New York

News For Pigeons

Laszlo McFootmissing of Midtown passed away Thursday after drinking a green liquid with cigarette butts in it at the corner of 56th and Park. Cause of death is unknown.
News For Pigeons regrets the passing of Norma “The Bread Lady” Dissender whose combination of loneliness and insanity made her a Central Park regular. Her generosity will be missed. A memorial service will be held Thursday at the fountain, near the half-blind Pakistani pretzel vendor.
Pench Oilyfeathers of Gramercy discovered an uneaten French fry on the road near Toys ‘R Us in Union Square. He was able to eat half of it before he knocked it into the gutter.
Hebb Eyegone reports that the pigeon-proofing under the awnings at Macy’s has been defeated. The awnings provide excellent protection from the elements and ample room for droppings.
A large gathering near Chelsea Piers was disrupted Monday when it was charged by a young human. Sources say the incident was unprovoked. According to area resident Fligo Suitshitter, Chelsea Piers has been the scene of several chargings and is no longer considered one of the top places to roost in the city.
Following a hit-and-run accident on Houston Street, all pigeons are asked to be on the lookout for an Asian delivery man riding a rickety bicycle.
Peck Slowreact was struck and killed by a Department of Sanitation truck early Wednesday morning while sitting on the road outside Sea Wing Seafood on Canal Street. A memorial service will be held in the same location. The body will remain on display until it washes away.
Correction: The pile of breadcrumbs reported yesterday near Arturo’s Pizza at York and 85th was actually a pile of sawdust. We apologize for any confusion.

Hey New York, Recycling’s Back!

Shower door etching of an African emigrant sucking Courtney Love’s breast outside a Wendy’s – no
Stephen Glass – (see ‘Paper Recycling’)
Wine bottles, Cabernet – no (let sit)
Wine bottles, except Cabernet – yes
Bottles of expensive foreign beers – yes
Bottles with “born on” dates – no
Odd-shaped wine bottles designed to draw attention away from lousy wine inside – yes
Deli window with “neck face” spray-painted on it – yes
Glass ashtrays from restaurant that took a 30% hit in profits because of the smoking ban – no
Double pane windows that keep the sounds of screaming homeless from disturbing your slumber – yes
Glass matte of the Ewok Village stolen from a warehouse at Lucasfilm – no
Rose-colored glasses – yes
The glass of water you asked the waiter for twenty minutes ago, damn it – yes

Plastic bag used by Gotti mistress to kill herself without any assistance from nobody and don’t you says a word, you understand? – yes
Cher – yes
Soy Milk containers – yes
Plastic food containers for pun-named vegan products like “Soy Vey!” and “Not Dogs” – no
Cassette recording of the “Talking Taxi” campaign which featured a variety of non-celebrities admonishing you for not putting on your seatbelt – yes
American Express Centurion Card – yes
Containers of Tropicana Pure Premium with Pulp – yes (remove pulp)
P. Diddy CDs – no (can’t recycle twice)
Empty Botox syringes – yes
Hilarious post-surgery cone that goes around your dog’s head – yes
Vinyl banner printed with “I’m Aiken 4 Clay” from last year’s American Idol – no
CD compilation of Rocco Siffredi sodomizing Czech harlots – yes
Michael Jackson – no
Laminated “Sore-Loserman” banner from Election 2000 – no
Defective Xbox – (no, save for class action)
Megaphone used by man who lured you into a shady “sample sale” on the sixth floor of decrepit building – yes
Sub-flooring that should have been put under your buckling hardwood floor – yes

Gest/Minelli Wedding invitations – yes
Gest/Minelli Divorce documents – yes
Rite Aid Pharmacy flyer handed to you on the corner of 14th and 7th by Carmen Vazquez of Honduras – yes
The creepy “Alamo Christian Ministries” newsletter left on your windshield – yes
Jayson Blair’s memoirs – no (wait for apology)
Stephen Glass’s memoirs – yes
“Flashdancers” strip-club promo card handed to you by man who fled war-torn homeland – no
Copies of “Taboo” stage play – yes
Box of “World Says No To War” flyers in Spanish – no
Empty cereal boxes – yes
Empty cereal boxed that mention “fiber” or “colon” a little too much – no
Al Sharpton’s copy of “Leadership” by Rudolph Giuliani – yes
United Federation of Teachers “Aniual Report on Are Progresses In Education” – yes
The New York Times – yes (remove any recycled articles)
The 997 remaining headshots from your failed acting career – yes
Printed Pamphlet touting the return of recycling – no (savor the irony!)
Dr. Zizmor’s Subway Ads – yes
E-ticket from Air France, where Business Class is just Economy with less attitude – no

