(Originally written for BroBible)
What The Hell Happened To Us?: The Decline of the Young Man in America
Recently, I read an article about the Matsigenka, a tribe that lives in the Peruvian Amazon. The men of the tribe have a highly regimented day that begins around 5 AM. In the morning hours, they tend to the yucca and banana plants that represent a majority of the food and trading opportunities for the tribe. In the afternoon, they chop down kapashi, a palm tree used for building their huts. At approximately 6 PM, they go on the hunt for monkeys and parrots, using only spears and slingshots, to serve for dinner.
By the way (or btdubs, if you’re a tool), the Matsienga consider you a “man” at 13 years old. And not the Bar-Mitzvah way of presents and braces, I’m talking about becoming a monkey-hunting, roof-thatching man.
About 6,000 miles north, I type this article from a Starbucks in NYC. I’m in my early 20s, a period referred to nowadays as “adultescence” or “the boomerang generation” or my Dad’s favorite, “being a douchebag”. Many of my peers are unemployed, spending their days on a parent’s couch, watching shows like “Girls” and movies like “Step Brothers”; stories that reflect their viewers’ own aimlessness. Some adultescents have had feeble attempts at productivity; a short-lived blog, or an iPhone app idea that never panned out, or worst of all, a stint trying to become a DJ. I understand early adulthood is considered the time to “find yourself” but many dudes I know aren’t even looking. The Matsigenka are light years ahead of my friends, and most haven’t even sprouted pubes. I don’t care how much Bear Grylls you DVR, you’d be dead in less than a week. Of course, we don’t need the skills to survive in the Peruvian Amazon. The United States has one of the highest living standards in the world. But perhaps that same standard has led to our decline as the BAMFs we once were.
When my grandfather was 23, he already served this country overseas, started his own manufacturing business, and began raising a family. He was a cigar-chomping, Nazi-killing brommando, and all his friends were too. I think about that a lot when I’m sitting in my boxers, eating peanut butter out of the jar with my finger. I’m sure many of you have done something similar in recent times. While it seems that I might be romanticizing the past, I am the first to acknowledge this early-start, hard-ass mentality was also my grandfather’s downfall. He spewed racial slurs and pinched waitresses’ asses way past that behavior’s expiration date. When my grandmother died, he went from the boisterous, happy-go-lucky guy I loved to a shell of a man. He become so aloof and reserved, refusing to even share the feelings he was going through out of some prehistoric notion of masculinity. He died alone and unfulfilled, never able to connect with his loved ones on a true emotional level. So perhaps his way wasn’t the best to go about getting your shit together. We’ve all seen Mad Men, the bro code wasn’t exactly at a gold standard.
So who is to blame for the declining backbone of the American male? Some it’s the fault of “helicopter parents”, mothers and fathers who hover over their kids with the well-intentioned desire that their children grow up in a world free of pain and suffering. A buddy of mine was a counselor at a summer camp, and was given a list of instructions regarding each individual camper’s likes and dislikes. One mother wrote that her son didn’t like to be ranked, and should never be told he had lost a competition at any time. I was disgusted as you are, but my friend assured me that directions like these were not uncommon. Come to think of it, I remember my Dad letting me quit the soccer league in first grade because I said it was “too hard”. In addition, many of us grew up without chores; only helping out around the house for a monetary incentive. That’s a far cry from the early responsibilities of generations past. So perhaps in an attempt to make our lives easier, parents made it easier for us to become lazy.
But it’s easy to blame others, and it does no good to harbor on the past. I know many of the things I have discussed in this article don’t apply to hardworking, take-no-bullshit bros. But I also know that I’ve described plenty of your lives. So I guess it’s best to leave it at this: We may not have the hardships of the Matsigenka, or even the no-nonsense attitudes of my Papa Harry, but in order to rid ourselves of this “adultescence” label, it’s time to take on some adversity, because without the ability to handle hardships, success will never happen.
With that being said, it’s time to get wasted and go wakeboarding. It is the summer, anyway.
