Sixteen Sphincters

Hey Ducky-

Just a heads up- just because you can fry an egg on the hood of the towncar waiting for me downstairs doesn't meant I need to see six dozen of you and your friends in Pork Pie Fedoras and scoop necked t-shirts with your $2 cop shades dangling from the collar like some kind of freckle- poker bait. I got no problem with your lifestyle, believe me; somebody's gotta keep the girls insecure enough to commit unspeakable acts with the under endowed and underemployed, but if I wanted a glimpse of a xylophone chest I can always google Sarah Jessica whatsherface. It's just unnecessary- get yourself some seersucker (for Chrissakes not too tight) and Gold Bond and be done with it. Oh, I'm sure it tastes terrible (so I've heard) but an ice cold cosmo and a hit of meth will cure that, plus, after a few months you won't have any teeth or scruples to get in the way. The purple moccasins and girl flip flops have to go too. You're really pushing my tolerance- if this keeps up any longer I'm  gonna start feeding you people to my friend Stevie's mountain lion when his zookeeper recaptures him. The poor bastard better hope Stevie doesn't find out he's gone or he's gonna sh*t whiteboard markers for a month. Mountain lions? Extinct? Christ- you people probably believe second hand smoke is bad for you, too. And stop charging Mrs. Festerbottom so much for curtains!

Nice Jorts

Midtown-

Alright, so who the f*ck didn't realize the jobs report was gonna suck? Take a freakin gander around the Post Road on any given weekday and it's filled with schlubs in crappy Panama Jack shorts and hideous rafting sandals slinking between mooching free samples at Costco and sucking up the wifi at Barnes and Noble. Half of these sad sacks don't even bother to buy a latte anymore to make themselves feel better about it. May as well go straight to feeding pigeons in the park and pick out a room on the Bowery now. Well, maybe not, since the dot com douchebags started moving back from Williamsburg.

Metro North sure the f*ck caught on. They're running trains two cars shorter month over month in anticipation of more carnage. The Friday afternoon vestible- drinking among those who still have a reason to go to the city every day is an unacknowledged celebration of that fact. At least they got out of the house and can say they fooled em for another week- give em extra oil can for chrissakes. The poor bastards manning the beer carts at the end of the platform have known the jig is up for a while, too. Like wild animals sensing a looming natural catastrophe, they've been skittish for months. That blonde dude's mustache twitches so hard you'd think it was going to fly right off his face. By the way, you can add "beer vendor" to the list of people that get away with mustaches (cops/firemen, baseball players, yes; hipster ass wipes, NO).

Even a burn out like Cousin Carter knows it (sorry to call you out bro, but really- you're fooling no one. Even Grandfather knows you're blazed 24/7). Dude knows when to dial it back from a personal finance standpoint, if only of avoid run- ins with the less fortunate. When it came time to buy his wife a new car, he went with the Subaru wagon, not the Range Rover. Guy's thinkin', right? He knows if his hot little wife rides around in that lesbomobile it's only a matter of time before she bringin' home chicks to share with him. Actually went so far as to put a little rainbow on the back bumper and she has yet to notice. Trouble is, the softball players she's going to attract will beat his ass to a pulp, ironically making him suffer the dual humliations of getting beaten up by a chick and losing his wife in the process. Best of luck with than one, pal.

My point is this: sh*t ain't getting better for a while. Hope you live on a hill so you can see the hordes coming from way off.  Buy canned food, fishing gear and buck shot,  cause the pigeon shot you got in your ammo box right now's just gonna make 'em angrier. Anybody needs me I'm at the Chicken Box-enjoy the weekend.

I wish I was a Headlight...

Grand Central Terminal (not station you f*cking Rubes. What are you, from f*cking Iowa?)

OK, so apparently Puerto Rican Speedballs* on the way to the train don't cure every hangover, but I'm willing to gamble that this morning's little episode was really the exception to prove the rule. Just bad luck really. After fifteen Goombay Smashes, the shot of Sauza right before catching a puddle jumper back to Westchester Airport probably wasn't a great idea, but how often do you get to salute the men and women who serve our country with liquor from the country they fled a mere couple of weeks ago? The cans on that waitress will ensure that she won't have to learn the language until those things are around her knees, and by then she will have been working in the Schwarzenegger household for at least one full term.

