Archives for category: this smells


When we first started hanging out, we had this obscene joke. That every time we got into a cab and the name on the license was any variation of Mohammed, we had to perform bits of sex on each other, that were decided before the actual hailing of the taxi, for the duration of the ride, no matter how near or far the destination.

There are so many cabbies named Mohammed…  or Mohamed, or Mohammad, or Mohammed, or Muhamad, or Muhamed, or Muhammad, or Muhammet or Mohamsandie.

We weren’t racist. We were just filthy pigs. And this is the most common name in the world. And since cabs are firstly for getting around in, and secondly for squeezing in everything you need to do before you get home… because you probably left take out containers in your bed, and floaters in your toilet…  you’re very welcome, New York;

The perfect game for perverts, like us.




Gray’s Papaya is the answer to many of my prayers:

What do I do when the bars close?

Where do I go for urgent salty meat?

What do I do with these nettlesome coins?

Where do I tell my hipster coworker to take his date?

Where can I get a the lightening fast stoke of endorphins?

How do I ease this hangover?

How can I induce a nap?

Where can I go during an afternoon rainstorm?

Where are all of my drunk friends right now?

In addition to being such a mandatory city amenity, they are totally loyal to their original signage, menu and philosophy. With their “Recession Special” and democratic endorsements, they aren’t just an eatery, but a neighborhood institution:

I lived in a dorm called Marlton House on 8th Street and 5th Ave. We used to maraude around the Village in the middle of the night smoking stale menthols and menacing the graveyard servers at French Roast. I was haunted night after night by Gray’s end of day refuse… A recipe of beef scrapple and papaya mulch simmering slowly atop a main subway artery,,, still not enough to keep my fat ass from making that place my personal parlour.

I once dated a man who lived in a loft above the founders of Papaya King, from which Gray’s Papaya was born. It’s not a secret that they get the hot dogs as they are about to expire and turn them around as quick as possible which is how they profit from such inexpensive retail prices. The only concept happening on Earth more ingenious is this.

How great are these:

And… (meat) curtain.

I found this beautiful example of fine photography on my best friend, the internet. Though the toilet is probably too small for me, it is still pure poetry. If I were binging in a restaurant in and needed to make room for more by pooping, and came across this magnificence, I could easily forget having waited thirty mins for a dozen sluts to pee, puke, primp and spoon narcotics into their rhinoplasto-holes. I might even sign on to become a full time sqautter. I do covet an abundance of attainable toilet paper.

My bladder is like my Keds from eight grade. Busted. I can’t go an hour without squirting. Fifteen minutes after sharing a side of asparagus with Jody at Aquamarine, I went to use the toilet and came back and reported how my pee already smells. She was having none of it. I was too drunk and lazy to argue, however I did get a second wind and shared my story with my cab driver. I’m not sure he believed me, or if he understood drunk English.

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