Last night was a beauty in NYC. It was one of the few nights a year where you could walk outside, take a deep breathe, look at the cherry blossoms, and not feel like the pavement was winning.
I took advantage by hanging out in the local pub's yard (above), which is usually pretty empty except for the half-vandalized giant chess board, and the scuttling of Chris Christie-sized rodents. But last night, as I sipped upon my drink, there was a fellow in the yard who was feeling about as happy about Brooklyn as I was. Maybe even moreso, considering the amount of cocaine and Patriot Ale he seemed to have imbibed.
I think he was from Milwaukee, because he was wearing a Brewers hat, and as a Mets fan, I know you'd never pick a life like that on purpose. You're only born into it. Anyhow, Mr. Wisconson really wanted his friend to move out to Brooklyn. Pacing around the yard, yelling like a little league coach, he spat out these pearls of wisdom:
Here were his words of encouragement:
- "What are you doing with your life, man? You're sitting on your ass eating flapjacks every morning. Come on!"
- "You're such a pussy, man. She sucks. Leave her. You're a pussy and you have to come out here now, man."
- "You suck, man."
Here were his life suggestions:
- "Be honest man, how much do you have on you, right now? 800 dollars?! Are you serious? I came out here with 125 bucks and I've been surviving here for a year. You're gonna be a king."
- "Just go beat one out, clear your head. Then call me back and tell me you're coming out here."
- "What's the worst that happens? You come out here, you hate it, and then you go back to her. Look at me- I'm doing great out here"
Someone get this guy a "born to be a therapist" bumper sticker.