Gest/Minelli wedding rings – yes
The star-thing on Janet Jackson’s nipple during the debacle that she’d rather put behind her – yes
A child’s braces – no
A child with braces – no
Metal Gear Solid for Xbox – no
Samurai sword you inexplicably purchased when drunk in Chinatown, you loser – yes
Can of baked beans you bought in Chinatown because its logo is a backwards swastika, which you thought odd – yes
Parking meters – yes (remove coins)
“Under Construction” sign stolen from a building site which advertises a shady, low-quality construction firm with ties to organized crime – yes
Staples – yes
Fire escapes – yes
Abandoned bicycle frames – yes
The steel girders from the new West Side stadium that’s so frickin’ awesome that no one noticed $300,000,000 of their tax dollars are going to build it – no

Please remember to leave your recyclables in the proper color-coded bag.
Place the bags on the sidewalk on your pick-up day so that they can be ripped open and the contents strewn outside your apartment.

Dear Mayor: Smoking Mad

Dear Mayor Bloomberg:
I wanted to write to you regarding a most disturbing event I experienced this past Friday, and make you aware of the perilous direction in which New York may be heading. I fear nothing good can come from what I witnessed, and I can only hope that I accurately and thoroughly convey the sheer gravity of the situation that transpired that evening.
The evening had started out normally. Moments before fate struck me such a blow, I was sitting in a Manhattan bar with a friend, discussing the finer merits of music video production, his profession. The discussion was about the Stills and Ryan Adams, and my contention that going by the name Ryan Adams seems very shortsighted considering there was already a Bryan Adams. But that’s not what I’m writing about.
We were enjoying a tepid glass of Stella Artois, the overrated beer from Belgium, the overrated country. But that’s not what I’m writing about, either.
It was quite late, that I know. Regardless, the bar was still quite lively as are most places in New York on a Friday. This is based on my acquaintance with many of Manhattan’s bars, though to be honest I have not been to all of them. However, I do feel confident enough in my experience to assume that most bars in Manhattan on a Friday are busy. Except maybe Culture Club, which has an ’80s theme and a Pac Man logo. That has to be getting tired.
At any rate, the bar was very busy. We were chatting away. Suddenly, the music was turned off and a man with an accent stood up on the bar top and announced to the entire establishment, ‘Excuse me’ Hello’ Yes’ Feel free to light up! Smoke away!’
What fresh hell is this? I asked myself. Was I not in New York City ‘ a city of laws and regulations designed to protect everyone from everything? This was anarchy! Certainly no good could come from encouraging these people in our midst to smoke when it has been expressly forbidden. My heart began to race.
‘Did Bloomberg get fired?’ asked the girl next to us. I was appalled.
And it only got worse. Ashtrays were distributed by a smiling individual ‘ no doubt a member of this shadowy smoke-encouraging cabal. My friend and I ceased talking, and instead tried to gauge how best to handle this dilemma. We looked around the bar, wondering who was with us, who was against.
We chose to play it discreetly, and ordered another round of Stella Artois, the slightly-metallic tasting beer from Belgium.
As we awaited our drinks, we watched in amazement as patrons reached into their purses and jackets and produced packs of cigarettes and lighters. In all honesty, almost every table had blatantly chosen to side with these anarchists and trample on your glorious legal achievement. Again, I had to ask myself if I was still in New York City. I thought that perhaps, through some arcane magical properties contained in bitter Belgian beer, I had been transported to somewhere in Old Europe where common folk are free to callously smoke wherever they choose.
But alas, I realized I was still in New York, your New York, completely surrounded in this den of smoking, law-violating thugs. I wanted to scream, but certainly that would be a giveaway. I pictured the entire establishment turning toward me, pointing, and letting out a wail ‘ just like Donald Sutherland in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. Incidentally, he sat behind us recently at “Henry IV”. Ethan Hawke was great, if a little skinny. But that’s another letter.
You can rest assured I was outraged. Had restaurants and bars suffered a 30% decline in sales only to have such an accomplishment treated so contemptuously? Were these renegade bar owners free to make decisions for their own establishments? What is becoming of this great city when people can do what they please, in an establishment that allows them to do so?
At this point, beers in hand, we quietly debated our next move. Dash for the door? Sneak out the back? No, we decided that the best tack would be to blend in. If anything, our goal would be to gather information for the inevitable day when these hooligans would be dragged into court and made to pay for their lawlessness.
In exchange for a few dollars, I was able to collect a handful of cigarettes as camouflage. My disguise was aided further when I began smoking one of them, flagrante delicto.
After several cigarettes, I was beginning to assemble dossiers in my mind of all these ruffians who obviously had nothing but contempt for your law. Oh sure, they laughed and talked, and carried on as they did in the Giuliani days ‘ but they were a little too laughy, a little too talky. Something wasn’t right.
I would have stayed longer to gather even more information, but my friend was bordering on exhaustion. This whole experience had obviously been too much for him, not too mention he had a heck of a week on the Ryan Adams video. We gathered our belongings and, feigning our allegiance to these conspirators until the very end, made our way to the door.
Rest assured, Honorable Mayor, I will be back to investigate further.
Your humble citizen,

