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The Smartass Guide To New York, Part 1

And so it came to pass that, on the fifth day of July in the year 2008, emboldened by a week’s worth of baby sitting, my wife and I were able to escape the humble fishing village of Seattle and spend a week wandering New York city.

You know. New York. The Big Apple. The city so nice they named it twice. The Big Easy. The Windy City. The City of Light. Ol’ Blue Eyes. The Rumble in the Jungle. Ol’ Stinkfinger.

I am writing my observation on this humid land and its attractive, obnoxious people, so that future generations can be educated and my blog can be updated for the first time in a year.

We flew to New York on American Airlines, because we hate ourselves. Since we have two small children, the flight was marvelous. Before we had kids, the prospect of a five hour plane flight filled us with dread. Now, the idea of spending that long with nothing to do and nobody bugging us is pure ecstasy.

We took the subway into the city. They have constructed a system called Airtrain that can carry you from JFK to Manhattan quickly and cheaply. Sure, blowing a c-note on a shuttle will prepare you the non-stop violation your wallet is about to endure, but why hasten the process? The train passed through Queens and Brooklyn. For a time, I was convinced that New York had simply run out of white people. Then we entered Manhattan. Oh. There they are.

We checked into our hotel. We are staying across the street from the theater showing Wicked. As long as our planet’s precious supply of teenaged Goth girls remains unextinguished, that musical will run strong. Every time we walk by it, I treat my wife to my off-key rendition of one of its songs. This is because I am, all evidence to the contrary, a big, fat gay.

Then, since we were headachy and jet-lagged, we went to a movie. It was called The Last Mistress. It was French and full of perverse sex. A guy gets shot and then the woman he loves licks the wound clean. Ah. The French. The theater was in the Village, where all the best art house theaters can be found. Going to a movie is a good way to see what local people look like. And how much more nicely dressed than you they are. Do this as soon as you can, and get the jump on being ashamed.

It was then late, so we went to Greenwich Village to eat at a spectacularly fabulous and trendy pub called The Spotted Pig. We arrived at 10:30 PM and only had to wait 45 minutes. We were lucky to get in. I thought we would be all right because they got there so late. In fact, we only got in because we got there so early. After midnight, the place was completely slammed.

The main special for the night was called, “Broiled faggot.” This was, in case you were wondering, which you were, a pork sausage with trotter, liver, and farro. This gave me to opportunity to ask the waitress, “So. Is the faggot more of a appetizer or a main dish?”

We got it. It was excellent. It had whole fried pig ears on the side, because that is what they do there. I think they are on to something. Next time I’m there, in addition to having the faggot, I’ll say, “Thank you. Now I would like the wetback soup. And, for the main course, I’ll have some boiled Jew.”

While we were waiting for dinner, we sat next to models. Actual models. They roam wild in New York. One of them was wearing a lovely shirt. And then I realized that it was her dress. Seeing her ass hang out like that really made the time pass. Models are amazing. I can’t make that look work for me at all.

Then we went down the street to the famous Magnolia Bakery. The line was around the block. This famous spot is where the trend of overpriced cupcakes for grown-ups started. We got dessert there, instead of doing what we should have done: Firebombed the fucking place.

Then we went to bed. Sleeping pills are the closest thing to magic ever created by humanity.

On To Part 2

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