sure do, two .22's in my shoes

Laws do not apply to me. I'm like the prodigal freakin son of goddamn mayor bloombergo. I guess some back story is necessary.

Yesterday I went to court. I was 'summoned' there, as it were. And so I went to fight an erroneous persecution by the powers that be jerks. I guess some back story is necessary.

So right, this one time I was mad illin with Reba on the roof of her building. We were having a marvelous time checkin out the view, when all of a sudden the fuzz came bursting out the roof door with flashlights and tickets drawn.



Unbeknownst to us, or the group of pot-smokin hipstersauruses who were also up there, the roof had just become private property--even to the people who live in the building.

So the poh issued a trespassing ticket to Reba. And then they give me an 'open-container violation,' saying something like I was "drinking this really big can of delicious danish beer, you know the one with the viking on it" or something. Jerks. I think the hipsters hid their pot smokings, so only I got the open container violaysh. I didn't say anything though cause of no snitches.



SOOOO, back to yesterday, I stomped into court repeating to myself: "we're gonna beat this thing. We are gonna beat this thing!"

I waited in a long line with other offenders who were there with similar feelings ("I told that cop I wasn't smokin nothin in that hallway, and I said 'taste it, taste my cup, it ain't no liquor! There wasn't no liquor in that cup!' Not guilty!")

Got to the window and punk behind the counter said: "Your case was dismissed sir. Go home, have a nice day."



Boomshakalaka-shakalaka-shakaboom, I do what I want. I'm gonna go start a methlab in the Statue of Liberty's foot.

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we be clubbed

So Pete really wants to go to this old sailor bar called the "Navy Yard Cocktail Lounge." He passes it everyday on his way to work, but has never found the courage or self-destructive impulse to enter it's creepy front door. See this picture of it's lovely facade? There's just gotta be some ghoulies in there playin a spooky game of ghost darts or something.


Make me an appletini sir! Chop chop!!

'I ain't afraid no spooks,' you say? Well, spooks ain't our biggest concern, you big jerk. It's getting shot or stabbed or fish-hooked by a crusty old sailor with one leg and a bad attitude that's been intoxicatedly stewing since his Navy left the area without him in aught-six.

Anyway, if anyone's interested in going, do tell. And if this outing should prove to be my last, I hereby bequeath this blog to Reginald Veljohnson.

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