Banterist

From New York, original humor writing & commentary by Brian Sack. Subject to all the flexible quality standards of internet self-publishing.

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Mayor Bloomberg Fan Fiction

I thought it would be just another lonely night nursing my Guinness in my smoke-free watering hole – until he caught my eye. By “he” I mean New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg.
The mayor was glowing like a guardian angel sent from heaven to protect us all from everything. Our eyes locked. Within seconds I found him next to me, making sure I was properly seated on the stool so that I didn’t fall off and hurt myself.
I was humbled by his compassion and love as he checked the soles of my shoes to see that they weren’t perilously worn. He looked up at me and smiled.
“Thank you for banning trans-fats,” I said, saluting him with a flavorless French fry.
“My pleasure,” said the mayor as he set about blunting the bar’s dangerously sharp cocktail toothpicks.
He fixed a steely gaze on another patron’s hamburger and snapped his fingers. Immediately the City Council and Board of Health appeared behind him.
“I want all hamburgers to be cooked for 85 minutes,” said the mayor, “only then can we make every burger in this great city safe. God help us.”
His entourage nodded in unison and immediately passed legislation. I was impressed by his incredible power and Bono-like concern for us New Yorkers.
He ran about the bar pouring boiling water on every raw oyster he could find. Everyone applauded. He returned to me, trading my worn baseball cap for a much warmer wool beret. Before I could thank him he was strapping me in to a life jacket in case I accidentally fell into the Hudson.
His desire to protect me – to protect all of us – obviously knew no bounds. I felt like I owed him one.
“May I buy you a drink, Mister Mayor?” I asked.
“Sure,” said the kind-hearted billionaire, “a non-alcoholic one in something safe and shatter-proof.”
He glanced over at the Board of Health. They immediately understood what he meant and legislation was passed faster than you could say “nanny state.” Within seconds the bartender had transferred my Guinness to an 8 oz. plastic cup. And it wasn’t Guinness, but rather sugar-free molasses juice.
The mayor turned his attention back to me, eyeing me from head to toe.
“Lovely scarf,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied.
“But the wind could blow it and it might get caught on the side-view mirror of a bus,” he said, “you’d be dragged to your death or suffer abrasions, and I would cry and cry and cry.”
Tears welled in the guardian mayor’s eyes. Before he could turn to the Council and Board members behind him, legislation had already been passed. Buses were illegal, and several NYPD officers had been reassigned from homicide to rogue scarf patrol.
“Let’s you and I get out of here,” said the mayor. We left.
Outside, the air was cold and inhospitable. The mayor looked over at his entourage. They seemed unable to do anything. He was grief-stricken.
“I’m sorry it’s cold,” said the mayor, “if I could change the weather, I would. Believe me.”
He held my hand and helped me across the street. We passed several French restaurants that were forbidden from serving foie gras before finally arriving at the Freedom Tower. At one story tall, it was not technically a tower.
“Towers are dangerous,” said the mayor. He unlocked the giant steel door and ushered me into a room filled with nothing but amazingly soft, non-flammable pillows.
“You’ll be safe here,” said Mayor Bloomberg, “I’ll be back later. With everyone else.”
And with that he was gone. But not before decreeing all sidewalks be made out of sponge.


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