Today, I saw flute-physiqued Xander struggling to carry a bag of Sriracha flavored artisanal popcorn up to his $3,200 a month, 105 year old, 5th floor walk-up apartment in Bushwick. So I scaled the outside of the building; climbed through his window; and greeted him at the front door with Shoryuken Ryu Street Fighter uppercut which shattered his bony bearded face. End of story.
Today, I saw Chase the emaciated rent-raising cupcakeologist checking his mailbox for this month’s gentrification allowance check. So I chased him onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway where “ironically” a U-Haul bringing in two more hipsters from Iowa flattened him. End of story.
Today I saw Ethan taking a “food porn” picture of his $10 imported licorice infused latte for his Brooklyn based blog that only his enabling Culdesacian parents read to know their fragile red bearded son is keeping busy on their dime. So I dragged his empty-ketchup-packet shaped body behind the counter and ran him through the coffee bean grinder. End of story.
Bonus: Here is the actual picture of the transient zine boys. The one I used the other day had Keebler Redbeard’s mom’s credit card photoshopped out of it by the Brooklyn Paper.
Today, I saw Hamilton heading to the Mast Brothers Ye Olde Chocolate Shoppe to buy a $900 box of sustainable chocolate with Mommy’s Midwest Mastercard to celebrate his first Valentine’s Day in New Brooklyn with Penelope the performance artist. So I slid a Hefty bag over his basketball pump frame and beat him with a bowling pin until his helium voiced cries for help stopped. End of story.
Today, I saw Wagner the smug, gentrifying, kale-eating fucking yup signing for a FedEx Tube delivery containing blue prints for his new condo building being built on a working class block in West Greenpoint Gardens. So I gave him a quick right cross to his sunken-in face; stuffed his marionette-shaped body into the FedEx tube with a few cups of gun powder and fired him like a Roman Candle over the Williamsburg, Manhattan, Brooklyn and Verrazano Bridges back to Wisconsin. End of story.
Today, I saw Fletcher the bed bug distributing faux urban lumberjack heading to the secret saw mill off of the Newtown Creek which is really just an overpriced coffee shop with vintage typewriters so never-to-be- known temporary Nieuw Breuckelenite writers can be seen amongst each other in public. So I welded him shut inside an iron maiden with a hive of killer wasps and donated it as a sled for real Brooklyn kids to use down the hill in Owl’s Head Park. End of story.
Today, as Ironic Ian’s head was about to split open from my 10th consecutive DDT to the cold hard sidewalk, I saw Tristan the apron-clad, wax moustached, Northwest Bushwick cheese consultant heading to Ye Olde Shoppe to test the vintage scale he made at adult craft class. So I rammed a funnel in his mouth; poured a gallon of Liquid Drano down it and watched him shit his intestines into his teenage girls jeans. End of story.
Look at this whiny, Q-tip limbed, entitled cyclist fuck with his standard-issue hipster beard & thick frames. Nobody will ever know, but I’m sure prior to the confrontation he was probably doing something to taunt and provoke the driver; trying to prove that cyclists should have more rights than cars. I can’t help laughing when reading this part of the article:
“He was making threats at me at this point in time, indicating that he had martial arts experience and could take me down,” says Hoey.”He did pull my hand into the car. I managed to free it, and in freeing it pulled some papers out from his passenger side seat and threw them on the sidewalk.”
Hoey said the motorist then tried to drive his vehicle into him, before getting out of his car and twisting Hoey’s arm behind his back.That’s when Hoey says a handful of witnesses pulled the motorist off of him, and police were called to investigate.
They call this twerp a “cyclist” but what I think he is 35 year old bike messenger who can’t do shit with his $100,000 liberal art school diploma. If you notice he has some sort of document tube sticking out his back pack and he drops his radio when the guy almost snaps his windshield wiper arm.
Today, as I was training a falcon to swoop down on hipsters, remove their fedora hats, take a shit on their heads and claw their eyes out I saw Colby the tire pressure gauge shaped urban pickler chaining his penny farthing to a real Brooklynite’s private gate. So I rammed his tire pump in his ear and inflated his greasy lice infested head until it popped so loud his enabling parents in Culdesacia, Michigan heard it. End of story.
Today, in 10 degree weather I saw Caleb who wears scarfs and dog sledding hats in August skipping to the deli to buy a package of “look at me – I roll my own” cigarette tobacco in his hummus stained Milwaukee Bucks tank top and flip flops. So I broke a 3 foot long icicle off a house and rifled it through his Geico gecko body. End of story.