Today, I saw the costume-wearing Iowan red bearded Mast Bros setting sail on their schooner for a magical pioneering cacao bean adventure. So I cast my fishing rod; reeled the boat back to the shores of gentrified Red Hook; broke their nail file-shaped bodies in half; wove their beards into sails and then sent them sailing into the Bermuda Triangle. End of story.
Today, I saw 32 year old, Ally McBeal-shaped, red bearded Harrison escaping on his pogo stick from a brutal attack by two 15 year old girls who needed a new i-Phone. So I clotheslined him, loaned my Louisville Slugger and tire iron to the girls; filmed the whole beating with his i-Phone and sent the video to his Mommy back in Oregon so she could see her son’s creative Brooklyn experience she’s been paying for. End of story.
Today, I saw Baker churning butter at Amish Fest 2013 in Upper North West Bushwick where nobody is actually Amish but dress like it during their Brooklyn playcations. So I dragged him by his red beard to my human sling shot and fired him into the toxic Newtown Creek where he dissolved along with the Greenpoint Kayak Club that I had drowned earlier this morning. End of story.
Today, I saw Local Logan the Lumberjack – who because of his calamari tentacle physique only has strength to deal with lumber of the popsicle stick and toothpick variety – buying organic beard wax made from Harrison’s Bushwick Beehive Collective’s sustainable bees. So I slathered him in Alpo and Peter Luger sauce and locked him in his $1.2 million condo that I had previously filled with starving pitbulls. End of story.
Today, I saw 35 year old Maddox setting up his stoop sale table in front of his $2150/month studio in Bushwick full of G.I Joe and Voltron action figures that his Mommy U-Hauled in from Indiana for his 18 month anniversary of moving to Brooklyn to be a “vibrant creative type”. So I offered him a local, red sustainable cigar which was an M-80 and watched his oily, lice bearded hipster head explode. End of story.
Today, I saw Palmer and Brice strolling through McCarren Park in their 1919 penny farthing salesmen costumes discussing what crops to grow on the roof of the apartment building where they just displaced the last normal Brooklyn family. So I soaked their beards in lighter fluid and rubbed their No. 2 pencil arms together to ignite them and watch them burn. End of story.
Today at 2pm, I saw 36 year old Ethan researching kale recipes on his yearly parentally gifted MacBook in a progressive cafe sustainably made out of Legos. So I walked in, ordered a 29 syllable hot beverage that I wasn’t going to drink or pay for just to keep the frail barista busy and hammered Ethan’s face in with a meat tenderizer. End of story.
Today, I saw Corbin taking a mid-day roll through Lower North East Greenpoint on his gluten-free long board to go buy a vintage phonograph for his new DJ gig at the depression-era themed moonshine bar owned by a beardo who just arrived from Minnesota three months ago. So I removed his sustainable hemp backpack filled with a bottle of artisanal water and a kale sandwich; put him in a Camel Clutch and broke his brittle spine in half. End of story.
Today, I saw Cord and Reid, 34 year old interns, comparing the cupcake tattoos on their Virginia Slim 120 arms as they sipped sustainable hot cocoa that their fedora hat-wearing barista with a $100,000 liberal arts degree made them. So I shattered their thick-framed glasses with two locally-sourced, organic left hooks. End of story.