Manna Festival Toe? Naw. Man-I-Fester, like somebody's long-dead uncle. seven feet deep, creep creep.

To the "men" of Williamsburg, Brooklyn: fucking eat something, stop wearing your 13-year old sister's jeans (yes, that means the cut-off joints too), and STOP critiquing my clothes out loud as I walk out of CYN to get drug money from Mr. A.T.M. Lest you wanna get wasted in front of a sizeable crowd, with the JUSTICE being administered by a modestly sized, yet tenacious, cracked out, deeply troubled hooligan with no fear and no hope. Know Yourself.

To the women of Williamsburg, Brooklyn: take off those ridiculously large sunglasses, stop getting those gargantuan chest-piece tats (think about your menopausal years for christ's sake!), get the stick outta your ass, and stop dating/fucking/marrying the aforementioned twinks. Actually, you know what, yeah, stop breeding altogether. Your virulent gametes are tainting an already suspect gene pool.

I fucking hate you.

As you were.

epilogue: for the unlearn-ned, the parties mentioned herein, despite their protests, both verbal and non-verbal, are about as "cool"/"hip" as a hairy, elderly gay couple sunbathing in the nude in St. Tropez.

yeah that's right. it's like that! Funeral Music type shit, yeah.


eleKtrofly said...

this was one of the best posts i've read in some time.


Daniel Cardona said...

I drop old bullet casings around Williamsburg in the hopes that puts fear in some folks.

Just doing my part to fight gentrification and douchbaggery.

All my cool BK friends now live in Berlin, Barcelona, and oddly enough Arizona.