Today, I saw Buchanan riding his penny farthing along the Coney Island boardwalk in his jorts, bowtie and a triangular revolutionary war hat. So I stuck a kids toy shovel in the spokes; picked him up & slung his marionette-like body over my shoulder; rode to the top of the Wonder Wheel and leaped off, pile driving him through the roof of Ruby’s where I proceeded to have a knish and ice-cold beer. End of story.
This is from exactly a year ago but I never saw it and it was just emailed to me. Check out this mismatched, multi-colored, attention-needing beardo getting tripped by a spectator as he tried to run along side a cyclist during the Tour de France. It’s safe to say he got his much needed attention. Hysterical.
Today, I saw 37 year old, quirky Quaid feeding quinoa to his urban quails. So I shot a flaming arrow into his fruit roll up neck which ignited his Merlin the Magician beard which incinerated his ugly, smug, vapid gentrification face. End of story.
Today, I saw Bryce and Caleb flailing their Ally McBeal arms and drowning in toxic fecal sludge after their canoe tipped over in the Gowanus Canal during their mid-week mid-work day paddling session. So I yelled “hold on guys, I’ll get help!” as I jumped in my car and drove away to L & B Pizzeria in real Brooklyn and enjoyed a couple of the best squares on earth. End of story.
Today, I saw Harrison the bearded, dog erection-armed “creative assistant” setting up his flea market table to sell lensless monocles for $125 each to other transplanted, parentally subsidized, Brooklyn-ruining hipster fucks. So I filled a pillow case with local, sustainable bocce balls and beat him into a coma. End of story.
Today, I saw Quaid, the red bearded pussification pioneer exploring Sunset Park and Bay Ridge to open up a peanut butter and jelly taco cafe to help lure in more fly swatter shaped fauxhemian transplants and “make things better” for us here in still-normal Brooklyn. So I dipped into my 4th of July fireworks stash and tied a case of whistling bottle rockets around his waist and launched him back to his cul-de-sac in Wisconsin. End of story.
Today, I saw Ward accidentally light his Salvador Dali moustache on fire as he lit his vintage 19th century Sherlock Holmes pipe that he bought for a mere $400 at the weekly played-out hipster taco and T-shirt flea market. So I quickly ran over with a fire extinguisher and slammed it over his fucking head. End of story.
Today, I saw Harrison the 34 year old, idle, coffee stirrer legged, chunky eye glass framed hipster interloper from Austin and Portland but originally from Antler County, Wisconsin who writes poetry on his Etch-a-Sketch on the Williamsburg Bridge for “urban looks”. So I tied one end of the rope I made with his iPod charger, headphones, and Converse shoelaces to the railing and the other around his Vienna Sausage neck and tossed him off, thus snapping his unwanted, transient faux-Brooklyn spine. End of story.
Today, as I watched a 14 year old girl knock 35 year old Mason off his vintage Schwinn and ride off with it, I noticed him calling 911 to report it. So I put on a fake policeman’s uniform, arrived at the scene, and bashed his bearded face in with my walkie talkie which was simply a brick I painted black. End of story.