I am possibly not more brilliant than the average person — although I anticipate masses will rise to argue this.
Despite my overwhelming intellect, I humbly say I am a simple soul. Simple loves. For example, I simply love New York. And as my bones travel the world, most humans I meet want to come to New York.
OK, our streets have garbage. So? Toledo does, too. But we’re New Yorkers. Our garbage is a higher class.
Traffic? This 12-year-old on York Avenue started heading crosstown. Before she hit the West Side Highway she was married, pregnant and getting a divorce. True maybe we got a little traffic problem. That’s enough to knock this city?
Out-of-towners say we’re rude. Anybody calls us rude, let them go perform a biological impossibility on themselves. Call us rude?! Let them stay in their burbs, where the daily newspaper comes out once a week.
Visitors mumble everything in our town, even a haircut, is expensive. Right. But the reason barbers charge so much now is because the faces are longer. Take a philosophical look. If God intended everyone to be rich, he’d never have given us the stock market.
Admittedly there’s a crime problem. Not so much street crime. In East Side neighborhoods, thieves make house calls . . . So this mugger said: “Hand over your money, or I blow your brains out.” Answered the resident: “Shoot. You can live in New York without brains — but not without money.”
Rural folk also complain we dress too sexy. Really? Just because our new fad is topless muggers?
But how about our women? An upholsterer’s daughter who knew what to do on a couch. Doctor’s daughter who made house calls. Hairdresser who could tease a guy. Astronaut who knew how to take it off. Communist who made sure everyone got his share. Outfielder who could get to first base. Stagehand with nifty props.
Chiropractor who had a new twist.
Our smart gals know the difference between a farm animal and a wolf is about four drinks. Not that some country types aren’t special. In Kansas, I saw one blonde who looked just like Monroe — and he was a great president.
Little persons from little hamlets complain we big city folk buy everything on plastic. Not our fault. I heard one store manager ask: “You planning to pay us something on your account?” The customer said: “I can’t now.” The manager replied: “If you don’t, I’ll tell your other creditors you paid in full.”
Nobody denies we’re tops in medicine. This hick claimed: “Every time I go for my checkup he makes me take off my blouse.” Her father said: “So find a new dentist.”
Diets. I cannot lie. Everyone in New York is dieting. Chicken-fat diet. It cuts the grapefruit. Onion diet. Lose 10 pounds and 12 friends. Booze diet. Forget the rest of your body. It makes your head lighter. An import moved here weighing 180 pounds. Now she weighs only 85 — casket and all.
So this husband — a lamebrain who wears orthopedic hats and thought intercourse is the time spent between classes — noticed our city has a high divorce rate. The name of his wife? “Plaintiff.”
I can not deny we’re conceited. But so what if we have our X-rays retouched. We’re entitled. We’re New Yorkers.
But right now let us commend my marvelous city on its newest grandest idea. Maybe making Park Avenue a mall. Absolutely great concept. Second only to the Second Avenue Subway.
Why leave it neat and elegant and pristine and alone? Junk it up. Put a Wendy’s or Arby’s on 79th and Park. Shove a hot dog and falafel vendor outside the Waldorf’s presidential suite. Stable horses on the separation so they can eat the seasonal Dutch tulips. A dog run? Pretzel seller? Mini thrift shop to cater to the residents who by then Obamacare will house on that street.
We’ve already made Broadway into Rockaway with unemployed brown-baggers staring and eating and relaxing. Great plan. After all, it’s a theater district. Instead of paying to see a show, they can lay around our streets free. Buy nothing. Pay nothing. Just give our taxi drivers a target.
Instead of hanging laundry out in the yard as they do in the Orient, newly redefined Park Avenue-ites could spread their drawers and BVDs onto the grass median. Let them dry in the sun. Good progressive thinking.
To be more productive, the middle trough could work as a burial vault for Petraeus’ e-mails. Should day come when Newt Gingrich doesn’t blubber on some limp cable channel, it could double as a storage bin. Photos with Newt and Wife No. 1, Newt and Wife No. 2, Newt and Wife No. 3. Newt and whoever he might be auditioning for No. 4.
I applaud desensitizing Park Avenue. At its 57th Street crossroad, remove that fat-ass statue and put up a first-class dump. Tax those who now live on Park Avenue for enough money to rebuild this greatest most special spectacular city on Earth, New York, into downtown Detroit.