Today, I saw Trevor with his strapped on vintage guitar heading from “I’ll never actually be a real musician” band practice to his “Thanks Mom and Dad for paying my $2450 a month Bushwick rent this year” apartment. So I grabbed the guitar and put his head under the steel strings against the fret board and tightened all the pegs until his face sliced into seven pieces like a hard boiled egg. End of story.
Today, I saw Caleb the curtain rod-shaped, coffee shop curator calling California for more culdesacian credit. So I crushed his cranium in a car compactor. End of story.
I can’t believe this is real. But it is. Come live with “Daphne” at Grove 358 in magical and whimsical Bushwick! Sing it Daphne!
Today, at the healthy Whole Foods built near the toxic Gowanus canal, I was spraying the organic overpriced vegetables with pesticide and I overheard Gunner and Xander in the next aisle discussing beard waxing techniques. So I pushed over the entire aisle divider/shelf full of $18 sustainable pickles in mason jars and crushed their mozzarella stick shaped bodies. End of story.
Today, I saw 36 year old red bearded Tristan unicycling to xylophone refurbishing class at the Wisconsin Liberal Arts Academy Annex in Upper Nieuw Bozwick. So I body slammed him face first and played the entire album of Black Sabbath’s Paranoid on his spinal cord like a xylophone with two sledgehammers. End of story.
Agree with me or not – but growing up in Brooklyn, we did not call every single grocery store, candy store, newsstand, or convenience store, a “bodega”. A bodega was strictly a store run usually by Puerto Ricans or some kind of Hispanic nationality in neighborhoods like Sunset Park and Bushwick, etc, that has the yellow sign (lots of times with the family name on it); plantains, mangos, and avocados in crates on display; predominantly Goya products on the shelf; a cat roaming around; and the front glass plastered with Newport, Marlboro and malt liquor signs. Sorry, but a store run by Arabs, Koreans, or any other is simply not a bodega if you ask me.
Now, read this list of complaints made by some smug fucking hipster jack-ass transplant who thinks every store is a bodega and needs to be perfect for his out-of-state, upper-middle class, culdesacian ass. Here are some of his more nonsensical complaints:
They don’t give you a sleeve with your coffee. This is just plain wrong. – Aww, I’m so sorry you poor little fucking baby. Go back to your 7 – 11 back in Michigan and put 5 sleeves on your fucking coffee.
They don’t even have one craft beer. Seriously, have you seen the selection at some of the places these days? Are you kidding you wanna-be beer connoisseur? No craft beer is a game changer for you, you smug fuck? I hope some thug cracks a 40 of OE over your head next time a place doesn’t have “craft beer”.
They don’t take credit cards, and their ATM charges $3 or more. – Don’t you mean they don’t take Daddy’s credit card?
They don’t sell any two-ply toilet paper. We’re not barbarians. – That’s right you’re not; you’re elitist, spoiled, Brooklyn-ruining hipster fucks. Who would complain about not having two-ply toilet paper when they have to take the biggest shit of their lives?
JUST GET FUCK OUT OF NYC ALREADY YOU PAMPERED WANNA-BE URBAN HIPSTER FUCKS!!!! YOU ARE BEYOND USELESS.