(Originally written for BroBible)
In my 23 years maintaining homeostasis, I’ve received my fair share of insults. I’ve been labeled a geek, nerd, tool, goober, retard, herb, loser, lame, poser, asshole, douche, pussy, schmuck, homo, fag, cock goblin, sphincter troll, grundle gremlin, dirty Jew, JAP, Christ-killer, lamp shade, oven magnet, Kikey McPassoverpants, squid, hardo, GDI, and many more.
While I’ve taken all these epithets in more strides than Usain Bolt, one diss has tortured my soul for far too long:
I hate being called a “hater”.
“Hater” is the pervasive pejorative spouted by reality stars, rappers, athletes and a majority of bros against anyone who disapproves of their oft-questionable behavior. It’s a security blanket; shielding one from criticism, disapproval and sometimes, rehab. It’s the enemy of improvement and the cousin of YOLO. When you are labeled a hater, you’re being admonished for having an opinion.
To quote Chicago rhyme-spitter and silly cap-wearer Common, “If I don't like it, I don't like it, that don't mean that I'm hating”. If I think LeBron is a dick because he makes patronizing comments about the fans, why can’t I say so? If I believe the only talent Kim Kardashian has is fucking on camera, isn’t that my prerogative? Telling my little cousin that his Dubstep-experimental Jazz band could use a little work should not make me a social pariah. My parents inculcated me with a strong sense of right and wrong, good and evil, chill and douchey. It’s no secret that we live in a society where it has become increasingly uncouth to voice condemnation for fear of hurting someone’s feelings. I submit that without a little ego bruising, we’ll become increasingly tolerant of bad art, political injustice, and toolboxes Instagramming pictures of themselves poppin’ bottles on private jets. I’m not a hater bro, I just think it’s a little pretentious when there are people starving in the streets.
Of course, I’d be remiss to ignore the fact that there are plenty of people who hate for the sake of hating. Just check the comments section this post. There will always be irrelevant, venom-spewing trollers. There will always be popular opinion-bashing contrarians. Some people do it as a means of self-elevation; y’know, the hipster who is eager to inform you he liked (fill in popular band name here) before they blew up? Others hate as a way to help them forget about their own faults. Jealousy, insecurity, and racism are often the catalysts for unwarranted criticism. I’m not defending that kind of irrational animosity.
I am however, championing those who aren’t afraid to tell it how it is, when others tell it how it might be. Ignoring another’s viewpoint by writing him off as a hater is not an effective cure-all for your conscience. Typically, the people who drop the h-bomb the most are those who commit the most injustices.
That about wraps it up for me. If you didn’t like this post, you’re probably a hater. Join me next week, where I crusade against the people who “rage tits”.
(Originally written for BroBible)
I’ll channel my inner Holden Caulfield with this one. I know slaughtering sacred cows is bound to ruffle some feathers (animal metaphors FTW), but this is America. Our founding fathers declared colonial rule played out, why must I believe the hype over The Big Lebowski?
It is important to note however, that none of these things actually suck. I understand that they are all tremendously popular for a reason. Rather, it’s the incessant singing of praises that makes my ears bleed. Some bros do it to fit in; others just don’t know any better. Let’s break some hearts, It’s time for the 7 Most Overrated Things Bros Love.
At every pregame I’ve ever been to, there is always a bro who loves to inform anyone within an earshot that he just “can’t drink vodka anymore”. It’s this weird pseudo-masculine move that has become an epidemic. I was uninformed that a major tenet of manhood was pretending to enjoy lukewarm brown sludge that makes your eyes tear. My disdain for whiskey, bourbon, and the like is always met with the classic smug response; “you have to develop a taste for it.”
To quote Jackie Mason, “does anyone need to develop a taste for chocolate? No, because chocolate tastes good!”
“Bro you’re so E, I’m Drama, Jeff is clearly Vince, the dog is Turtle….” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat through a hypothetical Entourage casting call. The most predictable show in HBO history and the reason idiots nationwide thought it was cool to bunk up post-grad. Every episode was just a series of luxury cars pulling into driveways, smart phones being slammed, and the sleepwalking style of acting only Adrian Grenier could mail in. Admittedly, Ari was a great character. But when every schmuck in my office tried to deliver his lines, I knew the show was popular for all the wrong reasons. I could go on, but I’ll let this classic parody do the heavy lifting.