Honestly, though it really wasn't my fault. My freaking New England Puritan roots sneak up on me at the strangest of times. Purely subconscious. I've learned my lesson- there really is no excuse for not flying in the morning of. I certainly hope the Fupa-riffic young lady who had the audacity to sit across from a six- foot- twelve Norse God in a $9000 suit (with a custom ticket pocket just the right size of the dugout he picked up from the Afghani Freedom Fighters behind the counter at the Optimo Store next to The Blarney Stone on Third Avenue) leaned her lesson, too.

Did she not notice that my eyes were pink as a f*cking pet store bunny's or that my skin was the color of window putty? No? The cold sweat sopping my brow like pi$$ in a diaper that has spent the last 3 hours in an air conditioned baby seat stuck in traffic on 95? No? The constant shifting in my seat, trying to find a position that will free my Hefty-sized nutsack from the impenetrable seal it had formed with half of my inner thigh? Really? Today's FT fluttering in my ink- stained hand like a moth in a spider web? Nothin'?

Well then. Lady: I can't be responsible for drowning your pantsuit with every last centiliter of bile from the depths of my (some say over-) privileged gullet, now, can I? The fact that you dumped a keg of Charlie on yourself this morning to cover up the menthol 1000s you had on the platform in Bridgeport really didn't help your cause there, sister. I'm sure Glen likes it and that's why he chose it for you at Sears when he took your little darlings on a shopping excursion for a new George Forman Grill and realized it was Valentine's day, but stick to the pulse points honey. A little Febreze will get you through your day I'm sure.

*One- hitters and coffee

Where the Figawi?

Midtown-

Alright you proles, I staying fifteen minutes past the open and then I gotta jump on a bird to Nantucket for Figawi. No I'm not sailing in it- that's for chumps. Yes I have a boat (have we met? Hi, I'm Charles. Don't fiddle with the radio and try not to scratch it.), but bobbing around for hours upon hours in the fog with a bunch of sausages with no more sailing experience than blowing off a gut course in celestial navigation 20 years ago really isn't as fun as it sounds. Trust me- there's always some a$$hole who insists they have a chance of winning the f*cking thing and wants everyone to remain sober. Screw that- I can barely get my sea legs without a stiff Dark n' Stormy for ballast. And none of that crappy ginger beer neither. Gotta be Barritt's- something else you learn when your pledge father is Bermudian.

Speaking of which, Rottencrotch: Dude- you have to stop calling me "dude" in the office. HR is completely up my a$$ for not hiring that black chick, who was hot and better qualified than you by the way. They have no idea we were fraternity brothers, much less that you were my pledge son. Now I appreciate the fact that you always show up, even if you looking like you just came from from f*cking Burning Man. While you may not be useful puking in a waste basket, and you tend to leave some residue from your morning, erm, "coffee", on the toilet paper holder, it is good for morale and builds teamwork. Eventually you'll get the idea of what it is like to actually add value to a firm beyond winning the longest drive contest at the client outing so we don;t have to pay out on the prize. Kinda crappy we have to have it at a public course, even if it is Bethpage, but limiting your pool of investors to those who would be welcome at some of the nicer clubs is tantamount to suicide. The things we put up with, right?

So here's the drill for today: DON'T. F*CK. IT. UP. Sit on your hands, play defense, only close positions, only with VWAP algos. Do that, and with any luck you'll make the Cannonball out to that decrepit share house in effing Montauk you keep blathering on about. Trust me- the place isn't new. It's been there for generations for people who know what the f*ck they are doing on the water- not for a bunch of jackasses who can't get into the Maidstone or Shinnecock.

Spring Fever

May 25, 2011
Midtown-
Alright you pudwhacks, whichever one of you Kentucky Glue Gunned the idle stall in the executive men’s  needs to just learn some common decency. I mean, I understand, on a day like today, the need to excuse yourself to do a number three in the first semi-private space you come across but, for the love of all that is sordid and evil in the world, clean up after yourself! This is what I get for hiring a bunch of pricks who spent their formative years locked up in all- male mental institutions like Deerfield and Lawrenceville with nothing better to hump than their roommate's goalie pads.

Come 1:30, guy finds himself standing in line at Mangia next to a simian looking creature that happens to be wearing a sun dress and he can barely make it into the elevator with his Tuna Nicoise.  Shoulda stuck with the Pomfret and Brooks kids- at least they have the common sense and balls to just pay off the concierge for an hour in an empty room at the W. Leave a couple nugs of Durban Poison on the dresser and he’ll give you a late checkout next time.

