Monday, July 16, 2012

get the hell off of my lawn

the bastard has a philosophy about moving to new neighborhoods…

it's an opportunity.

to reinvent yourself.

instead of being that angry guy who told a 70 year old lady to go fuck herself (not my finest hour)…

I can be fun bastard.

who likes to make friends with his neighbors…

do social things…

and be the best bastard a bastard can be.

the liquid city has given me this opportunity.

and sometimes I squander it when I shout at loud bar patrons who need to shut the hell up

and sometimes I don't.

that said…

I went to central park with the neighbors to see the new york philharmonic.

which is actually a way for grown up white folks to drink in the park unmolested by the po po's.

in the hood, this would be like drinking 40 ounces in the park with the radio on.

only there would be glass breaking when the filth comes through.

but I digress, there we were…

all grown up and shit…

drinking and listening to the sounds…

eating cheeses in our tuxedos…

and starting and finishing every sentence by saying. "what what?"

then the hipsters showed up.

there was a 3 foot expanse between our blanket (which was made of solid gold mind you what what) and another posh upper east side family who wore solid platinum boat shoes along with their brooks brothers polo shirts that came with built in monocles.

and after setting up the table cloth they no doubt stole from a dumpster they had just recently dived out of while freecycling they called their friends from a stolen pay phone they kept in a purse that was constructed from a series of purses they had pieced together from bits of stuff that was found outside of barcade on a Thursday night.

and then their friends showed up dressed as tea cozies.

15 of them…

it seemed that friday night was the night that all of the unwashed play "how many trust fund babies can fit on the head of a pin/filthy stolen restaurant tablecloth"

and the answer was 15.

as one dropped her bag on our best finery, my wife asked, "what what, dooooooo keep your filthy series of purses off of our solid gold beach blanket, what what"

and she apologized and acquiesced to her social betters but her absolute lout of a boyfriend snorted from his lenseless 5 dollar wedding reception cast off wayfarers that, "people here can get territorial".

then he snorted and drank from his paper bag that no doubt had a mixture of hobo's delight, chateau par-Tay, and thundershevitz mixed together along with the spittle of some poor dead gentlemen named 'marty'.

the bastard leaned over, forgetting all that he had built in the west of the east and said, "I'll get territorial on your face, jerk"

speechless, the tea cozy posse went back to eating their fresh dumpster fare and we all continued to enjoy the music/drinking.

later it rained briefly, and they disappeared, I thought they were fearing an unexpected bath (it WAS friday and all, what what) but I was in error as they just found a roomier spot to infest 50 feet away to make jackasses of themselves.

and it was a lovely tea party.

—the bastard

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