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.