Neckface Franchise Available


Dear Potential Franchisee:
I got me a question.
When you’re walking around the neighborhood, and whatnot, and you want to tag something, what’s the number one motherfucking thing you think of, motherfucker?
That right. Neckface.
Now, what if I were to tell you that you have the opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to be a Neckface distributor? Bitch, there’s no doubt you’re thinking what a prime motherfucking opportunity you have right there.
Neckface is the number one distributor of Neckface-related graffiti throughout the entire city of New York. We’re expanding rapidly. And as we grow, we’re adding new members to the Neckface team. That’s where you come in, motherfucker.
A Neckface franchise offers you unlimited motherfucking growth potential. There’s a lot of surface to cover in this city. Shit. You could tag all day and not even make a dent in this market. Supply, demand, whatever. It’s all good.
With Neckface, you’re your own boss. You work your own hours. You set the rules. There ain’t no punk manager telling you how it is. This is your thing.
We guarantee market exclusivity in your franchise area. You see some motherfucker tagging Neckface in your area, that ain’t cool. Just tell us. We’ll present his ass with the Neckface Franchise Agreement – and bet your ass he’s gonna get the fuck up outa there. Or she. Neckface is an equal opportunity employer.
And for money? Shit. This shit’s priceless.
The start-up costs for a Neckface franchise are minimal. And franchisee training is even minimaler. In fact, if you’re looking for a ground-floor opportunity and whatnot, Neckface is some serious shit. Don’t fuck this up. I’m serious.
If you’re serious about this shit too, and want the motherfucking opportunity of a lifetime, I’ll be at the construction site of the new Union Square Whole Foods. They’ve got some plywood up there, and I sense an opportunity.
I’m in the yellow jacket. Bring $5.

How New York Is

Hello Corey. Very nice to hear from you. Indeed it has been a long time, and thank you for asking how New York is.
New York is doing quite well. I saw a midget walking a dog recently. I’ve never seen that anywhere else I’ve lived or traveled. The dog was as big as the midget, and I imagine being that close in size to your dog gives you some sort of bond that average-height folks could never really enjoy. I have to assume that a dog simply likes you more if it can stand on all fours and look you right in the eye. Perhaps my theory is faulty or untested, but now I stand convinced that man’s best friend would probably prefer he be a midget.
I suppose he could have been a dwarf. I can never remember the difference. I don’t know what the rules or etiquette are as far as labeling little people go; something about body/head proportion. I’m not too concerned, really, because if it came to blows I’m confident I’d win, unless there were hordes of them gnawing at my ankles.