Calm down, relax, and take a few deep breaths. Just hear me out. After college, I moved to New York City. Instead of three bars to waste my weekends in, I have 1800+. Who I hang out with is not dictated by what frat I pledged, but by whom I genuinely want to see. And rather than do work for a grade, I do it to get paid. Feeling better now? Besides, I know we all have fond memories of unforgettable parties and epic intramural football games but let’s face it: 85% of college was sitting in some dingy room playing Madden. IT’S THE SAME GAME EVERY YEAR PEOPLE; THEY JUST CHANGE WHO’S ON THE COVER!
4. The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show/ Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue
Every year my mini-feed is rife with comments extolling the virtues of these events. It’s something I never understand. For a brief moment everyone forgets porn exists. I get that the women are absurdly hot, but watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is like watching Scarface on cable; it’s just not the same. Perhaps in decades past the Swimsuit Issue was golden but nowadays chicks do much more for much less, all from the comfort of my computer.
Any game where it’s nearly impossible to break a sweat is not a worthwhile sport in my book. I’d rather spend 30 minutes on a treadmill then spend 3 hours in the outfield packing a lip and picking my wedgie. As for the spectating side, who would want to watch 162 of anything? If you were to sit through every inning, that’s nearly 500 hours of your life wasted. I don’t care how many games you’re behind the Yankees, bro. Go live life.
Not fun for her, not fun for you, and way more work than it seems. When was the vagina considered passé? Call me old-fashioned, I guess.
1. House Music
Disco for the current generation. There is a reason everyone who goes to Ultra is rolling face. Because the music fucking sucks! I know in 10 years every bro will look back at pictures of themselves in skimpy neon tank tops and plastic sunglasses and realize the error of their ways. The dude who swears that DJ Günther Van Bismarck is the greatest knob-twiddler of all time is the same dude who was wearing baggy jeans and throwbacks 5 years prior. Meaningless music, perfect for the poseur.
I’m sure I hurt some feelings with this one. Leave your thoughts in the Comments Section!
In about 36 hours, our country will collectively be toasting brews and haphazardly lighting fireworks in honor of Independence Day. The approaching 4th inspired my thinking of other innately American celebrations. Recently, we’ve observed Memorial Day, Father’s Day, and Mother’s Day. While these traditions do a fine job of revering significant members of society, I submit that America, and bros in particular, have neglected perhaps our most important figurehead:
Of course, I’m talking about the Uncle.
Uncles are the unsung sculptors of a bro’s development into adulthood. Unchained of parental responsibility, Uncles are free to indulge us with dirty jokes, dangerous gifts, and perhaps our first sip of beer. They are the fun-filled yin to our father’s often-stern yang. Whenever my dad attempted to instill values about financial responsibility, my uncle was right there, ready to contradict it all with a ride in his brand-new speedboat. When my Father berated me for a poor report card, my uncle regaled me with the tale f the time Dad shit his pants at his Senior Homecoming. Who cares if he’s 52, unmarried, and hasn’t held the same job for more than two years? Uncle Jeff let us shoot paintballs in the backyard!
I propose that July 1st will henceforth be known as Uncle’s Day. It will be a time for eschewing obligations and growing thick moustaches. There will be a parade down Broadway featuring floats of great Uncles throughout TV history, from Uncle Jesse to Uncle Leo. “Uncle John’s Band” will play on a loop throughout the country. And most importantly, Dad will have to watch it all from afar, with his arms folded and his head shaking in disapproval. Uncle’s Day will become as much of an American institution as, well, Uncle Sam! Side note: He’s called Uncle Sam for a reason! Because he kicks ass and parties hard; Father Sam is probably doing his taxes to Michael Bublé.
So let us celebrate the Uncles of this great nation. Except the molesting ones, they’ve done enough partying for all of us.
