Multi-tasking my ass!

If you rear-end someone while driving your car, it is automatically your fault. If you are walking on the street and walk directly into the person in front of you it is no longer your fault. Fuck them.

Why, you ask? Because of walking and texting! Oh, I cannot stand it, as I'm sure many of you can attest to the nuisance it is. Especially on a busy New York street. Especiallier during rush hour when you are heading to the subway and the sidewalks are incredibly crowded. Especially to the especially power when it's hot as fuck out and we're all sweating our nuts off. (Side comment: Touching anybody else's sweat is the grossest thing imaginable. I'd rather find Ron Jeremy's pube in my salad!)

Anyone who is texting while walking is clearly a self-centered piece of shit. They are clearly not concentrating on where they are going, or on the speed they are traveling, and they undoubtedly slow their pace so as to concentrate on their (most likely meaningless) text.

I generally have a short temper, and while I don't look like much physically, when I get angry I get a look in my eye that is fierce. I am also relentless and scream like a black woman whose wig got knocked off in church by her piss-ant nephew. And while you never know what kind of crazy person you are walking next to on a city block, I still find it acceptable to give a woman/gay man (the most guilty offenders) a quick piece of my mind as I walk directly into her/his-her texting-fat-ass, as is what just happened to me outside the Levi's store on Lexington (right across from Bloomingdale's). I mean she looked at me like I was the asshole, like I should have been the one looking where I'm going. Um, excuse me, lady, but next time you have a problem, fucking look up! How would you like it if your dentist was reading Maxim while filling your rotting Mexican teeth with copper? The next time your son is arrested, how would you like it if my public defender brother decides to accidentally skip your kid's arraignment and send me instead?

Thought so!

From now on, New Yorkers would be much happier if A) those Freedom Towers finally got built B) The summer Hamptons crowd stayed permanently in the Hamptons and C) some of our stimulus money went to this here.

Next time I walk into someone because they are texting, I will immediately throw my phone at their head while simultaneously holding up this picture, to one of the coolest—and most useful apps—I've seen in awhile:

Bag ladies: Hideous monsters or dazzling beauties? Next, on Mr. Sinister!

I love women. All women. Well, maybe not fat, ugly or annoying women. And especially no combination of the three. But I still love the ladies. Only, I'm perplexed by them.

I mean, all men concede we'll never understand women, but there are just some things you ladies do that are just more baffling than others. Take for instance your daily routines. Now, I'm not here to comment on what you do in the bathroom or why we are always left waiting for countless hours just to walk across the street to the diner. The one issue recently I've been trying to come to grips with is your everyday traveling accoutrements.

Lately, navigating a sidewalk, street corner and, especially, subway is like a running back's gauntlet drill. How can I move without getting hit by various objects? Ever notice what a woman has with her while heading to work? In my observation the women of New York City will carry a purse or pocketbook (whatever you women are calling those things these days!). Pretty normal, right? Ok, I get that one. Then there may be a gym bag of some sort, or one of those canvas ecofriendly bags from Origins or some shit. I get that, too. You ladies wanna look good and we appreciate it. But then there's always that 'extra' bag; that one teeny little Bloomingdale's bag that you have in your hand. What's that for?! What the heck do you have in there that wouldn't fit into your other two bags? I'm bewildered.

It's not that I really even need to know how much crap you girls are carrying. Frankly, why the hell would I care? But why the heck do you INSIST on keeping all those things on your shoulders and in your hands on a crowded subway. Surely one of those bags can hang out down by your feet for a few minutes instead of squishing me even more into the corner! Surely, I don't need to be hit in the elbow time and again by those enormous, ugly "CD" letters that hang off your expensive and tacky bag! Your 120-pound ass (hopefully) is taking up precious square footage real estate around town like a chick whose Friday nights consist of making Duncan Hines brownies and watching Gilmore Girls reruns.

Like I said, I love you ladies, you're all interesting and beautiful creatures. Just put the fucking bag down. You ain't Pretty Woman on Rodeo either!

Ejector seat needed

I rarely, if ever, sit on the subway. Since today I was coming home at an off hour and there were seats available I decided to sit. I'm Rosa Parks for a new generation. (No, I'm really not.) After a few stops the benches were fairly filled up. But you know what, even if you are 5'2" and weight 112 pounds—if there are only FOUR INCHES OF ASS ROOM between me and the next person, YOU DO NOT HAVE TO SQUEEZE YOUR ASS DOWN IN THAT SPACE!

Look, I'm going to resist the temptation to go on a rant here, but let's just say the person who did this was of a culture where they have 2 billion people living in a space the size of Milwaukee!