So there are about 150 assorted Presidents, Prime Ministers, Kings, Colonels and who knows what other kinds of folks hanging around my namesake borough this week for some UN circle jerk.
And every single ghod damned one of them has a fucking motorcade and a security detail! There is no getting around at all in midtown if you don’t happen to be a ruler of some insignificant speck in the Pacific. There haven’t been this many cops in one place since the Dunkin’ Donuts 50[sup]th[/sup] anniversary party.
Today, I was late for a meeting because the President of Tonga (King? Ruler for Life? General? I don’t even know what the hell he is. Shit, it might even have been Togo instead of Tonga. Or maybe Pago Pago. I didn’t get a good look at his sign. No, wait. Pago Pago is American. Whatever.) wasn’t ready to go with his motorcade.
Motorcade? Dude, you probably live in a hut! If you didn’t have that Town Car and Chevy Suburban, the homeless people probably would have given you a quarter. Here’s a token. Take the fucking bus, and send the money saved to your people. The Skipper was the leader of Gilligan’s Island, and you didn’t see him with a Chevy Suburban escort.
Then I had to wait in line at the x-ray machine. At the Waldorf Fucking Astoria. Shit, I’ll bet they didn’t make any of the murderous, brutal dictators staying upstairs put their stuff through a machine. How about scanning Arafat and leaving me alone?
So to you, Exalted Ruler for Life And Deliverer of the People of Wherethefuckisthatistan, I say kiss my ass! Or bessez mon derriere. Or whatever language you speak.
I’m going to run for mayor. Here’s my platform: Bush, Gore, Nader, I don’t care. The President can take Amtrack and a yellow cab like the rest of us. The only people I’ll close the FDR for are Nelson Mandela and Mark Messier.