Anyway, apparently spring has freakin sprung like a birfday present delivered to Wile E. Coyote from Acme Toy Company. When you go from March to August within twenty four hours it’s pretty damn clear who’s been sticking to the honk- and- Marlboro Lights- Miami Beach Diet and who’s been lip wrestling chicken wings and self loathing like they’ve been living in Canton, New York since November. Makes you want to slap the ice cream right outta their hands and replace it with a subscription to Shape and a coupon for a high colonic. And they wonder if they’re getting away with it at 230 Fifth on the first sunny afternoon since the proceedings on Raj Raj went down. Not unless they got some Danille Chiesi quality scoops and an affection for middle managers in suits from Century 21 they ain’t.
              
Speaking of 230 Fifth, I really don’t mind paying top dollar for a cocktail but keep it in a glass- if I’m drinking from a plastic cup it better be a Solo and in a place where you don’t have to bother to hide the wunnies, preferably near water. You gotta make a pretty damn good argument why I’m not jumping on the 4:07 and hopping on the Naughty by Nature for an evening’s cast on the Sound. They’ve been catching stripers off Nantucket for two weeks at this point and I’ve been sitting here with you dweebs speculating on the implications of Dodd-Frank like it’s going to make any difference in the long- term trajectory of our lives. We are hurtling through time towards unarguably questionable fourth civil ceremony on a dock in the Caribbean somewhere while the offspring from our first marriages try to figure out if they slept with their step-mom at the Head of the Charles, the Far Hills Hunt or both.

Don’t fight it people- just make sure you have a bottle of penicillin handy and know the way from Silver Hill to the Train Station in the pitch dark. The rest will take care of itself.

The Nerdification of FCDB

October 19th, 2010
 F*ckin missed the train again, but not to worry because I have a match tonight and the Warden won’t be expecting me home until at least ten. Time for a wunnie. Christ- it’s gotten so at least ninety-nine percent of the dope I smoke is on the streets of New York. Long gone are the days when walking in the door Friday night meant flopping down on the couch with enough authority that the possibility of knocking over the four footer was as distinct as the possibility I might have skid marks in my Brooks Brothers boxers.

When such incidents did occur, the obvious solution was to strip and mop up the bong water with said striped undies. After all, who was going to see? Helga the twenty-two year old Russian psycho-hottie housekeeper? She smoked more of my stash than I did. Not really sure if she could easily translate the “Trainwreck/Kush hybrid” sticker on the clear plastic boxes kept in open sight on the coffee table, but she sure as hell figured out the species of dried plant inside.

But I digress; the paddle tennis. Such a wolf in sheep’s clothing it should be a euphemism unto itself. Don’t get me wrong, there are matches played and score is kept, some light exercise in involved, but this is a built-in night out with the boys. It is for the girls, too, though the vices tend to Brunschwig & Fils rather than key bumps and Beamers "Cafe". The scheduled night out has probably saved more marriages than it has ruined. After all, pretty much every caste has their version:

    Bowling-for the “underbelly-but-they-don’t-know/care crowd, as well as the “took the Hipster thing too far and joined a league ass nozzles”.

    Poker: Now mainstream, former staple of the wise-guy/guido…

                    -Wait-
                    -F*ck-

Sorry, guess that bud is a little creeper. Anyway, today was a rough one. Staggered in on 3 hours of sleep after coming home completely jacked in a car after a client dinner at Il Posto got completely out of hand. We start out at Bice rifling down $9 f*cking Peronis like Juniors at UVM funneling Natty Light. The guys we took out look like the crowd that “coincidentally” ends up in Vegas the weekend that Comicon  (that’s the comic convention for all you non-dweebs out there) and the Adult Video Awards “coincidentally” coincide EVERY year.

Anyway,  six bottles of Montepulciano Riserva , a barely touched  bistecca and six flaming shots of ‘Buca later, and I think one of these Doogie Houser /Long Duc Dong hybrids is placing his hand on my thigh under the table. I just about to haul off and spatter his nose all over the Specials mirror when I realize it’s a fold. Christ, no wonder my nipples were hard. I was beginning to question myself for a second there.

Three hours after that I find myself in a warehouse in the Bronx around the corner from  Sin City, watching two Spanish chicks go down on a dude while Storm Trooper Numero uno does laps around the place on his Vespa with a Cool 1000 dangling from his lips. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot indeed.

Wore the same pants to work today since my wallet was already in them and just discovered the lefties in back pocket, which should cancel out the wunnie for the match nicely. Bet we stomp those proletariat pussies, assuming nobody has a heart attack…