Continue reading…

ABCs of the MTA

A is for Audible, which most announcements are not.
B is for the Batteries, which for a dollar can be bought.
C is for the Chivalry the elderly must miss.
D is for Dirty, as in stairwell filled with piss.
E is for Express train, to get you on your way.
F is for Fifteen, as in minutes of delay.
G is for the Green light the conductor’s waiting for.
H is for Held up, because some schmuck’s half in the door.
I is for the Indigent’s rehearsed pleas for some cash.
J is for the Jumbo lady’s three-seat-taking ass.
K is for the Kids who think it’s fun to surf the trains.
L is for the Lousy job of gathering their remains.
M is for the Metrocard, of which I have a ton.
N is for Not knowing how much money’s on each one.
O is for the Odor you can’t escape when cars are packed.
P is for the Posters read so eyes don’t make contact.
Q is for the Quest to find the one car that has seats.
R is for Re-routing trains to stops on other streets.
S as in Stand-clear-the-doors, the mantra that they chant.
T is for Times Square Station: avoid, unless you can’t.
U for Union workers manning booths that needed closing.
V for all the Vitriol they spewed just for proposing.
W for the Wanderers who travel car to car en masse.
X is for X-rated comments scratched into the glass.
Y for ‘Your attention please’; precursor to bad news.
Z for Zonked-out drug addict; missing several teeth, and shoes.

Ask Banterist: Taxing Question

Dear Banterist,
I am still a relatively new member of the New York community. There is something which puzzles me, and I require your help in resolving this matter.
New York City taxis are remarkably inexpensive. I therefore deduce that the drivers thereof, typically of international stock, are not well paid. So why are they always talking on their cellphones, which are expensive?
My wife and two children (I believe they are mine) enjoy a cellphone each. They have a combined plan which the woman at Verizon swore on her ovaries was the best deal in town – $102/ month. This has neither rollovers, legovers or leftovers. So how can Nassir Malik (W17th Street -> Central Park West & 89th street -> Madison and 60th = $13.20) and Michael Fontainive (5th Avenue and 47th -> Prince and Mercer = $4.40) afford to jabber away in distant tongues all day? What plan are they on? Do they represent a key demographic which Verizon’s Marketing Department has been successfully mining for the past years?
When I first arrived in NYC from London, I was confused by the chattering from the cab area. Not seeing the headset, I would assume that the driver was addressing me. I would reply to the chatter from the front of the cab with a classic ‘Excuse Me’ or ‘I’m Sorry’ (Hugh Grant has made a fortune out of the disorientated Englishman manoeuvre) only to be met with an icy stare from the orient.
Do NYC taxi drivers have a special plan, or do they spend their days driving around the city simply to finance their expensive habit.
Banterist – Please help me.
Jonathan M.
Dear Jonathan,
Very easily explained. New York taxi drivers enjoy a supplemental income from Al Qaeda.

Dear Cyclist Whom I Will Be Beating

I am not certain of the circumstances that will lead to you, the cyclist, being beaten by me, the pedestrian, because I am writing this letter in advance.
First off, I would like to offer my apologies for the beating, and say that when it occurs it will be a spontaneous event, not pre-meditated or in the First Degree of any sort. You and your lawyers will have to understand this.
You should know that this behavior will be unusual to me. I prefer diplomatic resolution over violence. In fact, even when presented with a blessed opportunity to ruin a wee Frenchman for purposely drinking my beer, I instead chose a non-combative approach. I sought the path of enlightenment. I also didn’t want to ruin my honeymoon by getting tossed in a foreign slammer.
But unfortunately for you, the frenzied beating you shall receive will be an anomaly. It will be uncontrollable, and frighteningly furious. It helps that I am 6′ 3′, but more importantly, the appearance that I have completely lost my mind will be amazingly alarming to you — regardless of your physical build and potential self-defense skills. You will be paralyzed by my personal shock and awe campaign. I will proceed, undeterred, until I have sufficiently proven my point. My point will then be followed by the Grand Finale, which involves a lot of jumping on your spokes.
You will have to understand that this has been a long time coming. Not coming at you personally, as I can not say that I know you since I am writing this in advance of beating you. Rather, this has been a long time coming towards cyclists in general, as I have felt a growing animosity towards the Cycling persuasion. This is the end result of countless near-death experiences at the hands, or wheels, of your kind. These near misses could have been avoided if you were to use the roads the city has to offer, rather than the sidewalk path that leads to my crotch. Your behavior has rendered the sidewalks and streets more lawless than a Somali flea market. You will reap a juggernaut of vengeance.
The most recent pre-cursor to your future beating set my nerves on edge for the umpteenth, and possibly last, time: I crossed a street — looking the correct way — only to have a two-wheeled bullet traveling the wrong direction graze my head and scream ‘Watch out!’
That took two years off of my life, no question.
By the time my heart stopped racing and I was able to collect myself, I knew it was only a matter of time. I know the feeling. It’s the same one I had when I knew I would kill Scott Yarman if he kept making fun of my mother’s breast cancer. He kept it up. I tried to strangle him to death. We both got suspended.
As I am writing this in advance, I can not tell you of the exact circumstances that will lead up to this horrible event. I imagine it will be fairly simple. I will be walking on the sidewalk, as pedestrians do. You will be riding on said sidewalk, which is illegal. You will strike me in some way. I will completely freak out. The bottled up rage will overwhelm my conscience and self-restraint. My adrenaline will go off the charts, like an ex-con strung out on PCP. Presuming you are not well armed, I will then beat you to within an inch of your life. Two centimeters if you prefer metric.
Take note, my cycling friend.
I’m not sure what you’d call a person who hates people on bikes. You certainly can’t call them Cyclists. Perhaps Anti-Cyclites? Bikeots? Schwinnzis?
Whatever you call them, I am now one. You have made an enemy, sir.
Tread carefully,
A Pedestrian