Besides golfing and hair loss, a favorite activity of adults is to recall their youthful exploits at famed hot spots. I’m sure you’ve heard an uncle brag about the time he blew cocaine off the perky breasts of a Brooke Shields look-alike at Studio 54. In 20 years, white collar finance criminals the world over will regale their cellmates with tales of Moët and Molly at LIV. As a 23-year-old, it seems odd that I’d like to do the same. But fuck it, this is KRUMLIFE and I want to talk about the movies.
I’ve had this conversation countless times, and it seems clear to me that before the days of ragers and rollfests, the local cinema was the place for preadolescences to experience social and sexual encounters for the very first time.
Every Friday night, hundreds of middle school misfits would flood the lobby of United Artists Westbury 12 with hopes of hooking up with the developed girl from the neighboring town or table-topping the douchebag who pegged you with a dodgeball in gym class. Actually watching a film was an afterthought.
Going to the movies was a well-needed reprieve from the prying eyes of parents. For the first time in 12 years, you were granted a shred of independence. You got dropped off at 8, picked up at 10, and hopefully sometime in between, someone gave you a handjob. Of course, there were those who weren’t afforded such a luxury; the youths whose parents insisted on staying at the theater to keep an eye out (Those smothered unfortunates went on to get addicted to five different drugs the first week of college).
Oh how I remember the wandering hands and heavy breaths during Pay It Forward! To this day, I cannot remember a single plot line from age 11-14. What happens at the end of Tuck Everlasting? Beats me, I was touching titties! We were living in some kind of sophisticated sexual liberation. Nobody was drunk, no one was high; it was a party fueled by raging hormones.
I hope the tradition of first row fuck fests and nacho cheese banquets lives on. Every time I see a brace-faced bro slide a twenty under that glass partition, I tear up a little. Long live the movies; the training ground of nightlife.
Have a story about movie madness from your youth? Feel free to share in the comments section.
Approximately 5.2 million people ride the New York City Subway each day. While this number appears staggering, I believe it is misleading.
Through my experiences riding the rails, I’ve seen the same six people waiting on every platform. Their names and faces may be different but these specific passengers are omnipresent underground. Whether you’re taking the A up the west side or the Z downtown, I guarantee your body will awkwardly sway into at least one of the following.
6. The Riding Rabbi
A crammed subway car in sweltering July heat is uncomfortable at best. I can only imagine what it’s like when you’re draped in a dark wool coat and a giant felt hat. Combine that with the knowledge that you’re going home to a bushy-browed wife, six kids and limited electricity allotment and you have the life of the Riding Rabbi. On every train in New York City, you will encounter a weary Hasidic Jew. Whether he’s mumbling ancient scripture to himself or stroking his day-moistened beard, you’ve got to give the Riding Rabbi props. He’s fighting a losing battle against modernization, assimilation, and delicious bacon. People say Jews run the city, tell that to the Riding Rabbi!
5. La Tourista
There are two breeds of La Tourista; domestic and imported. Domestic Touristas can be indentified by their cargo shorts, cell phone belt clips and running sneakers. Imported Touristas are spotted by their messenger bags, fauxhawks, and running sneakers as well (except with something weird like a Rooster or a Kangaroo on the side, not a good ol’ Swoosh). Whether you’ve lived here all your life or moved in last month, nothing will give you a more underserved sense of superiority than watching a Tourista fumble with a guide map on the subway. Better yet, take in a Tourista trying to make sense of those subway route maps plastered on the walls. Good luck, Günther, those things look my Grandma’s varicose veins and are just as beneficial.
4. The Way Too Into It Rap Guy
The Way Too Into It Rap Guy loves hip-hop, and thinks, nay, knows that the morning commute is the most appropriate venue to showcase his obsession. Even on quiet rides, you will always hear the faint blares of a Rick Ross track reverberating from the Way Too Into It Rap Guy’s Beats by Dre. The Way Too Into It Rap Guy turns listening to music from a passive activity to an active performance. He bobs his head like a rooster, slices the air with his hands, and if you listen closely, you can hear him recite rhymes through muted tones; “mermermer..MUTHAFUCKA..mermer..NIGGAS…mermer..PHILLIPSEYMOUR-HOFFMAN”. I’d like to think that once he gets off the train, he becomes Dennis, the affable printer specialist Best Buy. But underground he will forever be, The Way Too Into It Rap Guy.
