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.
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.
Today, I saw Brent using his Dad’s credit card and umbilical cord arms to rent a hideous Citibike. So I tied his Converse shoe laces to the back of a street sweeper and cleaned the length of Bedford Avenue’s curb with his filthy bed bug beard and on-purpose bed-head hair-do. End of story.
Today, I saw Terrence and Beckett; the Hatfield and McCoy re-enacting, trust-funded beardos from Ohiasottasconsin waving their smelly hipster feet in the air as they were putting together their $80-a-jar of local Zebra urine brined pickles business plan to sell out of an abandoned zipper manufacturing factory on an unnamed street in Bushwick. So I put more pine tar on my Louisville Slugger than George Brett did in his entire career and beat them so hard that when the ambulance arrived, it looked like two eggplant parm heros were being carried out on stretchers. End of story.
Today, I saw Homogenizing Harrison deciding which parentally issued credit card to use to pay for his “Save Brooklyn” tattoo that was inked onto his popsicle stick wrist. So I placed a GPS tag on his Iditarod dog sledding hat and later tracked him down to Roberta’s $16 beard hair and cigarette ash pizza slice shop and beat him into a paralyzed beardo with his own iPad. End of story.
Today, I saw Keegan, Wagner, Ward and Caleb celebrating 3 years in the magical land of Nieuw Breuckelen over some $9.00 happy hour craft ales at the Newtown Creek yacht club. So I dressed up like the Pringle’s man to make them feel comfortable and said “I’ll be your new bartender” as I took the soda gun hose and simultaneously strangled their toilet paper tube necks. End of story.
Today, I saw Quaid the jockey whip-armed, rent-raising, monocle wearing, hipster piece of fucking shit chaining his rusty Schwinn to a normal Brooklynite’s front gate. So I dissolved him in a barrel of acid, poured him into a water balloon, drove to Wisconsin and threw it at his enabling Daddy’s face. End of story.
Today, I saw Conrad the red bearded, oar-shaped, North Brooklyn Craft University certified, artisanal pig butcherer heading to Ye Olde Shoppe which is located on a block full of bodegas and 99 cents stores in Bushwick where he sells a package of locally cured bacon for $36.00. So I took his imported Sperm Whale bone handled hacksaw and sawed him into the gender puzzled puzzle he really is. End of story.
Today, I saw Ward and Cord hopping on their pogo sticks for an early 11am breakfast at the vegan donut shoppe. So I tied their uncooked spaghetti limbs together with their effeminate scarfs; hopped on my jack hammer pogo and hammered their Grover shaped bodies into the asphalt. End of story.