Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Only In New York

Through hard work, perseverance, skill and intelligence I was born in the greatest city in the world. I am reminded of this fact any time I leave to visit some other, lesser city and try to order a simple meal. Go ahead, try!

Let's say you're in Dallas and it's breakfast time and you're in a hurry. First thing you notice is they ain't got no coffee carts in the street. How are you supposed to make it to work on time and have a delicious breakfast without a coffee cart every 5 feet or so? This is just the first failure of not-NY. You dash into an establishment that looks like it'll sell you a cup 'a Joe. You resign yourself to the fact that the cup probably won't have a scene of Greek mythology because, hey, this ain't New York City.













But at least you can get yourself an nice breakfast. "Lemme get a buttered roll and a regular coffee," you ask.  You get a blank stare. "Yo, a buttered roll? A regular coffee? You listenin'?" you ask politely. You are handed a non-Anthora cup of black shit with no cream or sugar. And no buttered roll. "Hey Pally, what the fuck is this shit? I'm inna hurry, here!" you state, all friendly-like. .Before you know it, you've got a sawed-off shotgun pointed at your face and you've got to leave the establishment with no cream or sugar in your regular coffee in a plain Styrofoam cup and no goddamned buttered hard roll because the sumbitches in Dallas ain't never heard of no buttered roll. This, my friends, is a fucking buttered roll:


Sometimes it has sesame seeds on top.


You find yourself in Los Angeles for lunch and you're fookin starving because that jerk in Dallas didn't know what a fucking buttered roll was. This not eating shit has made you hungry and pissed. You step into a pizzeria. Since you are not in New York, you know the pizza's gonna be for shit, so you order a beef patty with cheese.

"This is a pizzeria. We don't sell cheeseburgers," says the wise guy behind the counter.
"Well, good thing I didn't ask ya for no cheeseburger, ya putz. Can I get a Jamaican beef patty with some mozzarella on it?"
"Sir, if I may delicately point out to you: This is an Italian restaurant, not a Jamaican one." Since you can't argue with that logic, you ask for a slice. He asks if you want pineapple on it and you shoot him. Perfectly defensible, no court would convict you.

You're now stumbling around St. Louis, dizzy from lack of food and splattered with the blood of that crazy pineapple wielding Chicano. It is hot. You are drained and thirsty. You wander the streets looking for a pirag├╝ero. Good luck ya silly bitch, there ain't no pirag├╝eros in St. Louie. You crawl into a 7-11 and point piteously at the ice machine. "Piraqua. . ." you croak. The counter girl looks at you and then the ice machine and then at you. You think you see a glimmer of understanding in her eyes and she runs to the sno-cone and comes back, kneels by your prone figure. Weakly you raise your hand and slap that nonsense right out of hers.

"I said 'piragua', so it should be, you know, a piramide. A pyramid, bruta. Not no round-assed mound of crushed ice with purple bullshit on top. I need shaved ice in a triangle with brown tamarindo all over it. And try not to break the tip of the triangle when you pour the syrup on it!"


But since you were in St. Louis and you are a young black man, the cops came and shot you.