Uses for 311

311 is New York City’s New Phone Number for Government Information and Services. Among the many services accessible through 311, you can:
Find out if the guy who screamed “Take me to a sandwich” at you was ever taken to a sandwich.
Thank the Mayor for making restaurants smoke-free and 30% less profitable.
Report a loud noise that passed by forty minutes ago.
Tell the Mayor about your new improvisational comedy troupe. See if he can get someone from William Morris Agency to come by.
Find out what up with that.
Report quality of life complaints such as blocked driveways, loud youths and lousy quality of life.
Obtain the phone number of any City voicemail maze.
Politely request that real estate mogul Barbara Corcoran cease plastering her face on billboards.
Report any non-emergency Carson Daly sightings.
Find out what the Arabs who run your corner deli were saying about you.
Get a recommendation for a lawyer to help you sue the city because you tripped on a signpost stub.
Report the broken streetlight you reported last week.
Find out what “Neckface” means.
Ask how much this is costing New York taxpayers.
Report non-taxpayers.
Find out if Pedro Martinez ever studied the Japanese martial art of Aikido because the way he threw Don Zimmer down was very Aikido-like and graceful.
Locate a nearby Holocaust-denial group.
Find out when there’ll be more Cynthia Steffe on sale at Loehmann’s. Tell Mayor you got a great deal on a Fendi dress solely because of a missing belt.
Obtain the local garbage pick-up schedule so you can coordinate your soda can farming expeditions.
Ask where the hell the 6 train is for God’s sake.
Find out if so-and-so is on the up-and-up.
Get the latest fashions or recommend a fashion trend.
Ask the Mayor what frickin’ movie they blocked 19th Street for and convey your annoyance at being forced to unload your new Ikea sofa a block away.
Have the operator moderate your game of Dungeons & Dragons.
Get a detailed rundown of current official bribes and what they get you in return.
Ask the Mayor for help with your pirated copy of Microsoft Office.
Plead Not Guilty.
Find out the latest restaurant openings and their estimated closings.
Ask if Al Sharpton is serious.
Report a shameless, healthy twenty-something who is smoking, eating, reading a book, feeding a dog and informing you via cardboard that he’s down on his luck.
Start a rumor about melon-crazy comedian Gallagher and supermodel Giselle.
Get the lyrics to 50-Cent’s P.I.M.P.
Recommend the next Mayor.