3. The King (or Queen) of Concentration
Subway readers. It’s ironic; their activity of choice is decidedly innocuous, yet out of all six passenger categories, The King (or Queen) Of Concentration bothers me the most. My contempt stems from a combination of confusion and jealousy.
WHO CAN FOCUS ON A BOOK IN A JARRING AND WHIRRING METALLIC TUBE TRAVELING AT 55MPH?!
Whether a Queen is re-reading her shitty screenplay before class or a King is thumbing through his BlackBerry emails, I am astonished at their ability to ignore distractions. Shit, in the process of writing this article, I’ve already refreshed Facebook 15 times and masturbated twice.
Listen, I understand that people are busy and don’t always have the luxury of free time to take in a book in private. I just find it hard to believe that this dude sitting next to me is really contemplating Nietzsche while a mariachi band is strumming in his face.
Sidenote: What is every person reading their phones on the subway doing really? It’s a well-known fact that no one gets Wi-Fi down there. I would love to peek over one of these people’s shoulders. Definitely scrolling up and down their contact list in a feeble attempt to look busy. Smug cocksuckers.
2. The Soliloquy-Spouting Homeless Person
Okay, so it’s really The Monologue-Spouting Homeless Person. What can I say; I’m a sucker for alliterations. The Soliloquy-Spouting Homeless Person is inherent to New York City mass transit. When the train arrives at a stop he enters. Once the doors close, he recites a speech about his descent into poverty. This is followed by a brief solicitation for spare change as he walks up and down the aisle. By the time the doors open again, he’s gone, on to the next car. It’s a well-timed endeavor.
I sympathize with anyone who has to beg for money, but something about the Soliloquy-Spouting Homeless Man’s routine feels a tad disingenuous. Let me get this straight; you’re an orphan AND you’re addicted to PCP AND you just tested positive AND you have to support 17 kids? Whatever happened to just being a bum? Believe me, It’s fine. You’ll get the same level of sympathy regardless from Manhattan’s jaded travelers.
I feel like any day now the Soliloquy-Spouting Homeless Man is just going to start ripping off movie plots. “You see ladies and gentleman, that is why I need your tribute if I am ever going to compete in this year’s Hunger Games"
1. The Wildcard
The Wildcard is basically anyone who distracts you during your ride for a previously unmentioned reason. So technically, the Wildcard can be hundreds of different types. But they all serve the same purpose. Whether unintentional or purposeful, they silence the internal dialogue you were having in your head before they got on board. (Mine is typically about how I’m wasting my life away). Popular Wildcards include Masturbating Crazy Man, Creepy Accordion Player, Urban Youth Field Trip, and my personal favorite, Potential Terrorist.
Hope you’ve enjoyed this, and remember, a crowded subway car is no excuse for unwanted sexual contact.
DISCLAIMER: THIS FOLLOWING POST IS ENTIRELY SATIRICAL AND FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY I DO NOT CONDONE ANY ACTS OF VIOLENCE AGAINST ANYONE, EVER. (UNLESS THEY LIKE, REALLY, REALLY DESERVE IT.) -KRUM
Throughout history, countless individuals have been put to death by their fellow man.
Additionally, the "crimes" that have preceded socially sponsored murder have varied in magnitude:
Capital punishment was the remedy for over 160 crimes in 17th century Britain including cattle stealing and not wearing a silly wig in public…maybe. And of course, time shan’t forget the virulent wave of lynchings African-Americans suffered following the Civil War; it was not unlikely for a black man to be put to death for merely flirting with a white woman (for all you clamoring for a racist jok here: yes, Tiger Woods would have been lynched like, eighty times :))
Clearly, executions have been dealt for minor infractions we now consider trivial and downright ludicrous.
Conversely, there have been those who are so morally reprehensible, so symbolically malevolent, that their deaths have been considered a necessity. There have been those killings that have served as a means to better society, to deter people from committing similar wrongs and to tell the world “Hey, this shit simply does not fly anymore.”
One family has infected every aspect of American contemporary culture with their repulsive materialism, sheer idiocy, and overall disregard all that is pure and good.
