Yummy Taco— and much, much more…
A long time ago I was feeling under the weather. My husband, in his infinite kindness, offered to pick me up something to eat on the way home from work. I requested nachos. When I opened the styrofoam take-out container from Yummy Taco, here’s what I found:
- 4 or 5 corn chips
- a pile of beans
- salsa whose flavor closely resembled Pace picante sauce
- mushrooms
- baby corn
- broccoli
- cheese
- GREEN pico de gallo
I have patronized a number of Chinese-owned/operated Mexican restaurants. While none would remotely qualify as blue-chip fare, this was the first (and hopefully LAST) time I have ever seen green pico, mushrooms and baby corn employed in Mexican cuisine. My husband recently made a joke about the DOH’s recent crackdown on restaurants:
Yummy Taco better watch out, the Health Inspector is coming!
To wit I quipped,
Yummy Taco has nothing to worry about. That green pico of theirs probably keeps the rats at bay. Even rodents wouldn’t eat that shit; it’d probably kill them.
Which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from 118 Freeman Street…
and a photo of Yummy Taco’s storefront.
Looks like someone else (a food critic from the New York Times?) shares my opinion of their fare. Yummy indeed!
Miss Heather
Bum Shit, Gowanus Style
Yesterday my homeboy from The Gowanus Lounge sent me a turd teaser. He wrote:
Oh, and I shot a photo of a humongous turd at the Smith-9th Station that, like, no way came from a dog. If you’d like it, I’ll be happy to send it along. Since Smith-9th is the start and end of the G, it’s got a Greenpoint angle.
Being the fine ass Dog Shit Queen that I am, naturally I was all over this (shit) like a fly on crack:
…of course I am interested. Bring it on. I am a big fan of the Smith-9th Street station.
And, as many a late night televangelist would say: ask and ye shall receive…
My intrepid Internet friend waxed philosophical about the provenance of his find:
Here you go, Heather. I’m assuming this is people crap not dog crap, unless there was a really big German Shepherd type of canine up there. Either way, interesting place to find this sort of thing.
To wit, I wrote back:
NICE. That’s bum shit alright. I should know: ever since the Terminal Fire the bums seem to have migrated to my neck of the woods to do their business.
Bob doesn’t seem to relish talking shit shop over an early morning cup o’ joe (like I do):
I knew you’d know, whereas, I simply had a strong feeling. So, now I’ve got an image of someone taking a dump on the Smith-9th platform. Lovely.
And here is my reply:
The ‘image’ in your mind is my daily reality, kiddo.
*snap*
Actually, this specimen reminds me of the time I ate nothing but chile rellenos for two straight days several years ago. I make excellent rellenos, but having a touch of lactose intolerance, I employ a cheese and tofu mixture for filling. And when one mixes this concoction with beans and salsa, you get the digestive equivalent of Liquid Drano.
I am ‘man enough’ to take it, but the ghetto-ass plumbing in this apartment isn’t: as I learned. After discharging enough ‘by-product’ to build a shit bridge from here to Staten Island, I went to work— not knowing that I had left behind a ‘present’ for my (then) roommate to discover later.
When I got home from work that evening he had this thoroughly spooked-out expression on his face. You’d think that he had seen a ghost. I suppose he had; he beheld (and SMELLED) the wraiths of four or five deceased chile rellenos. He* asked me if I felt OK. I told him was feeling great. That’s what most people don’t realize about this variety of explosive shit: after you get it out of your system you feel much, much better.
Miss Heather
*This is the same dude who left skid-marked BVDs in the bathroom floor. FOR TWO DAYS.
Dung of the Day: Satanic Saturday
I found this evidence of ritualistic canine crapping at 934 Manhattan Avenue. I wonder what the battery is for. Ideas, anyone?
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