Kitchen No Longer Confidential

Prior to meeting and marrying my wife, my method for eating out involved simply exiting the house and looking for a place to eat. There was no plan. I never gave the slightest bit of thought to where I was going or what I wanted to eat. I just started heading somewhere. Though nearly every such venture ended in disaster, my learning curve was such that it never, ever occurred to me to do a little pre-planning. If I were an explorer, I’d be the one that hopped on a Galleon, headed west, struck a rock and promptly drowned.
My wife is more organized, however. She refuses to exit the apartment without a plan. I’m not sure if this is because of her European sensibilities, the fact that she’s a woman, she’s smarter than I, or that maybe I’ve simply married a woman who loves to do research. If she were an explorer, she’d be Columbus or Vespucci. Or at least she’d be married to them and doing all the navigating.
With my wife at the helm, restaurant selection involves the following:
1. Establish what exactly we want to eat.
2. Establish the restaurants that make what we want to eat.
3. Look up the Zagat rating.
4. Look up the Citysearch rating.
5. Make a reservation.
6. Exit the premises.
This is simple, if not time-consuming. Despite my desire to simply follow old habits and exit the apartment first, I have learned to accept her structure. But I have just discovered the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene Restaurant Inspection Reports, and I fear dining out will never again be the same.
I know for certain that we will be adding a new step to our restaurant selection procedure. It will be impossible for us to choose a restaurant without first consulting NYCDHMHRIR to see if they’ve been cited for having a cat in the kitchen or storing egg salad at unsafe temperatures.
My biggest fear is that I am easily impressionable. I still shun swordfish based on a few sentences in Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential which I didn’t even read myself but was merely told about. Now I can’t imagine what I’d do if I learned there had been mouse droppings in my favorite bistro. That’s all I would think about, even if the pate was awesome. Fortunately I am spared the grief today. It’s my birthday, and all dining-out decisions have been made by my wife and other parties. The destination remains a surprise so I won’t know until we get home if they clean their utensils properly.
As I fret over the future of dining out, the only light I see at the end of the tunnel is how this enormous database of culinary infractions can be used as a weapon. For example, I was once treated quite snottily by the host at Cafeteria and so it’s with great pleasure that I announce that the son of a bitch probably doesn’t wash his hands.

New York Sidewalk Trivia

The average time it takes any stationary object to be sprayed with dog urine is nine minutes.
The skeletal remains of bicycle frames you see chained to various bike stands and signposts are all part of a massive art project by pointless modern artist Christo.
There are more bacteria on the sole of a single New York City shoe than there are in the entire nation of Gambia.
97% of sentences beginning with “Excuse me” are not apologetic in nature but rather a preface to being asked for money.
Diagonal walking accounts for 77% of all “sidewalk-rage” incidents.
All the brand new boxes for the free weekly The Onion were completely covered by graffiti, stickers, and the ludicrous”Housing As A Constitutional Amendment” flyer within twelve minutes of being placed on the street corner.
“I Survived The Blackout” t-shirts would have been available two hours after power went out, but the artist’s computer didn’t work.
As you walk by Apex Technical School students on 19th and 6th, remember that the number of graduates who went on to lucrative local, regional or national careers in government is still zero.
That guy who told you his alternator was broken and that he needed $32 to get it fixed so he could get back to New Jersey does not actually have a car.
Yes, that was Ethan Hawke.
That gentleman who just tossed the McDonald’s cup, straw, bag, burger box, French fry container and apple pie box on the road emigrated here from Shanghai to live a better life.
The toothless drunk passed out on 7th and 22nd at 10:00am considers himself a victim of tax cuts for the rich, Enron and Dick Grasso’s salary.
A busy hot dog vendor can make over $80,000 a year. A busy Gastroenterologist treating food poisoning cases from that same vendor can make $300,000 a year.
A single stretch of Manhattan sidewalk has more poop-per-inch than an Idaho cornfield on Planting Day.
A zealous, motivated leaflet distributor can annoy over 72 pedestrians per minute.
The shills for “Flesh Dancers” have indirectly contributed to over 329 divorces in the last 5 years.
0% of actors using the $99 headshot service advertised on every light post and mailbox have appeared in theatre, TV or film.
The guy selling the albums on the blanket hails from Somalia, where the warlords have yet to establish copyright infringement laws.
A drunk passed out on a park bench with his penis hanging out can traumatize an average of three children and seven adults an hour.
The individual selling the $30 “backup” copy of the $999 Final Cut Pro program assumes you already have a full-price copy and just need the backup to be safe. He will be crushed if you have lied to him.
That gentleman with the sidewalk yard sale was indeed selling the boot you threw out last week.
People who think they’re experiencing sidewalk déja vu are actually just unaware that the “United Homeless Organization” guy at 17th & Park is reading from the same script as the “United Homeless Organization” guy on 17th & Broadway.
After limited exposure to the elements, a bloodstain will resemble a poopstain. Both should still be avoided.
There is an 84% chance that an arrogant Sex & The City Production Assistant will let you pass if you counter their attitude with the realities of their salary.
All the merchandise on Canal Street would be worth an amazing $93 Billion if it were actually legal and licensed. That would be enough to pay for the rebuilding of Iraq, and purchase more unlicensed merchandise from China.
89% of Segway riders have touched another person while being catapulted from their defective Segway. For 92%, this was their first significant human contact.