Ladies and Gentlemen, we must Kill the Kardashians.
I’m not calling for more witty jabs on SNL or a picket-line protest outside the E! Network headquarters. I’m talking about the public decapitation of each Kardashian, Jenner, Odom-Kardashian, and Jenner-Odom-Kardashian-Humphries-Hitler on the White House lawn. Justin Bieber or Tony Bennett can sing the national anthem, depending on who is available. It will be broadcast in 1080i, screened in 3D and streamed wirelessly for all to enjoy. The whole thing will be sponsored by Apple, because what better way to think different than shedding ourselves of social pariahs, right? Let’s not discount social media; The trending topic #KilltheKardashians will be a mainstay on the Twitter homepage for days and the Kardashian Execution Facebook Fan Page will get more “Likes” than a 16-year-old with vacation cleavage’s default.
Think I'm being absurd? Hear me out.
The Kardashians symbolize all that is wrong with the world and we’d be a lot better off without them. Vanity, Greed, Gluttony. Kim, Kris, Khloé. I’m not going get too detailed with each of the Kardashians’ krimes because
A) I’m a heterosexual male, so my knowledge of Kim, Khloé, and the One No One Kares About is fairly limited.
B) I’m an American, which means it is my God-given right to make impactful decisions without researching all the facts.
Rather, to illustrate my point, allow us to consider the tale of Marie Antoinette:
Antoinette was the Queen to King Louis XVI, the ineffective monarch of France prior to The Revolution. While the peasantry starved due to bread shortages and inflation, Antoinette spent thousands on lavish trips and elaborate attire. Furthermore, she was notoriously promiscuous; Antoinette was rumored to engage in affairs with famed sportsmen like the Baron de Besenval, while the rest of the country struggled to maintain steady home lives. Unconcerned and seemingly unaware of the growing duress in Paris, she remained a mainstay in the public eye while contributing nothing to society. Sound familiar?
Eventually the French people could stand it no longer. They eventually stormed the Bastille, captured the King and Queen, and chopped her fuckin' head off. Fast-forward 122 years and Paris is regarded as the world’s most romantic city and home to thousands of super suave club owners. We gotta do this shit.
We must execute the Kardashians for the betterment of the world. Just think of the various social groups that would receive immediate benefit once we gave Kim and Co. the old chop'n drop.
1. Young Women
No longer inundated by role models who promote sex tapes, unrealistically huge asses and shitty perfume, the female population of America will be freed from the spell of the Beverly Hills Bitches. A great lesson will be taught to girls from Barstow to Boca; slutty and superficial is not the way to be, because you’ll be killed on national television. First Female President, here we come!
2. The Economically Unsatisfied
The past year has been marked by Congressional mismanagement and Occupy protests. It’s clear that most of the 99%’s demands have not been satisfied. While there are no clear solutions to our economic woes, killing the Kardashians would no-doubt appease the masses. What better way to put a smile on an unemployed person’s face then killing a cunt that had a ten million dollar wedding, (not to mention the job creation that will occur as a result of the proposed execution spectacular).
3. Black Guys
NFL and NBA lockouts. Record sales in the toilet. I blame it on distractions and stress. The Kardashians have proved more disastrous for successful black men than sickle-cell and the cops combined. Therefore, by eradicating the Kardashians, we can aide our beloved athletes and entertainers. I mean come on, whatever happened to good ‘ol-fashion groupies, anyway?
So, I urge you, loyal readers, it is time to band together. We will no longer stand for profligates, fools, and unabashed whores to dictate our lives. Write your local congressperson, take to the computers, and state your claim:
IT IS TIME TO KILL THE KARDASHIANS.
Greetings my loyal Krumquats, Krumpet players, Krumbelinas, Krumpilstiltskins. (Feel free to refer to yourselves as any/all of the above monikers. Or none….dick.).
I know it’s been a long time since I’ve written an anecdote-type post. Unfortunately, my life has been rather uneventful.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present The Tale of the TriBeCa Prostitute.
It was Friday evening. With law school finals freshly behind us, my lady friend Jaclyn and I treated ourselves to a pretentious meal at one of TriBeCa’s nouveau eateries. (Y’know the type. The restaurant that revamps poor people cuisine so foodies think it’s chic.;“ Ooh Melinda, can you pass the agave-glazed Cup of Noodles?). After dinner, we made our way through the cobblestone street towards Broadway in hopes of hailing a taxi.
Yet these plans were for naught.
Before I could raise my hand to signal a fleeing cab, a flash of red darted across my periphery. Something caught my eye. Or rather someone.
She stumbled down the steps of Nobu, as if she had a few too many, been forcefully ejected, or a delicious swirl of both. She wore a puffy faux-furred parka, gold hoop earrings, and two balloon-sized breasts that sat high inside her snug fire-engine dress. Clearly m’lady was a class act, but I paid it little mind. Until she clomped her heels in our direction.
“Ex-excu me…b-b-b-ut…can you p-p-please hhhelp?...taxi?”
Jaclyn’s hard stare softened at the sound of the woman’s meek tone.
“I…n-not f-from h-h-here”
Like any normal New Yorker, I began to ease away from this crazy bitch. Unfortunately, I have a compassionate girlfriend.
“Okay, we can help. Where are you from?”
I did a mental Google to determine if there was some foreign land called Frisby that had a primary export of slutty chongas.
“Oh, okay, Frisby. Where is that?” Jaclyn cooed.
Ahhh. So she’s from here. But, not from here.
“Okay, Sweetie, we’ll get you home.” Jaclyn turned to me.
Before I could voice my disapproval, the woman’s eyes welled up with tears.
She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Pedestrians began to stare. So much for my desire to be a bad Samaritan.
I turned and whispered to Jaclyn:
“I don’t know…how do you say ‘WTF’ in Spanish??”
Jaclyn realized who her boyfriend was and decided to take the reigns.
“Miss? Miss, what happened?”
I couldn’t help but notice the tattoo running up her leg into her lady parts. That, and the copious amounts of glitter puffing up in my direction as she wept.
“H-He took e-e-everything…”
My thoughts were confirmed. She was a ho. For sho.
The woman stopped sobbing. She raised her head, revealing a fiery face that seemed to match the color of her skintight polyester. Her eyes bared the intensity of some terrifying Scarface/Hulk Hogan hybrid.
“I’M GOING TO KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKA!!!!!” She bellowed behind gritted teeth.
Jaclyn jolted back. Hey, If there was a tiny Spanish woman who was capable of making me shit my pants, she was a runner-up at least.
“Who is he? What did he do?” Jaclyn pleaded.
“I AM GOING TO GET A GUN AND CHUTE THAT MOTHAFUCKA IN DE FACE!!!” Tears and rage began to spill onto the sidewalk. More people stopped walking.
I redirected my energies to hailing her that taxi. Thankfully, a Punjabi pal swung by and scooped her up. She thanked us, and resumed sobbing as the yellow chariot began to escort her back to the BX.
There were so many questions.
1. Who was “He”?
2. And if “He” was a client? What kind of assbackwards trick takes a hooker to Nobu?
3. And if you can afford Nobu, why would you need to “take everything” from her?? Clearly, his priorities were askew.
2. And if “He” was a client? What kind of assbackwards trick takes a hooker to Nobu?
3. And if you can afford Nobu, why would you need to “take everything” from her?? Clearly, his priorities were askew.
4. Furthermore, if you can afford Nobu, why would you have solicited services from the Lady in Red? You can’t do a little better buddy? I’m not saying go all Client Number 9, but come on! She was rocking Baby Phat! In Nobu, goddamnit!!
3. If "He" did "take everything" How could she afford to take a cab up to the Bronx? They charge like a 5 bucks a block! And to Frisby, no less! (Wherever/whatever the fuck is). It’s not like she could carjack him. She said she’s going to get a gun. She ain’t packin’! Poor Punjab.
4. Is it possible she was boning a sushi chef? Me so horny, indeed.
We theorized for hours. Whatever became of the Frisky Frisby-ite is unknown. But neither Jaclyn nor I will ever forget La Puta de TriBeCa.